The first thing Wade Wilson noticed was the smell. It was a dense, physical presence, a rancid cocktail of dirty people, stale beer, and something profoundly, anciently shitty. He'd been in some rank places, but this was a masterpiece of stench.
A Sistine Chapel of stink if you will.
He pushed himself up, his red and black suit surprisingly clean against the grime of the alley wall. His head throbbed, a dull ache that even his healing factor was taking its sweet time with.
"Okay, Wade," he muttered, patting himself down. Katanas, check. Pistols… also check, though he had a nagging feeling about the ammo situation. Pouches full of… well, pouches. "New dimension, same old crappy spawn point."
A voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like a 90s cartoon sidekick, piped up. {At least it's not New Jersey!}
A fair point, Boxy, Wade thought back. But Jersey has tacos. This place smells like it eats tacos and then regrets it for a week.
He stumbled out of the alley onto a bustling, muddy street. Wooden carts rumbled past, pulled by tired-looking horses. People in drab tunics and leather jerkins stared at him, their expressions a mix of fear and confusion. A man selling oysters from a bucket gave him a wide berth.
Wade's immediate goal became crystal clear: figure out where the hell he was, and then find something that vaguely resembled a burrito.
He didn't get ten steps before a new problem presented itself in the form of two men wearing gold-colored cloaks and uncomfortable-looking helmets. They carried spears and had the self-important swagger of every city guard in every fantasy movie ever.
"Hold there, you," the taller one grunted, blocking Wade's path with his spear. "What's with the getup? Some mummer's farce?"
Wade struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing dramatically. "Moi? I am but a humble traveler! A purveyor of fine violence and witty repartee. You, my good sir, look like a man who appreciates a firm… spear shaft."
The second guard snickered. The first one's face, already ruddy, darkened. "You got a smart mouth. That's often attached to a light purse. Let's see your coin."
"Ah, a shakedown!" Wade clapped his hands together. "Classic! Love the commitment to the genre. But I'm afraid my wallet is on a spiritual journey of self-discovery right now. It's finding itself in my other pants."
"Empty his pockets," the tall guard ordered his partner.
The second guard stepped forward, reaching for Wade's belt.
Not the pouches, Wade thought. That's where I keep the good snacks.
Wade's hand moved in a blur. He grabbed the guard's outstretched wrist, twisted it with a sickening crack of bone, and used the man's momentum to spin him into his partner. The two Gold Cloaks tumbled into a heap of clanging metal and surprised grunts.
"Now, now, boys," Wade chirped, drawing one of his katanas with a whisper of steel. The blade gleamed, impossibly sharp in the dim light. "Let's not get handsy. I'm spoken for."
The tall guard scrambled up, his spear leveled. "You're dead, freak."
"Honey, if I had a copper for every time I've heard that," Wade said, bouncing on the balls of his feet, "I could probably afford to buy this whole crap-smelling city."
The fight was, to be generous, short. The guard lunged. Wade sidestepped, the spearhead scraping uselessly against a brick wall. He brought the flat of his katana down on the back of the man's helmeted head. The CLANG was deeply satisfying. The guard crumpled like a tin can.
The other one, nursing his broken wrist, tried to draw his sword. Wade was already there. A quick pommel strike to the temple, and guard number two was taking a nap in a puddle of something unidentifiable.
Okay, so they're squishy, Wade noted. Good to know.
{And slow! We're like a superhero in a world of LARPers!} the voice in his head added gleefully.
Wade quickly frisked the unconscious guards. He found a small leather pouch on each. He emptied them into his hand: a handful of silver coins stamped with a stag and some coppers.
"Thank you for your contribution to the 'Feed a Merc' fund," he said to the snoring men. "Your sacrifice will be remembered. Probably."
He now had money and a confirmation. The stag coins? The gold cloaks? He'd binged the show three times. He knew exactly where he was.
King's Landing. Well, shit.
His new goal: find an info-dump. Preferably one that served booze. Walking through the crowded streets, he realized his suit was a problem. Everyone stared. He needed a place where being an outlandish weirdo wouldn't get him immediately stabbed.
There was only one logical destination.
He found it on a street lined with silk banners. A high-class establishment, judging by the clean stonework and the very large, very bored-looking man guarding the door. The sign was discreet, but Wade knew the type.
The bouncer, a mountain of a man with a squashed nose, put a hand the size of a dinner plate on Wade's chest. "Not for you."
"Whoa there, Lurch," Wade said, holding up his hands. "Don't judge a book by its incredibly handsome, form-fitting cover. I've got coin." He jangled the pouch of stolen money.
The bouncer's expression didn't change. "No masks."
"It's not a mask, it's my face! Medical condition. You wouldn't make fun of a guy with a… a terrible, disfiguring skin disease, would you? That's not very P.C." Wade leaned in conspiratorially. "Besides, the ladies love a man of mystery."
The bouncer grunted, unmoved.
Okay, plan B.
Wade sighed dramatically. "Fine. You win. But my employer won't be happy. He's a very influential man. Short fella. Big nose. Owns about a dozen places like this." Wade made a vague gesture. "Goes by the name… Littlefinger?"
The bouncer's eyes narrowed, just a fraction. He didn't know Petyr Baelish personally, but he knew the name. Everyone who worked in this part of the city knew the name. Causing trouble for one of the Master of Coin's associates, real or imagined, was a bad idea.
"He sent me to… check on the assets," Wade continued, his voice low and serious. "An audit. You wouldn't want to obstruct an official audit, would you? Think of the paperwork."
The bouncer hesitated for a full three seconds. It was long enough. He slowly removed his hand from Wade's chest and stepped aside.
Success! The greatest superpower isn't healing. It's bullshitting.
The inside was all plush velvet, scented oils, and quiet laughter. It was a world away from the stench of the street. A woman with auburn hair and a knowing smile glided over to him.
"An unusual guest," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "What is your pleasure, my lord?"
"Information, a private room, and your finest bottle of 'whatever won't make me go blind'," Wade said, tossing two silver stags onto a nearby table. They landed with a satisfying clink. "And a new friend. You look smart. What's your name?"
The woman, clearly the one in charge here, arched an eyebrow but scooped up the coins. "You may call me Alayna. Follow me."
She led him to a small, comfortable room with a bed and a couple of chairs. A few minutes later, she returned with a decanter of dark red wine and two goblets.
"You've caused quite a stir," Alayna said, pouring the wine. "No one has ever talked their way past Harys with a story that ridiculous."
"I have a very trustworthy face," Wade said, his voice muffled by the mask. He didn't take it off.
"I'll have to take your word for it." She sat opposite him, her gaze sharp and intelligent. "You wanted information. That's a more expensive pleasure than most, stranger."
"I'm good for it." Wade leaned forward, his playful tone gone for a moment. "I need to know two things. Simple things. First, what's today's date?"
Alayna gave him a strange look. "It's the third moon of the year 297, by the count of Aegon's conquest."
Wade's mind raced. 297 AC. The show starts in 298 AC. He felt a giddy, terrifying thrill bubble up in his chest. He was early. He had time.
"Okay. Good. Great." He took a deep breath. "Second question, and this one's the big one… who is the Hand of the King?"
Alayna's smile was practiced, polite. She had no idea the weight her words carried, no idea they were a starting pistol for a race against annihilation.
"Why, that would be Lord Jon Arryn, of course," she said. "A fine and steady hand, these many years."
Wade sat there for a long moment after she left, the wine untouched. The pieces clicked into place with the force of a tectonic plate shift.
He knew the date. He knew the players. And he knew that the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, had about a year left to live. His death would be the first domino to fall, setting off the whole bloody, beautiful, tragic disaster he knew as Game of Thrones. But now, it wasn't a show. It was his reality. Wellll… for the time being atleast.
And he, Deadpool, the Merc with a Mouth, the Regenerating Degenerate, was standing right in the middle of the board before the first move had even been made.
He could change things. He could save them. He could save them. The Starks. Ohhhhh the fanboy in him was electric at the thought.
A slow, wide grin spread across his masked face. This was going to be so much fun.
But now he was broke. Again. The private room and the surprisingly decent wine at Alayna's establishment had cost him nearly all of his recently acquired funds. He was left with a handful of copper pennies and two silver stags that felt very lonely in his pouch.
He sat on a crate in a grimy alley, the overwhelming stench of Flea Bottom making his eyes water. It was a district that made the rest of King's Landing smell like a perfume factory.
"A man can't start a world-saving crusade on an empty stomach," he grumbled to himself. He eyed a nearby stall selling meat pies. A woman with three teeth stirred a bubbling pot. "And I'm not sure I'm brave enough for whatever the hell is in that stew."
{Probably rat. Or that guy who asked too many questions yesterday.}
You're not helping, Boxy.
His goal was painfully simple, a tale as old as time: he needed more money. And in a city without a single decent taco truck, there was only one surefire way for a man of his talents to get it.
Finding the so-called fighting pits was an adventure in itself. Flea Bottom was a tangled knot of narrow streets and leaning shacks. After his third dead end, Wade spotted a potential source of information: a young boy, no older than ten, with a smudged face and eyes that were far too old.
"Hey, kid!" Wade called out, striking a heroic pose. "Your friendly neighborhood… guy in red pajamas needs directions. Know where a fella can watch two other fellas beat the ever-loving snot out of each other for money?"
The boy looked him up and down, unimpressed. "Might. What's it to you?"
"I'm a talent scout," Wade said smoothly. "Looking for the next big thing. The King's Landing Killer. The Flea Bottom Brawler. The…" He trailed off. "Look, I'll give you five coppers if you point the way."
The boy's eyes lit up at the mention of coin. He held out a grimy hand. "Ten."
Wade sighed. "You drive a hard bargain, you little capitalist. Fine. Ten coppers. But you walk me there. No funny business."
The boy, who introduced himself as Lip, snatched the coins and led Wade through a maze of alleys, finally stopping before a dilapidated warehouse. The sounds from within – roars, grunts, and the wet smack of fist on flesh – confirmed they were in the right place.
"Here you go, mister," Lip said, already backing away. "Try not to get killed."
"Kid, 'try not to get killed' is my default setting," Wade called after him. Wise advice, though.
The inside of the warehouse was packed with a sweating, shouting mob of the city's worst. The air was thick with the smell of ale and blood. In the center, a makeshift ring of packed dirt was illuminated by smoking torches. Two shirtless behemoths were currently trying to gouge each other's eyes out.
Wade pushed his way through the crowd toward a rickety table where a bald man with a ledger was taking bets. This had to be the guy in charge.
"I want in," Wade said, his voice cutting through the din.
The bookie, whose name was Tormo, didn't even look up. "Get in line. And you need a fighter."
"Oh, I am the fighter," Wade said cheerfully.
Tormo finally raised his eyes, taking in the skin-tight red and black suit and the mask. He let out a wheezing laugh. "A mummer? You'll last ten seconds. What's your buy-in?"
"How much to fight the winner of this little slap-fest?"
"That's Otho the Ox," Tormo grunted, gesturing to the larger of the two brawlers who had just slammed his opponent's head into the dirt. The crowd roared its approval. "He'll cost you two silvers to fight. Winner takes ten."
A five-to-one payout. Not bad. It was also literally all the money Wade had. The stakes were clear: win, or go back to panhandling.
"You've got a deal, chrome dome," Wade said, placing his last two silver stags on the table.
Tormo grunted, scribbled something in his ledger, and pocketed the coins. "You're next, mummer. Don't bleed on my book."
Wade vaulted over the low rope fence into the pit. Otho the Ox was still catching his breath, his knuckles bloody. He was massive, a wall of muscle and scar tissue with a flat, brutish face. The crowd, smelling fresh blood, immediately started jeering at the newcomer.
"Look at the skinny fool!"
"Otho's gonna tear him in half!"
"I love you all, too!" Wade shouted back, doing a few light stretches. "Remember to tip your wenches!"
Otho charged, a roar ripping from his throat. He was fast for a big man. Wade, however, was faster. He sidestepped the clumsy bull rush, tapping the big man on the back of his head as he lumbered past. "Tag! You're it!"
The big man spun around, enraged. He swung a fist the size of a ham. Wade ducked under it, the wind of its passage ruffling his… mask. He popped up and delivered a series of lightning-fast jabs to Otho's ribs. They felt like hitting a side of beef.
Okay, this guy's durable, Wade thought. Time for Plan B: annoy him into submission.
For the next minute, Wade was a phantom. He dodged, weaved, and slid around every one of Otho's powerful but predictable attacks. All the while, he kept up a running commentary.
"Is that your best bull rush? My grandma rushes bulls better than that, and she's dead! You know, your fighting style reminds me of a poem. 'There once was a brute from Flea Bottom…'"
Otho was getting sloppy, his swings becoming wilder. He finally got lucky, his meaty hand catching Wade's arm and holding him in place. A triumphant, ugly grin spread across his face. He drew back his other fist for a knockout blow.
Instead of trying to pull away, Wade lunged forward, headbutting Otho square on the nose with a sickening crunch. The big man bellowed in pain, his grip loosening as blood streamed down his face.
Seeing his opening, Otho pulled a dirty trick. A small, wicked-looking knife appeared in his hand. He lunged, stabbing Wade deep in the shoulder.
The crowd gasped. Tormo the bookie looked annoyed at the rule-breaking. Wade just looked down at the knife handle sticking out of his suit.
"Hey! No-no," he chided, wagging a finger. "That's against the rules, isn't it? Bad form, Otho. Bad form."
Then, to the utter shock of everyone watching, Wade grabbed the handle, gritted his teeth, and pulled the blade out with a wet schlick. The wound, gushing blood a second ago, smoked and sealed itself shut in less than five seconds. The hole in his suit was the only evidence he'd ever been stabbed.
The warehouse went completely, utterly silent. Otho the Ox stared, his jaw hanging open in disbelief and terror.
"My turn," Wade said.
He moved in, a blur of motion. A spinning back kick caught Otho on the side of the head. The giant staggered, his eyes glazing over. Wade followed up with a sharp elbow to the temple.
Otho the Ox crashed to the packed earth, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Wade stood over the fallen giant, raising his arms in victory. For a moment, the crowd was too stunned to react. Then, a single person started clapping, and soon the entire warehouse erupted in a roar of cheers and disbelief.
He hopped out of the ring and sauntered back to the bookie's table. Tormo was staring at him, his mouth a thin line. He had seen a man get stabbed and then… not be stabbed. It wasn't natural.
"That was… unexpected," Tormo said, his voice a low rasp.
"I aim to please," Wade said, holding out his hand. "Now, about my ten silvers."
Tormo slowly, deliberately counted out ten coins and pushed them across the table. Wade scooped them up, the weight in his pouch a comforting feeling. He had money. He could buy a real meal. Maybe even rent a room that didn't have a family of rats as roommates.
But as he turned to leave, Tormo's voice stopped him.
"Wait. Mummer."
Wade turned back. "The name's Deadpool. And for you, the price is double."
Tormo ignored the jibe. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a new kind of interest – not just a bookie looking at a fighter, but a predator sizing up a new weapon.
"Beating Otho is one thing. What you did with that knife… that's something else. That's a skill that could earn a man more than ten silvers a night. I have clients. Wealthy, important clients, who sometimes need problems solved. Problems that require a man who doesn't… stay wounded. Are you interested in real work?"
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Read more at pat reon /MoonyNightShade