Noah's triumphant shout echoed through the warehouse like a war cry from hell's own cheerleader.
The guards scattered throughout the facility glanced over with the bored expression of retail workers dealing with their hundredth Karen of the day. Another test subject having a mental breakdown? Must be Tuesday.
They'd seen it all before, the screaming, the laughing, the occasional attempt to chew through restraints. Par for the course in Francis's house of horrors. After a few dismissive looks, they went back to their riveting conversations about sports and which nurse they wanted to sleep with.
"Jesus Christ on a pogo stick!" came a raspy voice from the bed next to Noah. "You just cock-blocked me out of the best dream I've had in weeks!"
Noah turned to find the source of the complaint: a man who looked like he'd been put through a blender and reassembled by someone who'd never seen a human before. Pale as printer paper, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and stubble that suggested he'd given up on personal grooming around the same time hope died.
The guy was glaring at Noah with the righteous indignation of someone whose fantasy date with a supermodel had just been interrupted.
"Do you have any idea," the stranger continued, "how hard it is to get to second base with Scarlett Johansson when you're strapped to a hospital bed in a torture facility? I was this close to seeing her—"
"Wade," interrupted another voice from across the room, "didn't you tell us yesterday that you have a girlfriend on the outside? Maybe focus on getting back to her instead of your imaginary harem?"
Wade Wilson, because of course it was Wade Wilson, Noah realized with a mixture of excitement and terror, sat up as much as his restraints allowed.
"First of all, Vanessa is absolutely real and absolutely gorgeous, thank you very much. Second, a man needs goals, and my current goal is surviving this medical nightmare so I can go home and prove to all you sad bastards that I landed the most beautiful woman in New York."
"The key phrase being 'if you survive,'" someone else chimed in from the darkness.
Wade's expression darkened faster than a thundercloud. "Oh, I'll survive. And when I get out of here, I'm going to find every person responsible for this place and introduce them to my little friends, Smith and Wesson."
Noah's mind raced. Here was Wade Wilson, the future Deadpool, still fully human and completely unaware of what he was about to become. More importantly, Noah knew exactly how this story was supposed to unfold.
In the original timeline, Wade would eventually develop his healing factor and stage a spectacular escape that involved explosions, fire, and enough property damage to make an insurance adjuster weep. The entire facility would burn to the ground, taking most of Francis's operation with it.
But that was the problem, Noah couldn't wait for Wade's eventual rebellion. His newly restored body was a ticking time bomb. The moment Francis or one of his medical staff noticed that Noah had made a miraculous recovery from two months of systematic torture, questions would be asked. Tests would be run. And then Noah would find himself being studied like a lab rat on steroids.
He needed to accelerate the timeline.
Fortunately, Noah had something Wade didn't: knowledge of Francis's greatest weakness.
His ego.
"Hey, Wade," Noah said casually, "you want to know something interesting about our favorite doctor?"
Wade perked up like a dog hearing a treat bag rustle. "If it involves embarrassing Ajax in creative ways, then absolutely."
"Well, here's the thing, Ajax isn't even his real name."
"No shit, Sherlock. Half the people in here are probably using fake names."
Noah grinned, and it was not a nice expression. "Yeah, but get this, his real name is Francis. And he didn't just pick Ajax randomly. He stole it from a brand of dish soap."
The silence that followed was so complete you could hear a pin drop in the next zip code.
Wade blinked. Once. Twice. "I'm sorry, did you just say our psychotic doctor named himself after dish soap?"
"Ajax Ultra. Tough on grease, gentle on hands," Noah recited like he was doing a commercial. "Our boy Francis apparently thought it sounded tough and intimidating. Guy's been washing dishes with his own name his whole life and never realized how ridiculous it was."
Wade's face went through several expressions, surprise, disbelief, and then pure, unadulterated joy. His shoulders started shaking.
"Oh my God," he wheezed. "Oh my God. This is the best thing I've heard since I got to this hellhole. Francis the Dish Soap Doctor. That's, that's beautiful."
"Yeah, but here's the thing," Noah said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You can't tell anyone. Especially not him."
Wade's laughter died immediately. "What? Why not?"
"Because Francis has the emotional maturity of a toddler with anger management issues. If you mock his name choice, he'll take it out on everyone. And I mean everyone. Remember what happened to Jenkins when he made fun of Francis's hairline?"
Wade winced. Jenkins had been transferred to what the guards euphemistically called "intensive treatment." They'd found pieces of him a week later.
"Promise me you won't say anything," Noah pressed. "The guy's already unstable. We don't need to give him more reasons to get creative with the torture devices."
Wade straightened up, his expression suddenly serious. "Hey, give me some credit here. I'm a professional. I've been trained to keep secrets that could topple governments. I'm not going to blow this over some dish soap joke."
"You sure? Because you seemed pretty excited about it."
"Listen, kid—" Wade caught himself. "Wait, what's your name again?"
"Noah. Noah Malachi."
"Right, Noah. I've infiltrated terrorist cells, stolen state secrets, and once spent six months undercover as a nun in a convent. I think I can handle not making dish soap puns around Dr. Mengele Junior."
Noah nodded, satisfied. Wade Wilson was many things, unstable, violent, and absolutely insane, but he was also a professional mercenary with years of training in operational security.
Unfortunately, he was also Wade Wilson.
"Good," Noah said. "I'm counting on your professional discretion."
"You got it, bud. My lips are sealed tighter than—"
"Wade."
"Right, right. Professional. Discrete. Got it."
The next morning, Francis made his rounds through the facility like a shark cruising through bloody waters. As head of operations, he personally inspected the test subjects, checking their progress and determining who was ready for the next phase of experimentation.
Noah watched him approach through half-closed eyes, his newly enhanced senses tracking every detail. Francis moved with the confident stride of a man who believed himself untouchable, clipboard in hand, white coat pristine despite the horrors he inflicted daily.
He stopped at Wade's bed first, checking the mercenary's chart with clinical detachment.
Wade looked up at Francis with an expression of perfect innocence.
For exactly three seconds.
Then his face started to twitch.
"Something wrong, Mr. Wilson?" Francis asked in his most professional doctor voice.
Wade bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood. His shoulders were shaking with barely suppressed laughter.
"No sir, Dr. Ajax sir," Wade managed, his voice strained. "Everything's perfectly fine."
Francis raised an eyebrow. "Are you quite certain? You seem... distressed."
That was the wrong word to use.
Wade's composure shattered like glass hitting concrete.
"PFFFFT—" The sound escaped before he could stop it. "I'm sorry, I just—" Another snort of laughter. "I can't help it. It's just so stupid."
Francis's expression went from curious to dangerous. "What exactly do you find amusing about your situation, Mr. Wilson?"
"Oh, not my situation," Wade gasped between giggles. "It's just—God, I can't believe there's actually someone walking around who thought 'Ajax' sounded cool when it's literally the name of a dish soap. I mean, what's next? Dr. Palmolive? Professor Pine-Sol?"
The temperature in the room dropped about twenty degrees.
Francis went very, very still.
"What did you just say?"
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