Wade was a goner.
Even from across the warehouse, Noah could still hear the mercenary's unhinged cackling echoing down the corridors like the soundtrack to a horror movie. The sound was getting fainter, but no less maniacal, classic Wade Wilson, laughing his way to what was probably going to be an extremely unpleasant conversation with Francis.
Following in Wade's wake was Francis himself, moving with the rigid posture of a man who'd just discovered his medical degree came with a side of public humiliation. His white coat billowed behind him like the cape of the world's most pretentious superhero, and Noah could practically see the fury radiating off him in visible waves.
Wade hadn't exactly been subtle with his dish soap revelation. His booming voice had carried to every corner of the warehouse, ensuring that guards, test subjects, and probably half the facility's janitorial staff now knew that their feared tormentor shared a name with something you'd find under a kitchen sink.
Social death by dish soap, Noah thought with grim satisfaction. Francis is probably planning ways to make Wade suffer that haven't been invented yet.
As Francis disappeared around a corner, probably dragging Wade toward whatever passed for a discipline chamber in this house of horrors, Noah allowed himself a small smile. Phase one of his incredibly stupid and desperate plan was complete.
Now came the hard part: waiting.
And trying not to think about what Francis was doing to Wade right now.
Sorry, buddy, Noah thought, settling back on his bed and trying to look like he was still a broken, barely-functioning test subject instead of someone who'd just orchestrated a elaborate psychological warfare campaign. But your sacrifice is going to save everyone in this place. Well, everyone who survives what comes next.
Time moved like molasses in the facility. Without windows or clocks, Noah had no way to track the hours except by the shift changes of the guards and the irregular delivery of what the facility generously called "meals."
He lay on his hospital bed, every sense alert despite his carefully maintained appearance of exhaustion. His enhanced hearing picked up conversations from across the warehouse, his improved vision caught details in the dim lighting that would have been invisible before, and his regenerated nervous system was practically humming with anticipation.
The other test subjects around him continued their chorus of misery, some moaning in pain, others muttering to themselves, a few staring blankly at the ceiling like they'd given up on the concept of hope entirely. Noah had been one of them just yesterday, and now he felt like he was watching it all from the other side of bulletproof glass.
Any minute now, he told himself for the hundredth time. Wade's got his healing factor, Francis is probably pushing him past his breaking point, and Wade Wilson with superpowers and a grudge is basically a weapon of mass destruction with a sense of humor.
The waiting was torture in its own way. Noah found himself counting heartbeats, analyzing the guard rotations, planning escape routes through the facility's layout that he'd memorized over two months of careful observation.
He was so focused on listening for signs of Wade's inevitable rampage that he almost missed the subtle change in the air pressure.
Almost.
BOOM!
The explosion hit like the fist of an angry god.
Noah had exactly enough time to think Finally! before the shockwave picked him up, bed and all, and hurled him across the warehouse like he'd been shot out of a cannon.
The world turned into a kaleidoscope of fire, smoke, and screaming metal. The hospital bed disintegrated beneath him as he flew, leaving him to slam into the far wall with enough force to turn a normal person into abstract art. He felt ribs crack, his shoulder dislocate, and something that was probably his skull fracture against the concrete.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming, but it was also temporary.
By the time Noah hit the ground, his immortality was already kicking in. Bones realigned with audible pops, burned skin regenerated in pink waves, and his dislocated shoulder snapped back into place with a sound like a gunshot.
He rolled over and pushed himself to his feet, marveling at the chaos around him.
Holy shit, Wade. You really don't do anything halfway, do you?
The warehouse had been transformed into a vision of hell. What had been a dimly lit prison was now a blazing inferno, with tongues of flame licking at everything combustible. Hospital beds were scattered like broken toys, some still occupied by test subjects who were screaming for help they weren't going to get.
Bodies, some moving, some not, were scattered across the floor. The air reeked of smoke, burning plastic, and something that might have been human hair.
Noah covered his mouth with his shirt and started moving. The fire was spreading fast, feeding on decades of accumulated debris and whatever chemical compounds the facility had been storing. Black smoke rolled across the ceiling like storm clouds, and the temperature was rising by the second.
Time to go, he decided. Time to very much go.
He picked his way through the debris, stepping over fallen beams and around puddles of something that glowed an unsettling shade of green. His bare feet should have been screaming in agony from the superheated floor, but his immortality was handling that too, burning away the damaged skin and replacing it faster than the heat could accumulate.
Advantage: being literally unkillable, Noah noted as he navigated around a section of collapsed ceiling. Disadvantage: still feels like walking on hot coals every single step.
That's when he spotted the guard.
The man was slumped against a wall about fifty feet away, clutching his right arm and moving with the slow, pained shuffle of someone who'd been caught in the blast. His uniform was torn and bloodied, but he was alive and armed.
More importantly, he was between Noah and the exit.
The guard noticed Noah at the same time, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of a test subject walking around freely in the middle of an inferno.
"Hey!" the guard shouted over the roar of the flames. "You're supposed to be—"
Noah didn't let him finish the sentence.
Two months of rage, frustration, and helpless fury crystallized into pure violent motion. Noah covered the distance between them in three strides and drove his fist into the guard's face with every ounce of strength his enhanced body could muster.
The guard's head snapped back against the wall with a wet crunch. Blood exploded from his nose, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he slumped sideways.
But Noah wasn't done. Not even close.
This is for every time you watched Francis torture me and did nothing, Noah thought as he grabbed the guard by the collar and hauled him back upright. This is for every scream you ignored, every plea for help you pretended not to hear.
His fist connected with the guard's jaw, then his temple, then his solar plexus. The man tried to fight back, but he was injured and disoriented, while Noah was running on two months of suppressed fury and a healing factor that meant he could hit as hard as he wanted without worrying about breaking his own hands.
When the guard finally stopped moving, Noah stepped back, breathing heavily. His knuckles were bloody, but the wounds were already sealing themselves.
God, he thought, staring down at the unconscious (or worse) guard. When did I become someone who beats people to death with his bare hands?
The answer came immediately: The moment I got strapped to Francis's table for the first time.
He knelt down and started going through the guard's pockets. A pistol, heavy and unfamiliar in his hands but reassuringly solid. Ammunition clips. A keycard that might open doors he couldn't punch through.
And most importantly, clothes that weren't a tattered hospital gown.
Noah stripped the guard with the efficient brutality of someone who'd had his own dignity taken away piece by piece. The uniform was too big and smelled like smoke and fear-sweat, but it would do. The boots were a size too large, but they were better than bare feet on a floor that was rapidly becoming molten.
CRACK!
A support beam fell from the ceiling, missing Noah by inches and sending up a shower of sparks that singed his newly stolen uniform.
Right. Burning building. Imminent structural collapse. Probably should get moving.
The smoke was getting thicker, turning the air into a toxic soup that burned his lungs with every breath. His immortality was keeping him alive, but it wasn't making the experience pleasant.
Noah picked up the pistol, checked that it was loaded, and started running toward what he hoped was an exit.
Phase two: escape from exploding death trap.
Phase three: find Wade and make sure he's not dead.
Phase four: kill Francis in the most creative way possible.
Phase five: figure out what the hell to do with the rest of his life.
As plans went, it wasn't exactly detailed. But considering that twelve hours ago his biggest aspiration had been "survive until tomorrow," Noah figured he was making pretty good progress.
The facility shook around him as another explosion echoed through the corridors. Somewhere in this maze of fire and smoke, Wade Wilson was presumably having the time of his life introducing Francis to the concept of consequences.
Noah smiled as he ran toward freedom.
Game on.
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