USA, New York City
On a sagging sofa in a dim apartment somewhere in New York, a man who looked as if he had survived a tenth-degree burn lay staring at the ceiling like a philosopher contemplating the tragedy of capitalism.
That man was Wade.
More precisely—Wade Wilson.
And even more precisely—Wade Wilson, whose given name was Wade.
He sighed.
Everyone always said the power of credit was infinite.
So why, in this land of dreams and debt, was his credit card balance aggressively mortal?
He checked it again.
Still poor.
"Unlimited credit," he muttered. "My foot."
He rolled to his side and stared at his phone. Reality was cruel. Bills were real. And bullets, unfortunately, did not pay for themselves.
"Forget it," he said. "Time to look for honest work."
Honest was negotiable.
Work was not.
Even if it meant finding lost cats. Even if it meant catching runaway dogs. Even if it meant… paperwork.
With renewed desperation disguised as confidence, Wade scrolled through his contacts and started dialing.
One call.
Hung up.
Second call.
Hung up faster.
Third call.
Blocked.
"Wow," Wade whispered. "My reputation precedes me. And apparently terrifies people."
Finally, one call connected.
Wade froze and glanced at the name displayed on his screen.
Matt Murdock
Wade immediately sat upright.
"Hello! Is that my long-lost half-brother, Matt?"
On the other end, a calm, restrained voice responded without hesitation.
"No. You have the wrong number. Goodbye."
"Wait, wait, wait!" Wade shouted. "Don't hang up! I just wanted to ask if you have any cases that require my very affordable and morally flexible services."
There was silence.
Matt adjusted the recorder on his desk.
He did have a case.
A difficult one. No evidence yet. Allegations against a priest. Time was limited.
But giving it to Wade was like giving fireworks to a toddler.
"Cases…" Matt repeated carefully.
"Yes, cases!" Wade continued. "You've seen my efficiency. Except in bed and in the restroom—even The Flash would call me Dad."
"Enough."
Matt's patience snapped.
"I do have a case. There is currently no evidence. It involves a priest."
Wade blinked.
"What? The holy robe type messing with kids again?"
Matt didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
"I'll send you the file," Matt said firmly. "But listen carefully. You are only to collect evidence. No violence. No crimes. Absolutely no killing."
"Of course!" Wade replied immediately.
Then, his voice softened.
"So… about payment?"
"Five hundred dollars."
Wade stared at the phone.
"How much?"
"Five hundred."
Wade dug his finger dramatically into his ear.
"Are you paying a superhero or tipping a street performer?"
"Four hundred fifty."
"I—"
"Four hundred."
"Stop! Stop! Don't go lower! I'll take it!"
In a stunning display of reverse negotiation, Wade had successfully lowered his own pay.
Matt hung up immediately, as if prolonged exposure might cause brain damage through the signal.
Wade collapsed back onto the sofa and opened the file that had just arrived.
"Father," he whispered dramatically. "I'm coming."
---
Before the Chaos Continues…
Let's rewind.
Because Wade Wilson wasn't always Wade Wilson.
Once upon a time, his name was Rowan Mercer.
Yes.
Rowan Mercer.
A completely ordinary man.
Until he wasn't.
In his previous life, Rowan died in the most unremarkable way possible—hit by a truck. No epic battle. No noble sacrifice. Just poor timing and bad luck.
His soul drifted upward… and upward… until it encountered a girl in a blue dress with flowing blue hair who called herself the Goddess of Wisdom.
She gave him a choice:
Reincarnate normally.
Or transmigrate into a random superhero.
Random.
He should have paid attention to that word.
Rowan imagined legends.
Batman.
Iron Man.
Captain America.
Superman.
He did not consider that Deadpool counted.
But destiny has a sense of humor.
He agreed.
He imagined becoming a symbol of justice.
He imagined redeeming whatever flawed hero he inherited.
He imagined dignity.
He had been foolish.
Because soul transmigration was not a clean replacement.
It was not deleting a file and installing a new one.
It was… merging.
And there was one small complication.
Deadpool was immortal.
So how could he be dead?
Simple.
He had been killed.
Killed so violently that even his healing factor needed time to reboot.
When Rowan's consciousness entered the body, the original Wade Wilson's consciousness had not fully disappeared.
They fused.
Merged.
Collided.
And the result was the current Wade.
Part Rowan Mercer—calculated, rational, structured.
Part Wade Wilson—unhinged, chaotic, and aggressively inappropriate.
A terrifying combination.
---
Rooftop — Present
Bang.
Bang.
Two gunshots echoed across the night skyline.
A heavy body hit the ground.
Boom!
The rooftop door burst open violently.
A towering metallic figure ducked inside.
Colossus
His silver skin reflected the city lights.
He looked at the two bodies.
Then at the red-and-black figure slowly sitting up.
Deadpool
"Wade," Colossus said sternly. "You killed someone again."
Deadpool rubbed the fresh bullet hole in his forehead as the wound sealed itself.
"Slander," he replied. "This was a sacred duel. One bullet each. Fair. Just. Transparent. You won't find better odds in Las Vegas."
Colossus crossed his arms.
Deadpool tilted his head curiously.
"If that's not convincing enough," he said, raising his pistol, "I can give him another shot."
"I am waiting," Colossus said flatly, "for you to do exactly that."
Deadpool gasped dramatically.
"You've changed, Piotr."
He shrugged.
Bang.
The bullet struck the corpse again.
Blood splattered.
Deadpool clapped enthusiastically.
"Nice! Still got it."
Colossus stared at him.
In the distance, police sirens wailed.
Another rooftop.
Another mess.
Another payday that barely qualified as survival.
And somewhere in New York, a priest had no idea that a broke, regenerating mercenary with merged consciousness and zero boundaries was about to knock on his door.
For now, though—
Deadpool was still $400 richer.
And deeply offended that it wasn't five hundred.
---