Chapter 2: The World a Stage

Blue Air was a subsidiary of one of the many umbrella cover corporations which legally funded S.H.I.E.L.D.'s endeavors. In fact, Blue Air was so far removed from anything related to the organization it was almost as if it were actually a legitimate, privately owned, travel airline. Which made it even more suspect in my eyes, it if weren't for the soul-numbing tediousness that came with booking flights for complete strangers. Based in New York in a high traffic area, Blue Air boasted a robust customer service department which was open twenty-four-hours a day to meet their customers' needs. The cubicles were mandatory.

God, how I hated that cubical.

But hate took too much energy and after a year and a bit (seven months, 6 days, 9 hours) of working there, I really couldn't give a shit. There I was, dead on my feet, much like the many other zombies who had to work the suicide shift, crawling my way home to do it all over again tomorrow.

There had been no word from my lovely benefactors in nearly six months, which was honestly a relief. If they'd come knocking again, asking about a future which I knew nothing about, I'd have make like a bird and take a nose dive from the nearest window of my dilapidated apartment. Not that I actually would, mind. I liked it. Living, I mean. And it was understandable that they couldn't be bothered to call, especially with what was going down.

Heroes, mutants, and aliens! Oh my.

Shit was getting real up there in Hero Land and us peons were falling through the cracks like water.

I was (am) Rebecca Krane. They'd surprised me by letting me choose an alias, another one of their mind games, no doubt, but it let me keep something of myself, so I wasn't going to complain. Krane was, quite frankly, a morbid ode to the DC Universe. Only the good Dr. Scarecrow could have spiked my cool aid, because this shit was terrifying.

Apart from my initial introduction into this world I didn't have much contact with the Powers that Be. I did not live in the lap of luxury. I did not have nice things. And I did not, under any circumstances, know anybody of importance. Whither this was by design or simply by happenstance, I didn't know, nor did I care to. The mortality rate of normals when around metahumans when they decided to throw down was ridiculously high and I'd prefer not to be that extra, thank you very fucking much. Plot Protection, why hast thou forsaken me? No. If I could, I'd go live somewhere like Idaho and make friendly with the potatoes (though I do make a mean baked potato, if I say so myself, which I do).

Suffice to say, I may have been encouraged to sign a liability contract that prevented me from leaving New York under any circumstances; which sucked, because my place was a shithole, much like my job. I lived in an apartment complex still covered in rubble from the Battle of New York, as they'd started calling it, which happened roughly three years ago.

Us little people had it tough, hence the reason was why I was sitting, soulless, in an almost empty train at the butt-crack of dawn, staring hazy-eyed into oblivion.

There were two people in the compartment with me: a flamboyantly gay drag queen (possibly mutant) who had obviously seen better days, and a face-less man in a dark grey sweater. But they could have been cardboard placards of naked porn stars for all I cared, blinking, Zen-like, in exhaustion at the hooded man across the way.

Of course, I didn't know I was staring at him until he perkily got up and sat next to me.

"So!" Hoodie said, "I couldn't help but notice you noticing me, noticing you."

I startled, coming out of my daze, because you don't fucking talk to people on the tram, let alone sit right next to one of the only other people there. It's just not done. All my creeper flags started waiving, even as I shifted away from the arm encircling the back of my chair and turned to lash out at the asshole, because, dammit, I was tried as fuck and migraine oww, but nothing came out my mouth.

"Yeah. I get that a lot. Never quite that color though."

I'd never experienced the feeling of blood draining from my face before, but damn, where those black spots at the corners of my eyes?

Because. Fuck.

Wade. Fucking. Wilson.

I stare rudely for a moment, because that looks like it hurt, yeck, then I close my eyes and straighten so there is no way I could possibly physically touch him without deliberately moving to do so. I try to find my happy place, even as he starts babbling animatedly about cabbage of all things.

That's a solid nope in my book.

Then it (obviously) takes a turn for the worst.

"You know, there's something different about you, but I just can't place it." He sing-songs. His voice drops, accent changing. "Did I kill you once before?"

An expectant pause.

"No? Pity. Then what is it? Do you have an uncle named one eye?"

I swallow, the pain in my head spiking as I stare dead ahead.

"THAT'S IT! And where are your thought bubbles? Usually they just pop right up, slamming into my face like the dicks they are, but with you there's nothing. Zilch. Nada. Are you some kind of freak? Wait-"

He pauses, crossing a leg over a knee and pulling in to whisper.

"Is this a fan fiction?"

I have no words.

He squeals, "God, I love those!"

"Oi! Freak." A husky voice calls out.

Wade rolls his eyes muttering, "I know you are but what am I?" before turning his head to face the only other person on the train.

Miss Drag Queen quirks an already extravagant eyebrow from where she's twisted in her seat to face us. Her chin juts up."The fuck you think you're doing?"

Wade shrugs, uncrossed foot tapping on the metallic floor of the tram in time to some unknown beat as he relaxes against the metros hard back chair and by extension, me. "Talking."

Painted lips twist. "No shit. I got my finger on speed dial for the cops, asshole. Quit harassing her."

Said asshole gasps, clutching his chest. "Me? Harassing anybody? Why I never."

Miss Drag Queen pulls a slim, black device out of her bedazzled hand clutch. "Sure, funny guy. Won't be so funny when I taze your ass."

I see Wade blink from the corner of my eye and resolutely don't react as he pulls back to face me. "She doesn't mind." Wade gestures wildly between me and Miss Drag Queen. "Tell her you don't mind."

I swallow as the train slows and the drop off is announced. "...this is my stop."

"Oh! Let me just get out of you way then." He hops up, bowing like a gentleman. It only freaks me out more.

The drag queen nods at me as I pass by, carefully trying to seem like I'm not running.

"Be careful, sweetheart. Get home fast, okay?"

"...okay."

I hear a snarl from behind me as I step over the gap between the metro car and the platform.

"What are you doin'?"

"Getting off?"

"The fuck you are. Leave her alone."

"What if this is my stop though?" The grown man whines.

"You think I'm stupid?"

"Yes. Maybe? Do I have to answer?"

"Asshole."

"I know you are, but what am-"

I don't look back, already suspecting that the dull thud I hear is the sound of a tazer going off and a body meeting the floor, the drag queen cussing the downed man out before the door closes and the sound cuts off.

I hurry the fuck home.

I make it all the way to the apartment, skittish as a jack rabbit, before closing and locking the old front door and letting my pounding head fall against the grain with a dull thunk. Crisis averted.

"So..."

My heart leaps into my throat.

"Nice place you have here. Walls are a bit thin though. That must be awkward when you want some... alone time."

I squeeze my eyes shut, fervently hoping that when I open them and turn, I'll just see my shitty couch. It's not to be.

"Oi! Earth to blondy!" Deadpool -swords, guns, skin-tight costume and all- waves at me from said couch. "Unless you're not from Earth, which is apparently a thing now..."

I rally myself, saliva stuck in my throat. "Get out of my house."

His arms fly up. "Rude. After all I went through to visit! I was electrocuted. Me!"

"I can't imagine why." I mutter, struggling to open the now jammed -how?!- front door.

He hears me. "I know. As if he'd -wait, its she, right? They? Damn you political correctness!- Anyway, it's like they've never seen a guy walk a girl home before."

My hand shakes as I pull it away from the doorknob, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Please leave."

"No can do, chica. The Gods have spoken. You are the chosen one."

I subtly reach in my shoulder bag, digging around for my cell phone and swearing when I can't find it. "My God."

"Yes?"

I finally look up at him, eyes wild, but voice still, somehow, remarkably clear. "Leave."

There is a long pause, both of us staring at each other in the dark of my apartment, only a thin strip of light illuminating us through the windows from street lamp outside; him, relaxed, arms spread over the back of my couch, me pressed up against my own front door, clutching my work bag.

Then he stands, casually rolling his shoulders and stretching out his back. His head tilts."You know, you freak out weird."

Something in the back of my mind shudders at the inquisitive tilt. I slowly start shifting towards the kitchen, desperate to put something bodily between me and the crazy.

"What." I manage, even as his body shifts to follow my movements.

He tuts, the white eyes of his mask widening expressively as he gestures to himself. "Well, a scary, but strangely attractive, -damn am I hot- man followed you home, knocked out your power and stole your cell phone." He pauses in his listing. Then suddenly his hands move back to his ass. "I would be hysterical if that happened to me."

That ball of panic in my stomach I'd been suppressing just jumped into my throat. "I d-don't-"

"Girl, please. I know that you know that I know that you work for the men in tights. Wait." A gloved had comes up, the other touching where his mouth should be. "Suits. The men in suits. Yeah."

I vehemently shake my head, finally scooting behind my kitchen island. "I work for a call center."

One masked eye winks. "That's what they all say."

I stare, unable to speak.

Suddenly he's across the room, sitting in front of me on the bar top and I flinch back, hip colliding sharply with the stove behind me, head slamming harshly against a cabinet. He leans forward on his palms, legs dangling like a child.

"Waoh! Watch the furniture, chica."

My eyes are burning and my head hurts. My voice wobbles.

"Look- I'm in protective custody. That's all."

"Why?" Another head tilt. I feel like throwing up.

"Please, just- leave."

Deadpool hums, mask eyes widening and narrowing in turn as he pretends to think. Then he blows a raspberry.

"No."

I choke on a sob, curling in on myself.

"Wait." His feet plop on the kitchen tile as he stands, ignoring my flinch. This tone is inquisitive, then quickly gains an artificially panicked edge. I'm too busy cowering against my counter to care. "Are you crying? I didn't- fuck, um, yeah okay, I'll just-"

He disappears from my hazy vision as he rounds the island, tripping over something and swearing as he goes down.

He pops back up a second later, hand out to pacify as he backs away.

"I'll just- you know- come back later-!"

I sob harder.

"Er, uh," he composes himself and points suddenly to the floor. "And watch out for that glass! Someone must have broken something!"

Then Deadpool lets himself out of the apartment, carefully clicking the front door closed behind him.

I don't move. Shuddering, exhausted from work and terrified at my first meeting with a Marvel cape, I slide to the cold tile of my kitchen floor.

An hour passes. I repeatedly go over the whole encounter in my head as I calm down, wondering if I'd overreacted, doubting myself, but ultimately coming the same conclusion.

Deadpool -Wade Wilson- was fucking terrifying.

Not because he was a mercenary. Or that he followed me home and harassed me. Though that was wrong and scary all on its own.

It was the fact that he fucking knew what he was doing. Every funny one-liner, every casual, comical movement: all an act. A game. A performance for an audience only he could see. And that made me a prop for his fantasies. Every action tonight in this apartment was meant to illicit a certain response from me.

But I'd failed to react like he'd expected me to.

That's why he'd pushed, encroaching on my space, cornering me, but never, ever, touching.

Practically telling me to be hysterical. Harmless, quirky, weirdo he was not.

Death had just walked through my parlor, taken a bow, then left.

I shivered from the cold breeze coming through my broken living room window, finally dragging myself up on rubbery limbs to check the damage done to my apartment.

On the counter, something buzzed.

I step closer and there is my missing cell phone, screen lit up with a text from an unknown number.

Sorry! :(

I shiver.

Asshole.

AN: Ok guys. I freaking toiled over this. It fought me every single step of the way for months -Nay!- for over a year! Until, suddenly, today it just magically decided to stop being a bitch. Its a bit darker then I expected, but, meh. Let me know what you think.

~Delgodess