Red & Chrome

People wove tales from scraps of truth, stitched them together with their need to make sense of the world. That was how the name Arachrome came to be.

A vigilante. A savior. A menace. A criminal barely better than those he hunted. Labels came and went, tossed around carelessly.

Yet, in the end, none of them really matter. Archer had long since stopped chasing the approval of fickle perception. He wasn’t in it for the murals painted in his likeness in alleyways. Or the shaky phone recordings that caught glimpses of him in motion. Or whatever people say to make him larger, stranger, more than he was.

A man riding through the night, trying to keep his city from swallowing itself whole.

And tonight, that meant breaking into a certain research facility.

Officially, it was a beacon of innovation. Unofficially, it was the kind of place where the walls knew things they would never confess. Where missing persons weren’t just paranoia, but a terrible reality.

Someone had built this facility. Poured money into it. Let it thrive beneath the surface. That was the thing about monsters, wasn’t it? They were rarely what you expected. More often than not, they wore suits, signed checks in pristine offices, and operated behind the gleaming facades of bureaucracy.

And Archer? He was here to make sure they didn’t escape the consequences of their actions.

The lock on the rooftop hatch was just another overpriced security measure built to stop the ordinary, but not The Spider. It gave away under his touch, and he slipped inside, dropping into the dark with a practiced proficiency. Absolutely no wasted movement.

Three floors down from here. That was where the main servers waited. If he was lucky, he’d be in and out before anyone even realized they had been breached.

Luck, however, had never been a close friend of his.

A loud blast suddenly tore through the silence. The building shuddered. Smoke curled up in thick plumes from somewhere below, the scent of burning insulation already clawing at the back of his throat.

Great.

Seemed like his plan—his meticulous and careful plan—was in ruins. Archer’s instinct immediately screamed at him to leave. Stealth was no longer an option, and sticking around in the middle of whatever storm was about to unfold would be a big no-no. He could find another way in on another night.

Yet, he stayed.

Because he knew, at that moment, whoever set off that explosion didn’t care about keeping things clean. It wasn’t precise nor was it subtle. That meant collateral damage. That meant bodies. That meant people who might have survived whatever was happening in this place wouldn’t make it out now. And like it or not, Archer had never been able to walk away from that sort of thing. His decision was made in the space between heartbeats.

The building was a maze of sterile walls and reinforced doors, a place designed to keep people out—and, more importantly, keep secrets in. Even so, Archer had studied it, memorized its layout like the back of his hand. He knew where to go.

He was almost at the staircase when a bullet whizzed past, the sharp ping of it grazing the side of his helmet. At the end of the hall, there were two guards. Black tactical gear, guns raised, the whole nine yards. Well-trained, too, if the fluidity of their movements was anything to go by. These men knew what they were doing.

That didn’t mean they were fast enough, though. Or at least, fast enough for Arachrome.

He lunged before they could fire again, closing the distance in seconds. His fist drove into the nearest guy’s gut, hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. The man doubled over with a wheezing gasp, just in time for Archer’s follow-up strike to crack against his temple. He hit the floor, unconscious.

One down.

He was already shifting his weight, pivoting to take down the second when—

A sickening, wet schlick.

The sound of metal slicing through flesh filled the air, and Archer froze. His eyes locked on the sword buried deep in the guard’s body, watching as he crumpled to the ground. The light slowly drained from his eyes.

Familiarity washed over Archer. Death.

It was an almost mundane occurrence. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t shocking. It wasn’t even particularly cruel. It just was. The dull inevitability of a person, here one second and gone the next.

He’d seen it countless times in this city. He’d watched it unfold in every shape and form. And still, each time, he tried to believe that all this destruction served some purpose. Tried to find meaning in a city where life had become something spent recklessly, like currency.

But meanings didn’t change anything. It didn’t change the fact that the man in front of him was now a body. It didn’t change Archer’s grim realization that by tomorrow, he would just be another nameless casualty.

So, he compartmentalized. He put up walls against the sorrow that crept in like a shadow, knowing that if he let it, it would consume him, piece by piece.

Never time to dwell; only time to act.

Someone else was still holding that sword.

“Well, well! What do we have here?”

Stepping forward like he hadn’t just skewered a man through the chest, was a figure clad in red with an arsenal strapped haphazardly to his body like a deranged Christmas tree of destruction.

“Arachrome, right? Oh, this is good!” Deadpool said as he twirled his weapon around. “I mean, I’ve heard stories—Street-weaving biker boy extraordinaire. Thought you were a myth. Or a ghost. Or, like, a really dedicated performance artist.”

Of all the people Arachrome could have run into tonight, why did it have to be him? Archer’s mind was already working, running through every possible way this interaction could go. None of them ended well.

Not that Deadpool seemed to notice. Or care. If anything, the silence only encouraged him to keep talking. “I mean, I was gonna clear out this whole place—y’know, the classic hero move, righteous fury, maximum carnage, yadda yadda—but then I see you sneaking around like a little ninja on a field trip, and I think to myself, wow, two masked men, both breaking into the same top-secret murder facility! What are the odds?”

His eyes then flickered to the guard Archer had just knocked out. Without missing a beat, he raised his sword, preparing to end him the same way he had with the last.

Archer didn’t give himself time to second-guess the impulse. His fingers snapped out, closing around Deadpool’s wrist in a firm grip and stopping him mid-motion.

Just like that, the air changed.

Deadpool looked down at his hand. Then back up at his helmet. “Wow. Didn’t take you for the handsy type. See, I thought we were on the same boat? Trying to stop these baddies?”

Despite the ridiculous theatrics he put up, Archer knew exactly who—and what—he was dealing with. Not just by reputation, but by the raw, unfiltered proof lying there on the floor. A man who, in the grand scheme of things, had no real reason to care about killing. Not for a cause or for any higher purpose. Just cause he could.

Archer had seen enough bloodshed to know that people like that didn’t stop unless someone forced them to.

Which led to his next choice.

A sharp twist should’ve thrown him off balance, should’ve disarmed him. Instead, Deadpool just wrenched his arm free with an unsettling ease before staggering back a step. “Oh, okay! We’re doing that now!”

It didn’t take long for Archer to realize that this was no ordinary fight. He wasn’t facing a person. He was facing chaos.

The Merc with a mouth wasn’t like any opponent Archer had faced before. Even the messiest street brawls had patterns, things you could read, exploit. Deadpool though? Deadpool was unpredictable. And that made him ten times more dangerous.

A punch that should’ve been dodged? Deadpool took it head-on, barely flinching—laughing, even—before slamming an elbow into Archer’s ribs. A kick that should’ve sent him sprawling? He twisted with the impact, used the momentum, and swung a blade dangerously close to Archer’s side.

“Gotta say, you’re a tough one. Usually, people go down by now! Not in a fun way, though, unless you wa—oof, okay, yeah, that was a good hit!”

And through it all—He. Never. Shut. Up!

“Anyway, I’d give you a solid eight out of ten on the mysterious badass scale. The jacket? Solid. The spidey helmet thing? Love it. But you know what would really take it to the next level?”

Archer didn’t ask. Didn’t want to ask.

He answered anyway. “A cape! No—wait—spikes? Or something with flames? Oh! Ohhh, I got it! Spiky, flaming cape—”

That almost got him a punch to the face.

Almost.

Since Deadpool had stopped him cold.

Then, impossibly, he leaned in close. Close enough that Archer could see the faint scars around the edges of his mask where bullets had torn through and healed beneath.

“You wanna kill me yet?”

It was a challenge, tossed out with the reckless ease of someone who knew they couldn’t die. Wade Wilson had been shot, stabbed, blown up, melted down, and reduced to nothing more than scraps—only to get back up every single time. For him, death wasn’t an end. It was just an inconvenience at best.

Yet, it wasn’t just that, was it?

Because Arachrome didn’t break that one, fundamental rule. He could really ruin someone’s day if he had to—but killing? That was different. That was permanent. And for all the world saw him as some menace tearing through the streets, Archer wasn’t a hero, but he wasn’t a killer, either.

Maybe Wade saw it in the hesitation, flicker of restraint that passed too quickly to be caught, though it was there. Muscle memory pulling him toward one thing while something deeper, something messier, fought to hold him back. Or maybe Wade just had an uncanny ability to sniff out these things, like a predator knowing exactly when to pounce.

Whatever the reason, Archer hated it.

Hated how easily this man was was peeling back the layers just to see what was underneath.

Hated how, for one infuriating second, he could feel himself being seen.

Hated how, in the next moment—

“You think that’s a weakness?”

Something raw threading through the words before he could strangle it down. He could hear it, and judging from the way Wade’s grin curled at the edges, so did he.

“Huh.”

Wade moved his hand up slightly, a gesture, tentative and almost… human? A kind of truce? Some strange offer Archer couldn’t even begin to decipher.

Except that didn’t stop him from flinching. Not because he thought Wade meant harm. He didn’t. And that was the problem. It wasn’t about intent. It was about what you saw in it, what you felt when something touched you, when someone got too close to parts of you that you weren’t ready to expose.

Archer wondered if Wade knew what that was like when he finally stepped back.

“Ya know, I’m not really one to stick around when the fun’s gone.” His voice had softened. Just enough to feel genuine. “Enjoy the rest of your little infiltration gig. I’ll leave the big bad corporations to you—for now.”

He gave a lazy salute, “See ya around, Chrome-Dome.”

And with that, he was gone. Like he hadn’t just carved through this place—blood smeared across the floor and shattered glass glinting in the dim emergency lights, and the wreckage of his chaos.

None of them was going anywhere.

Not yet.

Archer exhaled sharply, forcing himself to refocus. The moment had passed. The mission remained. He still had a role to play.

But even as he moved, the thought gnawed at him.

This wouldn’t be the last time he saw Wade Wilson.

Somehow, Archer just knew.