i
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⭒❃.✮:▹ Traveler ◃:✮.❃⭒
Deadpool
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a/n: soooo I got a little inspired by Eleanor Camachoaka (Earth-616) Deadpool's daughter 👉🏾👈🏾 hope ya likely☺️
ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ ✩ *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ
You stand still in front of the memorial, arms crossed tightly over your chest, fingers digging into the thick red-and-black fabric of his suit. Well, not exactly.
It’s yours now; tailored to fit your frame, stitched up more times than you can count. But it’s identical to his in every way that matters.
The mask is already on, the lenses hiding your eyes, but you swear if you weren’t wearing it you’d probably look like a kicked puppy right now.
(Not the aesthetic you’re going for really.)
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
It’s the kind of silence that wraps around you like a weighted blanket, but instead of comfort it’s suffocating—pressing down and making it hard to breathe.
But then again maybe that’s just you.
Your gaze locks onto the suit hanging on the mannequin. A perfect, untouched replica of what you’re wearing now. The fabric is pristine, the colors vibrant, and the mask—God the mask—stares back at you, hollow and empty.
Just an empty shell meant to honor someone who used to be here but isn’t anymore. (Because he's dead. Duh.)
Your fingers tighten around the worn edges of his mask—your mask now. The piece that still smells like gunpowder and...is that a hint of chimichanga grease? You wouldn’t be surprised. The guy could find a way to snack in the middle of a fistfight.
It’s been years since you lost him.
Since your Wade Wilson—your father, your mentor, your occasional bad influence but with good intentions—left you behind in Earth-617.
A framed photo hangs above the suit. You know that image by heart: Your dad giving the camera a peace-sign in front of a completely unnecessary explosion, his mask pulled up just enough to show his stupid lopsided grin.
You’d snapped that picture yourself, back when things were still good. Back when he was still alive.
Your fingers twitch at your sides.
You never really stopped missing him. Even after taking up his mantle. Even after convincing the world that you were nothing more than a simple storeowner-slash-businesswoman, all while secretly doing what he did best—kicking ass and saying jokes at wildly inappropriate moments.
Hell you even had a thing going with Spider-Man for a while. Oh God. If your dad had been alive for that one...
You exhale, shaking your head at the thought. Wade would have been jealous, and not just in the “you stole my bro” kind of way.
No he’d be throwing a full-on tantrum because you—his own flesh and blood—got to go on date-night web swings and crime-fighting rendezvous with Spidey. He’d have demanded details.
You smile at that. A real one. The kind that doesn’t last long before reality sets back in.
Because Wade’s not here. He never will be. No matter how many mercenary gigs you take or how many people you save—there’s still that gaping hole inside of you where he used to be.
None of it filled the void.
Which is where the shiny, probably unstable, possibly explodey Dimensional Warp Generator comes in. You look at the clunky questionably wired contraption humming behind you.
Its design is...questionable at best.
The thing looks like a cross between a busted washing machine and an overworked coffee maker, but according to the stolen blueprints it should technically work.
Hopefully.
Probably.
Maybe.
"Okay so best-case scenario: I step on, press the button and BAM—multiversal road trip baby!" You gesture dramatically, speaking to no one but the memorial and the ghost of your own questionable decisions. "Worst case scenario: I get turned into a fine red mist. Meat confetti if you will." You pause. "Or maybe I just end up in some dimension where everyone is a sentient toenail. Ew."
The mannequin doesn’t respond. Obviously.
You know it’s a gamble. A one-way trip. A ticket to somewhere, anywhere Wade Wilson is still breathing. The multiverse is full of infinite versions of him after all.
Maybe you’ll find one that never lost his healing factor.
Maybe you’ll find one who retired and opened a taco truck, living his best chimichanga-filled life.
Or maybe you’ll land in a world where he never had a kid at all...where he never even knew you existed.
Would that be worse?
You don’t know.
But what you do know is that standing here filled with 'what ifs' feels worse than any multiversal mishap could ever be.
So, you made your peace. You left instructions and planned for it all. Your family business? Taken care of. Your assets? Secured. Your people? Safe. You made sure of it before you even considered pushing this far.
Because if it works...
If it actually works...
You’ll see him again.
Not your Wade—no. He’s gone. But a Wade.
You sigh, shaking your head as you let your fingers trail lightly over his display suit. It feels wrong that it’s here. Because Wade Wilson was never meant to be preserved like some historical artifact.
He was meant to be alive—chaotic, reckless, cracking wise even when everything was going to shit. So maybe...just maybe...if you find another version of him you can make sure he stays that way.
You don’t care about changing events. You don’t care about destiny or timelines or multiversal consequences. This isn’t about that. This is about you.
And what matters to you is that he exists somewhere. Somewhere you can see him again. Where you can hear his voice. Where you can fight side by side. Where you can...
You swallow hard.
Where you can patch up the hole in your chest just a little bit.
You roll your shoulders, exhaling a slow breath through your mask. Then, because old habits die hard, you give the photo on the wall a lazy finger gun. "Well Dad...guess I’m about to make the most irresponsible decision of my career. You’d be so proud."
Then, because you have to, because it wouldn't be right not to, turn to the mannequin and slap its ass.
"Good game," you say, nodding in solemn approval.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Right. Time to go.
You turn and walk toward the generator, boots thudding softly against the concrete floor. Your heartbeat picks up, an anxious drumbeat in your ears, but your hands stay steady as they hover over the big suspiciously red button.
This is it.
This is the moment.
With one last deep breath, you press down.
The machine roars to life. Lights flicker wildly, the air crackling with static. The world itself seems to shudder and twist at the edges of your vision.
"Geronimo motherfu—"
════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════
The world comes back in pieces.
For a second—maybe longer, maybe shorter—there's nothing. No sound, no sensation. Just empty darkness that wraps around you like a suffocating blanket.
Then suddenly—
Your body lurches forward as reality slams back into place.
A rush of cool air bites through your suit, your boots scrape against concrete, and the dull hum of a city fills your ears. The scent of exhaust, street food, and something vaguely unpleasant—sewage?—hits your nose.
You blink as you try to steady yourself.
The world is intact. Not torn apart, not an apocalyptic wasteland. Normal.
Which is...weird.
You were prepared for something worse. A wrong world maybe. Something out of sync, a reality where everything was twisted just enough to feel unnatural. But this? This just looks like...
Home.
Except it isn’t.
Your muscles stay tense, fingers twitching slightly at your sides. The city looks familiar—too familiar. A near-identical match to the one you left behind, yet it isn’t yours. You can feel it deep in your bones, the way the air hums just a little differently.
You’re here....wherever here is.
A flicker of movement catches your eye. You turn your head slightly, noticing the large glass windows of a bank to your right. The reflection stares back at you.
Red and black.
The Deadpool suit—your suit—fits snug against your body, every stitch and fold in place. A mirror image of the one your father used to wear save for the minor adjustments that made it yours.
Then—
REEEEEEEEEEE
A sharp shrill alarm slices through the air, shattering the illusion of calm like a bullet through glass. Your head snaps to the source—the bank's heavy doors swing open as men in ski masks stumble out, their arms weighed down with overstuffed duffel bags.
You blink.
Oh. Well that’s convenient.
Their frantic adrenaline-fueled energy shifts the second they see you. They freeze, eyes widening beneath their masks. You can practically hear their thoughts scrambling like rats in a sinking ship.
They stare.
You stare back.
For a long awkward beat nobody moves.
Then one of them shouts something—probably a curse—his wide eyes locked onto you like he’s just seen a ghost. The others panic, some reaching for weapons, some just freezing like deer in headlights.
But then their eyes actually see you. The curves..the way your body fills out the suit differently.
"Oh shit wait...it’s a chick."
The tension visibly loosens. The men relax, confusion overriding fear, realization settling in. You can feel the shift in the air.
You tilt your head. "Wow. Sexism and crime? Y’all are multitaskers—love that. But hey before we go any further—uh...did any of you happen to rob a father figure along with that bank? Maybe a guy, about yay high, real talkative, looks like a diseased avocado? Asking for...me."
They don’t get the chance to answer.
The sharp screech of tires cuts through the moment. A police cruiser skids to a stop just feet away. Two officers leap out, hands on their guns, voices sharp. "Stop! Put your hands where I can see—"
You sigh dramatically. "You cops always ruin the moment. Like seriously, we were having a thing here. And now it’s all guns and arrest warrants."
They weren't listening. One of them reaches for his radio. “We’ve got a situation here down at the bank wit—”
BANG
A bullet tears through his skull before he can finish the sentence.
The second officer barely has time to react before a blade pierces her throat, slicing cleanly before you yank it free. She chokes, gurgles, then crumples like a puppet with its strings cut.
You wipe a bit of blood off your arm, flicking it onto the ground like it’s nothing more than an inconvenience.
Ugh. Police blood. The worst kind.
As you stand up, you hear a low rasp leaving the officer as blood pools out her mouth. "Deadpool..."
You perk up.
Bingo.
So he does exist here.
Your fingers flex, heart pounding as your mask hides the slow wicked grin stretching across your lips.
Well...
That makes things easier.
Before you could say another word—
More sirens. More cops, pulling up fast.
The robbers panicked. Shouts leave them as their loaded guns suddenly became shaky. They weren’t ready.
But you were.
The moment the cops the slammed open their doors with raised weapons you moved.
And oh did you move.
You weren’t just fast. You were precise.
Every step, every motion, every flick of your wrist was calculated. The first officer barely took a step before you immediately fired three shots—knee, shoulder, wrist.
Two other officers went down before their fingers even tightened on their triggers.
You pivoted low and swept a leg out—an officer hit the street, head cracking against concrete as you relieved him of his gun and smoothly tossed it into the air, catching it in a backward grip as you fired behind you—
BANG
Another officer. Another down.
They kept coming. You welcomed it.
The world blurred into sharp adrenaline-fueled focus. Bullets zipped past your head, but your body moved on its own, your enhanced cognition picking up details faster than they could react.
A cop adjusting her stance—she’s aiming for your ribs. A twitch of a finger—someone’s about to fire. A shift in balance—someone’s going for their radio.
Nope. No ma'am. Not today.
Your guns clicked empty. Doesn’t matter. You threw one with perfect accuracy—CRACK. It slammed into an officer’s temple knocking her out cold. The other?
You flipped in your grip, grabbed the barrel, and used it to bludgeon another into unconsciousness before spinning and delivering a brutal elbow to the last one standing.
A dozen officers. All neutralized in less than ninety seconds.
It was messy. It was brutal. It was quick.
And it was fun.
"Alright boys," You turn back to the robbers, a new glint in your eyes as you sheath your katana and gun. "Change of plans. I was gonna spend the next however-many-months hunting my old man down, but honestly? That sounds exhausting. So instead—" You throw an arm around the nearest criminal, pulling him in. "—how ‘bout I just do crimes until he finds me?"
They exchange hesitant glances.
You can see the skepticism. The weighing of pros and cons. The uncertainty of letting some Deadpool knockoff join their ranks.
Then you sigh and make the decision for them.
With an almost lazy kind of efficiency, you move—disarming, subduing, killing one just for fun. Within seconds the ones left standing know better than to say no.
"Okay okay you can join!" he wheezes, clutching his newly dislocated shoulder. "Damn lady what’s your deal?! You tryna be Deadpool’s copycat or something?"
You grin beneath your mask.
"Oh honey," you coo, "I'm so much worse."
════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════
Turns out they weren’t just bank robbers.
This wasn’t just a handful of small-time criminals looking for a quick payday—it was an entire crime organization clawing its way up the underworld ranks.
And with you in their arsenal, business was booming.
Crime sprees ran rampant. It wasn’t long before your exploits—masked, bloodstained, and unapologetically violent—became the subject of city-wide gossip.
Tabloids screamed about Deadpool’s sudden change.
You loved it.
Scrolling through online gossip forums was your new favorite pastime, watching people spiral into conspiracy theories:
"DEADPOOL MIND-CONTROLLED?"
"DEADPOOL GOING THROUGH HIS VILLAIN ERA™️?"
"DEADPOOL TIRED OF THE HERO CHARADE?”
Some people swore it wasn’t him—“DEADPOOL...SHORTER?!”
Others didn’t care. To the world you were Deadpool. You’d made sure of that, hiding your figure under a long trench coat, avoiding any direct combat with Wade’s team whenever they did get involved in your organization’s little...projects.
You were a ghost. A rumor. A nightmare with guns.
And Wade? He was pissed.
You’d seen the interviews, the tirades he’d gone on during what should’ve been simple bounty jobs. Wade Wilson, the Deadpool, losing his shit on camera about some asshole using his name and ruining his “hard-earned” reputation.
(As if he ever fixed it in the first place? Please.)
You laughed every time. It was almost too easy.
Shame you couldn't use your own phone to watch it all—unable to connect to this world’s satellites (frequency issues, because of course) so you had to acquire other means. Luckily criminals have great taste in stolen electronics.
Speaking of criminals, seems you’d made yourself too valuable to the organization to get thrown out. The boss—a greasy smooth-talking bastard named Salvatore "Sal" DeLuca—liked results, and you brought them.
But there was one rule you made clear the moment you took the job: Nobody mentions your gender.
And if they ever had to refer to you, they called you Deadpool.
Sal agreed without hesitation. He was good at playing the long game and you were the biggest wildcard he had in his deck. His men though? They whispered....wondered.
But the rule was ironclad; if they let slip that Deadpool was anything other than what you projected—they disappeared. Simple as that.
And so, for three months, it worked.
Until her.
You’d been watching her for some time.
A new recruit—quiet, kept to herself. Didn’t quite fit the mold of a career criminal.
You noticed her immediately.
Maybe it was the way she held herself, too rigid and restrained. Maybe it was the way she avoided eye contact when people talked about bigger plans. Or maybe it was just instinct.
So you bugged her. Literally. Tiny discreet surveillance planted in her things, her living space, her routine. And what do you know?
You were right. She was a full-blown informant. A mole who worked for the police.
Correction: she worked for Wade’s team. And her name was Yukio.
You could’ve exposed her. You could've warned Sal. But you didn’t. Because this?
This was what you’d been waiting for.
.*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*
A deal.
A simple trade-off of drugs, weapons, and money. The usual.
The warehouse was dimly lit, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of cheap cologne. Low voices murmured across the space from dealers to the occasional trigger-happy lackey trying to prove himself.
You didn’t care.
Lounging lazily in a rickety chair nearby, your legs were kicked up up on a table littered with money and gun magazines, eyes glued to your real priority: beating the final boss in Pokémon.
The Nintendo 3DS glowed faintly in your hands. (You’d robbed a nerd for this. He cried. It was great.) Its tiny speakers crackled with the upbeat jingle—stark and ridiculous contrast to the hard-edged criminals around you.
They often looked to you for some kind of assurance, that everything was going smoothly. But you weren’t their leader. You were just the guarantee.
The insurance that ensured the deal went well—because if it didn’t, nobody walked out.
And you were bored.
Yukio stood nearby, hands tucked into her sleeves with an unreadable expression. She was small and unassuming. Harmless to most eyes.
But not to you.
You knew what she was. Who she was. And that meant this deal wasn’t going to finish.
Just as you were about to land the final hit to the boss—
BOOM
The front doors detonated inward, a shockwave of dust and debris sweeping through the warehouse like a tidal wave.
The rival gang didn’t even have time to react.
Bullets ripped through them, splattering red against the walls before most even reached for their weapons. The few that did weren’t fast enough—a streak of yellow and black tore through their ranks like a living razor blade.
Logan.
The Wolverine’s claws sang through the air, slicing through flesh and bone with gruesome efficiency. A man screamed was cut short as his head separated cleanly from his shoulders and rolled to the floor with a wet thud.
Yukio moved the second the attack began.
One moment she was among your men. The next her hand sparked with electricity and she tore into them like a ghost of lightning.
The criminals you had worked beside for months were dying.
And you?
You didn’t move.
In fact you barely heard the scrambling panic around you. Your grip on the 3DS went slack, it tumbled to the ground, clattering loudly. You didn’t even notice.
Because he was here.
Deadpool...
Your father
He stood there at the center of the chaos; twin pistols raised, blades strapped to his back, mask tilted just slightly in that familiar cocky way.
The exact same mask as yours.
Your pulse spiked. You should’ve done something—anything—but you couldn’t move.
The mask...the stance....the voice.
God the voice.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Wade bellowed as he shot through a particularly unlucky gangster. “For years—YEARS—I have been trying become a better, CLASSY respectable mercenary!!”
(He absolutely did not.)
“Yet somehow, someway some ASSHOLE decides to drag my name through blood-soaked crime-encrusted filth like we’re in some goddamn GTA roleplay server?!” His arms flailed wildly as he stomped forward, stepping over a twitching half-dead body without a second glance.
“DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY DEATH THREATS I’VE GOTTEN THIS WEEK?!”
(As if that wasn’t normal for him.)
Everything around you had blurred at this point. The violence didn’t matter. The screaming didn’t matter. The years of grief and loss and loneliness—
None of it mattered.
“—and what really gets me—truly grinds my gears—is that some DICKHEAD is using my likeness to make me look bad when I’ve worked so hard to be good! I HAVE A BRAND TO UPHOLD!”
Sal was hissing something at you to snap you out of it. Hell all of the men in the entire organization were looking at you. Because for the first time in three months, you weren’t moving.
“WELL??” Deadpool’s rant came to an abrupt end as he threw his arms out. “What do you have to say for yourself?!”
Silence.
Then—
You stood up.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The chair scraped against the concrete floor as you pushed away from it, the tension so thick it could suffocate.
Your hands came together and you began clapping.
One slow clap.
Another.
Then faster until it built into an exaggerated standing ovation. "Wow." Your voice dripped with emotion. "I..am speechless. A performance worthy of the Oscars really. I truly have no words except—"
Before anyone could react, you drew both guns in a single fluid motion and opened fire.
BANG
The first gunshot took Sal’s head clean off. His body was still standing, nerves firing uselessly even as his brain matter sprayed across the crates behind him.
BANG BANG BANG
Bullets fly and bodies drop.
The remaining rival gang? Erased.
Your so-called allies? Wiped off the map.
Some ducked for cover. Some tried to run. None of them made it far. You moved through them like a force of nature; spinning between targets, every shot landing with surgical precision.
Deadpool’s team flinched. For a split second they genuinely believed you were about to shoot at them.
Instead?
You erased every last member of the organization—the very one you had helped build up for weeks—in a perfectly executed, single-handed massacre.
The only sound left was the ringing echo of gunfire.
Your guns clicked as you brought the smoking barrels to your face to inhale the scent like it was oxygen. "Oh yeah, that's the good stuff..."
Finally holstering your weapons, you turned to Deadpool with a grin beneath your mask. A mask that was a perfect mirror image of his.
You practically bounced over to him as casual as someone greeting an old friend.
Then, in the most cheerful, sing-song voice imaginable, you threw your hands up your hands like a child and chirped—
"HI DADDY!!"