Shatterworld #1

Meanwhile…

The interior of the ventilation shafts was painfully tight across the shoulders, dusty and claustrophobic. Deadpool was crawling on his elbows, unable to get much motion out of them given how little space there was, wriggling and bunching himself up for maximum traction, and managing to advance a few inches each push. There were a few branching passages, and Deadpool followed them when he felt like it, even though turning the corners required him to bend in ways that were even less comfortable then normal. When designing this place, those responsible had not been helpful enough to put in signposts directing him around, or one of those maps the classier establishment of parking garages had, so he was picking directions more or less at random, and hoping he was heading in the right way - though he had no idea what exactly he was looking for. And that he wouldn't get lost, run out of air and start hallucinating that he was a mermaid granting wishes to fishermen. If nothing else, that would be amateurish, and fishermen didn't seem like they'd be particularly exciting to hang out with.

Occasionally, he caught glimpses through grates of the backrooms of the club, which - from what little he could see, seemed to be full of atmosphere catwalks and big rusting vats of corrosive acid. He made a note to remember the place for later, in case he needed to create an arch-nemesis - though he'd gotten this far without needing one. Nothing for making the best class of nemeses like corrosive acid—especially if it was boiling.

"I should totally write a Yelp review about this place. Make it all popular and stuff." Deadpool said out loud as he continued to inch forward, the bulk of his cerebral energies trying to figure out why the hell a club needed giant vats of chemicals. He'd normally put it through to his head voices, but since the story wasn't being told from his perspective nobody would know - unacceptable, in other words. He kept his constant litany of complaints at the confinement, the dust, and the lack of air to himself, however. He didn't want to come across as a whiner.

"It's all nice and dramatic, though, so I guess that's cool, though it all looks kind of familiar. Maybe they're reusing old backgrounds or something." He continued, as he inched further. "Artists are lazy, and they suck, and you can tell them I said so." He continued. At last, he came to a grille, that overlooked a purposefully dark room that smelled of cigar smoke and had a big table for self-important types to scheme enigmatically over. He was no interior designer, but the whole set-up just screamed 'Important for plot reasons'. More successful then he could have dreamed, he peered through the slats, and sure enough he found that he'd found his man.

The room was obviously built for the purpose it was being used for. Books he would have bet money nobody ever read and only existed for the sake of impressing the sophistication of the host were racked with archive like precision along the walls. Soft light glowed from monitors, and also from a number of sealed, glass-topped caskets in front of the shelving. They reminded him of the protective, controlled environment units that museums and libraries used to display especially ancient and valuable texts.

The room was carpeted, and as he peered into the gloom, he could see four men sitting around the low table in their throne-like chairs. One had his back to him, but by his clothing he could tell it was Sebastien Shaw. The angle was wrong to get much of a look at two of the other men, though he had a feeling he recognised them all - he’d met just about everyone, it was the price of popularity. Facing him was a figure who he couldn’t quite make out, his features concealed by the darkness, who was using a hookah to inhale what was either tobacco or opium, and blowing smoke rings. They all had glasses of alcohol.

Well that was easy.

Sebastien Shaw was reclining on a well-upholstered chair, glad of the shadowy corners that left him and his guests nothing more then indistinct blurs. Just the same, Sebastien Shaw’s expression was as carefully neutral as he could school it to be, though he fumed inwardly. Though rationalisation was a second nature to him, the truth was that, of all the temporary alliances he’d made in his life, all the dangerous deals he’d struck for the sake of expediency, he had resented none more then this one - at least, none that he could recall. But the alternatives were all much, much worse then playing along, and so he did what he always did. Compromised, in order to protect his own investments and assets, all the things he’d worked so hard for so long on, all the means that had become the ends somewhere along the way.

Shaw had almost never come to Canada before. The Hellfire Club had built itself into a power by leveraging influence, and favour-trading. Few of their members lived in Canada, and none in Toronto but Gideon - the clubs owner - and even he was only staying in the city a short time, and had just wanted something to keep himself occupied with while he was there. But a little persuasion had left Gideon more then willing to offer him and his temporary allies use of the building. And Shaw had kept it open for business - he approved of that. He glanced to his right, where the first of the two men he was meeting was seated, then to the left.

"Well Mr Shaw, I've helped myself to some of your scotch, and I've seen the company you keep. Now why don't you give me your pitch, in your own words, and I'll make up my mind if I am convinced or not." Deadpool couldn't suppress a faint flinch at that voice. The voice, at least, hadn't changed much, unlike the man doing the speaking. He was an older, heavy-set man, stocky and running towards fat, but still tough. His features were deeply-lined and puffy, his hair and beard salt-and-pepper beard blended to iron grey, his eyes still bright behind his glasses. He was wearing a dark jacket and pants, along with a few of his medals. Some of them looked new, Deadpool didn't think the man had them back in the day. A part of him wanted to drop down and rip them off the man who wasn't fit to wear them. And then kill him, obviously - but preferably humiliate him first. Tear him down, and with him every twisted thing he stood for. And yet another part of him was still frightened, still cautious, still cringing. He wondered if you could get over what it was Stryker had done to him. To all of them.

"Well colonel, if nothing but out of curiosity you seem to have come."

Colonel William Stryker (retired), Special Projects Vice President of Testament Industries (retired), leaned across the table. "You don't call me colonel." he said, in a low, almost pleasant voice, but with a clear undercurrent of carefully harnessed and controlled rage. It was the kind of rage that soldiers learned to direct, the edge of rage that could keep you alive, and make you do things you had no idea you were capable of, things that didn't bear describing. The sort of rage that William Stryker had always possessed. Deadpool knew that tone. Shaw and whoever the other guy happened to be didn't seem to, but they'd probably learn. They always did. "Them's that do are mostly dead."

For a moment the room was pointedly silent, then the third presence spoke. "What you ask is ambitious, that much you cannot be faulted. But it serves your designs. Not Stryker's, and certainly not my own. Why should we subordinate ourselves to you?" Deadpool unconsciously licked his lips, then adjusted a uniform that suddenly felt too tight. He should probably be paying attention to what the man was saying, but he was to busy shivering at the sound of the mysterious figures voice. What a voice it was, a rolling baritone with just a hint of of an exotic, sexy accent, that spoke of culture and time. That voice made him think of melted chocolate, black silken sheets and mirrors on the ceiling. "It would be foolish beyond articulation to take you at your word that you have our best interests at heart."

"Understand, at least, that this proposed collaborative effort plays to all our advantages." Shaw said after a moments consideration, frowning furiously at Stryker, who for his part was sitting back, resting his chin on his hand, thoughtful. "The important thing, I believe we can all agree, is that the current state of affairs benefit nobody." Shaw continued. "Matters have to be taken to hand."

"I believe I made my feelings in regard to disassembling plain." Stryker said. "Mutants are a problem. On several different levels - ideologic, social, and practical. Do you disagree?"

Shaw's frown had become a glare. "Mutants represent something. We don't need to agree on what. But anything they are, anything they might someday be is besides the matter at hand. The current state of affairs are unacceptable. They are about to change, and I would like the two of your assistance."

"I understand why you would come to him." He indicated the human dismissively. "But not me."

"I don't like it either, believe me." Shaw responded, for a moment seeming almost to snarl, then his calm composure returned, and he cooly leaned back. "Distasteful as I find you, you have consistently gotten results, which is more then most in your line of work can claim."

Stryker clapped his hands together. "Well, I do believe that might be the first honest thing you've said to me since I got here." He said. "And so, let me be equally candid in return: I don't think much of you, or the cult you've set up around yourself. The two of us are natural enemies, and the only sort of peace there can be between us is a peace spent arming and preparing for the next war." The light reflected scarily on the lenses of his glasses as he spoke. "But just the same, your word is good, and opportunity like this is cause enough to put aside such things - at least in an immediate sense, or so I believe."

"For my part, I have little use for Xavier's dream for co-existence or Magneto's preparations for war. And I have less use still for your own visions of simply co-opting the world through established models and influence." There was a pause. Deadpool wished the other two would shut up, and the mysterious guy would talk more. That voice. MmmmMMMmmm. Like running your hands through a fur rug. It made his whole body feel sensitive, made him want to pin it (the voice) against the wall and run his tongue over it's (the voice's) collarbone in soft-candlelight. "Still, provide me with my choice of subjects, and allow me the freedom to pursue my own projects, and I'll be more then willing to play along."

Shaw started talking agin, and so Deadpool stopped paying attention. It all felt a bit ridiculous to the 'Merc with a Mouth'. Sure, these people were dabbling in some kind of vast conspiracy, but like most villain plans from guys like Shaw, the second-stringers who only showed up when the real interesting guys like Magnetto were otherwise occupied in other words, never really came across as something that would matter all that much to Joe Q. Citizen or Wanda X. Public.

Even if they somehow got away with it despite the best efforts of meddling kids, he doubted most civilians would even be aware of the fall out. To most people, getting to work and paying their taxes were far more important then whether or not the villain of the week got to take over the world. Sometimes it feels like all these guys were really just involved in a LARP that got out of hand, that all their costumes and powers and gadgets were just props. That despite all the talk, putting on a costume didn't give you any real moral authority. Despite everything, the world was as mundane as ever. Like if you swept all them out of it away in a year or so it'd just be forgotten. Life goes on around them, and which side who’s playing for or who is winning is really just a matter of book-keeping.

He sighed. Of course, measuring the weight of individual actions against the weight of social movements defeats the purpose of examining the individual in the first place. And layered over the top of what he supposed was an approximation of ordinary life was all the associated stuff. Technological miracles that never made it into the public sector, epic feats, heroic deeds, magic and stranger things still that nobody noticed or remembered, all fighting over this world of cities full of people who think social media and global warming and the so-called musician Kanye West are big, important deals.

And yet… and yet the world can't help but notice. Because while as long as things went well you barely even did notice, one day it wouldn't be. If there weren't superheroes, one day someone would try to destroy the world, and there'd be nobody to stop them. And when the debris fell, it would fall on all those average people.

Deadpool sighed.

It'd take a smarter man then he to work it out.

"I'll say this much for you, by all that's holy, you think big." Stryker sounded a little awed, a little eager. Maybe even a little won over. "What do you call this?"

"Falconback." Shaw said, folding his arms. "It is already funded, and already progressing. And with the assistance of the two of you, it will proceed all the faster. You can begin as soon as we finish this conversation."

Deadpool blinked. That wasn't the response he was anticipating. Maybe he should have been paying attention instead of making sweeping generalities about the medium, indulging a little navel-gazing, and pretending that there was a button inside his head that he could press rapidly to skip all the talking bits. He went back to listening, in the admittedly faint hope that one of them would repeat what they had just said, or better yet sum up the gist for him to overhear.

"Done." Shaw's face glowed with triumph, entirely missing the squinting glare of Stryker. "In less then a month, we will begin our engineered society, effectively cutting away mutants from the world. From there…"

"I am less then convinced. First, I require a demonstration of strength. Prove you are capable of that to which you boast, and if you do manage to impress me, I shall aid your efforts."

"Oh, you'll get your evidence, Stryker." Shaw replied. "You'll get enough even to sate you."

"I doubt that." Stryker replied. Then he smiled. "But I could stand to be proven wrong."

Deadpool, worried he might miss something else, had decided to record this, and reached for his phone, trying to remember which of his many pockets it was stored in, but the narrow confines had worked against him, and he fumbled the phone, which beeped loudly, slid through the grille and landed on the table, where, adding insult to injury, the playback function activated somehow. The three mysterious figures (well, one, he had a pretty good idea who two of them were) glanced at the phone, then up at the grille. "You've managed to contact the most-reasonably priced assassin in the northern hemisphere! I might not play by the rules, but I get results, dammit!" Came his voice from the message bank. "I can't come to the phone right now - I hope it's because my ex and my wife have decided I'm enough man to go around and I'm currently enjoying a threesome. Assuming that I'm right, and I haven't died of sexual exhaustion I might be some time. If you're one of my father figures looking to reconcile, press one. If you're one of my fans who is spectacularly attractive press two (if you’re not spectacularly attractive hang-up, the double standard is enforced here), if you'd like to hire my services press three, if you want a team-up press four, oh, and I should probably mention that I never actually check this function, so just text like a normal person you dinosaur *BEEP*."

Deadpool had thought it was funny when he recorded it, but he was rethinking that now. Neither Shaw, nor Stryker looked particularly amused - not that he trusted their senses of humour. They wouldn't know a joke from an internal injury.

But senses of humour were subjective, and his blown cover was not. Of course, this new development had to be dealt with through tact.

With nuance.

With subtlety.

"Boring conversation anyway." He muttered, then kicked out. The grille made a tremendous clanging sound as it crashed hard on top of the table. Deadpool pulled himself out of the narrow confines, perched up there for a moment in an outstanding display of balance and drew his swords, and all present could swear they rang as he drew them, tzing, then leapt out of the ceiling, landing perfectly on the desk, the grille clattering on the floor beside him. "Gentlemen!" He announced, smiling through his mask. "Everyone in this room is going to die!"