Shatterworld #1

Deadpool had, despite the isolation and the bad memories this place conjured - of being locked in a box, feverish and hallucinating, as his body died over and over again, his heart stopping and not starting again, huge sections of his brain going dark - an awful time, really, nonetheless managed to have a pretty fantastic day.

He and Shiklah had gone for a drive through the wilderness. They'd had a picnic, caught snowflakes on their tongues, seen the impossibly beautiful snapshot of a doe and a few infant deers drinking out of a pool, then better yet they’d managed to find, in defiance of all the laws of supply and demand, a small roadside place that did have some mexican food on the menu as well as plenty of fruity drinks with alcohol in them that men (at least Deadpool) secretly loved but can't drink normally because they'd be judged, met some obnoxious hawaiian shirted tourists for Shiklah to eat - Deadpool was pretty sure they wouldn't be missed, and to top it all off, the two of them had lain down together in the fresh, powdery snow, rolled ontop of each other and made love right there, like a pair of…

…Whatever it was that did that sort of thing. That bit was so good they'd done it a couple more times, healing factors worked on refractory periods as well, and as a succubus Shiklah took it as a point of pride that she was absolutely insatiable. Then they'd dozed off whispering sweet nothings to one another, woken up frozen stiff, and had another go at it to warm up, which had left Deadpool physically unable to stop smiling.

The sun was setting when he was ready to leave, but the facility seemed to be deserted once again. He eventually found his brother, sitting with his legs dangling over the side of the dam, a six-pack by his side. A song was playing softly on a portable radio - ‘Here’s to you’, by Ennio Morricone and Joan Baez. It was a great song, mournful and sweet.

"Come. Sit with me, drink with me." Slade said without turning around.

He took him up on the offer. ”What are you thinking about?"

"My little girl."

Part of Deadpool wanted to make a pedophile crack, but that was out of line and lacking in good taste, particularly when Slade was maudlin about his family, and besides, it would get him thrown off the edge. He'd survive, but it would hurt. So he settled on an 'out of wedlock' joke.

"Sure she's yours?"

"The hair is a bit of a giveaway." Slade replied. Deadpool conceded that. He wondered where it had come from, actually - he didn't have it, and neither did either of their parents.

"So, he screwed you over. What now?"

"I think I'll do the job anyway." Slade said after a moment. "I'll head back to Jump City, round myself up a team of people I can trust, and see how it turns out." He finished his beer. "You coming?"

Deadpool was conflicted. He almost said no. And he didn't know if it was loyalty to Cable or Slade that made him nod. "You need somebody to watch your back. " He said at last.

"Thanks."

"So who do you have in mind?"

"Some guys I've worked with before. Not all that bad, by our standards at least, good at what they do." He paused. "With a few exceptions. I should mention, fair warning. Brother Blood is old-school."

"Does he have a top hat, a hooked nose and impressive handlebar moustache that he twirls?"

Slade paused. "Not quite that old school, but he does look a lot like Peter Cushing."

Deadpool nodded. "Fair enough." You couldn't get much more old-school then that. "What does he do?"

"Same thing as Charles Xavier. He runs part of HIVE."

Deadpool shook his head. "HIVE are a bad joke of an acronym. At least 'The men from N.O.W.H.E.R.E' sounds intimidating." He paused. "Whatever it might stand for. Or whatever it is they do - far as I can tell it's a franchise. Sort of like a less evil corporation."

"Always wondered that myself." Slade said, cracking open his second beer. “I could tell you stories about HIVE, however. Blood runs his branch as sort of a school. He acts the part - somewhere between a school principal, a re-education facility and a cult leader."

“Like you said. Sort of like Charles Xavier.”

"Sort of like Charles Manson." He finished his beer. "So, you still think I owe you an explanation?"

"About N.O.W.H.E.R.E?"

"About all of this." Slade replied, with a gesture. "This job, why it matters so much."

"You have one?"

"I suppose, if you want it."

Deadpool paused. "Oh, why not."

"Not that complicated, really. You see, I take a certain pride in what I do. I like it. It's the sweetest thing there is, better than sex, better than love or being a father, better than money or drugs, all that crap. But to be the best, you have to go further than anyone else. You have to be willing to do whatever it takes, outfight machines, outthink ruthless bastards, outplan computer software, and outvicious people mad enough to shoot out their own throats if that's what they need to do. That's me. That's who I am. And that’s why I took the job, no other reason. To be honest, I don't care about Vandal Savage, or any sort of politics. Hell, he'll probably try to kill us after this job is done, let him. We'll survive, we always do. And I don't care whether humans are extinct in a couple of generations due to being out-evolved, or whether Mutants are a sin or whatever. That's all somebody elses problem. It's all crap, anyway. If there is going to be a war, I know what my strategy is; Get rich and get out. That said, set me a challenge, a chance to do something nobody else could do, and I just can't resist."

"Is that what this is? Some kind of mid-life crisis?" Deadpool had been wondering that for a while, now.

Slade shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe that's what you do, when you start to get old and slow. Try and see if you're still worthy of the name. Pick fights, push yourself harder then you should, and in the end you're either still in the game, or it's settled. It's not a choice, not for me, it's the only thing. It’s just… who I am."

"Don't buy it." Deadpool said, after a moments consideration. "Sure, I mean, as a motivation it'll do, but why this? Why this specifically?"

Slade tried a different tack. "You ever envy guys like Sabertooth?"

"Hey, don't get intimidated. You got plenty of sex appeal. And you're an inexplicably popular character, you'll be around a while yet."

Slade didn't preen, or perk up, like a normal person would. He simply filed that away, and then ignored it. Deadpool felt a little tension leave him. Slade obviously hadn't entirely lost himself. "Not that. He's just got this assurance, you know? He knows he'll always be here, that in twenty years everything will be the same. Part of me envies that."

"So will you. Nobody dies in this line of work but Jason Todd, Uncle Ben and Gwen Stacy. Two of them are back to stay, and people are probably planning Uncle Ben's triumphant return as well."

"What?"

"Nothing."

“You know, I was angry at first. This morning, I had to take the jeep and drive for thirty miles looking for something worth killing. I killed everything I came across. Animals, mostly. Another one of those Wendigos. Didn't do a thing for me. Then I took a deep breath, drove back, fixed myself a meal, and I got over it."

"Just like that?"

"Sure."

"How? You taken up yoga, or drink a lot of green tea or something?"

"Yes to the yoga, but that's not what I did. I just decided to start looking on the bright side. I didn't get to kill him, but I got to knock him around. And I just thought of something better."

"Better than what?"

"Better than killing Wolverine."

They sat in silence for a while.

"I'm not going to ask, so don't bother waiting. Whatever you've thought of is probably so horrible the only words that can describe it is 'equal to the Backstreet Boys'." Deadpool paused. "Which has awakened a certain horrified interest. Aright, tell me, but I reserve the right to seek spiritual absolution afterwards."

"X-23." Slade said.

Deadpool winced, but didn't say anything. This could not go to a good place.

"She's a good kid. And why not? Haven't had much luck, with my flesh and blood." Slade said, taking another drink. "Grant… You remember him as a boy. Broad as a cypress, sandy blond hair, and the jungle burning in his eyes. You know, he used to kill the neighbours pets. Well, you can probably guess, even if I never told you. He wouldn't torture them, if that counts for anything. Didn't even hide the evidence, it was like he wanted to be found out, to be confronted. I could never get him to put a stop to it. Who am I to, anyway? He followed my footsteps. Took to it. Too well, too soon. All at once. You know, they locked him in Arkham for a year, and he might as well have spent the time sleeping for all the place touched him, he walked right out unchanged. Shouldn't say it about my son, but maybe it's better he's dead."

Cold, man. "Yeah, you're right. That is a terrible thing to say about your son."

Slade didn't reply. "Jericho… soft. I let him grow up that way, so suppose it's my fault, but he is soft. He hasn't ever had a real reason to fight, something to put steel in his spine and full him up with piss and vinegar. He's just going through the motions, it's all he's ever done. Yet he won't try anything else either. He just lets himself be swept up.  He doesn't belong in this life, and yet he can't or won't leave it. But that's my fault, you spoil kids you get weak kids, but if you want strong kids, you treat them hard. And Rose…" He sighed. "Forget Rose."

"So you've let them all down?"

Slade failed to notice the reproving tone. That said it all, really. "I'm too old to settle down and start another #%&@ing family. Suppose I'll have to adopt."

"She'll be OK."

"Huh?"

"Rose. She's tough like you, beautiful like her mom, crazy like me. She got the best of all of us. And she added a few bits of her own too. She'll come good, sooner or later. Just you wait and see."

"Sure. What about me?" Slade said, looking up at him. "It doesn't mean anything, if there's no one to leave it to."

"You're serious." Deadpool said, aghast.

"Look at it my way: like I said, four tries and I've still never had anything much like luck with my own blood." He said, looking at the sunset. "Or just picking an apprentice - they either amount to nothing, or they break ranks. So what else?"

"What's this got to do with Wolverine?"

"Everything. I'll take his clone, X-23, and make her much better. It's the perfect revenge, don't you think? She can be my new apprentice. And I'll make her better than he ever was. Better than me, if I can wrangle it."

Slade took another swallow. "Get her around to my way of thinking - won't be too hard, and teach her everything I know. Soon, she'll be ready to pick up where I leave off. And when I pass on and it's all up to her, well every time he sees her, he'll see me looking back at him, until he dies. And he'll never die. How's that for revenge?"

Deadpool thought that had to be the most creepy thing he'd ever heard in his entire life. "You know, get a few beers in you and we switch roles. Suddenly you're doing all the talking." Deadpool said, taking another drink. "So why? Why do you hate him so much? Why's some weabo Canadian berserker worth so much of your time?"

"I don't hate him. Not particularly, anyway. It's just who I am."

"Right. And who are you?"

Slade got to his feet. ”I am a warrior, brother mine. Just like you are. It is in my blood, in my breathing. In my soul. Same as it is in yours. I am a proud and fearless breed. But that's all I am. I need to fight. I need to kill, to feel the ebb-and-flow of conflict and the thrill of the life-or-death struggle, because those things make me who I am. Without those things, I am still good, but I am not me. Without those things, I don't have a reason to exist." He bared his teeth. "For it all to be worth it, I need people who are worth it themselves."

"Alright, I should have cut you off two cans ago, you light-weight. You get weird when you drink, and become a dark person." Deadpool sighed.

"And I am the best." Slade continued, as though he hadn't been interrupted. "I cannot be better." He stood up then, and looked out at the horizon. "We're all the same, whoever we fight for - whatever the public calls us. Conflict gives meaning to our existence. We hunt, we strive and we fight, and not just for money, or because people need our protection. Not for a cause, and not for revenge. Those things are excuses, they drag us in, but they don't hold us. We do these things because we must. Without them, there is emptiness at the heart of our lives, a void that cannot be filled no matter how hard we try. We do not do well with peace. We bridle at the lack of activity. It makes us feel restless and uneasy. We need to feel danger. I don't hate Wolverine. Not really. I forgave him for what happened to you a long time ago. Wolverine is just an excuse. I don't need a cause. I just need a ready supply of enemies. I only take payment because it's easier then choosing them myself.”

He picked up another beer. “I don’t need a purpose. What I do is it’s own purpose.”

It was impressive, how he could be so unselfconsciously melodramatic, Deadpool thought. The sun was setting in the distance, over the lake, and Deadpool appreciated for the first time in he couldn't say how long how beautiful this place was. He was born here - sure, he'd been alive before he came here, but this place had turned him into his recognisable form, rebuilt him into who he was. Both of them. Who he was now, this place was the root of it. The thought made him feel small, but that didn't matter, the world was around him, so big and complex and he was a tiny part, but that didn't matter either, because it was so beautiful.

And there was a place where he fit, a place just for him, that nobody else could fill, just like there was for his brother, just like there was for everybody. The Wilsons might well have been the most dysfunctional family in the entirety of the cosmos. There were Greek Tragedies that had less problems then the Wilsons. But they were family, and Deadpool realised that he wasn't going through the motions. He realised he'd taken this job in the first place because Slade had asked him, not because he needed the money or attention or novelty. That really did mean something, even if it was just made up for the benefit of the audience it mattered to him. "You're wrong about me." He said at last. "I hope you're wrong about you too, though I won't count on it. You're probably wrong about most of us. Sweeping generalisations tend to be bullcrap, in my experience. But even if you are right about yourself, that's not all you are."

"Oh?"

"You're my brother. You've been there for me when it counts, you've always had my back. Much as I hate you sometimes - most of the time actually, that's always been something I've known I can count on. And I guess I got yours."

Slade smiled, and tossed the empty beer can into the reservoir. "We're a pretty good team, aren't we?"

"The best, brother. The best."

The sun set behind the mountains, and sitting there, looking up at the sky, it went dark, and the stars came out.

And the two mercenaries watched it together, brother and brother.