TWENTY-SEVEN

THE katana strike Dick’s arms. But instead of piercing muscle meat, the hardened tips are deflected. He must be wearing some kind of flexible, skintight armor under that suit. No problemo. His head’s vulnerable—I remember it bleeding back in the alley.

“Let me explain!”

I unleash a flurry of blows on his smug, masked face—a flurry, I tell you again! The feel of flesh and bone is much more satisfying.

Hands up, he steps back, but I keep it coming. “You don’t understand!”

After a count of eight, he finally gets the idea I won’t be listening to any more of his BS.

“Have it your way!”

But by then good ol’ Dick is backed into a wall. It’ll take a desperate Hail Mary move to get himself out. He tries one. Clenching his fists, he raises his arms and tries to drive his pointy elbows down toward my upper chest. Peh. I see it coming a mile away. I’m already bending over, focusing my fists on his abdomen. His elbows hit my shoulders.

Hm. Those elbows aren’t only pointy, they’re hard as molded metal—the classy stuff. That’s good armor. I may try to get his tailor’s name out of him before I kill him.

Stupid. The two sentences I spent admiring his duds give him a chance to bring a knee up into my chin. It’s as hard as the elbows, but bigger and driven by the stronger force of a leg muscle.

My head snaps back, but it’s not as if I’m terribly inconvenienced. If this is going to be anything other than a slaughter, he still has to get himself out of this corner. Next, he tries a few feints, then throws himself to the side. My foot shoots out to trip him, but by then he’s in midair, landing on his hands and cartwheeling onto his feet near the puppies. Damn, he’s out!

That cartwheel at the food festival wasn’t a one-off, after all. The piece of crud probably wanted me to catch him so he could slip me that flash drive. He was holding back.

The pups are underfoot, Mr. Snuffles leading the junior pack. They’re all growling like they remember him.

Dick sneezes. “Stupid mutts!”

He looks at poor Mr. S. like he’s about to kick him, reminding me in a funny way of my dad. Bad move. There are only three things I’ve even thought of caring about during this whole mess. One died from misadventure, Dick’s already killed the other one, and now he’s threatening the third.

I grab the nearest heavy object: the examining table. Sure, it’s bolted to the floor—but I’m so amped, I pull it up and send it into the center of Dick’s back with enough force to shatter a normal man’s spine. That armor saves him again, but the impact pushes him forward. His arms and legs bend behind him, but he doesn’t even have the decency to fall down.

When the table clatters to the floor, the puppies scatter, resuming their barking at a safer distance. Grateful for the extra space, I use my guns to lay down some suppressing fire—into his gut. Dick jiggles like a stripper as the bullets hit, but otherwise stays put.

Impressive.

He runs, but I’m not into another chase. Besides, other than the ramp leading upstairs to the monster convention, there’s no way out. Speaking of monsters, it sounds like they’re pretty drunk up there, trashing the place like a rock band stuck in a fancy hotel room.

I rush past Jane’s body to get to Dick, but slip and slide when I hit the puddle. That’s some really oily blood. Hasn’t even started coagulating.

I’m nothing if not adaptable, so I twist with the momentum and slide right on up to Dick. Before he can offer to explain again, I grab his right hand and snap it back. I’m expecting to hear bone crack, but don’t.

He does a full-body flip to break my grip, then takes a sweep at my legs. I jump and come down hard on an ankle. There are seven tarsal bones in the human ankle—but again, nothing cracks. The guns didn’t work, either, so I holster them and try the katana again.

I swing for his head, and he blocks…

…with his forearm? They hear the metallic clunk all the way in Peoria.

Okay, so there’s more to Dick than it appears. And again, no that’s what she said jokes. What’s the freak got under there? (See previous sentence about this sort of joke.)

In the half second I take to wonder why his arm isn’t sliced, he goes into a jump kick, sailing three feet up from a resting position. Not waiting to wonder about it this time, I grab his legs. Holding him up, I run him across the floor—right into some built-in shelves. That back has to give at some point.

Shelf contents tumbling, he grabs the falling pieces and flings them at me. I get hit by a tablet computer, pens, and a coffee mug—all of which bounce off without stinging. But then he lucks out and latches on to a surgical saw. When I see that flying my way, I figure I should duck.

Good decision, too. It embeds itself about six inches deep in the wall behind me.

I rip it out and send it back. This time I don’t aim at his body, since that hasn’t exactly been working, but at his clothes, hoping for a peek at what’s going on under there. The saw sheers off a nice slice of fabric. Yep. Robotics.

His head seems real enough, though. When I close the distance again, I grab his knuckleheaded skull under my arm and start slamming him into the nearest wall, over and over. This, at last, has the desired effect. Better yet, every time his head hits the wall, his robot arms snap out to the sides, like I’m yanking the string on one of those pull toys they put in baby cribs.

The location of that string always made me uncomfortable.

With Dick’s body twitching and his head feeling pulpier, I’m starting to think I may actually knock him out. But he gets a second wind, like someone gave him a new battery, and wrenches himself free. We stand toe-to-toe, grabbing each other by the shoulders and pushing each other’s chins up and away, trying to pull or push each other off our feet. Goes on like that a while, until we wind up breaking it off out of boredom and taking a few steps back.

He comes running at me. I’m expecting another kick. Instead, he runs up my chest, clamps his legs around my neck, twists, and takes me down. Nice move. I’d applaud if it didn’t hurt so much. Before I can congratulate him, he picks me up and starts slamming me sideways, again and again, into another of those exam tables.

He’s got me. He’s got me good. He’s slamming and slamming, harder and harder, until we both hear this loud SNAP!

No, not my spine. I’ll give you a hint: It’s something I’m carrying. Not the guns. I left those on the floor. Not the katana. They’re sheathed along my back—hitting me sideways wouldn’t do squat to them. Think a minute. What else am I carrying? No, not the ’porter!

That’s right. The ADD. The deadly nano-catalyst in a supposedly indestructible container. But we’ve already seen S.H.I.E.L.D. containment at work on the monster-goo tank, right?

Between slams, I try to call a time-out. “Hold it! Wait!”

Not having it, Dick hurls me down again. This time, I do my own Hail Mary: I draw a katana and brace the hilt against the table, the angle just so. When he slams me down, he smashes into it, wedging the blade in his robo-shoulder.

It doesn’t go in deep—maybe an inch—but it’s enough to make him back off.

Less worried about him, more worried about ending up a puddle of whining pinkish glop, I yank the ADD free from my belt. The light’s blinking like crazy, green-red-red-green, but I don’t need a code book to see the problem. It’s got a crack along the side. It’s not seeping—not yet, anyway—but I don’t plan on holding onto the damn thing much longer, let alone carrying it around in a fistfight.

I set it on the table and point. “Dick, we can keep beating the crap out of each other anywhere else, with anything else, but don’t touch that, okay? It’s like home base. You’re gonna have to trust me on this. Got it?”

Huh. What do you know? Looks like there won’t be any more fighting. I may already be a winner. The katana struck electronic gold. What would have been a flesh wound for a living body’s got Dick twitching like a dancing machine. His head’s flopping this way and that, like it’s about to come off.

“Oh, never mind, then. You ready to say Uncle, Dick? I mean, Dick, do you want to say Uncle? Not that you’re my Uncle Dick.”

“No, Deadpool. Not just yet.”

His internal mechanisms whine, metal clicking into place.

“Oh, Dick, you’re not rerouting all your power for one final, all-or-nothing strike, are you?”

Head askew, he pulls the blade from his shoulder and levels it at me. “Yep.”

I nod. “Then come to Papa.”

We rush at each other. I was wrong about his speed before. He’s faster than I am, at least on foot. But half the key in most martial arts is using your opponent’s strength against them. I make it look as if I’m planning to butt heads with him, like we’re a couple of freaking rams in heat, but at the last second, I drop and let him go flying over me.

The idea was for me to hop back up while his back was to me, then hit that weakened shoulder from behind. Didn’t realize how long it’d take him to stop. Matter of fact, he doesn’t stop at all—not intentionally.

He sails right into the base of the exam table holding the ADD.

“Oh, man! I told you to stay away from that!”

“Sorry!”

He stumbles away. His right arm’s twitching, and his body takes to dancing again—but try as he might with his snazzy moves, he’s no longer the most interesting thing in the room. That would be the ADD. With the table tilted from the impact, the canister wobbles, rolls, and then stops right before falling. I’m all set to breathe an exaggerated sigh of relief when I spot the gleam swelling at the crack. Clear liquid flows from it, down to the table’s surface and onto the edge, where it beads into a single, clinging drop.

And who, of course, is right beneath this single drop, wagging his tail?

“Mr. Snuffles! Get out of there! Now!”

Either I didn’t use any of those 165 words the average dog is supposed to understand, or Snuffles is below average. He stays put, twisting his head curiously up at his imminent demise, eyes wide, tail wagging, tongue lolling, as if saying:

“Oh, boy! Oh, boy! What is it? I can’t wait to find out!”

Stupid freaking dog. But I still love him.

As I dive for him, everything goes slo-mo: me hurtling toward Mr. Snuffles and the deadly droplet dangling on a long strand, lowering toward him like a spider. I’m three quarters of the way there when the strand snaps. The nano-catalyst falls, nothing between it and Mr. Snuffles but air and gravity. I want to speed up, but being in midair, I don’t think that’s technically possible. I try anyway.

Almost there…almost there…me and the droplet. The droplet and me. The droplet and Mr. Snuffles. Me, the droplet, and Mr. Snuffles.

It’s a game of inches, but it won’t happen. I’m not going to get there in time to shove him out of the way. Fortunately for the dog, I’m good at quick decisions—real good. Unfortunately for me, they’re not always very smart decisions. I stretch my arm out ahead of me, stick my open hand between his furry head and the nano-catalyst…

…and catch it!

Yeah, I can regenerate, but so could the monsters, and they splooshed into goo in under a second. So, hey, I just committed suicide for a dog.

Puts quite the look on my face, I can tell you.

I’m still in that slo-mo thing, so we can give this a couple of sentences. Neurons firing all over my body, the wordless word goes out, not only to every one of my major organs—internal or otherwise—but also to the little guys, the individual cells that make it all possible. The message careening at the speed of bioelectric reactions? This is it, gang: the last gasp of the molecular pattern that comprised the corporeal Wade.

Even the cancer cells are upset—but seriously, screw them. The rest of you? Hope you all kept your résumés updated.

And what does Wade Wilson get for his last selfless moment? A view of a mountain range? A field? Some porno?

Nope. Even Mr. Snuffles isn’t in my field of vision. He’s probably off licking his junk somewhere. Nothing to see here but a table edge and the flat wall behind it. Not even any color, just a white wall with silver trim.

Wish I could see him one last time. I wish I could tell him, “Earn this! Earn this, Mr. S.!” But there isn’t time. There just isn’t time.

I crash onto the cool floor. My hand registers a sharp pain, like my palm is being eaten by acid. I start to close my eyes, wondering if I’ll be able to finish closing them before everything goes black. I do. I get my eyes closed. Then I slow-count to ten.

Hey—I’m still here. I open my eyes again to see what the &*@ is going on.

No, I’m not miraculously immune. There is indeed a hole in my hand, right where the nano-catalyst touched. It’s about the size of a dime, and it is spreading, around and down, but…slowly. Because it was just one drop? The monsters all got a whole spritz. Could be a dosage issue. Or maybe it’s like that transporter thing, and the nano-catalyst is suddenly obeying different rules in order to create dramatic tension. Can’t say. All I know is, it is liquefying me, and while I may not be gone in seconds, this isn’t the time to start watching an episode of Murder, She Wrote.

Besides, Dick’s still here, and I doubt we have the same taste in TV.

I stand and point my remaining blade his way. His head’s askew, like it’s no longer properly attached, but he still has the nerve to nod at my dripping wrist.

“Your hand is gone.”

I crouch into an offensive stance. “Or…is it?”

“Yeah, it is. And now your forearm’s dripping pink goo. That is so gross.”

“Look, smartass, I don’t have time to argue about who does or doesn’t have which limbs. Pretend I’m doing that Keanu Reeves thing and waving you forward with my fingers, and let’s finish this up.”

“You got it.”

We eye each other like two mortally wounded Samurai, motionless but mentally playing out all the possible moves—the strikes, the counters, the combos—second-guessing then third-guessing until it’s as if the fight’s already over, and all that’s left is to play it out.

Yes, it looks that way—but really, I make it up as I go along. He’s expecting me to go for his weak shoulder again, and I’m expecting the same. But when it comes down to it and we move, I change my mind. I swing for his neck—right where that floppy head connects to his mechanized body.

See Dick. See Dick’s head fall. Fall, head, fall.

The cyborg body hits the ground, landing in an odd cross-legged position that makes it seem quite thoughtful.

With Jane avenged, and no one left to try and conquer the world with dog-monsters, it’s over. Well, except for the monsters tromping around upstairs, but that’s someone else’s problem now. All that’s left for me is the melting. Arm’s pretty much gone, along with a fifth of my chest—beautiful muscles, oozing scars, and all.

Woozy, I slump to the floor beside Dick’s head.

Al comes out of hiding to kneel beside me. I look up at her.

“Puppies…out of…danger?”

She nods. “Want some water, or something?”

I’ve come back so often it’s tough to really believe my own death is imminent, but the look on her face worries me.

“Nah. I think I’ll just sit here, if you don’t mind.” As more of me dribbles off, I get to a place where it’s easier to chat with the dead. So I turn from away her, toward the head.

“Good fight there, Dick. We really could have been buds.”

I’m not expecting it to answer.

“I was hoping for a more physical relationship.”

I’m really not expecting it to answer in Jane’s voice.