Egg for Breakfast

[Deadpool]

While the Namekian slept, the mercenary snatched his unborn, and fled into the forest.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

”This is definitely not the place I asked to be,” Deadpool said as he exited the portal; damp grass squished under his boots.

The air was moist, and humid. Somewhere far away, birds sang together without rhythm, accompanied by whooping whistles from other unknown creatures. Green—more vivid and lush that any sight the mercenary had seen before—popped from every direction. Not much light pierced the canopy of trees and branches, but the light that did hit the ground did so in fragments, which would dance across the grass every time a breeze swept through.

It reminded him of past missions, conducted deep within the Asia. They flooded his mind in vague, contorted video clips; memories of his past realm—life too it seemed at times—were beginning to fade away, but some fabrics to them were as durable as a quality pair of denim.

Deadpool expected a much less forested verse. This definitely wasn’t Camelot. He turned to see if the portal behind him still existed. Nothing. All he saw was more trees, grass, tall grass, and shrubbery. The connection between the Danteverse and neighboring verses was a one-way, one-time gig.

”That sucks,” Deadpool muttered, pouting as he turned forward.

There were no paths to guide him—no awkward little people lining up either side of a yellow brick road.

Go north.

The voice spoke with the same conviction as Baron, but lacked the bass. It was immature, not in attitude, but in tone. A child’s tone, too young to even be capable of articulating words.

A wrinkle curved over the right eyehole of Deadpool’s mask as he furrowed a brow. Da fuq?

I am a son of Retane—a son of the Namekian, the voice said, spawned from the battle you two had recently.

Deadpool instantly knew what the voice referred to: the first Face-to-Face of Dante’s Abyss—Deadpool versus Retane. That was like two months ago, the mercenary remembered (or only a week ago, for a normal Prime). He smirked. I remember my Super Move kicked the grammar outta him, too.

Make haste, my father will awake soon, the voice urged, carrying a mixture of anxiety and annoyance. You will go north, just over two miles. If you no longer see moss on trees then you went the wrong way.

”Well, looks like DP has holes to fill!” Deadpool pumped his fist and sprang his pelvis forward. ”Plot holes, that is . . . one of those things are bound to pop up in a group role-play thingy, which I’m sure is about to happen.”

Just go north.

[Deadpool]

Deadpool did as the voice said.

The journey north felt more like a trek to the mercenary. He slogged through the vegetative entanglement—vines and tall grass mostly—with his katana substituting a machete; plant residue accumulated across the edge of his blade like mint jelly on a butter knife. Every quarter mile Deadpool stopped. He would clean his blade, reconfirm he was headed in the right direction (moss on trees pointed the way), and resume. It was a tedious process.

Fourty-five minutes had passed since the last time Triumpht’s voice entered Deadpool’s mind. A wide tree with leaves the same color as his outfit, the mercenary recalled the boy saying.

Like this one?

Deadpool’s katana beheaded a crop of tall grass. It swept up into the air before drifting down under his boots as he dipped under a sampling broken at an acute angle

There it was—the tree. Deadpool had to peer to see it, behind the collage of leaves and branches displayed by neighboring trees, but it was there. The tree was broad, but short, like a baby leg jutting out of the earth; in comparison, the branches were acupuncture needles, which failed to extend above the canopy, flared at the end with red leaves.

Triumpth didn’t respond.

You’re no fun. And the leaves aren’t the color of my outfit—my outfit is more of a crimson color, these are vibrant red.

He continued forward; twigs and leaves crunched as he went. He whipped his head to the west, and shot a glare in the direction. He thought he heard something. He swore he heard something (Deadpool’s mind had long ago decayed into insanity, but he wasn’t that crazy—not enough to hear things that didn’t exist).

”Speak for yourself, Baron-ole’-boy, because if you don’t exist then I’d say I’ve gone off the ledge,” the mercenary quipped.

He reached for his sword, and grasped it tightly as his eyes surveyed ahead.

Nothing.

The tree, mercenary, Triumpht called.

[Deadpool]

Deadpool nodded, grudgingly.

Something lurked in the forest—behind the next trunk, or high above in a branch . . . it was still around—and the mercenary felt its presence. He scanned the trees and brushes but saw nothing (a breeze swept through from the west, shaking the leaves of the forest into a tremble, and a brown rabbit lunged from one bush to another, but that was it).

”There’s really only question to be asked here,” Deadpool muttered as he brought his hand back to his side, ”is this to build up for the upcoming plot, or something much further in the future?”

The mercenary about-faced and walked to the red-leafed tree. As he got closer he saw its age. Wrinkles and crevices ran down its bark in vertical lines; in some parts they fractured, even fissuring in others, leaving long canyons down the trunk. Welts dotted the tree like—

”Wakka’s balls,” Deadpool interjected, ”the tree has more knots on it than Wakka’s balls.”

On the trunk of the tree will be a node, Triumpht said. Turn the node like you would a doorknob.

”No shit,” the mercenary replied. ”I’d like to use one of my lifelines to answer which node.”

The node directly in front of you, at eye level.

Deadpool set his sights straight and saw it. The node was larger than a baseball, but still small enough to comfortably palm. And that’s what he did.

”Which way am I supposed to turn this damn thing?”

Triumpht didn’t respond.

If Retane had any sense, his base would have some resemblance of an alarm system. Deadpool liked that thought, and wished it were true—maybe a wrong twist of the node would release a toxic, or the tree explodes, or . . . lasers.

He twisted the node clockwise. Nothing. No gas, no explosions, no lasers, not even a whooping alarm sound (akin to an annoying car alarm, or a whining air siren).

The mercenary sighed.

[Deadpool]

You must turn the node counter-clockwise, Triumpht's voice returned.

”Thanks for the heads-up,” the mercenary quipped. ”Woulda took me an eternity to figure out.”

He loved information after the fact—almost as much as sarcasm. Especially from an unborn mouth-child.

”I wonder if you can abort an egg,” Deadpool briefly wondered. He knocked his fist against his temple. ”Of course you can. How else is breakfast made?”

Do you always act this stupid?

”About as often as your father misplaces a comma.”

Deadpool palmed the node, and gripped his fingers firmly around the edges of it. With a flick of the wrist, the node turned backwards. The first rotation took more effort than the mercenary expected—the node grumbled while struggling to roll counter-clockwise—but he persisted, pushing through it. He could hear it grind against the grain, but kept going until he hit a wall.

”Here we go: open sesame!”

A moment passed, but nothing.

Deadpool's eye twitched. “What the fuck,” he spat. “The thing must be broke.” The tip of his boot slammed into the base of the tree, chipping off a slab of bark. ”Goddamn MADE IN CHINA bullshit! Who buys their base from Fisher Pri—“

A loud grumble interrupted. It came from the tree, an as soon as it did, a quake rippled out from it, rattling Deadpool. He took a large hop in reverse, and threw his hands up in an attempt to maintain his balance while the rumbling earth wobbled his body like a hula hooper. The mercenary spoke too soon; maybe the jaded fiend—”emerald Namekian”—Retane held higher knowledge than he had given him credit for.

As quick as the quake started, it ended. It stretched out from the tree like a forever expanding ring, triggering a white-noise of quivering leaves throughout the forest.

”Ok, I'm pretty sure all of this wasn't included in anyone else's description of Retane's base. Seriously, I feel like the narration is going a bit far here.”

False alarm, Triumpht assured. It's a way to deter unwanted guests. All you have to do now is press the node in, and the door will show itself.

”Riight.” Only two things showed themselves in life: exotic dancers, and perverts in trench-coats; hopefully, the unborn mouth-child's perspective on 'showing' contrasted the his own.

He returned to the node with cautious steps, reaching his right hand back to wrap around the hilt of his katana as he raised his left hand towards the tree. His narrator had gone beyond the call of duty to make the merc's entrance into Retane's base as unpleasant and unpredictable as possible (Shit, a kangaroo could jump down from the tree and back-kick his dick into his pelvis; regeneration or not, that would hurt like hell). When the tips of his fingers kissed the node it pulsed green. He stopped, and pulled his hand away. The emerald light within the node swirled, but then died.

A dry croak reverberated from the tree. Deadpool unsheathed his blade, pulling it over his body and grabbing it with both hands (”come and get it, kangaroo!”)

Bark peeled upward from the foundation of the tree like a million-sided plantain, revealing, not bare wood nor the innards of a banana, but a black hole within its center.

Deadpool spectated with perplexity. ”So lemme' get this straight, Retane has his own fucking sub-verse portal designed into the middle of a abnormally eggplant-shaped tree?

. . . And don't fix that how I talk. Sometimes I don't wanna use an's, so if you get penalized then fuck it. You pulled that shit earlier in this post—along with a few other times, too—and its demeaning to my character.”

It is a stairwell, Triumpht answered. There is a switch on the right side of the doorway. It will activate the lights.

Deadpool nodded. He sheathed his katana and stuck a hand into the abyss.