(Pre-Show) Registration Booths (WHERE YOU SIGN UP IC)

[Deadpool]

“How did you find this place, anyways?” Gingy asked, mounted on the mercenary’s shoulder again (who was beginning to assume the ‘sore legs’ excuse was more and more bullshit with every passing minute). He looked over at Deadpool with a rounded eye. “You just somehow always know where to go.”

”Not always,” Deadpool responded. [color=red]”Just when it’s the best way to move the story along.”

“Whatever you say.”

Deadpool and Gingy arrived at the town center roughly thirty minutes prior, navigating several narrow cobblestone paths to do so. The bald fat man, though a sloppy drunk, was sober enough still to accurately give directions; by the time the two Primes jumped in line, the cloudy sky had dissipated into a clear night, which showcased a full, luminous moon.

“Next person!” an iron cladded guard exclaimed while his hands gripped a spear standing in front of him; his voice was deep and filled with bass. He removed a hand from his weapon and pulled back the flap to the tent, allowing an awkwardly dressed—futuristic, rifle wielding—woman to exit right.

“What, didn’t make the cut, Ruil?” The voice came from the blond middle-aged man that headed the line into the tent.

“It’s a fucking reality show, based on killing one another,” she grumbled, stomping towards the clock tower’s direction.

The man stared silently at the distancing woman, but soon kneeled down to clench a bag near the left of his feet, and followed her.

“Next person,” the guard bellowed a second time as he noticed the line leader trail off. He held the flap open as the teenage boy in front of Deadpool entered; his body disappeared into the tent’s depths, and the guard allowed the flab to curtain back over its entrance.

”You’re up next, Gingy.” Deadpool murmured as he glanced over at the gingerbread.

“Is this ‘Dante’s Abyss’ really about healthy competition, or killing one another?” The mercenary could hear Gingy’s skepticism like an improperly used snare. But he was right to question. The picture Deadpool painted on the way over to the tent—one of fair competition, involving cunning—omitted the two distinct words the pamphlet mentioned: survival and ruthlessness.

”I mean, from what I read it seemed pretty cool,” Deadpool replied.

“I didn’t like how you said that.”

”What you talking about? Baron didn’t include any type of descriptive words for my dialogue. Now you’re starting to sound crazy.” The mercenary learned enough about the gingerbread in their short time together to know his humor was a propitious way to diffuse Gingy.

“Whatever, man.” Gingy’s words proved Deadpool correct. As the guardsman repeated the word ‘Next’, Gingy dismounted the mercenary’s shoulder and landed on his feet. “Looks like I’m up,” he said, readjusted the lollipop on his back, and entered into the depths of the tent.

* * * * *

Upon entering the tent, flashes of artificial light disorientated the gingerbread. There was a multitude of electronics—all except for a row of monitors were foreign to the pastry—positioned on the left side of the tent. He threw a hand up to shield his visage, but it was futile—the snaps of light shot over and around his hand and arm, still reaching his face.

“Welcome.” Gingy finally lowered his arm to see a redheaded woman to his right—she sat behind a laminated fold-up table, wearing spectacles that shined from all the light. “Your name?”

“Gingy,” the pastry replied. His eyes looked past the churning portal across from him and shifted between a few of the electronics with barrels attached to their fronts. “What’s all this for?”

“The cameras? They are here to record your abilities, when you are requested to present them.” She grabbed one of the stacked clipboards on her table, along with a one of the pens grouped next to it, tucking the pen under the clip and handing it to Gingy as the pastry took cautious steps towards the table.

The gingerbread took the clipboard and mulled over its contents before pulling the pen from the top and filling in the blanks. “Some of these questions are pretty fuckin weird,” he muttered. As he finished the last section, handing the clipboard back to the woman.

Her green eyes became partially visible as her head tilted down to examine the paper. “Alright, all the necessary information is here.” She looked back and pointed an index towards a camera over the left side of the pastry’s head. “Please showcase some of your physical attributes. Then you may go into the portal.

Gingy took a single, confirming nod and stared directly into the barrel of the camera the woman directed him to focus on. With a quick levering of his arm, the Lollipop Staff swung over his shoulder and across his body. The weapon spun in his hand before he clenched it with both, wrapping his nubs around the rod. Immediately, he swiped it right, then left with an upward diagonal swing. “YAH!”

“That will be enough,” the woman interjected. “Thank you.”

Gingy stopped. “You sure?” He slung the staff back over his shoulder. “I don’t feel like you saw all that much.”

“I saw enough,” the woman replied. “You may step through the portal.”

* * * * *

Deadpool peeked over at the face of the clock tower—7pm, the hands translated—as he waited for another ‘next’ to be bellowed by the guardsman. The futuristic woman and middle-aged man conversed on the corner under the tower, but to the mercenary it was inaudible jabbering. Unlike the person that went before Gingy into the tent, the woman—Ruil—had returned back out of it. She was either rejected, or like she said, declined.

”So,” Deadpool began as he turned his attention to the guard, ”what happens if I’m accepted?”

The guard’s brown eyes shifted under the shadow of his helmet. “Upon registering, you will be transported to the Danteverse,” he said in his strong voice. “Accepted or not.”

”Oh, ok.”

As the next couple of minutes passed, the mercenary kept himself entertained with Gingy’s cellphone—a quick browse through OmniTwitter produced more than enough muffled giggles. The online clamoring produced by Dante’s Abyss’ hype was resounding. All over the Omniverse Primes seemed to be tuning in.
If this event is half as good as the hype claims it to be then I’ll be swimming in OM. I’ll have my Healing Factor back to optimal in no time!

“You’re next,” the guardsman said after a command from within the tent. He pulled the flap open for the mercenary to enter.

”Yay,” Deadpool said like a preteen girl, dropping the cellphone into a thigh-belt compartment. ”Finally, after a thousand n some words.”

He slipped through the entrance of the tent and surveyed its interior. Cameras and monitors consumed the entire left side of the tent, along with a table to the right, and a gate ahead, with a swirling belly.

He knew his gingery accomplice awaited him on the other side of the portal. And he liked to imagine, at least, the little guy was missing him already.

“Welcome,” the woman behind the desk said. Her well-groomed appearance dwarfed that of any woman Deadpool had encountered during his stint in the Omniverse thus far. Her red hair was sharply cut at ear-length, just overlapping the sides of her glasses. “Your name?”

Deadpool approached the desk and leaned over it. ”Wade Wilson,” he replied, with raised cheeks. “Most people just call me Deadpool, though.”

“Right.” The woman never brought her eyes up to the mercenary; instead, she took a clipboard from a stack on the table and handed it to him. “I need you to fill this form out. Pens are right here.” She hovered a hand over the pile pens and then returned her attention to a messy mound of inked paperwork.

”Okay.”

Deadpool took a pen and began to fill out the form. Some of the questions were peculiar, but the mercenary assumed all of them were somehow necessary. Upon completion, he clamped the pen at the top of the clipboard and handed it back to the woman.


[spoiler]

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Her green eyes widened as she analyzed the form. “Well, this is special,” she said, bringing her eyes back up to the mercenary. “There’s a camera next to the portal that will record you as you showcase your talents. Is that alright?”

”Sure.” If it was a talent show the event wanted, a talent show it would receive.

Deadpool turned to face the camera to his left and unsheathed the katana over his right shoulder—shing! With a slanted slash forward, he grabbed the hilt with both hands and rotated the blade towards his own chest.

The woman’s eyes jolted up. “W-what are . . . you doing?!” she yelped, but her voice did nothing to stop the mercenary.

With a thrust backwards, the Deadpool dived the cold blade of his katana midway through his abdomen; a squirt of blood spewed out. As the tip of the blade jutted out near his rear-end, he let out in a gurgling squeal, and pulled the ensanguined blade back out, allowing a pool of blood to usher onto the blanketed ground.

The woman threw her manicured hands over her face in horror, and let out a shriek as a few droplets of blood splattered across the clear cover on the table, just missing her formal attire.

Vertigo reclaimed Deadpool’s senses as his Healing Factor activated; the room went into a spin, twirling around the mercenary as if he were on a carousel. Sinews close to his spine latched back onto fresh muscles, which his Healing Factor exerted to the forefront of his injury. As the wound closed over, skin layered his stomach thrice. He was almost good as new.

Almost was not good enough, however. The mercenary collapsed to one knee, preventing a total fall by slamming his palms into the bed of blood his wound produced.

All the woman could do was rise from her seat and spectate in discomfort. “Are you alright?!” she cried, not knowing exactly how to react.

”Yeah.” With a hand over his gut, the mercenary gingerly rose to his feet. His body wanted to fail him again, but with all the might he could muster, he maintained his balance.”Am I clear to go through the portal?” he groaned, looking up at the woman, with heavy eyelids.

“Y-yes.” The words barely passed through her trembling lips.