(Pre-Show) The Barracks

[Deadpool]

Deadpool awoke to the sound of a deep voice calling at him. He threw an arm up over his face as his fluttering eyes were greeted by the strength of the fluorescent lighting, and winced, but as his vision adjusted he lowered his arm back down. His vertigo had subsided, and somehow he felt relatively normal again.

Still, why? He asked himself. His dream felt so real (he could practically still sense his skin rising from the brisk wind that came from the subway entrance). It did not have the attributes of a nightmare, but his mind processed it as one all the same—chills, curiosity for demise, and (the one that was most foreign to the mercenary) fear.

In Bold . . .

As his arm fully unshielded his vision, he noticed the broad-armed Syntex soldier standing at his feet. “Wake up,” he repeated with his brown eyes locked on the mercenary; the deep voice belonged to him. “Do you need medical attention?”

The offer was enticing—that’s for sure—but Deadpool shook his head. ”Nah, I’m good. I just need a hand off the ground.” Too much Omnillium was up for grabs to just bow out; if he died, he would go out swinging on the island, not in a hospital bed.

The soldier bent over and obliged, firmly gripping Deadpool’s hand and levering him back to his feet. “I came here to give you your collar,” the soldier said as he flipped his satchel to his front and dug a hand into it.

Deadpool already had a collar—the one that clamped his mask around his neck. ”I’m already owned,” he quipped, pointing a finger to his neck.

“Also, Mister Karl Jak noticed that you’re not doing too well,” the soldier replied matter-of-factly, pulling the black collar out and handing it to Deadpool. “This collar will make you feel a little better, regardless of what is plaguing you.”

”You don’t say,” the mercenary muttered while his gaze went over the collar—it shined like plastic, but as he took it from the soldier and gripped it in his own hands he realized it was some sort of foreign metal. He wrapped it around his neck, right below his own; if the soldier’s words were true, and the collar really had healing type benefits to it, then Deadpool welcomed it with widespread arms.

The soldier went to turn, but jolted back forward. “I almost forgot,” he said, “Mister Karl Jak also noticed you gave your cellular device to your cookie friend, before you came to the barracks.” He dug his hand back into the satchel and retrieved a sleek touchscreen device. “Mr. Jak promotes the use of OmniTwitter while on the island.”

Ha! Sounds like a Baron ‘In-Character’ reason to tweet again as da’ DEEE-PEEEE!!!The words slipped from his, and by the dick face response received, the mercenary assumed the solider overheard them.

”I’m sorry. Sometimes I have manic outbursts,” Deadpool tried to explain, but the soldier’s face refused to falter. He simply made sure the mercenary received the phone and turned away, power-walking back to the main corridor as fast as is muscular body allowed.

”Ah well, can’t impress everybody.” Deadpool shrugged and then quarter-rotated towards the door he had collapsed in front of—his door. The knob poked out at stomach-level, and without the ailments from earlier, appeared as the singular knob it was. He reached for it, paused, but then cautiously continued, twisting it and pushing the door open.

He grazed his finger across the wall to his right—no switch. Then with a graze against the left wall, the fluorescent light flickered on, extinguishing every dark spot in a bath of white light. The room was plain, but mercenary did not expect much for a temporary gig. To his left a desk pressed against the wall, accompanied by a chair, and straight ahead was the cot (typical white sheets and blue comforter included). From atop the desk, a forest green bag sent the mercenary a mean mug as the chin of it slouched over desk, against the chair’s spindle and rails.

Closing the door shut, the mercenary walked over to the desk. Zzzzzzzzzzp! the bag cried as Deadpool unzipped it, and stuck a hand inside to remove it guts—some meals, a few bottles of water, a map, and a compass.

Good enough, he thought. It had been an eternity since he last ate out of hunger, but with his Healing Factor acting up he had the feeling food would be necessary.

He took the supplies and stuffed them back into the bag, zipping it shut afterwards with a flick of his wrist. The last twenty-four hours had been long and tiring for the mercenary, and without the perks of his Healing Factor, they took their toll on his body. The cot provided lacked glitz and glamour, but it was a better place to rest than the floor outside the room. He walked over to it, fell forward with spread arms, and landed in slumber.