Day Two

[Deadpool]

“If you say so.” As Vincent brought his attention away from the window and back to group, his face held conserved skepticism. “Where, though?”

”Yeah, I’m sure. And who the fuck cares?! We stay too long and we’ll be beat up by a rubber pirate, Stretch Luffy; or a secretly racist mouse,” (OH!!!! A Mickey roast!) Deadpool assured. Dante’s Abyss was new to him, but survival was not; moving was the key to survival—stay somewhere too long and become the scraps for a superior survivalist. ”Doesn’t matter where we do, as long as we leave here. Everyone agree?”

“Let’s fuck shit up,” Wartortle replied. His face held the same brashness that Deadpool had remembered from their last meeting. The Pokèmon never let an opportunity slip to be aggressive, and now was no different.

“We’re gonna make motherfuckers pay while we’re out there,” Sasuke included. His ebony eyes held deep, thrashing flames. His time in the diner had been hectic, but enthralling. The boy was ready for blood.

”Wassup, Mr. Enix?” Deadpool asked Vincent. ”You coming with us?” He needed everyone.

The gunslinger hesitated, looked at the ground, but slowly brought his eyes back up to the makeshift crew. “Yeah,” he affirmed, and then nodded.

Deadpool exhumed a large sigh, and let a faint smile show through his mangled mask. If this Vincent was anywhere near as powerful as the game’s, he would be a great ally in battle. ”Good. We’re leaving then. Deadpool and the Japanese-based characters, away!” He proclaimed, pumping his fist.


The group of Primes scavenged the diner before leaving. Not much was left, but what remained was useful nonetheless--cans of vegetables, some pastes, and water—and they snatched them up quick, as if gold. The storm outside still crackled against the island with great strength, but after brief meal the group headed out into the awaiting torrents.


I also found the Uno card Neal threw at Wartortle!!—a yellow draw two!



The strong push of gusts and diagonal downpour lasted only part of their travel, and as the Diner became only a spec in the distance, the torrential attack had deceased to a persistent drizzle. Over yonder, right before land became see, trees sprawled across the land; part of the forest was gone. Vincent hesitation had been good fortune. It kept them from leaving too early, and into nature’s wrath.

Wartortle headed the group as they traveled the beaten path. Deadpool figured it was a good way to feed his need to lead, as he put it. Vincent tailed the line, swaying his head side to side, constantly checking for a theat.

The mercenary watched Sasuke from behind, examining his subtleties. The ninja was a fiery lad, whose motives were driven by revenge. But for now, he was focused on the turtle ahead of him. His eyes never shifted, not even to the sound of shaking tree branches.

”What’s up, man,” Deadpool whispered. He had jumped a few steps ahead to catch the black-haired ninja from behind, wrapping his arm around the boy’s shoulders. He was incredibly fatigued, but surprisingly still nimble (praise the collar, perhaps?) ”You’ve been eyeing Warts (Lol, Warts. . .) since we left the Diner.”

“Just don’t entirely trust him yet, that’s all.” Sasuke’s stare did not break. “Do you?”



Probably because Warts nailed him . . . ;D




”I trust him enough to know that I can’t fully trust him,” Deadpool replied, ”If that makes sense.”

“Makes enough, I suppose.”

Wartortle was a very complex Pokèmon (the most Deadpool had ever heard of). He talked like a Meowth, had the wit of a Alakazam, but still maintained the power of his particular species. All while being almost as insane as the mercenary. And it was the last part that made Deadpool trust Wartortle the most—their few similarities were strong ones.