06-04-2015, 07:26 AM
He had to make a split second decision.
Tangled up in the jungle gym, his body went rigid when Delsin managed to catch the shovel. He didn’t know why, but something within him screamed to save Deadpool, and so without knowing exactly what he was doing, he placed his gloved hands out in front of him and squeezed his eyes shut. A massive beam of yellow energy burst forth from thin air, smashing into Delsin Rowe and effectively rescuing the merc-with-a-mouth from another attack. When the bright light from Mickey’s blast cleared, the mouse’s new ally stood perfectly fine, and the young man who had just happened upon them lay crumpled on the ground.
Mickey let out a sigh of relief—whatever had just happened, it had saved Deadpool’s life. He would focus later on how in the world he had been able to conjure such a powerful blast of energy; for right now, while Delsin was down, they had to move. The mouse scampered over to Deadpool, tugging at the sleeve of his spandex outfit. “Hurry, while he’s unconscious.”
Deadpool chuckled, and said the words that Mickey had been fearing someone would say to him this whole game. The mouse’s eyes went wide with horror. No. No, no, no, no, no—he couldn’t be dead. He fell to his knees next to Delsin, placing his stubby mouse fingers on the man’s neck to try to feel a pulse. “Come on,” he whispered under his breath, “come on, no, stop it, be alive, please—”
Nothing. He felt nothing.
He ran.
He ran as fast as his stubby little legs could take him, but he could not escape that feeling. He could not escape the anger that ran through his brain when he had run Deadpool through with the Master Sword, watching blood seep out of the wound. He had been so terribly furious, so blinded by the rage that Deadpool had awakened inside of him.
For so long, he had lived in his peaceful kingdom, not bothered by anything. He had tried to stay true to himself for so long in this game, and for a while, he had succeeded. Skirting around the edge of the island with his pals, avoiding conflict, and even for a split second having fun. When he had first been dropped in this Omniverse, he had thought that happiness would be something he would have to search long and hard for. He had been wrong: he had found it in just a few days, in the comfort of Erza, Samus, and Harry.
But it was fickle.
His head started to spin as the adrenaline from his encounter with the merc-with-a-mouth began to wear off. All of a sudden, he slid to a halt, his head pounding more painfully than he had ever thought possible. He touched it gently with a gloved hand, caught off guard by the intense throbbing. “Owwwwww,” he groaned, gripping his skull now with both hands as he dropped the Master Sword to the ground.
He took several deep breaths, leaning against the nearest tree and sliding into a seated position at its base. He glanced over to where the Master Sword lay, hoping to be prepared to pick it up at the slightest disturbance, but his vision had started to blur up so much that he could barely even see it anymore.
Did he really want to pick it up again, though? His instinct said no. If anyone came across him now, he had half a mind to let them lay into him with whatever weapon this murder game had provided them with and put him out of his misery. Karl Jak had truly broken him—he’d pushed him to his limits, and instead of rising to the challenge, the man they fought had ended up dead. The mysterious energy—which he still could not altogether explain—had risen up inside of him, and he had been presented with a choice: use it, and definitely save Deadpool from getting injured any more, or jump back into the fray and save him the old fashioned way, which hadn’t yet worked out in his favor. So he had given in, and the merc-with-a-mouth survived that face-off without another scrape.
He regretted it; in retrospect, he would have much rather Deadpool be dead than Delsin.
He threw up. He leaned forward, and in the grassy patch in front of where he sat, he puked up his pain. When that subsided, he coughed incessantly, trying his best to make sure he had gotten everything up. A burning sensation slithered through his cranium, and Mickey felt like this injury was eating him up from the inside. Between that and his crippling guilt, the mouse knew that nothing would make him happier than remaining up against this tree, withering up, and wasting away until someone eliminated him from this competition.
But he wasn’t the giving-up type of mouse. He’d been through way too much to stop now.
So he got up.
Tangled up in the jungle gym, his body went rigid when Delsin managed to catch the shovel. He didn’t know why, but something within him screamed to save Deadpool, and so without knowing exactly what he was doing, he placed his gloved hands out in front of him and squeezed his eyes shut. A massive beam of yellow energy burst forth from thin air, smashing into Delsin Rowe and effectively rescuing the merc-with-a-mouth from another attack. When the bright light from Mickey’s blast cleared, the mouse’s new ally stood perfectly fine, and the young man who had just happened upon them lay crumpled on the ground.
Mickey let out a sigh of relief—whatever had just happened, it had saved Deadpool’s life. He would focus later on how in the world he had been able to conjure such a powerful blast of energy; for right now, while Delsin was down, they had to move. The mouse scampered over to Deadpool, tugging at the sleeve of his spandex outfit. “Hurry, while he’s unconscious.”
Deadpool chuckled, and said the words that Mickey had been fearing someone would say to him this whole game. The mouse’s eyes went wide with horror. No. No, no, no, no, no—he couldn’t be dead. He fell to his knees next to Delsin, placing his stubby mouse fingers on the man’s neck to try to feel a pulse. “Come on,” he whispered under his breath, “come on, no, stop it, be alive, please—”
Nothing. He felt nothing.
* * *
He ran.
He ran as fast as his stubby little legs could take him, but he could not escape that feeling. He could not escape the anger that ran through his brain when he had run Deadpool through with the Master Sword, watching blood seep out of the wound. He had been so terribly furious, so blinded by the rage that Deadpool had awakened inside of him.
For so long, he had lived in his peaceful kingdom, not bothered by anything. He had tried to stay true to himself for so long in this game, and for a while, he had succeeded. Skirting around the edge of the island with his pals, avoiding conflict, and even for a split second having fun. When he had first been dropped in this Omniverse, he had thought that happiness would be something he would have to search long and hard for. He had been wrong: he had found it in just a few days, in the comfort of Erza, Samus, and Harry.
But it was fickle.
His head started to spin as the adrenaline from his encounter with the merc-with-a-mouth began to wear off. All of a sudden, he slid to a halt, his head pounding more painfully than he had ever thought possible. He touched it gently with a gloved hand, caught off guard by the intense throbbing. “Owwwwww,” he groaned, gripping his skull now with both hands as he dropped the Master Sword to the ground.
He took several deep breaths, leaning against the nearest tree and sliding into a seated position at its base. He glanced over to where the Master Sword lay, hoping to be prepared to pick it up at the slightest disturbance, but his vision had started to blur up so much that he could barely even see it anymore.
Did he really want to pick it up again, though? His instinct said no. If anyone came across him now, he had half a mind to let them lay into him with whatever weapon this murder game had provided them with and put him out of his misery. Karl Jak had truly broken him—he’d pushed him to his limits, and instead of rising to the challenge, the man they fought had ended up dead. The mysterious energy—which he still could not altogether explain—had risen up inside of him, and he had been presented with a choice: use it, and definitely save Deadpool from getting injured any more, or jump back into the fray and save him the old fashioned way, which hadn’t yet worked out in his favor. So he had given in, and the merc-with-a-mouth survived that face-off without another scrape.
He regretted it; in retrospect, he would have much rather Deadpool be dead than Delsin.
He threw up. He leaned forward, and in the grassy patch in front of where he sat, he puked up his pain. When that subsided, he coughed incessantly, trying his best to make sure he had gotten everything up. A burning sensation slithered through his cranium, and Mickey felt like this injury was eating him up from the inside. Between that and his crippling guilt, the mouse knew that nothing would make him happier than remaining up against this tree, withering up, and wasting away until someone eliminated him from this competition.
But he wasn’t the giving-up type of mouse. He’d been through way too much to stop now.
So he got up.
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)