07-06-2017, 09:13 AM
Blossoming clouds of smoke shrouded the alleyway entrance, rising over the adjacent corner stores' rooftops. It concealed Anti-T'Challa's escape, but unless Deadpool was badly deceived, the injured man wasn't traveling far. A trail of blood droplets inked a route along the asphalt, almost like the hashmarks on a treasure map, curving right before vanishing into the smokescreen.
Blood in the water, Deadpool thought. Usually, he would play with his food longer, but whoever this man was had too much skill and intellect to fool with; perhaps under different circumstances, the mercenary would be the one hobbling into an alley...
Nah. he dismissed.
But it was indeed time to take things more seriously. The mercenary dug deep within himself—beyond his thick wall of rascally behavior—to unearth a side of him seldom seen. Roots of veins bulged from his temples and neck, visibly showing through the material of his outfit while he gritted his teeth. ”Super-Serial mode, activate!” he yelled.
No physical metamorphosis occurred—no spiky hair, nor massive increase to his muscles—but in his mind, neural pathways consolidated; it had been a long time since he last retrieved memories of his true power, but they were still there, encoded deeply into him, nearly on a cellular level. He felt a surge of strength and mental capacity come over him, carried by the tingling sensation of adrenaline. It was like a huge burden had been lifted.
Deadpool began sauntering into the dying smokescreen, whistling 'Dancing in the Rain' as his pistol twirled around his middle-finger. His eyes were locked onto the trail of blood that was now a thin stream; the path wound behind a few broken trash-bags and a cardboard box (Deadpool assumed during normal days it was someone's home) before stopping next to a dumper on the right wall.
”If you needed a tampon, all you had to do was ask,” he said. ”I always keep a couple spares on me, just in case.”
Flicking the burst-fire switch on his pistol, he took aim. Three shots rang off into the dumpers, peppering it with a trio of cigarette holes. Deadpool had hoped to to ear the sweet melody of a grown man bawling in agony, but all he heard was the sound of a scared shitless rat squeezing.
Suddenly, anti-T'Challa barreled out from a door behind the dumpster, wielding the mercenary's other pistol. He lunged sideways and began unloading the clip, spitting a cascade of bullets as he fell onto his injured shoulder—POW, POW, POW, POW, POW, POW!! Every shot landed, but none of them hurt.
Deadpool smiled. He glanced down at his calfs with delight; a series of holes ran up either leg, looking like the driving range of a golf course. ”Yes, penetrate me, daddy,” he said, glancing towards the white Black Panther.
Gradually, the bullets corkscrewed out from his legs; they tumbled to the ground, ringing off the asphalt like dropped change. The blood oozing from the cavities like discharging sores—a black blood, as if from the liver—slowly stopped, and the cavities themselves smoothed over with fresh skin.
POW, POW, POW, POW!!
The white Black Panther had squeezed out another series of fire; this time they engraved a dotted line across his chest. Deadpool's upper-body did the Harlem Shake as the rounds struck him in rapid succession. He took a couple punch-drunk steps backwards, but stopped there. Again, the bullets resurfaced, and dropped to the ground; his wounds healed, leaving nothing but the holes left on his outfit.
Anti-T'Challa grimaced while he tried to stand. He held his shoulder with one hand, and firmly aimed the stolen gun in his other. Admittedly, the mercenary expected the man to give some lofty, bullshit speech on justice (all wannabe heroes did—they all wanted to proclaim and enforce their self-righteous sense of justice and morality, when in reality, it was just imaginary nonsense they created to give their otherwise mundane lives purpose), but there was no high and mighty sermon.
The white Black Panther tried to squeeze the trigger again, and it made Deadpool smile. Click, the pistol went.
”Yeah, I'm right-handed, so I'd naturally use more bullets from that gun than this one, the mercenary said, waving his firearm. ”Also, you shot like nine or ten times—only 15 come in a clip.”
With a pounce, Deadpool closed the space between them, and bashed the barrel of his gun over anti-T'Challa's nose, bending it horizontally and also sending him into a wobbled backpedal. The white Black Panther swung wild fists at Deadpool as he pursued him, but all of them were either blocked or eluded; and the punches being delivered back at him landed with the marksmanship of a well-seasoned prizefighter.
But anti-T'challa continued. Fatigue made cowards of us all… except him.
We'll see about that.
Blood in the water, Deadpool thought. Usually, he would play with his food longer, but whoever this man was had too much skill and intellect to fool with; perhaps under different circumstances, the mercenary would be the one hobbling into an alley...
Nah. he dismissed.
But it was indeed time to take things more seriously. The mercenary dug deep within himself—beyond his thick wall of rascally behavior—to unearth a side of him seldom seen. Roots of veins bulged from his temples and neck, visibly showing through the material of his outfit while he gritted his teeth. ”Super-Serial mode, activate!” he yelled.
No physical metamorphosis occurred—no spiky hair, nor massive increase to his muscles—but in his mind, neural pathways consolidated; it had been a long time since he last retrieved memories of his true power, but they were still there, encoded deeply into him, nearly on a cellular level. He felt a surge of strength and mental capacity come over him, carried by the tingling sensation of adrenaline. It was like a huge burden had been lifted.
Deadpool began sauntering into the dying smokescreen, whistling 'Dancing in the Rain' as his pistol twirled around his middle-finger. His eyes were locked onto the trail of blood that was now a thin stream; the path wound behind a few broken trash-bags and a cardboard box (Deadpool assumed during normal days it was someone's home) before stopping next to a dumper on the right wall.
”If you needed a tampon, all you had to do was ask,” he said. ”I always keep a couple spares on me, just in case.”
Flicking the burst-fire switch on his pistol, he took aim. Three shots rang off into the dumpers, peppering it with a trio of cigarette holes. Deadpool had hoped to to ear the sweet melody of a grown man bawling in agony, but all he heard was the sound of a scared shitless rat squeezing.
Suddenly, anti-T'Challa barreled out from a door behind the dumpster, wielding the mercenary's other pistol. He lunged sideways and began unloading the clip, spitting a cascade of bullets as he fell onto his injured shoulder—POW, POW, POW, POW, POW, POW!! Every shot landed, but none of them hurt.
Deadpool smiled. He glanced down at his calfs with delight; a series of holes ran up either leg, looking like the driving range of a golf course. ”Yes, penetrate me, daddy,” he said, glancing towards the white Black Panther.
Gradually, the bullets corkscrewed out from his legs; they tumbled to the ground, ringing off the asphalt like dropped change. The blood oozing from the cavities like discharging sores—a black blood, as if from the liver—slowly stopped, and the cavities themselves smoothed over with fresh skin.
POW, POW, POW, POW!!
The white Black Panther had squeezed out another series of fire; this time they engraved a dotted line across his chest. Deadpool's upper-body did the Harlem Shake as the rounds struck him in rapid succession. He took a couple punch-drunk steps backwards, but stopped there. Again, the bullets resurfaced, and dropped to the ground; his wounds healed, leaving nothing but the holes left on his outfit.
Anti-T'Challa grimaced while he tried to stand. He held his shoulder with one hand, and firmly aimed the stolen gun in his other. Admittedly, the mercenary expected the man to give some lofty, bullshit speech on justice (all wannabe heroes did—they all wanted to proclaim and enforce their self-righteous sense of justice and morality, when in reality, it was just imaginary nonsense they created to give their otherwise mundane lives purpose), but there was no high and mighty sermon.
The white Black Panther tried to squeeze the trigger again, and it made Deadpool smile. Click, the pistol went.
”Yeah, I'm right-handed, so I'd naturally use more bullets from that gun than this one, the mercenary said, waving his firearm. ”Also, you shot like nine or ten times—only 15 come in a clip.”
With a pounce, Deadpool closed the space between them, and bashed the barrel of his gun over anti-T'Challa's nose, bending it horizontally and also sending him into a wobbled backpedal. The white Black Panther swung wild fists at Deadpool as he pursued him, but all of them were either blocked or eluded; and the punches being delivered back at him landed with the marksmanship of a well-seasoned prizefighter.
But anti-T'challa continued. Fatigue made cowards of us all… except him.
We'll see about that.
Quote:795 by wordcounter(dot)net
Summary
Deadpool uses:
No PEDs Here, Darling
Type - Power-Up T2 (Deadpool decides to use 100% of his wit and skill. This drastic increase in his strength and technique may shock his opponent sometimes)
Stats
ATK: 1 [+4] = 5
DEF: 4 [+2] = 6
SPD: 3 [+0] = 3
TEC: 4 [+4] = 8
Batman uses Deadpool's pistol (the one from the street earlier), and unloads all of the bullets into him.
Deadpool uses Regeneration to heal damage done to him.
Deadpool then begins to layeth hands on our bat friend.
SP used: 4/6 (2 for t2 Power-up; 2 for Regeneration)
[float=right]
![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://i137.photobucket.com/albums/q218/Aerogfx/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png)
Dante's Abyss Placings
2015 - 4th
2015 - 4th
2016 - 2nd
2017 - 4th
PVP Combat Record
(One-on-One)
3W - 0L - 0D
3W - 0L - 0D
(TAG-TEAM)
1W - 1L - 0D
[/float]![[Image: Deadpool_Funny.png]](http://s137.photobucket.com/user/Aerogfx/media/sigs/Deadpool_Funny.png.html)