The arcade was packed with flashing lights and the cacophony of game sounds, setting the stage for what seemed like an epic showdown to any bystander catching a glimpse. Amidst the chaos of racing games and fighting simulators, I stood with my MP5s in hand, ready to unleash a storm of virtual bullets.
"Oh, you think you have the fucking balls to shit me?!" I shouted, fully committed to my role as the merciless protagonist of this arcade drama.
Meanwhile, inside my chaotic brain, the banter between Yellow (the perpetually hyped-up side) and White (the sensible, or at least less insane, side) was in full swing.
(USA, USA, USA!)
{Fun fact kiddos! MP5 is a classy Heckler & Koch, which yes, you guessed it, the guns freakin' John Wick uses!}
(Still, USA, USA, USA!)
{And Canada!}
(...)
(You ruined EVERYTHING)
{I-I didn't mean to!}
(You are a disgrace to all mortal beings.)
{...I'm not mortal nor a being... I'm a disorder in an immortal lunatic brain.}
(Welp.)
Back to the tangible world—or rather, the arcade—I faced my opponent: a pint-sized dynamo with a ferocity that matched my own.
"AHHHHHHH, I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!!" The kid lunged toward me, fists flailing.
(Urgh, Arcade Kids are so toxic.)
Ignoring the onslaught of tiny fists (seriously, hitting like a Koro-Sensei wannabe), I stood firm, fixing my opponent with a deadpan stare.
"Sure, sure. Now I want my tickets I won fair an' square," I deadpanned, unfazed by the mini-hurricane of fury assaulting my gut.
"No you fucking didn't!" The kid shot back, his resolve unyielding.
"As I recall, you said 'You play nice but not as nice as me.' Then I said, 'wanna bet?' and you replied with 'Sure, 50 fucking ticke—' You know what I realized just now? You say 'fucking' a lot! I mean, is this the only swear word your daddy taught you? What, your mommy messed around with a man who didn't look like your father? 'Cause you look like an ass full of crap" I countered, my verbal bullets hitting harder than my MP5s.
The kid's demeanor crumbled faster than Jenga played by an earthquake. Tears welled up, the ultimate sign of defeat.
"Just give me the damn tickets," I demanded, eyeing the slippery-ass kid as he made a break for it. No chance I was going to chase some punk; I had high scores to set and ghosts to munch in peace. MS PACMAN awaited, and not even an arcade melodrama could stop that from happening.
As I slid a coin into the vintage arcade machine, ready to show Ms. Pac-Man who's boss, my phone rudely interrupted with a series of obnoxious buzzes.
{Shouldn't we answer?}
"No, we just started the game," I insisted, my eyes fixed on the screen.
(Oh, come on! You're the Merc With A Mouth, DP! You can talk and play at the same time!) Yellow egged me on.
"Yeah, okay," I grumbled, begrudgingly accepting the challenge of multitasking. I answered the call while keeping my game going.
"Hello, this is the police department of-"
"AHHHH!" I yelled in surprise, fumbling the phone as it slipped from my grip.
"Guys! It's the Police!! What if Principal Furball kicked us out to jail!"
{Look just answer calmly.}
"Hiya!" I greeted, trying to regain my composure.
"Is this Wade Winston Wilson?"
(Oh shit, they know our real name!)
{Keep calm.}
"Yeah, why?" I replied cautiously, my mind already racing through potential scenarios.
"First of all, are you safe?"
"From bad guys, yes. From snotty annoying kids, no."
"Good, we need you to come to the police station in your area."
"Okay? Wh-" I started to inquire, but my focus wavered, and disaster struck—I lost.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I wailed dramatically, catching the attention of everyone around me who now seemed alarmed and confused.
"I lost at Ms. Pac-Man!" I clarified loudly, hoping to redirect their concern to my tragic gaming defeat.
"Sir, I need to ask you to step out of the arcade. You're causing too much of a mess," a guy in an arcade uniform informed me, clearly unimpressed by my gaming theatrics.
"Well, I was just going anyway, so yeah," I shrugged, conceding defeat both in-game and in the real world. With a final wave to the bewildered spectators, I made my exit
===
"I wonder why they asked us to go to the Police Station..." I muttered to the voices in my head.
{No idea.}
(Whoa, if White doesn't know, it's bound to be bad.)
"We probably just forgot to pay our taxes for way too long again," I quipped as I sauntered into the building. The place was about as exciting as a cauliflower—bland and entirely too serious. I strolled up to the woman behind the desk. She had this 'I drink my coffee black and my sarcasm stronger' vibe going on, with long brown hair and eyes that could probably see through my mask.
"Excuse me, ma'am, I was told to come here. My name is Wade Wilston," I announced, expecting a helpful response. Instead, she shot back with, "Excuse me?! Did you just assume my gender?!"
{Oh, boy. It's a wild Gen Z!}
(RUN FOR YOUR SANITY.)
"Oh, sorry! So, umm... Sir?...." I backpedaled.
"Do you think there are only two genders?! Disgusting! And no, I'm a woman! How dare you assume I am a man?!" she barked.
"L-look, I just need directions!"
"Urgh," she grumbled, fingers clacking angrily on the keyboard. I couldn't help but lean in a bit to sneak a peek at her screen.
"Do you mind?" she snapped, clearly not a fan of personal space invasion. I straightened up quickly.
"Room 51, second floor," she finally relented, shoving three white papers in my direction. "You need to fill those out."
"Oh, okay," I replied, taking the papers. "And hey, I've got a little OCD, so should I use blue or black ink? Or both?"
The woman sighed heavily, as if my question was the last straw in a haystack of annoyances. "Use whatever color you want. Just fill them out and return them."
"Got it," I said cheerfully, already plotting to fill the forms with a rainbow of colors just to see her reaction. But as I turned to head toward the elevator, the voices in my head chimed in.
{Rainbow ink? Really?}
(You know she's going to hate that.)
I couldn't resist. As I passed a nearby desk, I snagged a handful of colorful pens—bright pink, electric blue, neon green. Might as well make this bureaucratic nightmare a bit more fun, right?
I took the elevator up to the second floor, the colorful pens dancing in my hand like a mini parade. The hallway on the second floor was surprisingly quiet, the only sound being the dull hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Room 51. I scanned the doors until I found the one labeled with the correct number. With a dramatic flourish, I pushed it open and entered what looked like a cross between a detective's office and a storage closet.
Inside sat a middle-aged detective, peering at me over the rim of his coffee cup. "Wade Wilston?" he asked, with a hint of skepticism in his voice.
===
-suspense, suspense, suspense-
YOU ARE READING
Deadpool X Boku No Hero Academia
HumorWhen the Merc with a Mouth, Deadpool, finds himself on the wrong side of the law, his only way out is an unconventional one - enrolling at UA High, the prestigious academy for aspiring heroes. The catch? Only the staff knows Deadpool is a student, a...
