The transition from the sterile, featureless void of the afterlife to the world of RG-44 was not a gentle fade-in. There was no soft harp music, no ethereal glow, no kindly old wizard waiting with a map and a packed lunch. Instead, there was velocity. A great deal of it.
Wade Wilson experienced the sensation of being fired from a divine cannon. The endless white compressed into a pinprick and then exploded into a kaleidoscope of brilliant, overwhelming color. He was tumbling end over end through a sky of the most ridiculously vibrant blue he had ever seen. Fluffy, cotton-ball clouds zipped past him, so close he could have reached out and grabbed a handful. Below him, a patchwork quilt of emerald green fields and rustic dirt roads rushed up to greet him with alarming speed.
"Superhero landing! He's gonna do a superhero landing!" shrieked the manic yellow text box in his head.
"We are currently traveling at terminal velocity," countered the calm white box. "The resulting impact will liquefy our skeletal structure. I recommend assuming the 'pancake' position to maximize surface area distribution upon impact."
"Screw that! Style points matter!" Wade yelled into the rushing wind, twisting his body and striking a dramatic pose, one knee bent, one fist punching the ground, head held low. It was a classic. A crowd-pleaser.
The ground was less impressed.
He hit the earth with the force of a small meteorite, carving out a crater several feet deep. The impact sent a shockwave through the soil, startling a flock of nearby sheep and causing a distant scarecrow to tip over. For a solid minute, the only thing visible was a cloud of dust and two black-and-red boots sticking straight up into the air.
Slowly, with the sound of grinding bones and squelching organs, one of the boots twitched. Then the other. With a groan that was equal parts agony and effort, Deadpool dragged himself out of the hole. His limbs were bent at angles that would make a contortionist weep, and his spine had the distinct curvature of a question mark.
"Okay…" he wheezed, his healing factor already working overtime with the enthusiasm of a new employee trying to make a good impression. Bones snapped back into place with audible cracks and pops. "Note to self: superhero landings require… you know… superpowers. Or at least better timing."
He stood up, brushing dirt from his pristine suit. He was completely fine, of course. A little tenderized, perhaps, but whole. He took a deep breath, his lungs filling with air that smelled sweet, clean, and faintly of manure. It was… rustic.
"Well, here we are," he said, planting his hands on his hips and surveying the scene. "Level 1. The starter zone. Look at that rendering distance. The foliage detail is pretty impressive. Someone really put in the hours with this engine."
The world was aggressively bucolic. A gentle breeze rustled through tall grass. In the distance, a small, walled town with charmingly inefficient-looking architecture sat nestled against a hill. A dirt road meandered its way toward it, looking like it had been drawn by a fantasy cartographer who got paid by the squiggle.
"Mission objective: Locate the Demon King and introduce him to the concept of terminal annoyance," the yellow box supplied eagerly.
"Correction," the white box interjected. "Primary objective: Establish a base of operations. Assess local threats. Secure a sustainable source of income. Secondary objective: Investigate the parameters of this world's physical and magical laws. Tertiary objective: Annihilate the Demon King's forces."
Deadpool ignored both of them. He had a different set of priorities. A higher calling.
"Gentlemen, you're thinking too small," he muttered, his gaze sweeping the horizon with the intensity of a predator. "We're not here for a boss rush. We're here for treasure. For artifacts of immense power and cultural significance."
He sniffed the air again. "My instincts are telling me there's a settlement nearby. And where there are settlements, there is civilization. And where there is civilization…" A greedy glint entered his eyes. "There is laundry."
He started walking toward the road, his gait filled with a newfound purpose. His brief, traumatic encounter with the blue-haired goddess had ignited something within him. A passion he never knew he had. It was as if his entire life of chaos and violence had merely been a prologue for this grand new quest.
He soon came upon a horse-drawn cart trundling down the road, laden with turnips. The farmer driving it was a portly man with a magnificent beard and a face weathered by the sun. He looked like he'd stepped right out of a medieval fair. As the cart drew near, the farmer slowed his horse, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion as he stared at the red-and-black man standing in the middle of the road.
"Greetings, friend citizen!" Deadpool said with a cheerful wave. "Top of the morning to ya! Or afternoon. I'm a little fuzzy on the whole time-zone thing. Quick question: What's the local policy on… aggressive acquisition of textiles?"
The farmer blinked, his hand inching toward a small axe tucked into his belt. "I… I don't understand. Are you a monster? Or some new kind of knight?"
"Depends on who you ask and how much they owe me. But for you, today, I'm just a humble tourist. A traveler in a strange new land. Now, spill the beans, Papa Smurf. Where am I? What's that little collection of flammable housing over there called?" He pointed toward the town.
"That's… that's the town of Axel," the farmer stammered, clearly intimidated by the masked man's sheer strangeness. "The town for rookie adventurers."
"Adventurers! Perfect!" Deadpool clapped his hands together. "The main quest hub. Full of eager young heroes, grizzled veterans, and, most importantly, a diverse demographic of underwear owners. Excellent. And I assume this 'Adventurer's Guild' place has a currency system? Gold? Gil? Bottle caps?"
"We… we use Eris," the man said, more confused than ever.
"Eris. Got it. Now for the important question." Deadpool leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Your socks. Are they a cotton-polyester blend, or are we talking 100% pure wool? And be honest, the structural integrity of the heel is very important to me."
The farmer simply stared, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Before he could formulate a response, Deadpool's attention was stolen. His head snapped to the side, his gaze locking onto a small farmhouse set back from the road. Specifically, he locked onto the clothesline in its backyard.
Dancing in the gentle breeze, like flags of a forgotten nation, were several articles of clothing. And among them, he saw it. His first target. A simple, unassuming pair of white cotton panties. They weren't flashy. They weren't silk or lace. But they were a start. They were the first step on a long and noble journey.
"You'll have to excuse me," Deadpool said to the bewildered farmer, patting him on the shoulder. "Business calls. A pleasure chatting with you. Stay hydrated!"
Before the farmer could even blink, Deadpool was gone, a red-and-black blur moving with silent, unnatural speed toward the farmhouse. He moved with the grace of a jungle cat, hugging the shadows and using the tall grass for cover. He felt alive. He felt focused. This was what he was made for.
He crept up to the fence surrounding the yard, his eyes never leaving his prize. He analyzed the situation. The wind speed. The tension of the clothesline. The structural weakness of the clothespins. It was a complex tactical problem that required a delicate touch.
"This is beneath us," the white box stated flatly.
"IT'S THE FIRST PIECE OF THE COLLECTION!" the yellow box screamed in delirious excitement. "THE GENESIS PANTY! IT'LL BE A MUSEUM PIECE ONE DAY!"
He waited for a gust of wind to provide auditory cover, then vaulted the fence in a single, fluid motion. He landed silently on the grass, rolled into a crouch, and scurried over to the clothesline. With the surgical precision of a bomb-disposal expert, he unclipped the panties.
He held them in his hand. They were still slightly damp. The fabric was plain, utilitarian. He brought them to his mask, taking a deep, appreciative sniff. They smelled of soap and sunshine.
"Exquisite," he whispered reverently.
He carefully folded the garment and tucked it into one of his many utility pouches, patting it gently. The first acquisition was complete. A wave of profound satisfaction washed over him. Conquering armies and defeating supervillains had its perks, but this… this felt meaningful.
He gave the rest of the laundry line a quick once-over. A pair of worn men's trousers. A child's smock. Some thick, woollen socks that were, frankly, a bit too coarse for his liking. He was a collector, not a savage. Quality over quantity.
With his mission accomplished, he slipped away as silently as he had arrived. He reappeared on the road to Axel, dusting off his hands with a sense of accomplishment. The farmer and his turnip cart were long gone, probably having decided that this particular stretch of road was now haunted by a textile-obsessed demon.
Deadpool didn't care. He looked toward the gates of Axel, a town of fresh starts and new opportunities. A town full of adventurers, nobles, arch-priests, and maybe even a Demon King's general or two. A town full of potential additions to his collection.
Clutching the pouch containing his first, precious trophy, he began to walk. The Merc with a Mouth had arrived, and his grand, perverted crusade had just begun.