GRINDING TO GROUND ZERO: THE SERENDIPITOUS ALPHAN INTERVENTIONS OF DEADPOOL
By Quillon42
SOMETIME IN 1984 IN MONTREAL, QUEBEC
Shadows appeared to menace ever so threateningly, they looming almost molestingly alive, in the foreboding halls of the chateau that Jean-Paul was now infiltrating. The Olympic-skier-turned-aerial-scrapper eyed his compact surroundings warily, the wiry mutant muttering to himself and wondering where his sister could possibly be in this elaborate oubliette of a mansion.
When that most snide of Alpha Flight attendants would get his quick-as-fuck mitts on that Ernest St. Ives…that dastard Deadly Ernest…that mound of merde who captured Jeanne-Marie…the villain would know a touch of death as he himself had never doled out before.
Only minutes ago did it seem to the Quebecois speedster—the man known as Northstar when with his Canadian supercrew—that he was walking in the city alongside his beloved sibling, she who was one of the only women toward whom he'd ever felt any kind of tenderness. As his intergender identical twin, Jeanne-Marie Beaubier shared his passion for velocity…as well as for the vibrancy of life in general, the joie de vivre that even the other Alphans somewhat lacked. The lady did enjoy such energy, yes…at least when she was in the right mood, the correct frame of mind, as the abovementioned 'Star's counterpart Aurora.
The main issue that Miss -Marie Beaubier contended with, at least at this juncture, was the double existence into which she delved daily. From the onset of adolescence, there were times when she embraced her Flight-ier side, she allowing herself to float, then flutter, then soar all over the atmosphere of the constrictive Catholic girls' school to which she was confined in her youth. But the subsequent chastisings administered by religious sisters who sought to suffocate the young lass also instilled a second persona within her, a perniciously primmer "Jeanne-Marie" who was bound up bleakly in bunned hair and bifocals, doomed to dwell in cloistered surroundings for the term of her prime and beyond. But within, deep down inside the wellspring of the woman's soul, there was a constant struggle between the prudish Sororal and the prurient Auroral.
Yea, as Miss Beaubier's later lover Walter Langkowski would hover Hulkesquely between brainy scientist and surly bruiser, so too would this volant femme flit betwixt the tameness of spiritual devotion and the savagery of sexual diversion, the lady lusting for adventure in its most salacious shapes and forms, all the more and more as she aged. In time, this somewhat limited life—naught more than the bipolarity of bouncing between nunnery and nymphomania—it might have driven the lady insane…had she not struck upon the fortuity of falling in with her beloved brother Jean Paul. It was such a supersonic whiff of fresh air to meet him again, to talk with him again, to embrace him again…after all of those lonely, holy-hussy-vacillating years when she never had anyone to call friend, much less family.
So now Jean-Paul was despondent as he dallied through the lair of this lurid lardass named Ernest…the Slalom-Slaughterer of the Atom vowing as he paced along to eviscerate the evil St. Ives into tiny slivers—enough to make a smattering of rancid crepes to feed the crakes gathering in the distance just beyond the chateau proper.
To be certain, within the coming minutes Jean-Paul would go ahead, break into that rotund toad's sanctum, and in one flourish whip his sister away from harm, and then in the same stroke allow his breakneck-breezing knuckles to punch a fucking porthole into the features of this obese adversary who held his sultry sibling hostage. Why, he could ever so fleetingly fix the image now in his mind's eye, the man mused to himself, as he now rounded a corner with his fist cocked back to simulate the impending slug he would unleash…
…And his balled fingers continuing a hypothetical trajectory through the airspace shredding before his frenzied face as
"…SAPRISTI!"
"…OHHHHH!"
the impetuous adventurer suddenly hopped back in surprise, he almost running and punching smack into the woman he sought and discovering himself once again, right there before him, gazing into that living looking glass that spanned the gender gap. Jean Paul pulled back indeed just in time before his blind, practice cold-cock careened into the beauteous Beaubier features of his own sister, at present attempting to abscond from the scene as Aurora.
A piercing, curt whisper from the dame of the duo:
"What are you doing here, Jean-Paul?! You should be…klicks upon kilometres away from zis place!"
No immediate response emanated from the Olympian right off. Jean-Paul was too absorbed in the momentary mirth of stumbling upon his sibling, as well as his own raptness at witnessing his sister's wondrous countenance once again (a narcissistic reflex on the man's part, as the two were identical twins), such that he was struck utterly dumb.
Sensing her brother's awestruck state, and appreciating nonetheless that he came for her, Aurora extended out her arms and embraced Jean-Paul before he could fashion any formulation of a response anyway. Her hug radiated such warmth, the man reflected, that despite the sibling status of the one who held him, and despite his own orientation, he could switch sides in an instant.
Once the two unhanded one another, Jean-Paul at last: "Jea…er, Aurora; we've got to say 'A tout a l'heure' to this torture parlor, posthaste."
Nodding and complying readily, Aurora took the lead as she guided her brother through the winding hallways of the house. The two weren't flying at this juncture—more like glide-stepping fleetly, with the intent to save their energy for an impromptu up, up, and away, should there prove to be more guards on the way out than either Alphan remembered going in.
As they were nearing a rear entrance to the establishment, Northstar: "So how did you manage to remove yourself from Ernest's quite…touchy clutches, sister?"
"Bah, it was nothing, my Jean-Jean…as it turns out, I have learned, as a, shall we say, secondary mutation of sorts, to learn to switch off personalities like zat!" At this last syllable, the seductress of sable locks snapped her fingers. "I reverted to Sister Jeanne-Marie in a trice, and recited the first five entries of ze Lives of Ze Saints…in effect a small lullaby to put ze brute to bed, and I flew away without ze proverbial scratch."
Then just as the twinkly twins reached the door to the Quebecoisphere beyond the St. Ives stronghold…
…in dropped quite the sinner, in a bodysuit of black and blood, to scandalize all those aforementioned saints whom Aurora's other, more stifled self committed to memory.
And this obstructing figure, mind you, was not the avenging adventuress from this seventh and eighth original Alphan chronicle (and who will appear later in this tale, to be clear), she was out for Ernest's head…as well as the entirety of his body besides.
"STOP right th…
"Ho…HEY!
The motley mofo stopped in his tracks just as he whipped out two pistols…and a second later holstered them right back into their places.
"Why if it isn't…it IS!
"It's the BEAUBIES!"
Very astutely and professionally, of course, the incoming assassin in scarlet and shadow pronounced the "Beau" here as "Bow"…but of course the entendre was not lost on either Jean or Jeanne here.
"Please allow me to introduce myself," continued the cad, as he bowed most sardonically to each supersibling. "I am, in the heroing and villaining world, known as Deadpool to most…"
And then the fatal fop, leaning in leeringly at Aurora: "Although you, my petit raven-haired éclair…you can call me Wade."
Without an instant in-between, Jean-Paul: "I will call you DEAD!"
Then just as Northstar neared his target, the latter, with the flat of a mallet against the French-Canadian's face:
"Please…it's Dead-pool. DeadPOOL!
"…Y'know, I didn't want to have to do that, either, Mr. Beau…Boo…Booby…er. I've always been an avid fan of what you do on the slopes…you go in all so deep and hard on all the other guys competing against you, out there.
"But yeah, for the record…it is. Most definitively, Dead and Pool."
Then turning to Aurora once again, with a load of lewd: "Or perhaps it might be M'Sieur Pool, to you, my curvy, delicat cruller."
Setting his smacky mallets aside, the mook of a man reached into a very special, precious pouch of his…then produced a very old-school scourge. "Oop! Not what I was gohohoing for, I SWEAR."
He shook the ancient weapon in his hand so quickly that it then flourished into the lushest bouquet of red roses. Held it out towards the fairer Beaubier, making the googoo-eyed goddess blush despite herself.
"As…eempishly-alleuring as…Jaugh-Paugh's own essssharp, el-vain visssssage ees," Deadpool proceeded, perpetrating the worst French inflection imaginable, "I sweah to vous that your feat-yours could grayce the Mees Decem-bair page of ze North Pole Pin-Up Calendair, for all ze Santa-Claus-employees to salivate ovair…"
Indeed, the dippiest of the Dead was not Dixie-whistling when he spoke of Aurora's blackheaded beauty. She was, in truth (at least in this author's estimation) the most magnificent ebon-haired lady this side of the DC triumfeminate consisting of Zatanna and the Women known as Wonder and Cat.
Verily, too, Miss Beaubier was, true to said temptress triad, a warrior who worked magic in burgling the heart from any man who encountered her.
"I must say, my dee-air," went on the wearying one also known as Wade Wilson, the man basically dancing sprightly all around Aurora as he crooned, "asss sure as you must have ennnjoyed Meeestair Ernest's croissonnnt back zairr…
"I'm sure mine can sateesssfy you all ze more…?"
It was then that the babe of blistering speed changed her countenance from tickled…to just ticked.
"Pardonnez moi?"
And then, before the lady could rightly lash out with a frenzied fist into the dappled, douchy face of the Deadest of Pools, the latter felt the sensation of the gentlest hands wringing as roughly as possible upon his clothed shoulders.
"SOCCAIR BLEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!" screamed the ass of an assassin as he was jammed upward and unceremoniously through the immediate airspace, his insolent slaughtering of "Sacre Bleu" seemingly shattering the sound barrier. Cruelly Jean-Paul flew round and round and round the foyer of the mansion, the uberman reaching such Gs in his revolutions that it made the hack of a hitman's face turn creamed spinach green…and something of very much the same hue emanated from his maw seconds later, after Northstar flung him into a wall to settle.
"…
"…
"…Boobee-ay."
All Deadpool could dish out now, in his debilitated state, were the worst of pusillanimous puns. "Boo…Boob…Boobyear. (…huhhuhhuh I'll tell ya, ihihihit's been a bad boob-year for me so far…!)
As the twins finally started to make their way out of the maison, via the front door, the wearied Wilson once more: "Yer jus' jealous, Jaugh-Paugh…
"Jealous you couldn't…cram Ernest's croisssonnt so far down…far down…yer fuckin'…"
One Alphan looked to the other, stared a second, as if to telepathetically parley regarding who should do the honors.
"Or yer jealous…yer not as 'Booby' as yer sister. …'Raura…she's so much 'Boobier' then you…
"…'fact, far as I can tell…she's the BOOBIEST piece of ass I ever…"
[SSSOCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK]
The slug that ensued from the end of Aurora's onrushing arm against the front of Wade's head sent the assassin sprawling at lightspeed, the id-insane idiot bursting through several wall-barriers of the foreboding fortress facefirst. This just as a certain other ember-and-onyx-clad warrior was, in this rendition of the reality at least, about to succumb to the terrifying thick thumbs of the aforementioned Ernest. The boulder of a bastard was at this instant pressing down hard with his hands upon the throat of the adventuress known as Nemesis—a woman known otherwise as Isabel St. Ives—the daughter of Deadly Ernest himself.
Unlike in this mainstream version of this story, in which Isabel had infiltrated the St. Ives estate and eviscerated her father effortlessly with the sleekest of swords, here the man had gained a rather heavy upper hand in the struggle, and was presently in the course of strangling the life out of the whom to whom he had given the same existence about twenty years previous.
"You think you can just (UNF) come back, like the proverbial (UNF) prodigal, and have your way, ma petit Isabel?
"I…(UNF) will see to it…(UNF) that I reward you for returning, (UNF) just as was done in the parable…put you back in your (UNF) place…you may be immune to my death-touch…but (UNF) you will not be safe from the freedom from this mortal coil that I will wring out of you…"
[POWWWWWWWWWWWWW]
And then it so occurred that the only one put in place, to stay in state for all time, was the ornery Ernest himself…as the debutante-decked, occasion-crashing Deadpool slammed through one more wall and straight into the other Deadly one as the latter was just about to choke the remainder of the ebbing existence out of his daughter.
Strangely, Deadpool's healing factor here reacted radically with Deadly Ernest's fatal tactile talents, such that it was the case that Wade wrought Ernest's own expiration by accident. As such, Jean-Paul could now for the record call someone "Dead" here, in place of the full codename to which said syllable was suffixed.
But of course, though, Northstar was nowhere to be found as of now, and neither was his brilliant sister, as both had at present long since escaped and found comfort in each other's purely platonic yet still warmly familial embrace. (No suggestive, Struckerly action in this story as in this author's "Yachtsy Wrecks" entry or the last "Nuke-Nudes"…honest).
No…the only individuals still on the estate, and breathing, mind you…were two crusaders in colors of coral and coal, who gathered themselves up off the ground to make masky-eyehole-contact for the first time in this very moment.
It was, indeed, love at first costume-covered sight. A shaken Deadpool and a stirred Nemesis…both agents with his or her own agenda…each now looked each upon the other, and found the self smitten with the curves of crimson and carbon that were wavering in the immediate field of vision.
For once, Isabel was without wrath, and Wade was without words (again, for once…probably the one time ever for him). Hunter and huntress simply shushed, then shunted their shapes together, Wilson warping the seemingly-infinite distance of what was really mere feet to pop into St. Ives's arms.
So overtaken was each by the other's costumed comeliness that, here and for each rendezvous to follow, their amours were effected only through furious grinding and not actual fucking. Such was the spiritual kismet that existed amidst the passion of M'Sieur Pool and his paramour.
And such would this continue, well across the course of weeks at least, such that the two toughs would coo corniness into each other's ears, combining their names in mushy amalgamated mottoes like "Where there's a will, there IsaWade" and such…
…all until the fallout after that apparently terrorist act that the manically-mouthed Merc had perpetrated, in that most egregious Apple of the Empire State, later that year.
LATER THAT YEAR (1984) IN NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
Just a few months following, the Alphan arena shifted from the Great White North of Canada to the Modern Gomorrah of Manhattan. One James MacDonald Hudson, operating under the vaunted handle of Guardian, had shuttled through the sky in an effort to aid his wife Heather, that magnificent maiden of the marmalade mane, and she who had been captured and held in none other than, incidentally, the old-school World Trade Center.
Lord Hudson looked high and low for his Lady in the Towers, only to tread instead upon an ambush by disgruntled subordinates of the inferior-ranked Gamma Flight, now offering themselves as adversaries under an Omega designation. Before Mac could become completely overtaken by these acerbic enemies, however, he was joined by loyal teammates Shaman, Snowbird, Sasquatch, Puck…and the abovementioned breezy and brilliant twins, of course, all of them warped in to help whip some Omegan ass right proper.
It so turned out in addition that here, too, one motley maroon, dappled in maroon indeed as well as midnight hues as usual, had once again dropped into the fray…if only to break the figurative and collective balls of the Beaubiers once again.
"Come on, Flasher," taunted the mouth Merc, as he struck out with his swords against myriad future and past iterations of the foe known as Flashback—who could summon several selves from then and from yet-to-come, to assist in various scuffles. "You can bring on all the yous that you want—it's not like any of you could ever take me, regardless of wherever you come from in your lepton lifespan!
"HEY, Miss Booby-Ears!"
Aurora looked over in abject annoyance, she narrowly avoiding a slash from the ugly blond-Logan-wannabe that was Wild Child as she noted the dreaded Pool from across the chamber.
While Wade continued to flush down Flash after Flash after Flash:
"You know, like, I can like break the fourth wall and see into the future, right? The fourth wall, yeah…don't worry your pretty froggy face about that, I'll explain it some other time.
"Anyway, in the Nineties, like David Letterman, right? He goes and hosts the Oscars, like Mid-Decade…and he does this terrible bit where he has Oprah Winfrey and Uma Thurman onstage, and he's introducing them, just 'cause of their unusual names…he's all 'Oprah, Uma…Uma, Oprah' and shit…like I saw it and I wanted to punch myself to death.
After the Pool pummeled the next-to-last Flashbackling: "So ANYWAY, I figure, like, maybe I could do Letterman some justice, you know? I could get you and Storm over to my place, and like we could be all chill in the Jacuzzi, the three of us alone and in the altogether of course, and I could be your host in the middle and be like 'Ororo, Aurora, Aurora, Ororo, Ororo, Aurora-Or-Aur-Or-Aur-Or-AUR-OR-AUR-OR-AUR-OR-RAUR-RAUR-RAUR-RUFFFRUFFFRUFFF…"
He went on and on, the Moron with a Mouth sounding eventually like a rabid and retarded Doberman as all around, good guys and bad guys alike felt bad for Jeanne-Marie's alter ego while the lady emitted tears of embarrassment from all this. It was almost enough for Alpha and Omega to team up doublehandedly against the douche. Almost.
In any case, just as Smart Alec somehow stole Deadpool's magic satchel—instead of Shaman's medicine bag, in this reality—and the former Gamman hazarded a look inside the merc's mystic fanny pack—only to have a cartoony hand pop up from the tiny portal and cram a coconut pie into Alec's visored visage—Wade, once again:
"Yo, Jaugh-Paugh…
"All this geeky Greeky naming shit…like, Alpha, Gamma, Omega…really you should go and start something off on your own, you know? Your own little special frat."
Once the Pool put down the last of the "Flashers": "I got a suggestion! You could follow suit with the whole weird 'Flight' thing, too, and call it 'Omicron Cruise.'
"…'Cause I know that cruisin's your thing and all, after all…yeah I see you starin' at asses these past few minutes…ones that don't belong to Diamond Lil, or old Snowsnatch here…"
That was it for everyone.
Other than the burly Box, who had already executed his dive at Guardian into the elevator shaft, both Beaubiers looked at one another and nodded…then looked to their Omegan opponents, who also nodded back to them, allowing the twins to trudge on over the haughty hemorrhoid who was heckling them.
As Northstar and Aurora angrily neared Wade, the latter and the least of the three: "Come on, JP! Didn't you just see it?! That giant robot just jaunted on out of here…the one with the codename I'm sure you hate so much…
"You know? You can really get your gay-ass groove on, now that Box has left the building…"
[SSSSSSOCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK]
Then Jeanne-Marie and Jean-Paul played Cages Cassie and Johnny, respectively, as their tremendous tandem uppercut took both corners of Deadpool's detritus-dumping jaw, sending the shithead sailing ever spaceward—or alternatively, momentarily sky- and then earthward, depending on the outcomes to be expounded upon imminently.
OUTCOME ONE: DEADPOOL BY DUMB LUCK PREVENTS THE REAL SEPTEMBER 11TH
While all this mofo-mouthed merc wackiness was going on downstairs, Box was above it all, the enemy-animated automaton in this reality crashing Guardian through several of the upper floors of one of the WTC Towers. Box was not controlled at this juncture by its original operator Roger Bochs, or by later Alphan, X-Clubber etc Madison Jeffries. No; instead the machine was under manipulation and mechanization by Jerome Jaxon, who was not a disgruntled and slightly-surname-altered brother of the King of Pop, but rather a disgruntled and extremely-infuriated former coworker of James McDonald Hudson, and one who blamed the ruination of his existence upon Mac.
Now Jaxon was pummeling Guardian hard, the former beating the latter to an inch of the Alphan's life. In a desperate last-gasp maneuver, Hudson inserted some circuits of his suit's power unit into a vulnerable portion of Box's metallic gullet, shorting out the oversized adversary and shocking Jaxon himself electrically into oblivion. Battered and bruised badly, James breathed relief for a second…
…then realized, ever so calmly yet dismally, that his suit itself would likely become the death of him in the ensuing seconds—ten seconds, to be exact—unless he stripped himself of the overheated energy unit posthaste. This the man did, and somehow effected while engaging mentally in a dissertation of the device's dangers over the course of only ten friggin' counts-of-Mississippi.
In a mainstream iteration of this story, James's sought-out captive and cohort Heather was at this very moment wandering through the World Trade halls, looking for Mac. Unfortunately for her, she opened the door on her husband just as he held the energy unit in his hands, and was about to dispose of it…the distraction dooming Hudson to the detonation of the device and the dissemination of his body's bounty all over the room, to Heather's horror. It all played out like a Saw sequel climax, at a time when said franchise's creators were probably still in preschool.
In this reality, however, another unlikely happenstance broke in, to the Hudsons' benefit.
Specifically, Heather, pondering, I wonder what's behind this door.
And then her eyes meet with Mac's, to the former's delight and the latter's aghast.
Mac: "No! Don't come in here…"
But just then:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!"
as an uppercutted idiot assassin punched through the floor of the very same room, the fool flailing his arms and accidentally grabbing the energy unit out of Mac's hands at almost the last second before detonation, leaving the hero who was Hudson dazed as he gazed blankly at his suddenly empty palms.
Even further above, Deadpool rocketed up and up through several more floors, he eventually breaking through the Tower's roof and bobbling the dangerous maguffin in his meathooks…then
[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMM]
the ensuing explosion sounded, the blast commanding the attention of everyone in the vicinity.
There were no casualties, miraculously; even the Pool himself pulled back together after his healing factor allowed it. The lasting effect of this incident, however, caused national security to tighten up all the more, from the WTC itself to JFK and LGA and all other airports in the country. As a result, the concept of "homeland security" here started in the midst of the Eighties, such that the original Twin Towers continued to stand without tragedy, through 2001 and thereafter…
…and more than anyone else, a certain weirdo of a warrior was to thank for it.
OUTCOME TWO: DEADPOOL BY MISERABLE MISFORTUNE CAUSES AN EARLY SEPTEMBER 11TH
…Well, here, technically, it was like July 11th—of 1984, to be precise—as the twelfth original Alphan adventure was released to our reader's world in that seventh month of the calendar year.
In this iteration too, the Jaxon-controlled automaton barreled into Hudson, knocking the hero through and down an elevator shaft (as had happened in the canonical version). The same Box-choke and Guardian-shock maneuvers arose, leaving Box defeated, Jaxon destroyed, and James on the edge of explosive expiration himself.
Here, too, Mac held the blast-prone thingamabob in his hands, just as Heather happened in.
"Mac?
"MAC!"
"Heather…? No! Don't come in here…"
Then
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHYOUFUCKINGFAIRYASSFROGGGGGGGGGGSSSSS…!"
as Deadpool came in crashingly through the ceiling, the Northstar/Aurora uppercut having sent him only feet in the air, but then deleteriously downward thereafter. At any rate, the fool's falling form crushed across Hudson's unit-clutching hands, causing an involuntary transfer once again of the device from Guardian to Goddamn Moron as the latter maroon kept falling through floor after floor to the bottom of the Tower…
…then, right on time
[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMM]
the ensuing explosion sounded, the blast commencing to bring down the entirety of both Towers within minutes.
Miraculously, however, there were no human casualties here either, as the Pool not only pulled himself together, but also subconsciously activated his magic satchel such that it swallowed everyone in both buildings at once, delivering them from the destruction.
Only the Towers themselves were taken down, then, and thus did a July-born September 11th occur, not only two months earlier in the calendar but almost twenty years before as well.
(If only a magic satchel had been on hand for the real event. This author's condolences and sympathies sincerely to the victims of the tragedies).
EPILOGUE (APPLICABLE TO EITHER OUTCOME)
To end on a happier (yet naughtier) note, the mouthy Merc in either of these alternate outcomes had eventually made himself whole again…but he found that he required recuperation thereafter. He thus retired to bed…
…but with a vixen other than the vengeful Nemesis.
While he was infiltrating the imperial Twin Towers, Deadpool ran into and made the acquaintance of Delphine Courtney, a lady android and fellow Omegan who was veritably quite the sexual machine. Before he beat out into the battle with enemies (and allies), Deadpool managed to snag the digital diva's contact info…and soon the two were swooning in each other's arms, engaging in the most prurient whirlpool of whoopee since Shannen Doherty as her Brenda-self on prom night.
(Well, really prior to Doherty, as this was 1984 here, but anyway).
"Ohh, BABY!
"Even though you're a cyborg and shit or whatever…it's still better than all the weeks of grinding I've been going through…"
In the midst of the Charybdis of copulation clabbered together by Delphpool, though…
…there would surge a Scylla indeed.
"You want penetration, slut…
"I'll give it to both of you…with a vengeance, of course."
And then Isabel St. Ives, costume-clad as always, as her Nemesis Sword in a series of strokes shut down the Phine fiend permanently and dissipated the Pool into so many pieces that even his healing factor, which had restored him from a terrorist-level detonation for Christ's sake, could not put the humpy dumpy douche back together again.
AFTERWORD
I'm not really here to explain much this time; just wanted to thank some casual regular readers out there. First, to just spell it out a bit, the Montreal part of this story was based on the original Alpha Flight run's Issues 7 and 8; the New York part was based on Issues 11 and 12 here. So you can check those old school issues out if you'd like (they're online through Comixology etc so they're easy to obtain storywise).
Secondly, I wanted to explain my motivations behind this story. It's kind of random, this one, and not as strident/complainy as others I've done (like Jetpacks or Bendy Boundaries and such)—here I did this one because a) I dig Aurora as much as Madelyne or any Psylocke, and I just wanted to put her in a story, and b) I felt bad for Guardian when he died tragically in that WTC story (although of course it was retconned to have him be thrown into the future or something and all and so on). I'm actually really indifferent to Deadpool…I just thought it would be fun to throw him in, as the comic relief role he almost always plays.
Thirdly, I kind of ulteriorly did this story to thank some regular readers from Canada, as I see a few of them in my stats and stuff usually. Thanks, guys:) I also, of course, get a lot of reads from the US, in addition to China—in fact, with this last, there's always someone out there who reads my stuff like ten minutes after I post it—and I don't think this person's even subscribed to me. In any case, I really sincerely appreciate all the reads on my stuff; I don't actually get a lot of reads on the whole, but I appreciate those who come back to my entries again and again upon my posting them.
Lastly, this message is for anyone in the world who just read my second Nuke-Nudes story: between now and the end of this month (December 2014…maybe also a bit into January 2015 if I need to do so ) I will be beefing up some of the chapters. I'm not adding any major stuff, or new chapters entirely; it's just that I felt that I rushed that story, and it kind of shows also. I've never been diagnosed with OCD officially, but you can kind of tell I have it (alliteration every two seconds and such in my stories, for example), and I wanted to finish Nukes Nudes Two before the end of November. What I put up was all I could do before the end of the month; again, for anyone in the world who liked it (I know it's far from my best story here), I'm just putting it out there that you might want to drop in on it again in another month—I want to give Kwannon/Scott/Jean/Warren more agency, especially in the last chapter (where they basically cameoed) and just make the story stronger generally. Thanks again.