Note from the Author: Thanks for choosing this story! I won't ramble too long so please don't go away. I just wanted to make a couple notes: first, this is my first Marvel fanfic. Secondly, I apologize if I get certain facts incorrect or I don't perfectly capture Deadpool's essence, it's hard to capture a god, also I haven't read all the comics, only a handful of graphic novels and the movies, so please don't crucify me. Thirdly, and this is important because TRIGGER WARNING. This is a Deadpool fic, so obviously there's going to gratuitous violence, obscene language, smut, but there's also references to rape, slavery, child molestation, pedophilia, abuse, suicide and self harm. I'll be clear: Deadpool doesn't rape anyone nor is there details about him being raped. And lastly, I'm not a big fan of original characters in fanfiction, but I have a character who I just could not stop seeing with Wade. Heru's character is just too perfect of a match and because of what he is, I'm able to explain in a satisfactory way (I think anway) why and how he would end up in the Marvel universe. Please enjoy, I will update as frequently as possible and as always, constructive criticism is welcome as are comments.

Heru's Voices:

It/Death [...]

Present '..'

Past ...

Future {...}

Deadpool's voices:

Yellow {...}

White [...]

Chapter One

June 15, 1998
East 23rd Street, New York City
11:00 PM

Heru

Heru stood on the edge of the forty story building, the tips of his shoes just over the edge as he stared at the tall glass apartment building across the busy New York street. The warm summer air was weighed down by the sticky heavy humidity making his t-shirt cling to his back unpleasantly. His dark eyes followed the movements of the man as he paced across his living room floor, a phone held to his head as he nervously talked, the other hand gesturing wildly. He had pulled the currents shut but that didn't stop Heru from being able to see him. He was on his list and if he wanted to see him, he could see him, no matter where he tried to hide. His lips curved upwards in a feral grin as he watched. There was no escaping him, he had three months before his time was Due but this was Heru's deathday present and he was going to savor every minute of it.

[Make him suffer], the quiet but sharp voice purred in his ear, [make him feel everything he's done.]

"I will," he whispered back, it was a promise he intended to keep.

You're sick, the other softer voice, Past, whispered. He closed his eyes, willing that voice away but knew it wouldn't leave. There were always so many voices whispering in his head, he couldn't distinguish them from his own internal thoughts anymore, did he even have his own thoughts anymore? They were just Past, Present, Future and It. The timelines were too jumbled, too many realities mashed together in his mind and it didn't really matter anyway. The past, present, future-it was all the same in the end. It was all him and at the same time, it was all It. It wasn't exactly like he had to deal with a whole lot of human interaction anymore anyway, not for hundreds of years. He wasn't even sure when the last time he had gone home had been. Was it thirty years? A nagging voice whispered something about it being ninety years.

[Ring around the rosie], It sang and he rolled his eyes.

"It's ring-a-ring-a-rosie," he corrected before turning his attention back to his prey. He licked his lips, his stomach fluttering excitedly as the man peeked out from behind the curtain.

{Good, he knows he's being watched}. Heru nodded in agreement, yes, it was ideal that he knew he was being stalked. Let the fear ripen.

June 22, 1998
Somewhere in a not so friendly neighbourhood, New York City
6:24 PM

Wade

He was so fucking bored. Wade's head smacked the tarnished wooden bar with a loud thunk, rattling the ice in the drink next to him.
"I'm so bored," he moaned in complaint, looking up at Weasel, his Deadpool mask twisted into a pout.

"Jesus Christ Wade! Get your head off my bar," he growled, "you're getting blood everywhere."

"Spoil sport," he grumbled and picked up his head, smooshing it back on his shoulders where the bone and sinew immediately began sewing itself together. The pain was blinding but he was used to it and he had rigged Bea up specifically to try and alleviate his boredom with a bit of unaliving. It didn't go as planned.

{It rarely does}

He hadn't lost consciousness and since he was only a couple blocks from Sister Margaret's, he had just grabbed his head and walked over. He didn't question how his body was still responding to his brain, despite it not being connected, he was used to the writer's being lazy assholes.

"Give me the good stuff Weas," he rasped, his vocal cords properly healing as he attempted to clean up the blood his head had left on the counter.

[Leather isn't absorbent dumbass] White helpfully pointed out as he just smeared the mess around.

"Fuck's sakes Wade," Weasel muttered, tossing down a dirty dish towel and a shot glass filled with his favorite rye.

"It just adds character," he quipped, rubbing the towel against the counter half-hazardly, "or that's what my realtor keeps telling me!" He abandoned the towel and spun around on the stool to take in the night's crowd. It was dead. There were a few regulars huddled together in private conversations, Domino was playing pool against some poor sap {doesn't he know she always wins?}, and no one had won tonight's pool. He sighed dramatically and shot back the smooth rye.

"You want a job?" Weasel offered and Wade over-spun and passed Weasel's face twice before he grabbed the bar to stop himself.

"Uh fuck yes," he leaned forward eagerly, "what do you got for me? What piece of shit needs a lobotomy Deadpool style?"

[Maybe it's an evil mutant!]

{A challenge would be nice}

"Oooh! Do I get to steal something? Please tell me I get to steal something from the President?!" he practically begged. God, he needed a job.

"Nothing that interesting, I wasn't even going to offer it to you, it's a little too small peanuts for you but," he shrugged and reached into his stained apron pocket to pull out a slip of paper and set it on the counter, "the pay is good, figured you might be bored enough to take it. Some rich banker guy needs protecting. He sent one of his spooks down looking for you specifically, told him I couldn't promise you'd take it but," he trailed off with a shrug and poured another shot before walking away to make Domino and her mark another round.

"Protection eh?" he unfolded the paper and looked at the phone number, "oooh five big M&M's! Noice!"

[Hey, Spidey would be glad we're taking a protection gig!]

{He still doesn't like the good paying jobs}

I don't think it's about the money, I think it's the whole killing people part that he takes issue with.

Weasel wandered back and leaned his elbows down on the bar so that he could speak quietly with him.

"Don't have the client's name, the spook wouldn't give it, said he wouldn't want to be associated with a place like this," he explained and Wade sniggered.

"I can't imagine how anyone could think a place like the Sister's could have any kind ill-reputed reputation," he mourned, Weas snorted derisively.

"It's probably just a case of an overzealous journalist taking the search for a story across the stalker line, but since things have been quiet for you lately, figured you'd be open to the job," he poured them each a drink.

"Salute!" Wade clumsily clicked glasses, spilling drops from both before peeling back his mask and finishing it in one swallow, "thanks Weasel," he pulled out a couple random bills from a pouch and left them on the counter.

Once outside, he pulled his phone from his back pocket and dialed the number, skipping down the street while he waited for it to be answered.

"Hello, Mr. Bradley's office," a chipper voice answered.

[I bet she's cute]

"Hey baby girl, can I speak with the boss? He wanted me to call," he purred cheerily back, she giggled at being called a baby girl.

"Who should I say is calling?" she asked and Wade considered it for a moment. He could just say Deadpool but if the guy wasn't wanting people to know he'd contracted a mercenary, it might not be the best idea.

"Tell him it's Mr. Wilson," he answered, deciding to play the professional card.

[We have those?]

{Wait! Since when?!}

"Oh he's expecting your call, I'll put you right through," there was a click and then a brief bout of hold music before he heard someone pick up the other end.

"Mr. Wilson?" A deep but friendly voice questioned and Wade leaned against the brick wall of a Blockbuster tucked between a pharmacy and the city's finest shawarma stand.

"Mystery man?" he questioned right back in a mock whisper.

"Mr. Wilson, I would like to talk to you about a possible job, it would be a one time contract," he said, ignoring Wade's lame joke, "I assure you I'm not in the business of ever needing someone such as yourself, but unfortunately, something's come up and well… I would like it handled discreetly."

{Uh, he knows he asked for Deadpool right?}

[The merc with a mouth?]

"I get it," he shoved off the wall and started walking again, unable to sit still, "you're an upstanding citizen and wouldn't want to tarnish a spotless reputation by being associated with someone like me."

[Fucking story of my life]

"I'm glad you understand," Wade imagined he nodded in approval, "I'll text you my address, I'll be home within the hour. I don't want you seen anywhere near my office," he told him.

"Right,"

{It feels so great to have strangers be ashamed of knowing you}

[I mean, we are well known for killing people so…]

"I'll see you in one hour," he hung up and a few seconds later, his phone buzzed with the address. Madison Square Park Tower.

"Damn," he whistled, he'd need to take the subway since Spidey was out of town and not around for a fun swinging cab ride.

An hour later, Wade was standing in the elevator whistling along with the smooth jazz as he pretended not to notice the two very well dressed older couple huddled in the corner, cowering in fear. He definitely hadn't noticed the diamond necklace and earrings that were easily worth well over a million each. He also didn't notice the mink coat she was wearing or the canary diamond cufflinks, worth two million, in the cuffs of the man's sleeves as he wrapped a possessive arm around his wife's shoulders. He assumed she was his wife, but she could be his mistress although he doubted he would have a mistress that old. Her black hair was more silver streaked with black than anything else. The elevator dinged as it reached the floor he wanted and he curtsied with an imaginary skirt before skipping out and down the hall.

{They stuck their heads out to look at you}

[I bet she was checking out our cute butt!]

{I bet he wanted a taste of this sweet ass too!}

He walked up to the apartment with the golden numbers 405 and rapt his knuckles hard against the painted wood, ignoring the door knocker. There were muffled footsteps and then the door swung open.

"Mr. Wilson," the guy had a slightly dorky face, little eyes lost in a beefy face and behind a small pair of glasses. He was probably six foot one, barely shorter than Wade but not as broad, although he held himself like someone who had played a lot of contact sports and he stepped aside, inviting Deadpool in.

"Mr. Bradley?" he questioned, although judging by the lack of a weapon, the socked feet and expensive clothing, he wasn't the hired help.

"For some reason, I didn't expect you to use the front door," he joked.

[Yes, I always come bursting through my client's windows when I'm first meeting them]

{It makes for a great first impression}

Wade forced a laugh and accepted the outstretched hand and shook it, noting the firm handshake. He walked inside, scuffing his boots along the carpet as he very obviously nosed around, going so far as to go hunting for the kitchen.

"Uh," Bradley stammered and followed him, "I've never really needed anyone like you, I mean, someone with your unique skill set before," he fumbled but Wade could see him in the reflection of the especially shiny, freshly polished stainless steel fridge door and nothing in the man's appearance matched the nervous, innocent tone of his voice.

{Sinner or saint?}
[Always sinner]

"Because you have your own men or because you never needed someone dead before?" he bluntly asked, keeping an eye on his reflection as he opened glass cupboards, his mask hiding the fact that he wasn't actually looking for anything and was really gaging the man's reaction to having a nosy, sloppy merc pawing his things.

"Um," he hesitated, his face getting more and more taut with every cupboard Wade opened, and pointedly left open, "neither, actually and I never said I wanted someone dead," he corrected, following behind Wade and shutting cupboard doors.

"I'm confused," he spun around and folded his arms across his chest, "I'm a merc, you hire me when you want someone dead."

"Or when you want to protect something or someone and are willing to do it no matter the cost," he suggested, the tension slipping slightly from his shoulders now that Wade had stopped rummaging.

[Time to explore the rest of the house]

He pushed away from the counter and headed back out to the living room, picked up a stack of mail and flipped through it, nothing of interest here, all on the up and up so far.

"Please, Mr. Wade, let's discuss this in my office," he directed, his tone belying his annoyance.

"Sure sugar daddy," he grinned and followed him into the impressive home office. There were plants everywhere with a collection of, [what are those? Orchids?] in one corner and several baskets of green leafy things hung around the room. There was a large, imperial looking mahogany desk with two leather chairs in front of it. Bradley sat down in the giant computer chair on the other side and motioned for him to sit. Reluctantly, Wade sat down, his left knee bouncing as he tried to contain the restless energy.

"I believe I'm being followed," he said finally and the white lenses of his mask narrowed.

"Why?"

"Well, I keep things in very specific places, I'm a creature of habit you see," he expounded, "and despite no alarms going off, I believe someone has been in my home recently. They didn't steal anything, just… well I think they just wanted me to know that they could get in. Recently, I've started to notice someone following me wherever I go, but I never get a good look."

"No, sorry you misunderstood," Wade held up a leather clad hand, "why would someone bother with following you in the first place?" The question seemed to surprise Bradley.

"I've done very well for myself, Mr. Wilson," he adjusted his cufflinks, [diamonds], "and unfortunately investment banking is a rather… cut throat business. I've made some business enemies and I've been working on a unique project for quite a while now. It's just about finished and I'll be looking to sell it off soon, my rivals are looking to stop me," he explained easily, clearly a man who was used to being admired and impressed and he paused in all the right places to make it sound like he was concerned but not afraid. The tension lines around the corners of his eyes, the alcohol on his breath and the stink of sweat all betrayed the fact that this man was most definitely, very terrified.

[Why do I get the impression Mr. Upstanding isn't telling us the full truth?]

Wade leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk as he considered him.

"So you think one of these, 'business rivals'" he added air quotes, "would go so far as to try and kill you?" Jeez, I had no idea banking was so risky.

"Maybe not kill me, but I do think they might be after some trade secrets at the very least and I protect those just as ferociously as my own life," he said with a smile that twitched as stared at Wade's large red and black boats.

"Uh huh, so what did you want me to do for you?"

"Well, I believe my day security is qualified to protect me outside of the house and while I'm at the office, however, I would appreciate your protection from seven PM until seven AM while I'm here, at home," he told him, "I would also appreciate any information you could turn up on my mysterious stalker and what information he may already have."

"Alright," he looked up at the ceiling, that was easy enough, "I'm sure I can do that for you."

"Of course, I expect a certain level of discretion that… well, you're not well known for but that's why I'm offering to make it worth your silence," Bradley opened a drawer and pulled out a cheque book.

"Did my guy get it right? Five mil for a simple protection and investigation gig?" he asked.

[That's an awful lot of money to get rid of a casual stalker]

{Not get rid of, doesn't even want us to kill anyone}

[Something smells fishy… or is that our breath?]

"Yes, that is correct," he started filling out the cheque.

"What if I come across your stalker face to face?" he challenged, ah, yep, there it is, Bradley looked up with that murderous glint Wade could recognize anywhere.

"Then I expect you to live up to your name Deadpool," he said firmly and ripped the paper free and held it out, "consider this a deposit. Until the threat is taken care of, the remaining three million will remain with me. You'll get the rest when you complete the job."

[So we are killing someone?]

{Yep, he's just trying to play the good man who would never hire a contract killer}

"If you're such an upstanding guy with nothing but trade secrets to protect," Wade leaned forward, the cheque disappeared into a pouch as he pulled his legs down and leaned his elbows on his knees, "how did you know how to contact me?" Bradley smiled sheepishly.

"I believe in second chances Mr. Wilson, and there are a number of my security staff who have… a checkered past. I don't hold it against them, everyone makes due with the hand we're dealt, I can't judge someone for that. But I've been very fortunate, had a lot of success and I believe it's the duty of those in power to pay it forward, so I hire anyone qualified for the job, regardless of their past," he explained, "one of my senior officers had heard of that… bar you frequent and that it was a good way to get in contact with you."

"Well aren't you just a regular old saint?" he considered him for a moment before nodding, "alright, we have a deal."

Souls Collected:
Michael Swason
Age 6
Died June 15, 1998 2:01 PM

Heart failure, malnourishment

Jessica McPherson
Age 13
Died June 15, 1998 2:39 PM
Murder, strangulation
Michelle Peterson
Age 27
Died June 18, 1998 10:39 PM

Suicide, exsanguination
Regina Gonzalaz
Age 3
Died June 22, 9:02 AM
Murdered, shaken impact