Sitting, lazily on the edge of a rooftop, Deadpool surveyed the city that bustled below him. Chicago was beautiful at night, the way the lights twinkled impishly and the whole metropolis seemed electric with an unheard music.

All of the people forty stories below seemed to be so carefree as they hurried off to night clubs and home from a long days overtime. Each and everyone of them happily oblivious to all the crime and punishment that took place on the very streets they prodded down daily.

Even the cars buzzed in a most nonchalant way, turning and stopping, each taking their turn as governed by law.

Nothing down below appeared to even remotely care that one day it all would be gone, and forgotten. The people would die and with them, their carefree laughs and memories. The lights would burn out and the cars turn to nothing more than rust.

Such was the cycle of life, and the way everything, ultimately, was destined to end.

That was the injustice of living – something that no one on Chicago's busy streets seemed aware of.

The unfairness of life was not only lost on those who roamed the streets below, but also on the red clad mercenary who watched them. Though his physical body was scarred horribly and his mind haunted by the very demons we all try to ignore, Deadpool was beyond caring about it.

Mater of fact, Deadpool was beyond caring about anything thing at all, save for how much more tequila he could pour into his already drunken mouth.

After the woman, who he had learned was named Samantha Kinkade-Rothman, had given him his assignment, Deadpool had run out and bought as much booze as he could carry. A near-million dollar job deserved a good celebration after all.

The mercenary had then proceeded to find a very tall, unmanned roof top and celebrate for all that he was worth.

"Feelingsh, noshing more dan feelingsh," Deadpool sang in a drunken haze, as he tossed the now empty tequila bottle to join the remnants of those that had gone before it.

The bottle shattered as it hit the hard concrete, causing Deadpool to stop his mangled singing and look at where the bottle lay. Concern filled his brown eyes and mask covered face. "My ohnly frhiend," the mercenary slurred, pointing to the broken glass.

It seemed to take all of the masked mercenary's strength, as he pulled his muscular frame up from it's sitting position, and stumbled over to have a closer look at the broken bottle. Picking up a piece of glass, Deadpool examined first one side then the other. After a moment, he then nodded in a most professional manor.

"No need to whoory, Mishter Wilshon..." Deadpool told himself as he chucked the glass to the ground, "dis bottle died of natural causes!"

Satisfied, Deadpool began to sing again. "Feelingsh…"

The mercenary seemed totally oblivious to anything that was going on around him. Including the pair of eyes that sat, watching him, from a nearby roof top.

Katrina shook her head and sighed as she watched the masked mercenary bellow in his drunken stupor from the roof top. She'd heard of Deadpool years before she'd even started in the mercenary business. Her criminology professor had claimed to have once treated him when he worked for the government in Canada.

At the time, Katrina hadn't cared all that much, as Professor Willis would have said he'd treated Jack the Ripper - in the flesh - so long as it gave the him a chance to get in her Capri's.

What Katrina knew for fact, with regards to Deadpool, was that even then he had been one of the best. Although, at the time he had been having some issues with a disease and word on the street was that he'd seriously snapped.

Not that any of that mattered. All that Katrina was concerned with was the fact that, at this point in time, Deadpool was still the best.

Even though she was now going under the name of Raven, letting the Vixen alias die, that was not enough.

The blonde had decided, while making her new uniform on the floor of the shed, that she would need an ultimate way to jumpstart her career after what had happened. Employers didn't look too favorably on hiring someone who had not only been sold out, but had spent time in an institution.

Then it had come to her. Kill the best out there, and that makes you the best. Granted, Katrina-- now Raven -- had not really wanted to be the number one, too many people gunning for you. But at this point, she really didn't have many more appealing options.

So, she'd had done a little bit of checking, called a few old contacts and found out that Deadpool had the top spot and - convenient as anything - he happened to be here in Chicago on a job. After that it was just a matter of hunting down a few choice locations and playing the waiting game.

Luckily, she hadn't had to wait all that long. Raven had decided to check rooftops first, just in case Deadpool was setting up a surveillance hit . After finding a nice tall building, she happened to glance over and there he was. Hopping around, drinking his brains out.

"He's just waiting for someone to take him out, dancing up there like that. Fucking retard…" Adjusting the view through her binoculars, Raven thought she had heard someplace that Deadpool had something of an 'advanced healing factor.' They said that basically, it allowed him to regenerate and heal very quickly. It almost made him impossible to kill.

Raven smirked under her black mask, 'we'll just have to see about that…' Pulling a large gun from her duffle bag and a clip from one of the pouches on her black uniform, she set about getting ready to become the best.

Deadpool never saw it coming. Not the ambush, not the kick to the face and most certainly not the torrent of bullets to his gut.

He had just been meandering about the roof, singing classic commercial jingles and enjoying his drunken state. Now, not more than a few seconds layer the masked mercenary lay flat on his back, tequila, blood and broken glass covering his still body.

Looking down over Deadpool's bloodied body, Raven grinned underneath her black mask. "Alas poor watsisname, I knew him well." In all honesty, she'd expected a challenge, a fight, or at the very least an argument. But like all men, Deadpool had disappointed her by dying drunk and without so much as a peep. "You suck, man!"

Even as she uttered the words and turned from her victim, Raven felt that there was something seriously wrong. Holding her MARK 23 handgun in ready position, she narrowed her green eyes and decided that it might be best to make a sweep of the area as quickly as possible, just in case.

However, when she was half way between Deadpool's body and the ledge of the roof that same uneasy feeling and her instincts made her turn around and look back.

Shock replaced the scowl under her mask.

Not only was Deadpool not lying dead on the ground, but the massive bullet wounds that she had placed in his gut and abdomen, were almost gone, leaving only scarred flesh, and ragged, red cloth in their place.

"That," growled an enraged Deadpool, now on his feet and grabbing his gun, "fucking… hurt."