C'mon

Wendelani, Late at Night

With a crisp snap, the lights went out, plunging the entire nightclub into darkness. On the dance floor, patrons froze mid-step, their carefree expressions quickly turning to confusion. Someone in the crowd let out a frustrated groan, muttering about the high prices and low-quality service.

Back in Riverton, people might have instinctively tensed, aware that darkness often signaled something far more sinister. But this was Wendelani. Here, most of the club's guests were blissfully unaware of the fear that Batman's presence could instill. To them, it was just a power outage—a minor inconvenience, nothing more.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that someone noticed the real problem.

This nightclub was owned by Ken, a name that commanded respect—and fear—in Wendelani. Ken had run this place for over a decade, and not once had the club's operations faltered. Backup generators should have kicked in immediately, yet the club remained eerily silent, not a single light flickering to life.

The door creaked open.

The guards at the entrance squinted into the dim outline of a figure standing just outside—a figure dressed in red, masked, and holding… was that a sword?

One guard stepped forward, blocking the entry. "Private club, sir," he said firmly, trying to get a good look at the intruder's face. "Please show your invitation and remove the mask."

The stranger tilted his head slightly. "Oh? Sorry, did you say something?"

In a flash, the guard saw a glint of steel, felt a sharp pain, and crumpled to the floor without a sound.

"Whoops, missed that over all the noise," Deadpool said, flicking the blood off his blade with a dramatic flourish.

"Enemy attack!" Another guard yelled, finally grasping the gravity of the situation.

More guards surged toward the entrance, guns drawn. But Deadpool was faster. Three quick shots echoed through the club, and the guards dropped, clutching wounds and groaning in pain.

Around them, chaos erupted. Guests scrambled, trying to push through one another in a frenzy. A hostess screamed, ducking behind a table.

"Relax, people! No killing tonight!" Deadpool shouted over the panic, sounding more amused than alarmed. "Bat's rules for Wonder Boy here!"

As if on cue, another guard took aim from behind and fired a single shot. The bullet hit with perfect accuracy, tearing through Deadpool's head, leaving a gruesome exit wound and splattering blood against the wall behind him.

Deadpool barely flinched. He turned slowly, pulling his pistol and firing with an almost bored expression. The guard dropped instantly, clutching his shoulder in agony.

"Better call an ambulance for that," Deadpool advised, reloading as he strolled forward, hardly bothering to dodge the incoming fire. "Just don't say I didn't warn you if you end up… you know, bleeding out or something."

Unfazed by the mounting chaos, Deadpool charged forward, gun in one hand and sword in the other, moving effortlessly as he swatted bullets aside or absorbed them with a shrug. He slashed with his sword, dropping guards left and right, each one clutching wounds and collapsing without a fatal hit.

"Come on, guys!" Deadpool called out, exasperated. "I've got one shot at impressing Batman here, and I'd rather not mess it up. How about you all just act scared, pretend to surrender, and we can save each other a lot of trouble?"

But the guards were far from cooperative. Their shouts filled the air as they continued firing, desperate to bring down the lunatic who seemed immune to bullets. A new wave of guards poured in, guns blazing.

"Figures," Deadpool muttered, barely acknowledging the fresh bullet holes peppering his suit. "No one ever takes my advice seriously."

Meanwhile, patrons and hostesses cowered in terror, caught between disbelief and horror. These were ordinary civilians—most had never even seen a gun fired up close, let alone watched a man take multiple bullets and keep going, all while casually making jokes.

Throughout the club, security had mobilized, guards from every floor descending toward the entrance. Radios crackled as teams reported their positions. "Team Three coming down from the third floor, over."

But just as they reached the stairwell, a shadow peeled away from the ceiling's corner, striking with precision.

Batman moved silently, grabbing the last guard in the line, pressing a gloved hand over his mouth, and slamming his head against the railing. The guard slumped without a sound.

At the front, Deadpool was in the thick of it, a flurry of gunfire and shrieks filling the air. The deafening noise masked Batman's stealthy takedowns, his every move calculated to avoid detection.

A single, fluid motion sent Batman into the next guard, landing a swift, bone-crunching roundhouse kick. The man went down instantly, his vision going black.

It was only then that the remaining guards realized they weren't alone. But by the time they'd turned, Batman had already struck again, dispatching them one by one in a series of efficient, brutal blows.

From Charlie's screen, Batman's ambush looked like a seamless flow of controlled violence. One guard stumbled back, barely registering the kick that had sent him flying. Another went down with a crack as Batman's elbow collided with his cheekbone. A third was sent tumbling over the stairwell's edge, his fall broken mid-air by a thin, near-invisible cord.

Batman, ever methodical, didn't leave a trace.

With the stairway cleared, Charlie guided Batman forward, gliding from the railing to close in on a second team hurrying to reinforce the lobby.

Batman struck, leading with a flying kick that sent the first guard crashing into the wall. The others turned, eyes widening, but Batman was faster, weaving through them like a shadow. A well-aimed Batarang flew from his hand, lodging into the shoulder of a guard who had barely begun to aim, pinning him against the wall.

The man let out a strangled scream, cut short as Batman delivered a final, bone-jarring kick, knocking him into unconscious silence.

The plan was working perfectly. Deadpool, the loud, bullet-sponge distraction, kept every guard's focus on him, while Batman moved through the shadows, picking them off with surgical precision.

Deadpool, however, was growing impatient. Holding a guard by the collar, he delivered a quick slash with his sword and fired a shot at another, grumbling under his breath.

"This hardly seems fair," he muttered, glaring at Batman across the room. "I take all the bullets, and he takes all the glory! I'm getting seriously ripped off here."

It was true. Though Deadpool shrugged off bullets like raindrops, he was forced to move more slowly than Batman, giving his partner the opportunity to swoop in and clear out most of the guards.

Charlie noticed a strange pattern on the screen. Every time Deadpool squared off with a guard, their accuracy seemed to improve drastically—every shot hitting with uncanny precision. It was as though Deadpool had some inexplicable magnetism for gunfire, drawing bullets to himself.

Deadpool, of course, was aware of this too, and he continued his monologue as he fought, dodging and deflecting blows.

"Seriously, why do these guys have sniper-level accuracy the moment I walk in?" he complained, cutting down another guard with a deft swipe of his sword.

But then, Deadpool's combat AI locked onto a new target—a guard with an air of authority, moving with a fluid grace that marked him as something more than a grunt.

This one sidestepped Deadpool's attack, grabbing his sword arm with lightning speed and slamming a powerful palm strike into his forearm.

Boom!

The impact was massive. Deadpool staggered, his arm all but shattered by the strike, the force of it enough to throw him back across the floor. He rolled twice before coming to a halt, groaning as he pushed himself up.

His arm hung limply, almost severed, with flesh and bone barely holding it together. It was a gruesome sight.

But Deadpool just grinned beneath his mask, his eyes widening with a manic delight. "Oh, c'mon! I just got this arm back!"