Kill Who???

Deadpool's sword cut clean through Dante's neck, and his head launched from his body, trailing blood as it arced away in the direction of the blade's swing.

For an instant, Dante remained conscious. Perhaps it was because he was a Phantom, but he could still see, still feel as his head spun through the air, his eyes widening with horror. In those final moments, he glimpsed his own decapitated body falling away, and shock flooded his face as his thoughts echoed one final, panicked question:

How is this happening?

Since his powers awakened, he'd thought of himself as invincible, certain that nothing could hurt him. But now his head was detached from his body. What had gone wrong?

But he'd never find out. Only a few rare Phantoms with exceptionally strong vitality could survive decapitation. For most, death was immediate, and Dante's consciousness quickly faded, pain dissolving with it. The last image he registered was his own head spinning, falling—before a red-gloved hand reached out and caught it mid-air.

Deadpool inspected Dante's head, holding it up as if he were pondering a peculiar piece of art. He turned it this way and that, his expression thoughtful, then muttered, "Y'know, some people just weren't meant to be seen whole. Some look ugly with their heads on their bodies… but seeing the head on its own…"

He squinted, as if examining some grotesque detail, and sighed. "…yeah, somehow it's even uglier."

If Dante's head could still bleed, he probably would have spat blood at that. His face, even in death, seemed to twitch with rage as if protesting his gruesome fate.

"What's the matter?" Deadpool asked, feigning sympathy. "Pissed off? Guess you can't all be as cute and charming as me."

With a shrug, he tossed Dante's head aside, sending it rolling across the warehouse floor toward the remaining killers. They shrank back, watching the head bounce and roll before coming to a halt, and their eyes darted to Deadpool, wide with sheer terror.

Unlike Dante, who hadn't even had time to process his own demise, they'd seen everything. They'd always thought their boss was untouchable, able to shrug off bullets and blunt-force impacts as if his skin was steel. That belief had given them courage, even enough to take jobs in Riverton, a city notorious among criminals for its unspoken rule: never accept jobs here.

Because Riverton was Batman's city.

But now their leader—the invincible boss they thought would protect them—had been felled in seconds. By a teleporting psycho who laughed off headshots and treated them like some kind of twisted game. 

Fear crept into every corner of their minds, weighing them down, freezing them in place. Escape or retaliation was unthinkable; they could do nothing but tremble.

Watching from his screen, Charlie smiled. This test of Deadpool's teleportation belt was going better than he'd expected. The teleportation was smoother than he remembered from the Deadpool game he'd played back in 2013. In that game, Deadpool's moves were similarly divided between sword attacks and gunplay, with an auto-aiming feature for firearms that made Deadpool a decent shot—though not as precise as pros like Deadshot.

The teleportation belt, too, had been both a mobility tool and a defensive mechanism in the game. In moments of danger, Deadpool could teleport to dodge attacks, similar to Batman's counter-attacks or Spider-Man's Spidey-sense. Charlie found the setup familiar and fell into a rhythm of dodging and striking.

Of course, things weren't quite the same.

After executing his flashy teleportation move and decapitating Dante, Deadpool struck a triumphant pose, letting his sword rest casually at his side. He turned slowly to the remaining killers, casting them a solemn look.

"By the way," he said, "has anyone seen my arm?"

The killers blinked, confusion dawning as they noticed: Deadpool was missing an arm.

Yes, the teleportation belt looked flashy and powerful, but it was famously glitchy. Sometimes it dropped him in unintended places; other times it only teleported part of him. And judging by the slight scowl on Deadpool's face, the belt had chosen the latter this time, leaving his arm somewhere else.

Curious, Charlie reactivated Deadpool's voice to hear his commentary. Deadpool was grumbling to himself, "Stupid belt… just had to drop my arm off somewhere…"

The killers exchanged nervous glances, and finally, a stocky man with a deep voice and bulging muscles raised a shaky hand.

"Uh… sir? I think your arm is over there."

Charlie's screen marked the position of Deadpool's missing arm, indicating he could retrieve it if he wanted. But he also noticed a prompt to interact with the thug who had spoken up.

It felt like one of those dialogue choices where you could influence the story's direction. Intrigued, Charlie had Deadpool approach the thug and activate the interaction.

Deadpool looked at the man with a grin. "Alright, you… what's your name?"

"Bob," the man stammered.

"Good, Bob. Do me a favor and grab that arm for me, would ya?"

Bob's face drained of color, but he swallowed, nodded, and trudged over to pick up the severed limb, bringing it back with a look of pure terror.

"Thanks, Bob. You're a real team player," Deadpool said, patting him on the shoulder as he took back his arm.

Without a second thought, he pulled out a tube of glue from his belt, squeezed a thick glob onto the severed end, and slapped it back onto his shoulder. The arm stuck instantly.

He flexed it experimentally. "Little crooked, but whatever—it'll straighten out later."

The killers gaped, jaws slack with horror. One even dropped to his knees, too shocked to process what he was seeing.

He can… reattach his limbs?

"Now, I know what you're thinking," Deadpool said, seemingly addressing Charlie. "Why not just grow a new one? Well, you don't get it—me and this arm? We've been through a lot together. I can't just… replace it, y'know?"

Then, abruptly, he went silent.

The killers stood frozen, uncertain and on edge as Deadpool rambled, only to stop mid-sentence as if he'd just run out of words. The silence felt oddly disconcerting, and they found themselves longing for his chatter to return, unsettling as it was.

Charlie smirked, realizing he'd found a way to make Deadpool quiet: by activating the mic function. Somehow, it seemed to prompt Deadpool to shut up automatically.

With Deadpool silent, Charlie directed him toward the remaining thugs, who were too terrified to resist. Within minutes, they'd disarmed and even tied each other up, tripping over themselves to promise they'd change their ways.

But Deadpool wasn't done with them yet. Without warning, he drew his sword again, resting the blade lightly against Bob's neck.

Bob went pale, hands raised in surrender. "P-please… please don't!"

Charlie's voice came through Deadpool, cold and steady. "What are you doing here? You didn't come to Riverton without a reason. You know whose city this is, so there must have been a very tempting reward. What's your target?"

Bob's face crumpled in terror, and he began to babble, "I… I'll tell you! It's… Stark. Tony Stark."

Charlie's eyebrows rose in surprise. "What?"

"We… we were hired—a huge sum—to assassinate Tony Stark."