Zombie

"Friday, is he… talking to me?"

"I believe so, sir."

Charlie furrowed his brow. This was… different. Some heroes had triggered special phrases in certain scenarios, but this was the first time one had directly addressed him.

Wait. He should've seen this coming.

Charlie had played the old Deadpool game back in 2013—a solid action-adventure, though not exactly memorable. Over the years, the game had faded in his mind, but Deadpool's habit of breaking the fourth wall was legendary, going back to the comics. Apparently, after a cosmic being had once teleported Deadpool to the "center of reality," Deadpool became aware of his fictional nature. In true Deadpool fashion, he'd turned that into an unhinged party trick, breaking the fourth wall to "speak" with fans or players directly.

This reality perception had become a trademark of Deadpool's, though it was more for laughs than anything practical. Unlike other heroes with self-contained dialogues, Deadpool's lines now seemed aimed right at Charlie, adding a surreal twist to his usual nonsense.

Charlie had Deadpool drop from the skylight, landing stealthily on the roof beams. As soon as he touched down, Deadpool started yammering.

"I don't think this is a good idea," he said in a hushed tone. "If I were you, I'd take the vent in the northwest corner. You know, like Spider-Man or Batman. Real pros climb through vents." 

Deadpool paused. "Seriously, can you imagine Batman crawling around in dusty air ducts, exposed chin and all? That guy must have the lungs of a janitor by now. Poor bat."

Charlie sighed.

Ignoring Deadpool, Charlie moved him along the beam, edging toward a better vantage point.

"Hey! Stop dragging me—no, not there! There! No… Oh, you missed it. Fine, go on," Deadpool grumbled, practically buzzing with impatience.

Charlie took a deep breath.

"Friday, can we turn off this voice module? This constant chatter is exhausting."

"That's Mr. Inner Monologue, sir. Only you can hear it," Friday replied smoothly.

Charlie's emotions churned. Part of him was relieved—thankfully, this commentary was internal, so Deadpool wouldn't blow any covers. But another part of him found it strange to be the only one subjected to this… unique form of torture.

"Of course, you can select 'Block Character Voice' in the game settings," Friday suggested. "That should do the trick."

Charlie's eyes lit up.

"Friday, why didn't you say that sooner?"

With zero hesitation, Charlie opened the settings and found the mute option.

Deadpool's eyes widened in horror. "Wait, player! Sir! Buddy! Just a second—I'll be as quiet as a turtle. Don't—"

Charlie clicked the button before he could finish, plunging himself into blissful silence.

Deadpool: "@#%&a!"

The voice block didn't mute Deadpool entirely—just on Charlie's end. Deadpool could keep chattering, but Charlie was spared his running commentary. Friday still monitored his voice, so if anything truly important came up, she'd inform Charlie.

"Alright," Charlie muttered. "Let's see what this walking disaster can do."

With renewed focus, Charlie maneuvered Deadpool to drop from the beam.

Despite the silence, Deadpool was clearly yelling, "No superhero landing… no superhero landing… ahhh!"

The red-suited mercenary plummeted down and landed with a thundering impact that reverberated through the warehouse. Every thug spun around, their weapons snapping up at the bizarre sight. Deadpool struck a sprawling, unheroic pose on the concrete, head down and rear end up in the air.

The mercenaries, momentarily stunned, exchanged glances.

What the hell kind of landing was that?

"Seems that height was a bit ambitious for the hero in question," Friday remarked.

Charlie let out a reluctant chuckle.

She was right, after all. Although Deadpool had enhanced physical abilities, he wasn't Spider-Man. He lacked the natural balance or the fancy tech like Batman's gliding cape, which softened those high-altitude landings. Deadpool's approach to drops seemed to rely more on his sheer inability to stay dead, regardless of how clumsy the landing looked.

Deadpool got up with a shake of his head, muttering inaudibly, his usual cocky grin flashing even with half his suit torn from the fall. Charlie immediately set Deadpool into action. The mercenary cracked his knuckles, raised a micro-Uzi in one hand, and brandished a long katana in the other, ready to wreak havoc.

"Open fire!" someone shouted, and a torrent of bullets erupted, filling the air with blinding flashes and the smell of gunpowder. Blood sprayed as Deadpool's body absorbed round after round, pooling beneath him as he moved forward.

Charlie remained unfazed, letting Deadpool take the damage. In return, Deadpool unleashed a burst of his own, peppering two gangsters who crumpled to the ground. The walls erupted in sparks as bullets whizzed and ricocheted wildly.

Deadpool lunged into a somersault, landing near three more thugs. With a deft twist of his wrist, he brought the sword down, slicing two men's hands clean off at the wrist. They clutched their stumps, screaming as blood spurted out.

"Aw, don't cry," Deadpool cooed, offering a mocking smile. "Uncle Deadpool can fix it."

Without a second thought, he swung the blade again. Two heads rolled across the floor, and the bodies slumped in silence.

"See? All better. Uncle Deadpool never lies."

He turned just as a shotgun's barrel was shoved in his face, barely inches away. The blast was deafening, ripping half of Deadpool's head off, brain matter spraying across the floor.

The thug lowered his weapon, taking a breath of relief—until he noticed Deadpool still standing, what was left of his face squinting up at him.

"Did… did you just blow up my head?" Deadpool asked, his remaining eye glaring.

The thug froze, the shotgun trembling in his hands. The air seemed to thicken as he stammered, "S-sorry… I… I didn't mean to—"

"Yeah, well, you should be sorry," Deadpool snapped, slicing through the thug's neck with a swift stroke of his blade.

"If I didn't need my IQ intact, I'd be asking you to give me back the brain cells I just lost dealing with you."

The remaining killers and mercenaries stood frozen, staring in horror at the bloody, half-headed man, who was now muttering and flicking blood off his katana. They'd never seen anything like it—half his head gone, his brain practically in pieces, and yet he was still moving, cracking jokes, and cursing.

Zombie? No… they thought, even zombies stopped moving after a headshot.

Whatever this thing was, it was beyond anything they'd ever signed up for.