Another Shield

From Charlie's perspective, this whole fight was turning into a twisted sort of power trip. Here he was, directing an unkillable hero who brushed off bullets and leaped into action like a blender set to "puree." 

But for the guys on the other end? This was nothing short of a horror game come to life.

Picture it: a lunatic crashes down from the ceiling, soaked with blood that should be draining him dry but just keeps pouring like he's got a pool's worth to spare. Any normal person would've bled out by now, but this guy? He's still standing, still charging. Worse than that—he's running his mouth, spewing nonsense with an endless stream of one-liners, as though he isn't already half-turned into minced meat.

Around him, the ground was strewn with chunks of his flesh, some torn free by large-caliber rounds that had shredded muscle and skin. He didn't have any fancy adamantium skeleton to protect him either. It was just raw human bone, but every time he was blasted back, he simply stood up and kept going. More than one of the shooters swore they'd drilled him through the heart, but seeing him jump around without missing a beat? They were starting to doubt reality itself.

And then, when someone blasted away half his head with a shotgun—well, that shattered whatever shred of sanity they'd managed to hold onto.

Imagine staring down a man, drenched in his own blood, riddled with bullet holes, half his skull gone, yet still swearing at you as he cuts through your teammates. That's the sort of thing that sears itself into your brain, twisting your gut with primal terror.

Those watching began to unravel, their faces warped in horror as if they were staring into the eyes of something beyond human understanding.

After slicing through three of them, Deadpool leapt down from the metal walkway, landing on the ground with a bounce. The moment he touched down, the men around him practically caved in fear. Some were trembling so hard they couldn't even hold their guns, a few sliding down onto the floor in defeat.

"Whoa, what's with the long faces?" Deadpool said with a wide grin, walking forward. "C'mon, I don't eat people!"

And then, with a suddenness that shocked everyone, a massive shadow streaked through the air, hitting Deadpool square in the chest with the force of a speeding truck. He hadn't seen it coming, and it sent him flying backward.

A hulking piece of machinery—some reinforced, metal-plated brute of a weapon—had been hurled across the room, colliding with Deadpool and slamming him into the wall with a resounding crash.

Deadpool slid down the wall, his body visibly crushed, leaving a trail of red behind.

"Cough, cough… hey, no worries… I'm fine…" he sputtered, coughing up a fresh spurt of blood before staggering to his feet.

One of the gangsters nearby looked about ready to wet himself.

That hit—if it had been any regular human, they'd be dead several times over. Broken bones, shattered organs, no chance at all. And yet, this psycho? Still standing.

Charlie noticed something odd: Deadpool hadn't reacted to the ambush.

If he'd been Spider-Man, there would have been a tingle of Spidey-sense. With Batman, a counterstrike alert would've popped up on the screen. But Deadpool? No prompt, no reaction. Charlie figured it must be because Deadpool's nerves were as thick-skinned as the rest of him. His pain threshold was so high that he barely registered hits until they stopped him cold.

It wasn't that Deadpool didn't have the reflexes—it was more like his body was simply numb to damage. To Charlie, it made his response times seem delayed, with counterattacks triggering a beat too slow.

"Cheap shot… what a disgrace…" Deadpool muttered, rolling his neck. It cracked with a sound that echoed through the warehouse, and he winced as he adjusted it back into place.

One of the mercenaries let out a strangled gasp. No one here could believe this thing was human. Whatever he was, he was the scariest sight any of them had ever seen.

But their leader had just entered the room—the one who'd thrown the machine at Deadpool in the first place.

As he stepped into view, several of the men visibly relaxed. He wasn't even supposed to be in the warehouse, but apparently, he'd come back just in time. His presence alone seemed to calm his men, restoring some of their confidence. If he was here, they had a shot.

Their leader didn't look all that extraordinary, just a solidly built man with an air of command. But given how he'd hurled that giant machine, it was clear there was more to him than met the eye.

"Infected?" Charlie muttered, watching closely.

"More likely a Phantom, sir," Friday replied smoothly.

A Phantom, here in Riverton? Charlie had seen the data from the Ninth Division; the Phantom phenomenon was spiking worldwide. Some believed this was a warning, that cosmic forces were stirring.

"Facial recognition confirms ID," Friday continued. "Dante, a high-level assassin. It seems we're up against a Phantom killer."

"Doesn't change a thing."

Charlie flicked through the options and selected Deadpool's pistol, aiming it right at Dante. He squeezed the trigger, the muzzle flashing, but the bullet stopped a foot from Dante's face, flattening against an invisible wall before crumpling to the ground with a soft clink.

"Hey! That's cheating!" Deadpool yelled, instantly swapping the pistol for his sword and charging forward.

He dodged left, then right, moving with an unpredictable rhythm, but every strike glanced off the same invisible wall, sparks spitting as each blow met its match.

"Some sort of defensive shield, probably an energy field," Friday reported, analyzing the data as it streamed in, rapidly constructing a 3D model of the shield.

On Charlie's screen, the model showed Dante surrounded by a nearly invisible forcefield, like a transparent eggshell, keeping Deadpool's bullets and sword swings from getting close.

"Everyone's got a trick up their sleeve these days," Charlie muttered.

"Standard ammo and blades can't penetrate, but there may be a limit," Friday continued. "Consider switching to Batman—he has at least three ways to counter this ability."

"No, today's all about testing the new hero," Charlie said with a grin. "It's just a forcefield. Deadpool hasn't even started."

Meanwhile, Dante watched Deadpool's flurry of attacks with a calm smirk.

"Pointless," he said smoothly. "Save your energy. You can't touch me."

Deadpool tossed the empty pistol aside with a grunt, his blade flashing back into position. He didn't need to reload here; in-game, the equipment would refresh on its own.

Snarling, Deadpool gripped his sword with both hands, hacking away at the shield with a fury that sent sparks flying in every direction, each swing punctuated by a curse.

"You filthy—@!#%," Deadpool growled. "I swear on my grandma's grave, when I break this bubble, I'm going to plant my boot so far up your—"

Without a word, Charlie activated the teleportation belt.

In an instant, Deadpool vanished in a ripple of blue energy, his form dissolving.

The next second, he reappeared, materializing inside the shield. Ripples of light shimmered as his form solidified inches from Dante's face, sword poised mid-swing.

Tahan's eyes widened, and his face blanched in shock. But he had no time to react.

"Surprise!" Deadpool grinned. "I'm in."

With a swift, clean swing, Deadpool brought his sword down, slicing straight through Dante's neck. The head rolled across the floor, the body collapsing in a heap.

The remaining mercenaries—who'd only moments ago looked to their leader as their savior—now stood frozen in horror, expressions twisted in disbelief.

What… what just happened?