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IC CONTACT
"Yo, there's no beep on this thing."
[ VOICE, VIDEO, ACTION ]
"Yo, there's no beep on this thing."
[ VOICE, VIDEO, ACTION ]
[ Every loss hurts in its own way. Sometimes Rose's heart still aches to think of Wally and his dorky attitude. Sometimes her own chest tightens when she remembers Sam's very life being choked out of him by vines. The shot gun blast that had taken down Dean still echoes through her sleeping mind occasionally. They all left their own little marks.
Yet nothing could have prepared her for the gash this sudden absence inflicts on her heart. The thought (he's gone, just like all the rest claws into her mind almost immediately. Still, Rose waits. She hopes. She hums quiet tunes that her guitar plays itself to in a stifling silence. Every entrance and exit has her leaping up in excitement, only to be crushed by disappointment when it's not the presence she's wishing for.
Eventually, her pessimism gets the better of her and she idly scans the phone once, twice, more times than she cares to admit because she can't find what she's looking for. Everything about her grows weary; a bone-deep exhaustion seeps into ever part of her, down to her very soul. Rose wilts at the realization.
He's not coming back.
Pinpointing anything is hard in the numbness that clouds her thoughts, her actions. For a while, she runs on autopilot and does anything and everything she can to not think about how quiet the house has inexplicably become. There's a void in her life that she doesn't even begin to know how to fill. It isn't the first and it likely isn't the last but this one hits harder than all the rest for so many reasons.
He was her first. He was her friend. He was part of her pack, which wasn't something to be taken lightly. He had saved her life. He was one of the extremely few things that made this house feel like a home in all the right ways. There was so much she wanted to learn, so much she wanted to tell. The regret over that is the most poignant of anything, she thinks.
Was, she realizes she's saying. Was.
His scent lingers on his shirts; she finds herself wearing one without even meaning to. He'd always teased her about stealing his style and she wishes, wants more than anything, for him to make a quip about it right now.
But he won't. He might never again.
The realization that Jesse is well and truly gone finds Rose curled up under her covers in one of his over-sized shirts; the sobs she's choking on are contained and quiet but depressingly heart-wrenching to anyone that happens to hear them. Finally, she cries herself exhausted and doesn't have the energy to do anything but sleep. Not surprisingly, it doesn't do anything to alleviate her grief as her mind is littered with nightmares of someone she cares about most trapped in a place she can't reach.
It leaves her feeling absolutely useless in every sense of the word. Worthless. Hopeless. Despair seeps into her every waking and sleeping thought; there is nothing she can do.
Haven truly is Hell, isn't it? ]
Yet nothing could have prepared her for the gash this sudden absence inflicts on her heart. The thought (he's gone, just like all the rest claws into her mind almost immediately. Still, Rose waits. She hopes. She hums quiet tunes that her guitar plays itself to in a stifling silence. Every entrance and exit has her leaping up in excitement, only to be crushed by disappointment when it's not the presence she's wishing for.
Eventually, her pessimism gets the better of her and she idly scans the phone once, twice, more times than she cares to admit because she can't find what she's looking for. Everything about her grows weary; a bone-deep exhaustion seeps into ever part of her, down to her very soul. Rose wilts at the realization.
He's not coming back.
Pinpointing anything is hard in the numbness that clouds her thoughts, her actions. For a while, she runs on autopilot and does anything and everything she can to not think about how quiet the house has inexplicably become. There's a void in her life that she doesn't even begin to know how to fill. It isn't the first and it likely isn't the last but this one hits harder than all the rest for so many reasons.
He was her first. He was her friend. He was part of her pack, which wasn't something to be taken lightly. He had saved her life. He was one of the extremely few things that made this house feel like a home in all the right ways. There was so much she wanted to learn, so much she wanted to tell. The regret over that is the most poignant of anything, she thinks.
Was, she realizes she's saying. Was.
His scent lingers on his shirts; she finds herself wearing one without even meaning to. He'd always teased her about stealing his style and she wishes, wants more than anything, for him to make a quip about it right now.
But he won't. He might never again.
The realization that Jesse is well and truly gone finds Rose curled up under her covers in one of his over-sized shirts; the sobs she's choking on are contained and quiet but depressingly heart-wrenching to anyone that happens to hear them. Finally, she cries herself exhausted and doesn't have the energy to do anything but sleep. Not surprisingly, it doesn't do anything to alleviate her grief as her mind is littered with nightmares of someone she cares about most trapped in a place she can't reach.
It leaves her feeling absolutely useless in every sense of the word. Worthless. Hopeless. Despair seeps into her every waking and sleeping thought; there is nothing she can do.
Haven truly is Hell, isn't it? ]
Compared to what he's dealt with in the past few months, this pain means nothing.
Wade smiles where he lies on the cold hard ground, savoring how poetic it is that things would turn out this way. He's in bad shape-- a cut across his stomach has severed him almost in two; his right arm has been amputated above the elbow, and he seems to be missing at least one of his legs. A quote from the Wizard of Oz movie bubbles up to the surface of his tired brain (spoken by the Scarecrow, who was ironically his favorite character growing up)-- first they took my legs and threw them over there, then they took my arms and they threw them over there-- and he has to chuckle, weakly, at how much it fits in this exact moment.
The only difference between him and old strawhead-- now, anyway-- is that it'll be much more difficult to put him back together again. Maybe single-handedly taking on Pyramid Head wasn't the best idea. Well, if it wasn't single-handed before, it sure is now, he thinks, and lets out another weak, painful chuckle. He's losing a lot of blood. That would explain the light-headedness; the sudden giddiness. Wade welcomes the feeling-- it's certainly a much better alternative to the agony; the all-consuming desolation he'd felt when he saw that Jesse's face was gone from his phone. He'd managed to keep a stiff upper lip despite everything-- Hiruma and Rosie were beside themselves with grief (Hiruma was better at hiding it behind a tough exterior than Rosie was, but a huckster can easily spot another huckster)-- and he wasn't about to have yet another blowout while at least two of his roommates were down and out. But every man has his breaking point, and the convenience store-- that impenetrable eyesore-- seemed to taunt him day after day.
To be honest, he isn't sure how he'd managed to get close enough to the store to implement his plan. It was a suicide mission, plain and simple, and Wade didn't fool himself into thinking it was anything but. All he'd had was his guns, his swords, and a few homemade explosives he'd managed to pilfer from Housing 1's very own destructive duo. But perhaps it was this audacity-- the audacity of charging forward when you had nothing left to lose-- that caused luck to be on his side if only for a split second.
The explosion from the carefully-placed makeshift bomb rocked the side of the convenience store, but Wade didn't have time to see whether or not it had made an impact. The telltale scraping sound of a large weapon being dragged along the ground caught Wade's attention, and although the creature carrying it didn't make any sort of organic noises, he knew from the speed and frequency of the scraping noises that it was pissed. Wade didn't bother wasting time letting the triangle-headed monstrosity get near enough to take a shot at him. He opened fire-- blasting the creature with bullets and hot words shouted until his throat was hoarse; unleashing all of his despair and rage and blind hatred of Yao onto the one thing that had become a staple of Yao's cruelty and unrelenting sadism.
In hindsight, he thinks to himself, as he looks down at the extensive damage the Great Knife had caused him, it probably wasn't the best idea to charge in guns a-blazing. No doubt it would've worked, if the convenience store hadn't decided to respond to this flagrant display of violence by shutting off Wade's healing factor in the middle of the fight. Blood pools around Wade's body where he lies, sticky and warm-- but somehow kind of pleasant, as if he's slipping into a warm bath.
His repose is momentarily interrupted by the familiar scraping sound of Pyramid Head approaching him, and he looks down to see that the creature is looking at him curiously-- or at the very least, has his helmet angled down as if he's looking at him. Wade offers him a weary smile.
"Heh. Wasn't the smartest plan, was it? Y'know, I don't think we were properly introduced."
He moves his remaining arm slowly, painstakingly, turning the palm upwards, middle finger defiantly extended. It's not just Pyramid Head he's addressing now, but all of them-- Yao, the traitors, and that god damned convenience store.
"My name is Wade Wilson. Also known as Deadpool. I'm the last of the Originals here, and you can go fuck yourself."
The creature makes no sign that he hears or understands Wade's boast. He moves slowly, bringing the Great Knife high above his head. Wade closes his eyes with a sigh. All things considered, it's not a bad way to go. Heaven, hell, nothingness or eternity as a ghost-- anything has to be better than this. At least no one could say he didn't try. As the pain leaves him and he falls deeper into drowsy somnolence, he sees the faces of all the people that he's lost-- Glitch, Lightning, Caterina, Petros, Abel, Clem, Travis, Jesse, Al-- everyone whose lives had touched him in some small way are standing before him, smiling and waving and beckoning to him. It's a hallucination, it's gotta be-- Petros never smiles-- but it's one that Wade dives into in relief; in gladness. Tears spill from his eyes as his smile grows wider in anticipation. It feels wonderful not to have to struggle anymore. On my way, guys. Finally.
"Go 'head. Do what you g--"
Do what you gotta do, big guy, is what he'd meant to say, but one final strike of the Great Knife cuts off his words completely. There's one final nauseating crunch; one last split-second of agony as the weapon punches through his ribcage, and then Wade Wilson knows no more.
Wade smiles where he lies on the cold hard ground, savoring how poetic it is that things would turn out this way. He's in bad shape-- a cut across his stomach has severed him almost in two; his right arm has been amputated above the elbow, and he seems to be missing at least one of his legs. A quote from the Wizard of Oz movie bubbles up to the surface of his tired brain (spoken by the Scarecrow, who was ironically his favorite character growing up)-- first they took my legs and threw them over there, then they took my arms and they threw them over there-- and he has to chuckle, weakly, at how much it fits in this exact moment.
The only difference between him and old strawhead-- now, anyway-- is that it'll be much more difficult to put him back together again. Maybe single-handedly taking on Pyramid Head wasn't the best idea. Well, if it wasn't single-handed before, it sure is now, he thinks, and lets out another weak, painful chuckle. He's losing a lot of blood. That would explain the light-headedness; the sudden giddiness. Wade welcomes the feeling-- it's certainly a much better alternative to the agony; the all-consuming desolation he'd felt when he saw that Jesse's face was gone from his phone. He'd managed to keep a stiff upper lip despite everything-- Hiruma and Rosie were beside themselves with grief (Hiruma was better at hiding it behind a tough exterior than Rosie was, but a huckster can easily spot another huckster)-- and he wasn't about to have yet another blowout while at least two of his roommates were down and out. But every man has his breaking point, and the convenience store-- that impenetrable eyesore-- seemed to taunt him day after day.
To be honest, he isn't sure how he'd managed to get close enough to the store to implement his plan. It was a suicide mission, plain and simple, and Wade didn't fool himself into thinking it was anything but. All he'd had was his guns, his swords, and a few homemade explosives he'd managed to pilfer from Housing 1's very own destructive duo. But perhaps it was this audacity-- the audacity of charging forward when you had nothing left to lose-- that caused luck to be on his side if only for a split second.
The explosion from the carefully-placed makeshift bomb rocked the side of the convenience store, but Wade didn't have time to see whether or not it had made an impact. The telltale scraping sound of a large weapon being dragged along the ground caught Wade's attention, and although the creature carrying it didn't make any sort of organic noises, he knew from the speed and frequency of the scraping noises that it was pissed. Wade didn't bother wasting time letting the triangle-headed monstrosity get near enough to take a shot at him. He opened fire-- blasting the creature with bullets and hot words shouted until his throat was hoarse; unleashing all of his despair and rage and blind hatred of Yao onto the one thing that had become a staple of Yao's cruelty and unrelenting sadism.
In hindsight, he thinks to himself, as he looks down at the extensive damage the Great Knife had caused him, it probably wasn't the best idea to charge in guns a-blazing. No doubt it would've worked, if the convenience store hadn't decided to respond to this flagrant display of violence by shutting off Wade's healing factor in the middle of the fight. Blood pools around Wade's body where he lies, sticky and warm-- but somehow kind of pleasant, as if he's slipping into a warm bath.
His repose is momentarily interrupted by the familiar scraping sound of Pyramid Head approaching him, and he looks down to see that the creature is looking at him curiously-- or at the very least, has his helmet angled down as if he's looking at him. Wade offers him a weary smile.
"Heh. Wasn't the smartest plan, was it? Y'know, I don't think we were properly introduced."
He moves his remaining arm slowly, painstakingly, turning the palm upwards, middle finger defiantly extended. It's not just Pyramid Head he's addressing now, but all of them-- Yao, the traitors, and that god damned convenience store.
"My name is Wade Wilson. Also known as Deadpool. I'm the last of the Originals here, and you can go fuck yourself."
The creature makes no sign that he hears or understands Wade's boast. He moves slowly, bringing the Great Knife high above his head. Wade closes his eyes with a sigh. All things considered, it's not a bad way to go. Heaven, hell, nothingness or eternity as a ghost-- anything has to be better than this. At least no one could say he didn't try. As the pain leaves him and he falls deeper into drowsy somnolence, he sees the faces of all the people that he's lost-- Glitch, Lightning, Caterina, Petros, Abel, Clem, Travis, Jesse, Al-- everyone whose lives had touched him in some small way are standing before him, smiling and waving and beckoning to him. It's a hallucination, it's gotta be-- Petros never smiles-- but it's one that Wade dives into in relief; in gladness. Tears spill from his eyes as his smile grows wider in anticipation. It feels wonderful not to have to struggle anymore. On my way, guys. Finally.
"Go 'head. Do what you g--"
Do what you gotta do, big guy, is what he'd meant to say, but one final strike of the Great Knife cuts off his words completely. There's one final nauseating crunch; one last split-second of agony as the weapon punches through his ribcage, and then Wade Wilson knows no more.
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