Y'know... at times, Wade thinks he should ruminate on the directions his life had taken. He thinks that maybe one say he should sit down and really hash it out with himself regarding the paths he's chosen. He thinks that maybe, if he were the kind of man for that sort of deep introspection, he would be able to pinpoint the exact moment that his life got so fucking weird.
But he isn't. And if there's one thing Wade W. Wilson is good at, it's dancing to a different beat.
The creature that stands before him is an ugly motherfucker, tall and humanoid with a strange looking mask adorning its face like some sort of old-timey gas mask. Surrounding it are amoeba-like oozes that pulse and squelch and shudder their way towards him. But Wade doesn't really concern himself with that. He's got the music in him.
He stands still as a statue, almost impossibly still considering who he is, and stares the masked creature down with a look of confident self-assurance. If he'd come with hype men they'd be losing their shit in the background right now. Slowly his legs begin to move in the stomping, staccato beat of a Flamenco dance, his hips quickly following; succumbing to the music even as he never takes his eyes off his quarry.
"Aww, yeah. You see this shit? Get ready for the thunder, motherfucker. Jose Greco, eat your heart out."
A soft metallic shing of sound as he unsheathes the katanas at his back. The blobs have shifted closer, but he spares them only a cursory glance, never stopping his movements. Hopefully Tall, Dark and Fugly over there will be too distracted by his fancy footwork to notice when he buries the blade in its skull. After he takes out its flunkies one by one, of course. He's nothing if not thorough.
Wade Wilson | Deadpool (Marvel 616) | OTA
Y'know... at times, Wade thinks he should ruminate on the directions his life had taken. He thinks that maybe one say he should sit down and really hash it out with himself regarding the paths he's chosen. He thinks that maybe, if he were the kind of man for that sort of deep introspection, he would be able to pinpoint the exact moment that his life got so fucking weird.
But he isn't. And if there's one thing Wade W. Wilson is good at, it's dancing to a different beat.
The creature that stands before him is an ugly motherfucker, tall and humanoid with a strange looking mask adorning its face like some sort of old-timey gas mask. Surrounding it are amoeba-like oozes that pulse and squelch and shudder their way towards him. But Wade doesn't really concern himself with that. He's got the music in him.
He stands still as a statue, almost impossibly still considering who he is, and stares the masked creature down with a look of confident self-assurance. If he'd come with hype men they'd be losing their shit in the background right now. Slowly his legs begin to move in the stomping, staccato beat of a Flamenco dance, his hips quickly following; succumbing to the music even as he never takes his eyes off his quarry.
"Aww, yeah. You see this shit? Get ready for the thunder, motherfucker. Jose Greco, eat your heart out."
A soft metallic shing of sound as he unsheathes the katanas at his back. The blobs have shifted closer, but he spares them only a cursory glance, never stopping his movements. Hopefully Tall, Dark and Fugly over there will be too distracted by his fancy footwork to notice when he buries the blade in its skull. After he takes out its flunkies one by one, of course. He's nothing if not thorough.