Death, for Wade Wilson, was less of a final destination and more of a recurring inconvenience, like jury duty or a Wi-Fi signal that keeps dropping. He'd been shot, stabbed, vaporized, dismembered, and once, memorably, run through an industrial bread slicer. Each time, his prodigious healing factor had stitched him back together, pulling his atoms out of the existential lost-and-found and shoving them back into a vaguely person-shaped configuration. This time, however, felt different. This time felt… final.
And it was all because of a chimichanga.
Specifically, it was because of the one-thousandth chimichanga. The air in the rented Brooklyn warehouse was thick with the smell of fried tortillas, molten cheese, and the collective sweat of two dozen cheering, gambling mercenaries. At the center of it all, upon a throne made of stacked milk crates, sat Deadpool. He was on the verge of shattering the world record for competitive chimichanga consumption, a record he himself had fabricated that very morning.
"Nine-hundred and ninety-nine down, folks!" he announced, his voice muffled by the mask and a mouthful of seasoned beef. He held the final, golden-brown parcel aloft like a holy scepter. "One more for the history books! Weasel, you got the confetti cannon ready? I want a real New Year's Eve vibe for the big moment. Something classy."
Weasel, squinting from behind a folding table that served as the betting pool, gave him a greasy thumbs-up. "It's loaded with shredded tax forms and glitter, just like you asked."
"Perfect. A tribute to my two greatest enemies: the IRS and craft projects."
Deadpool paused, savoring the moment. The crowd roared. Blind Al cackled from her corner, probably placing a last-minute bet against him. It was a perfect scene. The kind of memory you'd want to cherish. He pulled up his mask to just below his nose, the scarred landscape of his lower face a testament to a life lived unwisely. He took a deep, theatrical breath, preparing for the final bite that would secure his meaningless, self-invented legacy.
And then he saw them.
Across the room, leaning against a stack of crates, was a new intern from the local mercenary guild. A kid, no older than nineteen. But it wasn't the kid that captured Deadpool's attention. It was his socks. They were magnificent. A vibrant, Argyle pattern of canary yellow and sky blue, peeking out perfectly from the cuff of his worn-out jeans. The tension of the fabric against his ankle was just… chef's kiss. It was a statement. It spoke of a man with confidence, with a certain sartorial flair. Deadpool felt an immediate, primal urge to possess them. To catalogue them. To perhaps even build a tiny, climate-controlled shrine for them.
"Dude, focus," said a calm, white text box that appeared in his peripheral vision. "World record. Remember?"
"Yeah, but look at those socks!" screamed a frantic, yellow text box. "They're pristine! He's not even bunching them at the heel! That's the mark of quality!"
The internal debate was so consuming that he failed to notice he had, in his distraction, inhaled the entire chimichanga in one go. Not chewed. Not savored. Inhaled. The deep-fried behemoth lodged itself perfectly in his esophagus, a greasy torpedo in a fleshy tube.
His eyes went wide. He made a sound like a deflating bagpipe. His hands flew to his throat. The crowd's cheering faltered, turning into a confused murmur.
His healing factor, bless its overachieving heart, tried its best. It flooded his system with regenerative cells, desperately attempting to patch the damage his suffocating brain was incurring. It tried to regrow his throat around the obstruction, which only served to wedge it in tighter. He could feel his own biology actively working against him, a mutiny of flesh and sinew.
He staggered to his feet, knocking over the milk-crate throne. He flailed, pointing a trembling finger toward the kid with the socks, a silent, final accusation. The world began to swim, the cheering faces warping into blurs of color. His last coherent thought wasn't of love, or loss, or some grand regret. It was a simple, profound realization.
I never got the socks.
And then, for the first time in a very, very long time, everything went black.
…
Wade Wilson came to not in a hospital bed or a shallow grave, but in a chair. A surprisingly comfortable chair, like something out of a mid-range dentist's office. The space around him was an endless, featureless white, and the air was filled with the faint, infuriating sound of instrumental soft-rock. It was the kind of place you waited for your number to be called before being told your insurance didn't cover the procedure.
He looked down at himself. He was whole. No bullet holes, no chimichanga-induced asphyxiation. His classic red-and-black suit was clean, pressed, and completely intact.
"Okay," he said to the emptiness. "This is new. Usually there's a tunnel of light and some vague promises from a disembodied voice. This feels… corporate. Did I die and go to a timeshare presentation?"
As if on cue, a magnificent golden throne materialized a few feet in front of him, shimmering into existence with a soft, melodious chime. And upon it sat a woman.
She was stunning, in an almost offensively obvious way. Long, flowing blue hair that defied gravity, impossibly clear blue eyes, and a celestial raiment that did very little to hide her generous assets. A transparent, iridescent scarf floated around her, adding to the ethereal effect. She radiated an aura of divine grace and profound dignity.
"Welcome, departed soul," she announced, her voice echoing with a gentle, celestial authority. "Wade Wilson. You have perished. I am the goddess Aqua. I am the one who guides the young people of Earth who die tragic and untimely deaths to their new lives."
Deadpool stared, head cocked. He slowly raised a hand.
"Yeah, hi, a couple of notes," he began. "First, 'tragic and untimely'? Honey, I was a middle-aged mercenary who choked on Mexican food while trying to impress a bunch of lowlifes. The only tragedy is the hit my street cred is gonna take. Second…" He squinted at her. "You're the goddess who handles this whole operation? Really? You look like you just came from a cosplay convention. Are we sure you're not the receptionist?"
Aqua's serene smile twitched. "I assure you, I am a goddess. It is my sacred duty to..."
"...to offer me a choice," Deadpool interrupted, leaning forward and ticking points off on his fingers. "Right? Let me guess. Option A: I can go to a boring, peaceful Heaven where everyone plays harps and pretends they read the terms and conditions. Option B: I can be reborn as a baby on Earth with no memory of my awesome sock collection, a non-starter, by the way. Or Option C, the big one: I get sent to a fantasy world with swords and magic and a big, bad Demon King that needs vanquishing. And as a bonus, I get to take one thing with me. A cheat item. An OP skill. A divine weapon. How am I doing so far?"
Aqua's jaw hung slightly agape. The iridescent scarf drooped. "How… how could you possibly know that?"
"It's called pattern recognition, sweetheart. It's the foundational trope of the Isekai genre. You're the obligatory pretty-but-slightly-useless goddess who serves as the exposition dump before the protagonist gets his god-tier power-up. Honestly, your stats are probably garbage. High in looks, maybe some decent holy magic, but I bet your intelligence and luck are in the single digits."
"My stats are not garbage!" she shrieked, her divine composure shattering like cheap glass. She shot to her feet, pointing an accusatory finger. "I am a respected and worshipped Arch-Priest! My followers shower me with praise and offerings!"
"Sure they do," Deadpool said, waving a dismissive hand. "Now, about my cheat item. I've given this some thought. I'll take the Infinity Gauntlet. No, wait, too flashy. How about the complete collected works of Shakespeare, but in a language only goblins can understand? Ooh, I know! A platinum card for a celestial lingerie catalogue. I have… needs."
"You can't have any of those!" Aqua sputtered, her face turning a very un-goddessly shade of red. "You can only choose a single item or ability that exists!"
"Fine. You. I choose you," he said with a grin he knew she couldn't see but could definitely feel. "The rules always say you can take the goddess with you. It's the ultimate loophole for lonely protagonists."
That was the final straw. Aqua's face went from angry to volcanically furious. A blue, crackling aura enveloped her as she stomped her foot.
"THAT IS IT!" she roared, the soft-rock music cutting out abruptly. "I have had enough of your insolence! You want a new life? You want to go to a world with a Demon King? Fine! Your wish is granted!"
A brilliant, complex magic circle began to glow on the floor beneath Deadpool's chair. It was intricate, powerful, and pulsing with an energy that felt like a cosmic eviction notice.
"And you want a cheat item?" she continued, her voice dripping with spite. "I will grant you one! A special power, just for you! You can keep your memories! You can keep that bizarre, unholy body of yours that refuses to stay dead! That will be your 'divine gift' in this new world! May your curse of immortality serve you well in a world that will chew you up and spit you out! Now GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"
The light from the circle intensified, swallowing Deadpool whole. He was sinking, the comfortable chair dissolving into pure energy beneath him. But he wasn't scared. He was thrilled. This was way better than the bread slicer incident.
"Wait!" he shouted up at the furious, blue-haired silhouette. "One last thing! As a souvenir! A token of our time together! Can I have your panties?!"
The last thing he saw before the light consumed him completely was the look of pure, unadulterated horror on the goddess's face.
Aqua was left alone in the silent, white expanse. She was panting, her hair was a mess, and her divine aura was flickering like a faulty neon sign. A sense of righteous victory washed over her. She had gotten rid of the most infuriating, sacrilegious soul she had ever encountered.
Then, a small, systemic ping echoed in the void. A translucent screen appeared before her, the kind used for divine clerical work. On it was a summary of the soul she had just processed.
Name: Wade Wilson Destination World: RG-44 (Standard Fantasy Setting) Granted Ability: [Error: Unclassifiable]. Self-Regenerative Immortality & Acquired Knowledge Retention. System designates as Personal Skill, Rank: S.
Aqua stared at the 'S'. Not A. Not B. S-Rank. A skill on par with the divine weapons of the gods themselves.
A slow, creeping dread began to crawl up her spine. What had she done? She hadn't just punished an annoying mortal. She had taken an unkillable, fourth-wall-breaking agent of pure, weaponized chaos… and unleashed him upon a peaceful, unsuspecting fantasy world.
Her victory suddenly felt very, very hollow.