16476/What does hell have on Deadpool

What does hell have on Deadpool
Date of Scene:	12 August 2024
Location:	Alleyway, Clinton
Synopsis:	Spawn and Deadpool compare pain. The answer may surprise you.
Cast of Characters:	Deadpool, Spawn

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Deadpool has posed:
In the dim, grime-coated labyrinth of the dark alley, shadows danced across the litter-strewn ground. The alley was a grotesque tableau of urban decay - overflowing trash cans, scattered debris, and the pungent aroma of rotting refuse formed a grim backdrop. A dumpster, its exterior smeared with layers of filth, loomed ominously, casting a stifling, foul odor that hung in the air like a noxious fog.

A vented sewer grate released thick, putrid steam from the bowels of the city, adding to the alley's oppressive stench. Small rodents darted nervously from one shadow to the next, their tiny claws scraping against the grimy pavement as they foraged for scraps. The alleyway's end remained an enigmatic abyss, swallowed by darkness and shrouded in the promise of an uncertain, potentially perilous journey.

Amidst this squalor and unease, Deadpool strolled down the alley with a strikingly incongruous air of nonchalance. Strapped to his back was a bright pink Hello Kitty backpack, its cheerful, cartoonish design a bizarre contrast to the grim surroundings. In his gloved hands, he cradled a large pizza, the cheese and toppings scent rising in defiance of the alley's grim ambiance.

Deadpool's presence was a curious sight - a figure of irreverent confidence amidst the alley's dark, oppressive atmosphere. His steps were leisurely and deliberate, as though the alley's menacing aura held no sway over him. The juxtaposition of his whimsical backpack and the pizza in the midst of such decay seemed almost a deliberate mockery of the grim setting.

As he moved forward, Deadpool's unmistakable voice broke the silence, filled with his characteristic irreverence. "Well, isn't this a charming little slice of urban paradise," he quipped, his tone echoing off the grimy walls. The alley, already a place of foreboding, now seemed to bear witness to the arrival of someone who was decidedly unfazed by its darkness.

Spawn has posed:
Squalor and decay attracts certain types of people. Dark, out-of-the-way places do too. Most of them are up to no good, but the question is one of extents. Take this strange little man, in his red-and-black costume. He's eating pizza, as if defying the gut-wrenching stink of rotting trash and steam from the sewage system. He's well-heeled, more like a vigilante than a troublemaker, but there are some like that who just want to hurt people too. Hard to tell, by sight alone.

There's a skittering sound from above as something moves along the high walls which surround the alley. Or maybe shuffling is a better way to describe it. It's as if a spider the size of one of those nasty metal dumpsters was climbing around while dragging a body along with it. That sound cuts off abruptly followed by a sound more like air whooshing through a tube, and then silence returns. If Spawn is in the area, he isn't making himself known.

Deadpool has posed:
Deadpool's senses were on high alert as he took another leisurely bite of his pizza, mask rolled up to his nose. His eyes flickered up to the high walls with exaggerated nonchalance. The eerie silence that followed the unsettling sounds had become almost palpable, a thick fog of anticipation that made his lighthearted demeanor feel out of place. He finished chewing and washed down the pizza with a swig from his can of Coke, letting out a satisfied sigh. Clasping his gloved hands together as he set his food down on a nearby dumpster, "Alright, let's see what's crawling around in the shadows," he muttered to himself. He adjusted the straps of his bright pink Hello Kitty bag and readied himself for action.

As Deadpool stepped carefully through the grime and refuse of the alley, the oppressive darkness seemed to pulse with an ominous energy. The familiar clatter of rodents retreating into the depths of the trash seemed to underscore the sense of impending danger. He moved with a fluid grace that belied his casual appearance, every muscle in his body tensed for the slightest hint of movement. His eyes darted to every shadow, every flicker of the dim light, as if trying to predict the next chapter of this urban horror story.

Suddenly, a subtle shift in the air, a barely perceptible disturbance in the shadows, caught his attention. Deadpool froze, his mask's lenses focusing intently on the area where the skittering sounds had originated. The alley's darkness seemed to thicken, wrapping around him like a suffocating blanket. His mind raced through potential scenarios - none of them particularly pleasant. "Alright, creepy crawly, show yourself. I've got a date with destiny and a pizza to finish," he called out, his voice a mix of bravado and underlying tension.

Spawn has posed:
Low to the ground, tucked in between a big dumpster whose bright green paint has peeled off to reveal rusted steel and a pile of rotting trash which passersby have preferred to contribute to rather than lift the slimy-looking lid just a few feet away, there's a bright but sickly green glow. It looks like eyes staring out of the pitch-black, with tiny flames where the lids should be and little tendrils of backlit smoke rising from the corners.

Those glowing eyes start out about knee-high to Deadpool, but when the costumed vigilante focuses on them they begin to slowly rise. Little by little, the points of greenish light ascend until they're looking down from a whole seven feet above the ground. Unless Deadpool has some resistance to telepathy, Spawn answers him with an auditory hallucination rather than audible speech. The voice sounds like it comes from a long-dead, dry throat. It's deep but broken, almost rattling through its words. "You know Destiny isn't her real name."

Deadpool has posed:
Deadpool's eyes locked onto the sickly green glow emanating from between the dumpster and the pile of rotting trash. The light's eerie flicker, with its tiny flames and tendrils of smoke, was almost mesmerizing in its grotesque beauty. He couldn't help but quirk an 'eye hole' in intrigue. His mask was highly responsive, shifting its expressions in sync with his own facial movements. "Well, that's one way to make an entrance," he murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

Deadpool's gaze narrowed as he processed the voice's words. The hallucination, or whatever it was, had a way of making the air feel colder, the darkness more suffocating. "Great, just what I needed. A creepy voice with tinder info," he said, trying to keep his tone light despite the creeping discomfort. He adjusted his stance, "and here I thought I was just getting a tour of the city's trashiest spots. Now we're delving into identity theft? I knew I must've missed a memo. It serves me right for showing up to work late."

Spawn has posed:
The green glows turn askew, as if the head they were planted in was tilted to one side. "Work," the voice answers slowly, as if tasting the word, but it's still only in Deadpool's head. The eyes straighten out and the thing they belong to steps forward. It's not really "into the light" but it's "out of the deepest darkness" so it gives a good look at the giant. The dark red cape looks like spurts of blood welling from the skulls affixed to his collarbones, then flows down his back like a river. The black armor has a similar sense of motion, but more like a billion insects crawling over the body underneath. Those bugs seem to shift color as they move, flowing from the huge black field into the white slashes seamlessly enough that the edges of the lines stay sharp and straight. It's unarmed, unless you count the spikes on its red bracers and greaves. And the chains.

"What kind of work? You Destiny's pimp, or just another trick?" Keeping its attention fixed on Deadpool, it paces toward the middle of the alleyway as if to block that path. "Got big plans for her, with the blades, do you?"

Deadpool has posed:
Deadpool squared his shoulders, his mask's expressive eyes narrowing with a mix of amusement and defiance. "Alright, let's clear this up," he said, his voice steady despite the palpable tension. "I'm no illusion, no figment of your imagination. I'm the Merc with the Mouth, the guy who makes jokes while he slices and dices." He gestured grandly with his katanas, as if showcasing his unique brand of chaos. "So, if you're here for a deep, existential conversation, you might want to lower those expectations."

He continued, his tone taking on a conspiratorial edge. "As for Destiny... yeah, I'm pretty sure she's into Mystique. You know, like in that Ellen DeGeneres sort of way, if you catch my drift." Deadpool made a playful wink behind his mask, as if to punctuate the comparison. His flippant attitude was a stark contrast to the dark and foreboding atmosphere around his companion.

Deadpool took a step forward, his gaze unwavering as he sized up the giant before him. "So, unless you're planning on offering me some high-stakes philosophical debate or an epic showdown, I'd suggest you let me get back to my pizza and my evening stroll. But hey, if you've got any other existential tidbits or mystical prophecies, I'm all ears. Just remember, I'm not here to get tangled in some cosmic drama, I'm here to have a good time and maybe save the day, or at least not die trying."

Spawn has posed:
Spawn lets out a sudden, audible grunt of disappointment and disgust. The jaw moving under the armored mask is visible, to prove it isn't another hallucination. "Heard of you," is delivered abruptly, back to the auditory hallucination transmitted by telepathy. The voice has changed, though, now deep and smooth as if it came from a living human throat. "You're going to Hell, but I won't send you tonight."

The giant thing continues to stand there, though. He's statuesque, except for the literally burning eyes which continue to stare down at Deadpool and the never-ending movement of his cape and his suit. It seems to be waiting to see if the other plans to give him an excuse to change his mind.

Deadpool has posed:
Deadpool's eyes sparkled with mischief as he continued to hold Spawn's intense gaze. "Speaking of Hell," he began, his tone shifting to a playful curiosity, "who's running the place now that Lucifer's taken up a gig as a lounge singer in Bludhaven? I hear he's got quite the following, serenading the locals with smooth jazz and existential dread."

Still grinning beneath his mask, he eyed Spawn. "I mean, I'd hate to think Hell's gone all corporate while I'm out here just trying to enjoy a pizza. What's the new management like? Less fiery torment, and more open mic nights?" Deadpool's irreverent humor was his way of coping with the unsettling nature of the encounter, using his characteristic wit to deflect the heaviness of the situation and keep the atmosphere on his terms.

Spawn has posed:
The green eyes narrow at Deadpool's sarcastic change of subject as if the thing is assessing whether that was actually meant to provoke a response. When Spawn reaches a decision, the eyes flare back to what passes for normal. Instead of answering, and since the little man is open to Spawn's telepathic broadcasts, it stands there in silence while Deadpool's heart beats a few times and then it broadcasts a full-sensory hallucination.

It's not Hell, it's the current moment from Spawn's point of view. Deadpool is standing there in front of him, looking up while Spawn looks down. The agony is unbearable. If you can imagine every cell in your body being composed of Hellfire which can feel its own heat, and if you can imagine that you are a withered and rotting corpse covered in bugs that constantly consume the tiniest amount of your burning flesh at every millisecond, then you have some idea.

There is no smell from the alley's ambiance, but that's only because you can't breathe even though your instincts tell you to, so you are constantly in the full-on panic and lung-searing pain of suffocation which will not end. There is no light, either. You don't really see anything, so much as you feel the presence of objects and souls, but that isn't limited to the alley. The sense of it is blinding and deafening and somehow comprehensible at the same time. It's a lot like having a migraine. Finally is the empathic awareness of every soul in range of that detection. The greed, the gluttony, the hedonism, the hate, the fear. It ebbs and flows like the bass beat at a heavy metal concert, close to the stage.

Spawn includes no judgement or emotion of his own, rather leaving Deadpool to draw his own conclusions. The whole upload occurs in less than a second, and represents less time than that, which is as close to an act of mercy as the Hellspawn is inclined to perform.

Deadpool has posed:
As the nightmarish vision faded, Deadpool blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the lingering echoes of torment. The alley seemed to reassert itself around him, the oppressive darkness replaced by the dim glow of his surroundings. He took a deep breath, forcing a grin through his mask despite the profound impact of the hallucination. "Whoa, buddy, talk about an immersive experience!" he exclaimed, his voice laced with a mix of irreverence and newfound respect. "That's one way to give someone a taste of Hell... way to go for the full sensory overload!"

Deadpool adjusted his stance, his gaze softening as he looked at Spawn with a mixture of empathy and his trademark cheekiness. "I've got to hand it to you, big guy. If Hell's your day job, you're definitely working overtime. I've had some rough days myself, but I've never had the pleasure of feeling like a walking, flaming corpse surrounded by a bug buffet." He paused, letting out a small chuckle. "Though, I guess if I did, I'd probably want to take a long, hot shower, and maybe a vacation to, I dunno, Tahiti. I hear it's a magical place."

Spawn has posed:
Spawn lets out a long, low, rumbling sound. It sounds like a dry, hacking cough echoed into a big metal can. Probably laughter. The sound subsides quickly, replaced by the thing's own physical voice spoken audibly. It's back to that original grating sound, like the voice of a long-dead corpse that somehow forces words through its death-rattle. "You asked."

It falls a single step back, since Deadpool didn't make an aggressive move, and then aside. "Like I said, I won't be sending you to Hell tonight."

Deadpool has posed:
Deadpool's grin through the mask widened with exaggerated satisfaction, "well, look at that," he said, his tone light and appreciative. "Tonight, I do not dine in hell!" He paused dramatically, holding up a broken piece of plastic as if toasting Spawn. "This is New York!" he exclaimed with mock grandeur. "Except, of course, instead of an epic showdown in a land of warriors, I'm here letting my pizza get cold in an alley while you're standing around looking all brooding and? well, hellish."

He shrugged with a playful smirk, savoring the irony of the situation. "It's nice to know I'm not on the menu tonight," he continued, gesturing toward the glowing eyes with a wink. Damn those costume eyes were expressive. "You might be all about torment and fire, but I'm just here for the laughs and some quality pizza time. So, thanks for not adding me to the list of your grievances. Maybe next time, we can swap stories over a coffee or something. Just, you know, less fire and more caffeine."

Spawn has posed:
Spawn turns his back on Deadpool, not as a form of insult or dismissal, but because he's leaving. The giant thing reaches up to touch the grimy brick wall with one hand, then puts a toe against it as if he intends to climb, and somehow becomes like a four-legged thing that skitters up the wall. Hand-over-hand and foot-over-foot, leaving that shuffling noise echoing behind him, he vanishes into the darkness above.