Author's Note: You know what. All I'm going to say about this one is that it takes place in the six months between Issues #83 and #84 (which I strongly recommend reading regardless of your situation). As for everything else, well, feel free to send me whatever questions you've got and enjoy. . .

With Apologies to Bea Arthur

Chapter One

Bargaining. . . with Bullets!

Now that he was no longer on the outside looking in, William Joseph Batson realized that he had finally come to appreciate all the times when his sister would pester him about all the mysteries that his new home had to offer. The eternal child in him, the one that now appeared to stand within the doorway of countless realities, had always been more than a little frightened of all the secrets that lay within the power that he would eventually come to inherit. The fact of the matter had been that the formerly mild-mannered newsboy would have liked nothing more than to continue fighting evildoers and performing good deeds as Captain Marvel, Earth's so-called Mightiest Mortal. The more difficult matters that he faced now, the decisions that would doom or save the lives of countless beings, had long been a detail that he was more than happy to leave in the hands of his mentor. Being just the cover page hero was more than enough and more than he could have ever wanted.

Nearly three years had passed since the moment when such continued ignorance was no longer an option, when Shazam sacrificed himself to stave off the insane rage stirred within The Spectre during what mystic circles had since referred to as the Day of Vengeance. The guilt borne from his inability to protect the wizard who had given him so much was still a decidedly strong factor within the diligence he now took to his adopted task. Each kind word and harsh lesson prompted him to continue gazing upon everything he had been asked to look over and protect. From the war torn realities plagued by chaos and confusion to the idyllic milieus where mortals had come to appreciate the need to become something greater by choosing to meet each other halfway, the boyish immortal now took to his task out of duty and responsibility. His desire to help those in need, regardless of if or what the reward may be, is what governed him now.

Realizing that he was starting to think a little too highly of himself, the youth let out a chuckle while running his small hands through his "Big Boy" haircut as his outerworldly senses returned to looking over the plane of reality that he formerly called home. First came a quick glimpse of Karbarra, the ursaroid planet, and all the efforts being made to repair the extensive damage done by the forces of Leokar Kurkosaw, and he felt encouraged that those proud creatures were still able to summon the courage to continue through their unwanted and undeserved difficulties. Bringing his sights over to an arm of that spiral galaxy, he then took in the similar exertions taking place on the planet of Qward, a land that was continuing to find its place after finally being rid of Sinestro, their longtime leader and source of stability. He hardly needed the wisdom of Lumian to realize that those creatures had a hard road ahead of them, the temptation to return to their war-soaked ways doubtlessly strong.

Batson sensed the arrival of his champion while taking a moment to glimpse at Gotham City, the apparent home of what had shockingly become his planet's greatest guardians. The combined forces of Vincent Culp and The Sinestro Corps had done their fair share of damage to this old, imperfect city but, just as before, the strong citizens remained rooted to the cause of restoring what they once were. Batting back the desire to keep looking, the raven-haired god turned to greet the arrival of Kal-L, the Superman from the destroyed reality commonly known as Earth-2, while the old man took his own turn to look into all that he had been asked to help protect. Despite being well into his nineties, the Kryptonian looked far more hale and hearty than most could ever hope to be, the only real signs of his advanced age stemming from the slight wrinkles on his face and the gray hair above his temples.

"It looks like things seem to be getting a little better," Kal noted as all-too-human workers labored to repair the damage brought to them by monsters that most of them could not even begin to comprehend. "Still wish that I could have lent them a hand through all of this. They've already been through so much, after all."

"Clark. . ." Billy began with a word of caution, the young man quickly recognizing the tone in his friend's voice.

"Ahhh," Superman went on, his right hand extending forward in a gesture of dismissal. "Forgive me, William. Just sort of thinking back to London after The Blitz is all." The World War II veteran let out a sigh as he momentarily became lost within memories of his old home. "All that work we did to protect the world and we didn't even notice that there was so much we failed to do. And those were the people that never asked a thing of us, the ones that always get caught in the crossfire."

"That's enough, Kal-L," Batson broke in with a mild tone of warning. "There's no need for you to find too much fault for your actions. You and I both know that our duties lied elsewhere and that the safety of this world was in more than capable hands."

As Billy had expected, it didn't take long for reality's greatest champion to summon himself back to form, the old hand shaking his head to and fro while a wry smile appeared on his lips. "Sorry about that, old chum," Kal-L said, his wise candor sounding almost sheepish. "I suppose that all of this still gets to me every now and again."

Batson allowed himself a chuckle. "Well, that being said, I still trust that everything went well on your latest assignment?"

"Indeed," came the quick reply. "The battle was a bit rougher than what we imagined but we were still able to see things through. For the life of me, though, I'm still havin' a hard time wrapping my mind around seeing good ol' Bruce Wayne as an orangutan."

The heir of The Rock of Eternity and all the wisdom and duties held within it did his best not to try to find too much enjoyment in Kal-L's disbelief in relation to the circumstances on Earth-274 as he did his best to focus on the task at hand. "I realize that I summoned you back here fairly quickly but at least that allows you a short time of relief before you must continue. You are welcome to rest and recover. . ."

"Now, now," Kal-L broke in himself, the stern determination that occasionally made its way towards his aged eyes coming back with a vengeance. "What do I keep telling you? I'm an old man and I've had plenty of time to do my fair share of sleeping so how about you just go ahead and tell me what's next on the itinerary?"

Realizing that the tone of the reply left little room for argument, Batson waved his right hand toward a window to his old reality in order to provide insight into the crisis at hand. Kal-L hardly required any prompting as he followed Billy's eyes, the older of the two guardians joining his comrade in looking upon the image of an impossibly long stream of light spreading across the center of an unoccupied galaxy thousands of light years from The Milky Way. The old man took in the glint of concern on Batson's boyish countenance from the corner of his right eye while continuing to process just what he was looking at, the answers remaining unknown but the threat presented by the unknown phenomenon as plain as day.

"What we're looking at is something known as a 'dimensional bleed'," Batson explained, "an unnatural merge between two planes of reality wherein aspects of both forms of existence attempt to reside within the same point."

Kal-L nodded slowly, his knowledge of the terminology not as vast as he would have liked but enough for him to understand what was needed. "So this isn't just a matter of something from one reality popping into another?"

"Indeed," Batson quickly replied. "And, as you can imagine, the effects of this have the potential to be far more damaging than those singular instances. In a worst case scenario, the influx of combined matter may ultimately result in the implosion of both realities, a circumstance that would, in turn, most likely have a severe impact upon the connections between everything within the newly constructed multiverse."

The first Superman did his best not to look too concerned at this, his instinctual desire to remain calm, cool, and collected in the face of potential danger taking over his honest sensibilities. "And you're guessing that this. . . distortion," he went on, his thoughts momentarily searching for the right word, "isn't just some random occurrence."

The slow nod Batson gave to Kal-L in return was all the answer that was needed. "This is why I am asking you to investigate the bleed itself, if only to determine its source of origin, while I summon champions from both affected realities that can work to combat the ones inflicting the damage. After all, if it's one thing that Shazam has taught me about such potential catastrophes it's that acquiring information about the problem itself is almost always the best way to learn how to fix it."

Kal-L let out an introspective hum as his old eyes shifted back to the window to Earth-1, a realization quickly dawning upon him. "You're going to summon them, aren't you? Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, I understand that they've done a good job of handling what's been asked of them but. . ."

"And they'll be able to take this on as well," Batson countered over his champion's somewhat expected grievance. "I understand that you believe them to be a bit immature but I am quite certain that, once they are able to recognize what is at stake, they shall respond in a truly professional manner."

No one had ever really thought about why the day room had become the focal point of much of the lunacy that occasionally took place in the expansive confines that was Wayne Manor. After all, there were enough rooms in the mansion to choose from and doubtlessly many other spaces that could have suited their activities just as efficiently, if not more so, but the fact remained that they still came here to this occasionally sun-dappled chamber with the high windows on the western side in order to waddle in their own sporadic insanity. It was where Cecilia and Stephanie had chosen to place the 52-inch, high-definition television which had since broadcast competitions ranging from football to go-cart racing to fights involving electric mice and similarly dressed glacieneers and heaven alone knows how many filthy or uncouth words had passed during such noisy encounters. More importantly, however, was the fact that the day room was currently the home of a hastily but competently constructed wooden stage, the base of which was shielded from view with the aid of a collection of long drapes stolen from Bruce Wayne's bedchamber.

And, at the front of the makeshift runway that accompanied said stage, stood Stephanie Brown, the fair-haired, 19-year-old lifelong Gothamite looking quite pleased about whatever was going to happen. "Esteemed ladies and gentlemen," she began, her lithe, muscular body still mostly covered by the dark orange body armor and black cape that she often wore as Robin, "After numerous suspicious delays, I would like to welcome all of you to The 2009 Misfits Fashion Show!"

The announcement drew a variety of responses from the various audience members seated in the chairs and couches now all turned to face the stage. Cecilia King-Jones and Linda Park-West both let out a cheer, the former's efforts naturally being a great deal more raucous than the latter's endeavors. Kara Zor-el, on the other hand, let out a long sigh as she buried her face within her long fingers and hands, the half-Kryptonian heroine almost despondent about the role she had played to bring the soon-to-come events into motion.

"Now, before we begin, we would like to thank the man who made this event possible with the help of his courteous assistance and psychological baggage. . . Richard Grayson! Stand up and take a bow, Dickie!"

The vigilante of honor hardly needed any more prompting to rise from his chair and accept the warm applause, the original Boy Wonder taking in his praise with an open manner and exuberance taken straight out of his adoptive father's playbook. However, it soon became apparent that the 29-year-old Justice League member was hardly receiving a universal degree of approval, at least judging from the small happenstance of a rather heavy book suddenly dislodging itself from its resting place on a nearby shelf and flying into the back of his head seemingly by its own free will. Thankfully, Cecilia was more than happy to tend to his sudden agony as he lowered himself back down to his seat, the sound of Linda's laughter and the sudden throbbing coming from the back of his skull only putting a mild damper on his anticipation of the events to come.

"Well, I suppose that we should wait no longer!" Stephanie said with a vicious smile. "Now, in accordance to the wager made before the night's patrols and all the conditions attached to them, the lovely ladies of The Misfits have won and now, thanks to Nightwing here, the filthy men of Wayne Manor must now pay a horrible, hoooooorrrrrrible penalty!" The young Green Lantern put all her game show related instincts into gear as she swung her left arm back towards the curtain while still keeping the impish smirk wide on her features. "First up. . . WALLY WEST!!"

Cecilia's roaring applause began even before the father of two was in sight, her enthusiasm quickly bolstered as the gentleman occasionally known as The Fastest Man Alive suddenly bounded onto the stage as if he had been forcibly thrown. Of course, it only took one look at Wally to realize why he wouldn't want to be there. In the first place, the red, yellow, and black armored shirt seemed to be doing everything it could to clash horribly with his lightly-tanned skin and the combination of his scarlet hair and the short, yellow cape draped around his back made him look more suited for selling fast food than for the heroic derring-do he had been come to be known for over the last decade-and-a-half. The bright, green boots with pointed toes hardly did him any favors either, almost to the point where the speedster wanted to hate the bits of leather and rubber for not being enough to cover his long, bare legs. Unfortunately, he couldn't quite spread his hatred out as singularly as he would have wanted, at least as long as the jade-colored short shorts continued to press into his groin and make nearly every step a painful chore.

"Our first model today is Wallace West," Stephanie announced in a somewhat professional manner, her decorum made somewhat patchy by the appearance of the camera phone in her left hand. "His hobbies include dressing up in a giant, red condom, cursing like a sailor whenever he loses to me in Halo, wallowing in his consistent underachievement, and suffering from premature ejaculation during his bedroom exploits where he constantly proves that he is, in fact, The Fastest Man Alive."

Now it was Linda's turn to look phenomenally ashamed as Cecilia and Dick laughed like jackals. "Why did I ever think that this was a good idea?" the award-winning reporter murmured to Kara, her fellow lady-in-suffering, the question earning her a slow and confused shake of the head.

"HEY! That wasn't part of this deal!" Wally fired back through gritted teeth at the scurrilous master of ceremonies, the tilt of his hips allowing Arrowette to get a pristine shot of his spandex-covered posterior. "Damn it, Dick! I hope you're proud of yourself!"

The crime fighter known to the world as Nightwing fired back at his best friend with a calm, controlled stare while crossing his arms across his chest. "I think I'll be able to get over my guilt. Of course, if I have troubles, I suppose I can always think back to all the cheap jokes you gave me about this over the last 15 years."

The Flash said nothing as he stomped back down the runway, the former Justice Leaguer pointedly refusing Arrowette's thunderous requests to take his pixie shorts off. Such a circumstance might have been a problem in the eyes of the audience but the arrival of the next model quickly appeased those potential difficulties. Though this one looked somewhat more comfortable with the bizarre choice of modeling attire being forced upon him, the rowdy cheers fired at him by some members of the audience hardly did anything to ease the younger man's sensibilities.

"Our next slab of meat on display is Lloyd Thomas, a man whose body of a 13-year-old boy should be quite appropriate for this morning's attire," Stephanie continued with all the anticipation of a lioness pouncing upon a fallen gazelle. "Notice the almost total lack of hair on his legs, something that should not even be possible for a 20-year-old male, and you can bear witness to a textbook example of drastically delayed puberty."

The Black Dog didn't even bother to glare back at Stephanie, the half-demon telepath quickly realizing that the gesture would do far more harm than good as he strode down the makeshift runway with all the grace of a soldier marching toward a suicide mission. His dour demeanor improved only slightly after catching the sympathetic glare of a certain beloved member of the audience. "I suppose this is just another reason why we Brits try to stay away from short pants," he mused aloud with his typical gallows humor while placing his hands on his hips in order to appeal to the crowd. As humiliated as he could have been about the whole thing, particularly by the wolf whistle that Cissie had ready for him as he came to a stop, the angry glare from his lover's eyes and the short spray of heat vision that came inches from setting Stephanie's hair on fire imbued him with the confidence to fire a wink at Kara before retreating for the curtain with a stride to his step.

Tragically, the joviality spawned by the previous scene did little to appease the incoming horror brought about as the third and final model made his presence felt by leaping through the curtain. Whereas his colleagues had taken to their task with what could be best taken as a cautious trepidation, the final loser of the evening had decided to dive into his unwanted duty with a disturbing amount of gusto. Striding across the stage with an exaggerated swagger to his hips, he stopped at the front of the stage with a quick slide as he bent over in order to run his fingers up from his ankles back to his crotch.

"OH YEAH! THE NEW BOY WONDER IS ON THE SCENE!" Roy Harper proclaimed with a braggadocio that even the most critically acclaimed of Las Vegas showgirls would have a hard time duplicating, the red-haired sharpshooter more commonly known as Arsenal not looking the least bit ashamed by his apparent humiliation. "AND YOU KNOW YOU CAN'T HANDLE ALL THIS!" he added while shaking his hips to the universal disapproval of the crowd.

"Oh, good gravy!" Stephanie retched out while keeping her hands over her eyes. "Couldn't you at least have tried to shave those things?!" The young Green Lantern took a moment to test her almost boundless will as she pried her eyes open and looked at the hair-laden muscle, sinew, and skin available for perusal but found herself coming up mercifully short.

"AW! YOU KNOW YOU JUST JEALOUS!" Arsenal fired back as three other denizens of Wayne Manor came into view. Seemingly unaware of the new arrivals, the former Teen Titan began to sweep back his right hand in order to slap his own ass while breaking into an impromptu jig. "WHAT YOU GONNA DO WITH ALL THAT JUNK! ALL THAT JUNK INSIDE YO TRUNK? I'MA GET, GET, GET, GET YOU DRUNK, GET YOU LOVE DRUNK. . ."

"HARPER!!"

Realizing the risk of what would come with making an unfair appraisal, allow this kindly author to simply state that words could not describe the fury on the face of Bruce Wayne as the champion of Gotham City perused the antics of his various soldiers and confidantes. Meanwhile, standing just behind the infuriated detective, Alfred Pennyworth and Lian Harper observed the scene with far more pronounced neutrality, the both of them even showing a mild bit of sympathy for those that would soon be subject to the wrath of The Batman. Of course, neither one of them were foolish enough to voice such condolences, the instinctual desire to protect their own hides easily taking precedent over performing any greater measure of compassion. Thus, the room remained silent as Batman strode up to his first victim, the poor fool's sputtering already beginning to emerge while the rest of the prey did their best not to giggle.

"Go back to The Watchtower, Dick," Bruce growled at his adopted son, the lack of his customary cape and cowl doing nothing to bring down the intimidation factor of his efforts.

"But I. . ." Dick began to mumble while gesturing his arms wildly. "I didn't. . . This wasn't my. . ."

"NOW!"

The quiet within the scene finally broke as Cecilia, Roy and Stephanie all burst out laughing, their merriment soon accompanied by Linda's quieter chuckling and Kara's moan of utter misery. None of these reactions, of course, did the least bit of good in appeasing the rage of The Dark Knight of Gotham City, the intensity of his glares and the volume of his words ratcheting even higher as Stephanie began to complain about the apparent fact that the men of Wayne Manor were supposed to wear the costumes for the remainder of the day in accordance to their bet. In the midst of all the chaos, Lian, after finally having enough time to properly take in the scene, calmly looked up to the gentleman still standing to her right.

"My daddy's got hairy legs."

Alfred didn't even bother to voice his agreement, the former Interpol agent now only wishing that the miscreants he watched over would clean everything up after everything was said and done.

San Francisco – Elliot Bay Apartments – Room #32-C

"You'll have to excuse my mother. She suffered a slight stroke a few years ago which rendered her totally annoying."

That exquisite voice and the canned laughter that accompanied it once again caused a throb of anguish to pierce through the diseased heart of our beloved hero. He could feel the very lurching of his veins as his cracked and scarred lips briefly opened and a sob escaped from his still-recovering larynx. Of course, that torture may have had to do with his continued consumption of the unusual cocktail to his left, the gallon container of whiskey and bleach doubtlessly doing a fair share of damage to his innards but it wasn't as if his beverage of choice could have done this kind of damage on its own. Agony like this could only be forced open by a wound that could never be healed, an aperture in his usually vibrant life that could never be fully filled again.

And, believe you me, if there's anyone in this great, big multiverse of ours who knows more about healing holes in his body, it's Wade Winston Wilson.

"Oh, my beloved Bea," the mercenary known as Deadpool cried out with a sorrowful warble, the comically insane mercenary cradling his remote control as if it were a long, lost child. "How could you leave me like this? I mean, I know that the odds were pretty bleak for another cast reunion but, still, couldn't you have given it one more shot? Just for me? Or maybe for dear, sweet Estelle? You know we would've loved it."

Wade suddenly stopped wallowing in his own miseries, the cancer-ridden psychopath slowly rising his eyes up towards the roof of his messy apartment as if seeking out some unseen force.

"Hey, Matt! Don't you think that this is a little bit extreme for my character? I mean, you know I love my lady Bea but still. . ."

The force summoned down from on high was quick to respond, the creator of the tale around him eager to nip this potential hazard within its proverbial bud.

Says the fellow who once spent two entire issues of his own comic lusting after Squirrel Girl while trying to join The Great Lakes Avengers.

"Touche," Wade Wilson replied, his hands once again reaching for the bleach container.

And besides, didn't we come to an agreement about this before we started this little story, Mister Wilson? Now you can be the star of my show and chip away at this fourth wall of ours but I'm not about to have you break it, especially during the first chapter of this thing.

"All right, all right," Deadpool finally agreed, his gloved hands gesturing in a motion of surrender. "Just hurry up and get to the good stuff because, just between you an' me, nobody likes it when you go on and on about describing a character."

The Merc with a Mouth let out a grunt as he pointed his customized Heckler & Koch MP7 straight at his television screen before using the semi-automatic pistols to send the aged screen to its untimely end. Tossing aside his makeshift decanter with a swipe of his left hand, he then closed his right hand into a fist and raised it towards the heavens.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU HAVE AGAINST ME, GOD?!" the former guinea pig of Weapon X bellowed. "Did you just need another meat sack to listen to your stories, huh? You know, I could have just shot up the Young Republicans office for ya! They're right across the damn street and I'm sick of listening to them play the same Christian rock music over and over and over and over again!"

Finally deciding that anger was far more preferable to sitting around and engaging in some Wolverine-style moping, the abused son of an army general leapt off the rotting recliner that had served as his bed for the past two days and began to stride through his apartment. Of course, his living quarters could only be described as cluttered even under the best of circumstances and the past week of depression and destruction had left his home looking like something that homeless people would be a little leery of taking up residence in. Month old dirty clothes and Chinese takeout boxes and tequila bottles and various dating service advertisements all littered the floor to the point where it would have been difficult for a newcomer to determine whether or not the humble abode even had an actual floor to speak of. Fortunately, before his anger about having to hire, and maybe kill, a maid could make him even more nonsensical, the troubled fellow found himself momentarily appeased by the sight of a half-full bag of Cheetos sitting amongst the ruins.

"That reminds me," Deadpool began while swatting aside the hovering flies with anxious swats before consuming the delicious snack treats with voracious gulps. "I fould give a cwall to my old buddy Weeshel. Shee if that pwuncture wound of hish isshall healed up," he continued on, his monologue garbled by the mouthfuls of processed cheese and enriched corn meal. "Of course," he went on after finally taking a moment to clear his throat, "that means I've got to find my phone."

Emboldened by his newfound quest, Deadpool took to his work with an impressive degree of speed despite the bag of snack treats still cradled in his left arm. Unfortunately, the first handful of piles he managed to sift his way through yielded nothing of importance save for an impressively large cockroach that he decided to name Tafty after the late, scale-breaking president of the good ol' U.S. of A. The next few searches, while failing to uncover the phone, yielded something a bit more substantial in the form of a ragged alley cat that quickly decided to nuzzle against his right boot.

"Since when did I get a cat?" Deadpool asked aloud, the killer of hundreds stooping down in order to feed the ball of black and white fur a Cheeto or two before continuing his pursuit into his equally untidy bedroom. Suddenly, his ears picked up a buzzing sound from behind the far side of his bed and he quickly leaped over the surrounding clutter in order investigate the matter more closely. However, his good mood quickly dissolved as he discovered a man adorned in green and yellow cloth sleeping on the floor, a sliver of drool leaking from the right side of his mouth and a teddy bear within his fragile grip.

"Unfortunately, I know exactly when I got you," he said in disgust before beginning to work his brain into deciding what kind of way he would torture Bob today. Fortunately for the disgraced former agent of HYDRA, a patchy recording of "My Humps" began to trill out from underneath the bed and Wade rushed toward the source of it, his sudden movement prompting the little cat at his feet to be shoved aside. Batting aside one of Bob's big booty porno mags, Deadpool finally got a hold of his cell phone after the third or fourth ring and flipped it open with a well-practiced toss. Not recognizing the number, the mercenary took a moment to earnestly hope and pray that the demonic Avon lady hadn't tracked him down before pressing the "send" button.

"Hulk's Pizza: You Order, We Smash," he greeted with as much cheer as he could muster.

The light chuckle on the other end of the line was all that the deformed former Special Forces member needed to recognize his caller. In fact, it was almost enough for him to hang up the phone right then, maybe put a bullet or six into it just to make certain, but the familiar voice quickly gave him pause.

"'Ello, Wade," said the sweet Scottish lilt, the softness of it making Deadpool sense that his apparent visitor was stressed out about something, probably him. "I. . . I got yuir number from Irene Merryweather. I hope you wouldn't mind. . ."

A handful of long seconds passed before Wade figured out that it was all right for him to speak. After all, he had enough history with the woman on the other end of the line for even him to realize the damage that could come from making the wrong move. "Yeah, I should have known that stupid cow would've ratted me out," he began while moving about the room, his quick arms busily brushing aside as much clutter and mess as they could. "Don't suppose you'd mind if I hopped on over to her place and made a few Quarter Pounders, huh?"

Oddly enough, the mildly irritated sigh from the other end of the line made Deadpool feel just a little bit better. "I just wanted to see how you were doin', is all. Y'know, after the whole mess with Cable and, well. . . y'know."

Wade let his cragged lower lip run across his teeth as he tried to think of one of his brilliantly clever retorts. "Awww, you know me, Terry," he said with his typically careless tone. "I'm as hale and hearty as a horse breeder. Hey, I even got a cat." Realizing that he probably had earned a few moments as his caller took all that in, he took a moment to glance at the kitten and see the little beast giving him quite the exasperated glare. "That means I'm preparing to start a family according to all these psychological manuals Nate tried to make me read!"

Theresa Rourke's sharp and sudden intake of breath was a quick sign that he had touched a nerve. Already aggravated that he had screwed up whatever this was, he rushed to apologize with various platitudes ranging from saying he wanted to stay free and easy forever to an offer to kill the kitten immediately (which earned him quite the hiss from the critter who had recently joined him on his bed).

"Oh, it's not that, Wade," Theresa said gently, the woman formerly known as Siryn unconsciously twisting a strand of her long, red hair as she searched for the right words. "It's jus'. . . Some things have happened with Jamie an'. . ."

"Oh." The mere mention of that name was already helping spawn a number of colorful images in Wade Wilson's diseased mind. "You mean the Duplicate Man."

"Multiple Man," Theresa fired back with a mild degree of chiding. "Truth be tol', the two of us have been goin' through quite the rough patch an' well, I suppose I could use an open ear."

Wade saw himself manning a cash register at a McDonald's, goofy hat, nametag, and all, and every customer was a duplicate of Jamie Madrox. They were all lined up in single file, one after the other, and they would ask for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and as soon as they got to the front of the line and he would shoot him in the head. Then another, and another, and another. . .

"Well, I told you that I was pregnant, didn't I. . ."

He was manning a video game controller, his hands shaking with excitement as he pressed the A button over and over, each push summoning a Multiple Man that would mindlessly walk off the edge of a high cliff down onto the deliciously jagged rocks below.

". . . 'an it turns out that one of his dupes was messin' around with Monet as well an' he was havin' a hard time figurin' out if it was him that slept with me or one of his other duplicates."

Terry was standing next to a furniture showroom alongside Jamie, the both of them patiently awaiting the arrival of their newly order cradle. There was the roar of an engine as a furniture truck backed through the front window of the store, the back wheels of the vehicle running over Madrox and squashing him flat like one of those potato pancakes that Wade liked to eat at two in the morning. Then, as she belted out a stirring rendition of "Thank You for Being a Friend," Terry hopped into the passenger seat of the delivery truck before the two of them drove off into the sunset.

". . . 'an now it turns out that the baby was just another one of his bloody dupes and it's all a lie and. . . and he's gone now an' I've got no clue of what to do."

Wade eagerly took the advice of the booming voice telling him to "FINISH HIM" and severed Jamie's spinal cord from the rest of his body. He indulged in the joy of the announcer's "BOOMSHAKALAKA" as he slammed the basketball through the net, the impact shattering the glass backboard and causing the shards to fall right into Jamie's eyes and exposed scrotum. . .

"I don't know. . . Wot do you think, Wade?"

"No clue," Wade replied, his anxious mind already forgetting what he thought he was going to say in the first place. "But on the bright side, you won't have to name the kid Manifold Boy."

The mildly disgusted grunt that came from Theresa's side of the conversation almost prompted Wade to breathe a sigh of relief. "Multiple Man, ya silly sot. An' if ya can crack those jokes of yuirs than I guess you're all right. Still, thanks for listenin' to me whingin', Wade, an' if ya need someone ta talk to then just give me a ring. 'S the least I could do after that little outburst, after all."

Deadpool didn't even bother to shoo away the kitten mewling away on his lap, the little runt apparently quite attached to the tear on his right pant leg and determined to use its tiny claws to make it as large as possible. Of course, the sudden burst of energy that prompted him to leap back to his feet also forced the feline to suffer an ungainly tumble back down to the bed, a sharp hiss emerging from the feline's lips as it was startled once again.

"That's it!" declared The Merc with a Mouth, "Terry and my darling Bea wouldn't want me to just sit around and feel sorry for myself. After all, characters get retconned back from the dead all the time and I'm not gonna put something like that into motion just by sitting here."

Renewed by his newfound purpose, the masked hired gun stomped over back to Bob, the former Agent of Hydra, and hefted him up by his bright yellow belt. The sudden display of motion quickly jolted the failed terrorist out of his slumber and his eyes snapped open with shock.

"Hey, Bobby! What's the status of our military vehicle pool?"

It was probably a good thing that Wade was suddenly in a good mood, particularly since the few seconds Bob needed to snap himself out of his stupor would have normally been enough for him to earn a gunshot to the leg.

"We have a vehicle pool?!"

Deadpool patiently shook his head back and forth while rapping his left fist against Bob's forehead. "Hello? Is anybody in there, McFly?! Of course we don't have a vehicle pool! But the Defense Department does and we're going to break into it!"

"We are?" Bob asked with more disbelief than usual in situations like these, a small part of him once again wondering about the likelihood of his wife taking him back if he sent her a tasteful bouquet.

"Why yes we are," Wade replayed with what normally stood for him as a grin, his disfigured face often making facial expressions quite difficult to decipher. "Glad you thought of it, buddy, 'cause it's high time that we get ourselves back into the game and this is the perfect way to do it!"

Bob thought it wise that he didn't say anything logical in response to that. Of course, that decision also ended up with him being unceremoniously dropped to the floor but at least that meant that he had some scant amount of time to figure out how he was going to survive this latest excursion.

"And besides," Deadpool added with a merry grin. "There's no real way that Matt can continue on with the story if we don't get out of the house!"

And, somewhere high up above, a certain writer realized that this was going to be a long ten weeks.

Earth-1, Aquarius Dwarf Galaxy, RA 20:47.2 Declination -12:51

It had taken quite a bit of time for him to be comfortable with the silence of space. Perhaps it was just the matter of being a child raised on a busy farm or a high school football star or everything else his old life used to be but Kal-L had grown quite comfortable with being surrounded by all the noise that humanity had to offer. Back then he knew if he could hear the cheering of the crowds, whether it rose from the aged, wooden bleachers of Smallville Memorial Stadium or the streets of Metropolis, the Earth-2 Superman knew that he was doing what he should. He could be the hero that everyone could look up to and rely on. He could play the role that he and his real mother and father had made for him rather than that of the faceless conqueror that Jor-El had cast him to be.

He wasn't about to lie to himself and say that the anonymity that came with his current lot in life didn't occasionally make him feel uncomfortable. And, to be fair, the part of the nameless hero was quite the ways removed from what he was and what he long thought he should have been. Of course, it only took one moment of memories to remind him that what he was doing was a good thing. All he needed was Lois's words to keep him moving despite the original confusion and occasional taste for glory. Here, back in the outskirts of everything he once knew, Superman was now certain that he could handle the grounds and was glad to do so without any need for approval or acceptance.

The new life also brought its fair share of unexpected situations and the colorful scene in front of him was just another example. Just as Billy had warned him, the video image of a so-called dimensional bleed paled in comparison to the sight of the real thing happening before his very eyes, the warped collage of images and flashes of pale light momentarily scrambling his hypersensitive optic nerves as he tried to put himself in focus. Briefly shifting his aged eyes away from the chaotic tableau, the old man did his best to get a feel of all the eldritch energy and cosmic radiation circulating in front of him, sense how the patch of merged realities seemed to expand piece by piece. He had made sure to spend what little spare time he had to learn more about what made magic work, if only because the education would make him better at what he had been called to do, but the fact remained that there was little more that he could do here than what Billy had asked of him.

Shutting his eyes and clearing his thoughts of all distractions, the Kryptonian began a slow, silent chant taught to him by the guardian of The Rock of Eternity. According to Batson, the scanning enchantment would be the best way of tracking down the source of the disturbance and thus give them the first piece of this dangerous puzzle. It was a simple charm, of course, one that could have been performed by anyone with even the least bit of knowledge of the magical arts, but he had been insistent upon doing the work himself. After all, there was no need for anyone else to put themselves in danger by doing what should be asked of him.

A rapid shift in motion told Kal-L that he was right to be worried, the greatest champion of the destroyed reality known as Earth-2 quickly sliding to his right as a black, red, and purple blur nearly knocked him into the bleed. His thoughts still somewhat muddled by the psychological strain brought about by his previous task, Superman could make out little more than the creature's violet mohawk hairstyle before the creature's left fist pounded into his sternum. A concentrated blast of crimson-colored energy was quick to follow as the first known Man of Steel was struck again and again by his unknown assailant, each blow aimed to draw Kal-L closer and closer into the bleed. The attack was harsh and well planned but Kal-L had not survived six decades on the battlefield due to sheer luck and coincidence and soon his skill and experience allowed him to recover and regain equal footing. The two beasts of nearly incalculable speed and power came to clash, their strikes causing shockwaves that caused further strife to the space around the western edge of the spiral-armed galaxy they occupied.

Don't really have any idea on who this happens to be, Superman realized as the muscular alien in the red and black battle armor wrapped his girthy hands around his neck, but I've got a good idea on why he's here.

The Kryptonian gritted his teeth while pushing himself forward as far and fast as he could, the old man doing everything he could to counteract his opponent's attempts to force him into the bridge between the two realities. Every whit of his adversary's actions screamed to Kal that his foe was more than willing to sacrifice his own life in order to accomplish his mission and it was that hypothesis that prompted The Man of Steel to come to a rather risky conclusion. His enemy seemed calm and collected in spite of the obvious strain that his enemy was enduring as they struggled for control of the momentum and it was that lack of a reaction, when combined with some other clues, that gave the guardian an idea on how to win. Suddenly pouring every bit of strength and speed he had into his work, the Superman of Earth-2 finally managed to overwhelm his foe's efforts, the sudden lurch forward carrying the both of them easily away from the unusual death trap. There wasn't a hint of fear or surprise on his adversary's face as Kal-L swung his right arm forward with a vicious haymaker, the impact crushing Gladiator's skull with ease and bringing the battle to a sudden end.

Huh, Kal-L thought while observing the damage. Something tells me that Billy is going to want to hear about this.

San Francisco – X-Men Headquarters

A strong percentage of those that reside in this carefully constructed home and walk within these long hallways and passageways have spent the majority of their lives searching for a haven such as this. Deemed different in the eyes of common society through the simple difference of a chromosome or two, this home and facility now houses some of the greatest champions of what was once the inheritors of the Earth but now, thanks to one of their own, are nothing but remnants of a slowly dying breed. They have been called freaks, mutants, or homo superior by others as well as themselves and each of these stigmas have twisted their lives in some way or other, most often towards a darker path of confusion and uncertainty where they were forced to question what their purpose truly was within this turbulent world. Now, however, in this city built upon meeting and overcoming the struggles of acceptance and tolerance, these misfits and proud souls now have a home where safety is something more than just an impossible dream.

"SOMEBODY KILL THAT LITTLE FREAK!!"

Of course, the place has had its share of off days. On the other hand, the old threat sounded like music to Deadpool's ears as he traipsed down the carpeted halls, his senses on high alert for anybody who might come at him from the corners or try to sell him insurance. Although he had to confess that the new digs designed for the team of mutant superheroes was quite the bit nicer than his own humble abode, the fact that he was invading someplace new also meant that he ran the risk of getting lost.

And then there was the fact that he was wearing an impressively large bra over his eyes. And, if there was any confusion over who the owner of that lacy undergarment happened to be, one would only have to take a look at the homicidally angry, blonde-haired Bostonian dashing after our suave champion, her normally picture-perfect skin rendered diamond hard by her own mental command.

"SHOOT HIM!" screeched Emma Frost, the institute's current headmistress rendered inconsolable after her discovery that her bedroom had been broken into, a state of mind that simply could not be appeased by the efforts of the calm man dashing just a few steps behind. "Fry off that disgusting face of his so I can pick at that small smattering of grey matter he calls a brain!"

"Calm down, Emma," Scott Summers said with as much gentility as he could, his efforts stymied both by his physical exertions and his instinctual need to never, ever, laugh in the midst of battle, especially this one. He was also quite determined to bring down the bothersome, but relatively harmless, pest ahead of him without a great deal of collateral damage. The longtime field commander of the X-Men instinctually pressed a button on the side of his ruby quartz visor and let loose a stream of solar energy that would be enough to disorient his target but not total the walls around him. "And you, Deadpool," he went on as his first shot missed by a matter of inches, "stay right where you are and bring this foolishness to a stop."

"Awwwww, come on, Scarecrow!" Deadpool said with his pettiest of whines, his leg muscles churning as he shifted from left to right in order to dodge Cyclops' scarily precise attacks. "How can I take a trip down to Oz without seeing how your new Dorothy is doing? And, my, she's done a lot of growing up, hasn't she? Almost makes you think that it wasn't all done by Mother Nature."

Never one to not give his audience what they wanted, Wade took a moment to stare at his invisible audience while avoiding Scott Summers' fourth attempt to bring him down.

"Oh, and in case some of you are interested, and I know that you are, they're 32E."

"GRAAAAAAGH!"

Although his current circumstances probably wouldn't show it, Deadpool was smart enough to teleport away before The White Queen could strangle him with her own Victoria's Secret special. On the other hand, his little trip also took him into further uncharted waters, specifically a rather expansive day room that, judging from the smattering of paintings and blank canvases, appeared to be doubling as some kind of art studio. Taking a few moments to admire the surrounding pieces while searching his inner encyclopedia to determine which of the X-Men he was likely about to come across, the distraction was just long enough for him to get slammed into the eastern wall with a hard shove, the impact cracking the wood and plaster as well as several of Deadpool's more important ribs.

"I do not know why you are here," began the slow, dangerous tones of Piotr Rasputin, the thick Russian accent of the mutant strongman known as Colossus making his warning sound even more ominous, "but I will make certain that you do not get what you have come for."

"Aw, come on, Petey," Deadpool wheezed out in reply, his attempts of being pithy made a great deal more difficult by the organic steel fingers wrapped around his windpipe. "I woulda thought you'd be a lot more understandin'. Y'know, now that you've accepted who you are and. . . and. . . admitted your homosexuality. . ."

"What?" Colossus sputtered, the seemingly random comment causing him to momentarily lose his concentration.

"Oh. Oh, yeah. That's the Ultimate version of you I'm thinking of," Deadpool remembered. "Sorry. I always get you guys mixed up."

The Merc with a Mouth wisely shut his eyes as he dropped a flash grenade at his tormentor's feet, the resulting explosion of light forcing the kindly Russian to roar in pain and let him loose. Though he knew it to be a little rude to just go and teleport away after causing such a fuss, Wade also realized that he still had plenty of other things to do and ultimately chose to take his leave. His latest spatial jaunt ended up taking him to a chamber at least two or three times larger than where he had been last, the surrounding tables and nearby aromas making it rather obvious that he appeared to have arrived in some kind of mess hall.

"Let's see," he mumbled while pondering over whether or not he had time to go snatch a Hot Pocket or two. "I've seen Dorothy, The Scarecrow, and The Tin Man. . . Now who does that leave?"

A familiar roar and an even more recognizable SNIKT! provided Deadpool with a distinct reminder of who else he was hoping to come across on this magical occasion. Looking behind him with a wave of unsurpassed joy, the longtime hired gun opened his arms wide to accept what would most certainly be the start of a joyous reunion.

"TOTO!!"

The fact that Wolverine had sunk his adamantium claws into his shoulders rather than his chest provided Wade with a good indication that the burly, hairy, and stumpy Canadian mutant was in a good mood. As the two of them crashed into and through the nearby dining table thanks to the force of their embrace, Wade couldn't help but laugh at the wonder of it all as his role model at Weapon X Academy rushed to catch up on old times. The double-footed thrust kick Deadpool fired at Wolverine's gut was enough to draw out their meeting even further, the strike forcing the mutant known as Logan to roll across the shattered wood, the strongly built berserker quickly rolling back to his feet around the same time that Deadpool managed to do the same thing.

"Now we've got a party!" Deadpool crowed while aiming the barrels of his MP7s straight at Logan's eyeballs. "Say, where's that pretty, little Shadowcat? Ever since I Shoryuked her Ken back in Hong Kong I've been looking to see if she wanted me to show her some more moves."

The fact that Wolverine fired back with an undefinable roar and an attempt to cleave his head off his shoulders told Deadpool that he had found a great topic of conversation. Performing a side roll that allowed him to dodge the precise swipe by inches, the red-and-black garbed mercenary continued to backpedal so he would have just enough time to catch up.

"Aw, come on, Logan! We're all pissed off that Marvel let Joss Whedon kill her off that way he did. Still, the guy did write Buffy and I've always thought that Runaways always deserve more pub. . ."

Deadpool suddenly cut short his enthralling symposium, the discovery that he was currently about three-quarters of a mile above the ground momentarily forcing him to shut his mouth.

"Wow. I think I can see my house from here."

For a whole two seconds.

"My apologies, Herr Wilson," replied a smooth voice that held more than a hint of a German accent. "But I found that I simply had to do whatever I could to stop you and Logan from destroying any more property."

"Oh, great. It's Boris Grishenko," Deadpool whined, the suddenly aggrieved champion of chaos quickly holstering his guns before reaching for the katana blade strapped to his back scabbard. "Don't you have a Spy Kids movie to be in or something?"

"Ahhh, and I had almost forgotten you and your gift with words," Kurt Wagner countered, the mutant known as Nightcrawler sounding quite whimsical in response as the swashbuckling mutant locked swords with Deadpool from half-a-mile up. "I suppose that next you'll be telling me that I should go star in some ridiculous movie about the Spice Girls or something, ja?"

"Well, you deserve it!" Deadpool fired back over the clashing of their blades and the sound of the wind sweeping up at them as they continued their mutual plummet. "I mean, you go and ditch after the second movie! And do you know how many people wanted to come back and be in The Last Stand? I mean, the guy who played Cyclops was in the movie and he was killed off in about five minutes!"

The conversation was suddenly cut short as the two swordsmen came about an eighth of a mile from crashing into the courtyard below. A distinct BAMF! slightly preceded Deadpool's activation of his personal teleporter, the brief cease in downward motion allowing the assassin to land gracefully from his newest point of location about five feet above the ground.

Nightcrawler had pulled off a similar feat, of course, the indigo-haired (and furred) mutant already crouching on his haunches as Deadpool took in his surroundings. The longtime X-Man and former leader of Excalibur briefly dug his feet into the fresh grass, his six toes and their accompanied muscles tensed and ready to spring as he awaited the response of his fairly unpredictable foe. His yellow, pupiless eyes widened only slightly as Deadpool pulled his guns out of his holsters and began to fire, the mutant's impressive reflexes and awareness allowing him to dodge each and every attack with a timely bit of teleportation. A cleverly planned jump to Deadpool's back allowed him to land a double-footed dropkick that brought an end to the hail of bullets, his tail swishing through the air as he once again landed upon solid ground.

"Graagh! Stand still so I can hit you properly!" Deadpool shouted back as he turned around to fire at Nightcrawler once again.

"Thanks but no," Nightcrawler gamely replied, his next jaunt allowing him to briefly perch on Deadpool's shoulders, the unique positioning allowing him just enough time to destroy his foe's teleportation device with a well-positioned lunge of his blade. "Instead, perhaps you should offer me the opportunity to continuing stalling you until my comrades can come and restrain you?" he offered.

Deadpool couldn't help but gnash his teeth as he flung Nightcrawler aside, his peripheral vision soon picking up the sight of nearly a half-dozen X-Men winging their way. There wasn't any way that Bob could come and make a timely rescue now, especially since the poor dope couldn't even drive their getaway vehicle properly.

Honestly, you'd think a big-league terrorist operation would have the foresight to teach their agents how to operate a stick shift.

However, as fate should have it, another opportunity suddenly appeared to Deadpool in the form of a glittering orange portal hovering just at Nightcrawler's back. The unknown passageway soon began to expand, the reverberations streaming from the field of energy giving off an audible hum as the pointy-eared mutant briefly scurried away on all fours in order to avoid being dragged inside.

"Was ist das?" Nightcrawler asked in disbelief.

"I'll tell you was is das," Deadpool said with a whoop while pushing himself forward. "Das is adventure!"

Not even Kurt Wagner had enough time to teleport himself away as he was pushed into the gate by the force of Deadpool's shove. His senses were quickly overcome by the waylaying of unknown sights and sounds as both his body and mind began to drift within the temporal ether, his lone focus of concentration coming straight from Wade Wilson himself.

"WHEEEEEE!"

Misfits Confidential

Well, I suppose I should apologize for the relative lateness of this recent update. The only excuse I've really got is that I've been in the midst of changing jobs and undergoing a bit of family troubles. I have to admit that life has been a little weird for me now that I finally got my master's. Maybe this whole being a grown-up thing ain't all it's cracked up to be.

All complaining aside, I hope you guys enjoy the latest story, which will probably take me through the rest of the summer to finish. I may lose my mind in the process but, hey, at least you guys can be somewhat entertained.

Now let's get that next chapter preview going!

Next Issue Preview

So just what did Kal-L discover at the fusion between realities? Where will this mysterious portal take our makeshift duo? Well, given that this thing is a Marvel/Misfits crossover than it should be pretty damn obvious, don't you think? Of course, given that Deadpool is one-half of this particular pair, it's safe to say that there will be a bit of noise and plenty of opportunities to prove that he's better at whatever Wolverine does. Will Joss Whedon ever be properly punished for the horrendously lame way he killed off the grade-school crush of our enterprising author? Will Bob the Hydra Agent ever learn how to drive a stick shift? Find out the answers to half of these gripping questions in the next installment of With Apologies to Bea Arthur: Anger. . . with a Vengeance. Until then, remember to say what you think and write what you feel!