I, Chez

You fucked up.

God, you fucked up so bad.

You stand over the man on the pavement, your knuckles still smarting. You suck one fist, subconsciously, blood dripping down your face. Some of it’s his, some of it’s yours.

Royally fucked up, you have.

When Wade told you he was a vigilante, you were excited to become one too. Real excited. You hand-stitched your stupid little costume, which tore at the seams repeatedly, leading to some very embarrassing situations on patrol (you got it fixed eventually). When you found out that Wade killed people, you, your naive little dumb shit of a self, swore you’d never do it. Never take someone’s life. Life was too precious for that. It was beautiful, life, truly, even in the grimy alleyways of New York City, ridden with rats, both literal and figuratively, you always managed to find the beauty in life, beauty in this place. Everyone was good, deep down, you truly believed that.

So why had you forgotten that today?

You remembered what Wade told you when you first became a vigilante, when you swore against murder. “That’s not gonna work out, Raccoon. Trust me. Not in this life. Not in this city. One day, someone’s gonna wrong someone in front of you, real damn bad, and you ain’t gonna take it well. Take it from me.” You didn’t want to believe him. But you had to, you had to admit he was right.

The man in front of you was undeniably dead. There was no beating about the bush with that one; you had pummelled his brains out. Not literally, but he was unrecognisable now.

You remembered how he acted, just moments before you lost it. You weren’t even on patrol. You weren’t supposed to be. Today you were supposed to be coming home to have a sleepover with Wade, who had already bought the cheesy pizza and soda and was awaiting your arrival. You didn’t need to be on patrol because you saw Peter, that goofy kid, patrolling the streets. Followed by the other Avengers. Just patrolling, normal things. As you walked, you realised, you needed to pee. So bad. So, you looked around. Nearby was a bar, pumping with bass music, drunk patrons basically pressed against the windows, falling out of the building. If anyplace had a toilet, it was here. So, you slipped in, finished your business, and went on your merry way.

Except it wasn’t so merry. Some guy started following you. You walked faster. He gave chase. You ran, trying to remember the shortcut to the police station. You took a wrong turn, and suddenly you’re stuck between a dead end and a drunk creep. Who has a knife. He inches closer to you. You don’t have a weapon. He notices your hesitation and lunges. Pins you against the wall, his hand snaking down you to somewhere it really shouldn’t be.

You don’t like that. No. And rightfully so. You bodyslam this guy to the floor. He’s got his hands on your ass now, grabby. Lewd comments pour out of him like a river. You see red. Blood red. Fists connect with face repeatedly. He fights back, slashing you across the cheek with his knife. It’s not deep, thank god. A scratch, but it bleeds. Alcohol inebriated his movements. But you didn’t care. You pummelled his face until he stopped fighting. That was the plan. Go until he stops. But, god, the smell of blood, it fuelled your rage now. And you weren’t stopping for no-one.

And, goddammit, a rush came over you. Those screams of pain, music to your ears. Blood splattered all over, onto the pavement, onto you, covering you— anointing you like Carrie, initiated into the murderers. At least, you think you enjoyed it. It was absolutely disgusting. Why were you doing this? Stop— come on, stop it. Stop it, please. Stop it, stop it before you lose it! Before you lose yourself, stop— STOP IT—

You only stopped when the cries of pain below you subsided, the body producing them motionless, the face unrecognisable, even by God. Your hands shook as they dripped with blood, wiping the red, sticky liquid dripping down from your cheek. You had a sizeable gash on your upper arm, which you just came to notice.

You just took a life. Your first kill. What the fuck?

Sirens sounded, real close. Police sirens. Not for you, don’t worry. But close enough to unnerve you. You need to get rid of this body. You need help.

So, you drag this corpse along, and walk through the dingy streets of New York, to Wade’s apartment.

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ᝰˎˊ˗

Wade’s waiting for you by the door as you ring it. You can tell. Your phone had been blowing up, moments before. He had no idea where you were. So, here you are, standing in his doorway, looking like fucking Carrie, dragging your kill behind you, tears already having cleared pathways down your face, little rivulets of saltwater to break through the iron.

“…woah. What happened here?” Wade tries to smile, really, he does, but your distressed expression made him falter. You never cried. Ever. Crying wasn’t a thing you did. Maybe over movies, or stuff, but barely. Maybe a few sneaky tears slip out, when nobody’s watching. But this… this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t you. And suddenly Wade understood what had happened.

He didn’t judge. He just pulled you into the apartment, still trailing the corpse behind you, and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. He was a little taller than you, and always teased you for it, and although usually you would complain about him putting his head on top of yours, you couldn’t deny the comfort it gave today. You broke down in his arms, sobbing, processing what you had just done. You killed someone. You broke your no-kill code. You lost control. You sicko.

“…penny for your thoughts?” Woah. Wade was speaking proper English now. Shit’s real serious.

“…I lost control.”

“I can see that, Racoon.”

“Don’t joke with me right now.” You looked up at him, eyes burning. Then you looked at his clean white shirt which he was wearing. Well, it used to be clean. Now it was covered in blood. Eugh. And now you felt even more terrible because this was his favourite shirt and you had ruined it like the selfish, selfish, selfish monster you are who didn’t deserve him, didn’t deserve any friends, anything—

He caught you spiralling, and smacked you across your face. “Stop. I don’t know what’s racing through your head but it’s probably not true. You are a great person. Especially in my eyes. This…” he gestured vaguely to the body, “changes nothing.”

“I-I swore I’d never kill—”

“Racoon—”

“Life is important, Wade, and I just shat on that! Literally just took a big fat dump on life sacredness and importance! I killed a guy! I-I killed him and the worst part is I enjoyed it!” You were crying again. It wasn’t fair. You just wanted to have a nice evening with Wade and you fucked it up. Nice going, asshole.

Wade looked at you. Then he smiled. Held in a laugh.

“Don’t laugh at me! I’m a horrible monster and you should hate me! I don’t deserve love or anything— STOP LAUGHING AT ME!”

Wade was unable to keep it in. “…babes, do you think I’m a good person?”

“Wh- no duh, of course, you’re my best friend!”

“But I’m a murderer too. Much worse than you. God, I’ve been the sole reason population levels aren’t skyrocketing this side of the city. And I used to be a literal merc.”

“Yes, I remember, the Merc with the Mouth, right? And Vanessa, sweet Vanessa.”

Wade became a bit more wistful at that, eyes cast towards the distance.

“…you should call her.” He considered that for a bit.

“…not today, trash rat. Gotta deal with your sorry ass right now.” He patted your head condescendingly, and you chuckled, wiping your nose pathetically on your sleeve like a toddler. You glanced back down at the man on the floor, memories rushing back.

“I gotta turn myself in— I gotta tell his family—” without warning, you pushed off Wade, scrounging the body for its phone, your fervour fuelled by guilt and grief. You fished it out of the corpse’s trench coat. It was… surprisingly expensive, for a hobo-esque guy like him.

You went through the emergency contacts, and clicked one. Time to come clean.

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ᝰˎˊ˗

The phone rang. No answer the first two calls, then the third time, it picked up.

“H-hello?” A sweet old lady picked up. Oh, god, this was gonna be even worse.

“H-hello, is this your son’s phone?”

“Oh, yes, it is. Why- why do you have it?”

“…Your son, he…” you stared at the man on the floor, watched as his blood pooled around him. “…he’s in a better place, ma’am.”

The old woman didn’t believe you. It took some convincing for her to accept it, but eventually you could hear the sobs from the other side.

“My son, my son!” The hand holding the phone was shaking now. Yes, this man assaulted you, but he had a family. A family you had just ruined. You felt the tears fall down your face again.

“I-I’m so sorry for your—” your voice was shaky, your own sobs coming through. God, you were a sicko. Irredeemable.

“He just got married, you know? Just a couple months ago.” The woman on the other side was inconsolable, hiccuping, praising her son’s memory.

Hold up. Married?

Wade looked down at the body, holding up both hands. No ring.

You realised something, and turned back to the old woman. “Ma’am, is your son mid-forties, brown hair, glasses—”

“What? No. He’s 20, for one—l”

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry, there’s been a mix-up. Your son is fine— well, I hope he is. I assume he got his phone stolen recently?” When the woman confirmed, you calmed down. Okay. It was okay. He was alive. You didn’t kill a good man.

So who was this John Doe?

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ᝰˎˊ˗

This man had like, 40 phones on him. All stolen. It was creepy.

You and Wade went through each of them, trying to find the phone of this man, the one he actually owned. But he somehow didn’t own any of them.

“This is useless.”

“Shh. We’ll find something.”

“…okay. John Doe here is a serial phone stealer. He’s not even a good person. Relax.” You roll your eyes at Wade’s comment, glancing down at the body.

“…does he not look familiar to you?”

Wade paused, then looked at you incredulously. “Babes. You’ve smashed his face in so much I could use it as a bowl for chimichangas. No, he doesn’t look fucking familiar.”

“No— work with me, jackass. Here— I’ll sketch him from memory.” You looked around for a pencil and paper fruitlessly, whining in frustration slightly. Wade handed you a paper and a biro. You began sketching.

God, you can’t draw to save your life, can you? But if there’s anyone more in tune with you, it’s Wade Wilson.

“…woah, that guy’s on the news!”

“You got that from a stick figure with nonsense features?”

“The nose, dude.” Ah. Yes. You had added the man’s hooked nose.

Wade went onto his laptop, and typed something, and started scrolling. You perched behind him, curious. “Whatchu—” he shut you up, pressing a hand to your mouth. He was going through all the recent news articles, until you stopped him. “That guy. That one there.”

He clicked it.

Serial Killer on the loose!

Say what now? Serial killer? You glanced back down at the body. This pathetic man was a serial killer? But the more you read, the more shocked you became. This guy was a killer, a rapist, a kidnapper, all the wrongs in the world rolled into one fella.

Ew. You touched that guy with your hands. He touched you too. Eugh. You shuddered, glancing back at the screen. A smirk played on Wade’s lips.

“Look, babes, no harm done. He was on death row already. He was gonna die anyway. And rightfully so. The bastard was the scum of the fucking barrel.

“…should we still tell the cops?” You look up, nervous.

“…yeah. Might get cash out of it!”

“You and your damn cash—” you rolled your eyes, grinning weakly… god, this guy was the best.

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ᝰˎˊ˗

“We should probably ask Pete to ask Tony to improve America’s prison systems.” You mumbled, chewing a hotdog you bought from a stand you just visited after dumping the body and phones anonymously at the police station. Anonymous, but with a burner phone number attached. Wade suggested that. Cash prizes, you know?

You still were covered in blood. You needed a shower.

When you got back to Wade’s place, that’s what you did. Took a nice, long shower, detangling your hair, coagulated with blood, and wiping that man’s fluids off you. The water still ran red, after you were clean.

Shit. You were still bleeding.

You dried yourself off, pulled on Wade’s hoodie which you always wore, and came back out. “Wadeeeee? Can I get a little help?”

And, it was like a spell. The next moment, you were being bandaged up for being injured. Unlike him, you forgot, you weren’t a mutant. So you couldn’t heal like him. You were sitting in the bathroom, shirtless, him wiping the cut on your cheek, sighing.

“Your face is gonna be scarred.” You looked up at his own scarred face, smirking.

“Maybe I wanna look like you.” That set him off. He always was a bit different than you. No sexual jokes, not even from the get-go. Treated you with respect, like a best friend, but closer. Platonic soulmates, you always called the two of you, resulting him in shoving you with a pshaw. But really. You were lucky to have this guy. He’s a great friend.

So, an hour later, you and him are back at your sleepover plans, eating pizza and watching Golden Girls for the umpteenth time. Al, in case you’ve been wondering, has been asleep in the bedroom all this time, and the couch was a pull-out, so you were on there, your head on his shoulder, your eyes closed peacefully as Wade yapped on about Bea and Betty. White noise.

You recalled the events of the day. You killed a man. You ran to Wade. You gave an old woman a mini heart attack. You found out the corpse was a serial killer. And now you’re here, hugging your best friend, who was patting your head. And, you thought to yourself…

Life is strange.