Harley wasn’t exactly what you’d call “adventure material.” He was the kind of guy who got stressed picking a line at the grocery store, so being thrust into what smelled suspiciously like a Marvel-lite apocalypse wasn’t high on his bucket list.
Still clutching the Deadpool comic like it might suddenly sprout a holographic tutorial, Harley decided to explore the apartment further. Spoiler alert: it didn’t get any better. The bathroom mirror was cracked, the sink dripped with the irregular rhythm of a broken metronome, and the toilet looked like it might double as a portal to the underworld.
“I’ve seen cleaner sets in horror movies,” Harley muttered, stepping gingerly away from the suspicious stain on the floor.
That’s when the banging started.
Not just a polite knock or a friendly tap-tap. No, this was full-on, SWAT team here to ruin your day pounding. Harley froze, every muscle in his body screaming NOPE.
“Open up, dweeb!” came a voice from the other side. It was gruff, impatient, and vaguely threatening—so basically, exactly what Harley didn’t need right now.
“Uh… wrong apartment?” he called back, instantly regretting it.
The door practically vibrated under the next round of pounding. “Don’t make me break this door down, kid! I got places to be!”
Harley panicked. He had no idea who—or what—was on the other side of that door. The Hulk? A rent collector? Deadpool himself, here to laugh at his misery? He scrambled for a weapon, grabbing the nearest thing he could find: a broken table leg that looked about as intimidating as a pool noodle.
“Alright, alright! I’m opening it!” he yelled, hoping that whoever—or whatever—was on the other side wasn’t feeling particularly murderous.
He turned the lock and cracked the door open just enough to peek through.
“Finally!” The door was shoved open the rest of the way, nearly knocking Harley over. In stepped a figure Harley recognized instantly: scruffy hair, cigar in his mouth, and a scowl that could curdle milk.
“Wolverine?” Harley blurted, his brain struggling to process.
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“Yeah, yeah, save the fanboying,” Logan grunted, pushing past Harley like he owned the place. “Got any beer?”
Harley blinked. “I—what? No! Wait, why are you here? Why am I here? Is this some kind of crossover event?!”
Logan glanced at him, unimpressed. “Kid, you ask too many questions.” He opened the fridge, found nothing but a suspicious jar of pickles, and slammed it shut with a growl. “Figures.”
Harley felt his knees wobble. He was this close to a full-on existential meltdown. “Okay, hold up. First, why are you in my—uh, this—apartment? Second, what’s going on? And third, how is this real?!”
Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright, listen. I don’t got time to play twenty questions. Something big’s going down, and I’m guessing you’re part of it. Don’t ask me how; I don’t know. I just know I was told to find a scrawny guy with a Deadpool comic and—” He paused, eyeing the comic still clutched in Harley’s hand. “Yep. That tracks.”
Harley stared at him. “You’re saying I’m part of something big? Dude, I’m a barista. My biggest accomplishment this week was spelling ‘Alyx’ right on a cup.”
Logan ignored him, pulling a chair out from the small kitchen table and sitting like he owned the place. “Look, kid, I don’t make the rules. I just follow orders. And right now, my orders are to keep you alive.”
“Keep me alive? From what?”
As if on cue, the window shattered. A red blur crashed into the room, landing with a dramatic roll before springing to its feet.
“TA-DA!”
Harley’s jaw dropped. There he was, in the flesh—red-and-black spandex, twin katanas strapped to his back, and a grin so smug it could probably stop traffic.
“Deadpool?” Harley whispered, his voice somewhere between awe and terror.
“Correct-a-mundo!” Deadpool declared, striking a pose. “And you, my friend, are officially the McGuffin of this plot. Congratulations! You’re now the least interesting protagonist in this room.”
Logan groaned. “Great. Just what I needed. A walking headache.”
Harley’s brain short-circuited. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re saying I’m important? Like, Marvel-level important? Like, save-the-world important?”
Deadpool sidled up to him, slinging an arm around Harley’s shoulders. “Oh, no, not that important. More like… you’re the guy who accidentally pressed the wrong button and started the apocalypse. Oopsie-doodle!”
Harley shoved him away, panic rising. “Apocalypse?! What apocalypse?!”
Deadpool gasped, mock-horrified. “Oh no! Did I forget to explain the stakes? My bad!” He turned to Logan. “Can you do the brooding exposition thing while I find something to eat? I’m starving.”
Logan rolled his eyes. “Kid,” he said, turning to Harley, “your comic book just broke the damn universe. Now we gotta fix it before everything goes kablooey.”
Harley blinked. “My comic?”
Deadpool popped his head out of the fridge, a slice of questionable pizza in his hand. “Yep! Your precious little Deadpool Kills the Marvel Universe. Turns out, it’s more of a ‘how-to’ manual than a bedtime story.”
Harley felt the blood drain from his face. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Deadpool said, shoving the pizza into his mouth. “Actually, don’t answer that. Now, suit up, Buttercup! We’ve got a universe to unbreak!”