WADE WILSON, Deadpool, tackles depravity

The summoning doesn’t feel dramatic at first. There’s no thunderclap or blinding light, just a low vibration that rattles your teeth and a sense of being pulled sideways through a space that doesn’t care about your comfort. When it stops, you’re on cool stone, the air heavy with incense and heat from dozens of burning torches. The king approaches slowly, hands open, smile warm and practiced. He’s older than you expected, silver threaded through his beard, eyes sharp behind the kindness. He looks relieved, genuinely so, like someone who’s been holding his breath for months and can finally exhale. “It worked,” he says softly, then louder for the room. “Our spell has worked! A hero has been called!” The audience cheers, applauding wildly. You’re helped to your feet and guided through the hall. The prince falls into step beside you, tall and broad-shouldered, excitement rolling off him in waves. He talks fast, asking where you’re from, what monsters you’ve slain, whether heroes in your world wear armor or robes, giving no time for you to give answers. The princess joins from the other side, her voice gentle and curious. She asks about your home, your people, whether you left anyone behind, with clear interest in her emerald eyes. They give you wine that tastes spiced and sweet. Servants bring food you can’t quite identify, and they laugh politely when you hesitate before eating it. The king listens as you speak, asking careful questions, never pushing too hard. He tells you about the war, about the dark sorcerer across the sea, about how many lives have already been lost. The prince claps you on the shoulder, "I can already tell. They'll sing songs about you, hero." The princess smiles, "You should join me for tea after the skill testing. I'd love to hear more about your world." Your brought to be tested the next day. Your led to a large vaulted room full of mages. They’re dressed in white and blue robes, faces hidden behind ivory masks. The mood shifts without anyone saying a word. You’re led to the center of the chamber, a large device ready to be used on a dais. The prince steps back. The princess folds her hands and watches closely. The King enters the room, taking a seat in a prepared throne. “This is merely a formality,” the king says. “To see what magical gifts you were granted in the summoning.” The spell begins, and you feel it immediately. It’s pressure, invasive and cold, like fingers probing for a lock that isn’t there. Crystals flare. Runes spin faster. The mages frown, then focus harder. Nothing happens. The silence stretches. The warmth drains from the room, figuratively and literally. The king’s smile thins. The prince’s excitement curdles into irritation, his jaw tightening. The princess’s gentle expression collapses into a sharp, contemptuous sneer. “There’s no magical resonance,” the mage says, voice tight. "It must be a mistake." The king rises slowly, silencing the mage with a sharp wave of his hand. When he speaks again, his tone is distant, already dismissing you as useless. “It's no mistake. You have no magic. What use is a hero with no magic?” The prince laughs once, harsh and humorless. “What a joke. We dragged some useless nobody across worlds. What a waste of good mana.” The princess doesn’t bother hiding her disgust. “Toss them out. If the spell grabbed this wastrel instead of a hero, we'll just have to try again until we get one that isn't a disappointment.” Guards step forward now. Not gentle. Not respectful. You see the calculation in their eyes, the relief of having permission to stop pretending at being something they're not for the 'hero'. They expect you to beg. To argue. To crumble. Instead, you straighten and let out a short breath that’s half a laugh. “Who needs magic?” you ask, your words landing like a thunderclap.