Tortured Genius (A Marvel Fanfiction: Reader Insert)

Chapter 17: Not a Fan of Puppeteers

You know when you've been driving for so long that you start to become convinced that the signs and advertisements along the side of the road are messages personally speaking to you?

Yeah, well, it'd been a long night.

The last one you'd seen had just said, HUNGRY? In black letters with a white background. You didn't even know what they were advertising, or why for heavens sake, but it sure sounded like good advice. Maybe you ought to stop and eat... No. Can't do that. Nuh uh. You had dinner only a few hours ago and your goal was to take the edge off the hunger, not gain a billion calories. Okay, your stomach agreed. But also, food? Who the hell cares about driving anyways?

You. You cared about driving.

Speaking of driving, you loved cruise control more than anything else. Sorry, friends and family you're all great people but that cramp in your ankle from holding the gas pedal just so is the devil! And cruise control is the hosts of heaven banishing it away.

Anyways, here you were. Night had fallen long ago; you had flicked on your headlights once it became clear that there would be no way to see without them.

Wade, of course, was dozing in the passenger seat. A gun in one hand and the second on the floor near his shoe, you were half tempted to wake him up and insist on your buddy ejecting the ammunition but he looked kinda peaceful so you left it alone. It isn't often one gets sleep and when one does you accept it, embrace it, and wait for the next possible nap. That's it. All there ever is and was to life; you can go home now. Haha. You wished.

Ah, see, now this sign said, WORN OUT? Like, no shit, mystery sign person. On this desolate stretch of road? Absolutely. What a dense mothershucker. Who wouldn't be? Plus, without Wade, you would've long since abandoned the drive to Queens, New York. It was, after all, the Avengers home town and although you were nothing close to keen on hitching a ride there, options were low and no one had a plan B. Especially Deadpool.

You whistled softly.

Queens, New York. You'd been there. Once upon a time. You'd known someone there. Not Spider-man, though you admit it would've been handy at the time and place.

That same someone had once told you with great conviction: " You're one in a million. That means there are 320 of you in the United States. Find yourself. Start an army. Overthrow the government of a small mid western town. Run crap."

Made you laugh every time. Always knew how to cheer you up, that one.

It'd been Theyel, by the way. Boy, where would you be if that boy was still around? Probably in collage. Joking around, passing classes because both of you were bloody smart. It wasn't like you needed teachers to tell you stuff. Mischief would ensure, no doubt. Friends made? Unlikely. Even though the two of you had been friends, anti-social came at a great cost: Only like, three friends max. Which while untrue for many people, in your case, it was the most true. You missed him, the more you thought about it. And you hated yourself for everything that had happened that day. All of it. You'd never told anyone that that was your real reason for wanting to make a show - wasn't as if someone would've believed fifteen year old you, anyways. Besides, now it was too late to change your story. What did it matter?

But the more you told yourself that you didn't miss him anymore, the more you told yourself that you weren't guilty for the events that day, the more you told yourself that you needn't bother trying to prove a point anymore, the more you felt like you did, were and needed to.