Who: Wade and OPEN What: The Merc doesn't deal well with father's day. When: Sunday afternoon. Where: Gun range somewhere in New Jersey Warning: R to be safe.
To the best of Wade's knowledge, he didn't have any kids. Which, being the statistical anomaly that it was, meant either someone was lying to him or he just couldn't and either way the world was probably better off for it. Even without his potentially government-induced psychosis, he never really knew what to do with kids. They weren't like dogs, you couldn't leave them on a leash while you popped inside Taco Bell for ten minutes and they weren't cute enough to lure the nice girl from the gym back to his apartment either. Plus you have to feed and clothe them and keep them entertained and he could barely do as much for himself on a good day.
There was also the less than subtle awareness niggling at the back of his mind that his own experiences with his father had so colored his interpretation of parent-child relationships that he didn't think he should be trusted with the health and well-being of a tiny, vulnerable human. He's obviously inherited far more of his father's sketchy genetics than those of his mother. The thoughts had been churning through his mind for almost a week now and none of the usual methods - namely killing things and attempting to drink himself into irreversible liver failure - had done much to take his mind off it. He didn't honestly think this would help much either, but it was the only time he had a reason to take the old service pistol out of the top of the closet, shine it up, and point it at something without a face.
Wade came in and out of awareness, with Deadpool sliding forward to take the helm when things got too heavy, and the other one lingering in the background murmuring this and that all the while. Deadpool's movements were wild and flamboyant, he couldn't even load a gun without some kind of internal three-way dialogue and a dramatic wave of his hands. The gun had always shot easily, and fit in his hand like it was meant to be there, even when he was kid. It was the gun he learned to shoot on, the one he'd show his friends when they came over, the one he tucked into the back of his jeans when he was partying in the less than respectable areas of town. It was the gun he was holding when Deadpool first clicked into place like the Termanator, fully-formed and ready to destroy something.
It was no surprise then that he lost himself, literally. Wade sunk so far back inside himself that all that was left was the dark and an echo of snide laughter. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire was little more than a distant murmur, which was how he liked it. It was easier to draw the others forward and let them take over the system controls so he could just forget and claim ignorance at their actions. Besides, it was a controlled environment. If he started getting too weird, surely someone would just toss him out and he'd find somewhere else to lurk, until the phone rang with something useful for him to do.