[To say that Wade was familiar with this sort of medical atmosphere is like saying that the ocean was a little heavy on the salt, or that Lindsey Lohan was just a tiny bit of a party girl. It's a place that is as familiar to him as his own home-- he'd be a little dismayed to know that that comparison was rapidly becoming less and less apt the longer he stayed away from it-- and while this place was definitely not OSHA-compliant by any means, he's been in and out of hospitals long enough to recognize the signs-- the long hallways, the institutionalized building structure; the echoing, almost tomb-like silence that made every movement echo regardless of how crowded the place was.
It didn't make things easier. No sane person ever truly felt comfortable in a hospital, and the smell of antiseptic still had the power to cause his heart to speed up without warning. Wade isn't even sure how he made it in here, or if this is just a long-delayed PTSD dream, like having one of those "naked in high school" dreams after you've already graduated college. If this was a dream, though, there really was no harm in exploring, was there? It's not as though anything could hurt him permanently, dream or no.
It's only when he almost passes by a particular door that the voice-- gruff, with the hint of a foreign accent-- stops him in his tracks. Maybe it's the thought that this could still be a dream that gives him pause, or maybe it's because this predicament is uncomfortably close to what he's experienced before. Whatever the reason, Wade cautiously enters the room, slipping one of his guns out of its holster in case of an ambush.
There's only one person in the room that he can see-- strapped to the operating table lies a man with sharp features, pointed ears and strange glowing markings on his body. Wade deals with this sight with as much grace and tact as he can muster.]
...Huh. Cool tats. How many glowsticks didja have to use to pull that off?
Wade "Deadpool" Wilson | Marvel 616
It didn't make things easier. No sane person ever truly felt comfortable in a hospital, and the smell of antiseptic still had the power to cause his heart to speed up without warning. Wade isn't even sure how he made it in here, or if this is just a long-delayed PTSD dream, like having one of those "naked in high school" dreams after you've already graduated college. If this was a dream, though, there really was no harm in exploring, was there? It's not as though anything could hurt him permanently, dream or no.
It's only when he almost passes by a particular door that the voice-- gruff, with the hint of a foreign accent-- stops him in his tracks. Maybe it's the thought that this could still be a dream that gives him pause, or maybe it's because this predicament is uncomfortably close to what he's experienced before. Whatever the reason, Wade cautiously enters the room, slipping one of his guns out of its holster in case of an ambush.
There's only one person in the room that he can see-- strapped to the operating table lies a man with sharp features, pointed ears and strange glowing markings on his body. Wade deals with this sight with as much grace and tact as he can muster.]
...Huh. Cool tats. How many glowsticks didja have to use to pull that off?