MAY 25,1998
HELL KITCHEN
third person (pov)
"Oh, hi there, my sweet little bumpkins who've never touched grass," the man said, lounging casually atop a billboard that featured a naked woman and the words "The Loneliest." The glowing sign flickered just above his head, making his grin look even more mischievous. "Well then, let's begin the narration, shall we?"
Below him stretched Hell's Kitchen—the kind of place where the name didn't exaggerate.
Drugs, human trafficking, illegal gambling, loan sharks—you name it, someone was bleeding for it here.
And if there's a place called Hell, there has to be a Devil, right?
Only, this Devil wasn't the one from the old myths with horns and a pitchfork. No, this one wore red leather, swung across rooftops, and beat the wicked until they repented in their own blood. The devil of Hell's Kitchen—Daredevil—was the kind of man even the darkness respected.
Tonight, that devil was chasing ghosts.
Specifically, her—the girl he thought had died long ago, the one who had carved her name into his heart like a scar. He believed she was gone... until he found out she wasn't so "dead" after all.
And behind that devil?
Well, that's where I come in.
See, I was watching him—perched on my billboard throne like a bored guardian angel with better hair(wig) for a job.
As sensing something in narration, Deadpool's mouth twitched, and still lavishly swayed his hair with his hands and muttered, "Author, you are just jealous".
Well, where was I?
Yeah job.
My job wasn't to hurt him; quite the opposite. I was hired to protect him.
Commissioned straight from the author himself.
Yeah, that's right. A literal email from destiny.
He leaned back, swaying his legs casually, eyes tracking the red figure as he moved through the dark alleyways below—graceful, dangerous, and heartbreakingly determined.
"Man," he muttered, "he really knows how to throw a punch. Guess I'll let him keep swinging till sunrise. After that… my shift's over."
The scene shifted to the back of the man's perch, the camera of fate panning down through the misty clouds forming. Above the sky. He sat motionless, watching a group of figures unload heavy crates from the back of a truck into a worn-down six-story building that looked like a cross between an underground fight club and an illegal fortress.
The workers moved with unnerving precision—silent, masked, and quick.
Ninjas.
Not the kind from Saturday morning cartoons, but the kind who could slit a throat and vanish before the blood hit the floor.
Their leader, a tall man in a black trench coat with a long katana, pressed a finger to his earpiece.
"Task completed," he muttered. His voice was cold, efficient as he said it in Japanese. Then, with a simple hand signal, the entire group disappeared inside.
As the last truck pulled away, rain began to fall, first in gentle drops, then in sheets. From a distance, the faint hum of surrounding sound was swallowed by the storm.
Daredevil listened. His world was sound, but tonight, the rain blurred everything—turning whispers into static and footsteps into ghosts.
Not ideal, he thought grimly.
"Shit," he hissed under his breath, brushing rain from his face. "Why the hell does it always have to pour when I'm working?"
The city didn't answer.
He exhaled slowly, focusing his senses through the storm. Beneath the chaos, he could still feel it—a pulse of movement, the rhythm of danger. The Hand was here. This building was their temporary base, intel confirmed after weeks of tracking Wilson Fisk's smuggling routes.
But that wasn't what made his heart twist.
He'd seen her. Among the ninjas—his ex-lover. The woman he thought was dead for six months. And now she was alive... working for them.
He clenched his fists, rain streaming down his mask like tears.
"I can't lose her again," he whispered.
With a sharp inhale, he coiled his muscles—perfect control born from a lifetime of pain and discipline. Then, he moved.
He dashed through the narrow alley, boots splashing against puddles, and ran up the side of the wall. His body became a blur, leaping between fire escapes, window ledges, and air conditioners. Each movement was clean, efficient, and impossibly precise.
He reached the rooftop. Two ninjas were kneeling near the edge, guarding the perimeter. Their breathing was so shallow that an ordinary man wouldn't have noticed them at all. But Daredevil wasn't ordinary.
Still, the rain dulled his hearing. He needed sound.
He tapped his billy club against the rooftop—just once.
Tap.
The faint vibration rippled through the puddles, echoing like sonar. The ninjas' heads turned immediately, unsheathing their short blades.
Daredevil smirked.
Got you.
In a heartbeat, he closed the distance. He caught the first ninja's wrist mid-draw, twisted sharply, yanked the sword free, and slammed it into the man's thigh. A sharp cry caught in the ninja's throat before Daredevil shattered his jaw with a brutal uppercut.
The second ninja froze—trained to stay silent in mission, forgot to yell as this was just the first week of his job.
(AN: POOR GUY, WELL ANYWAY)
Daredevil surged forward, his face set in grim determination, throwing a punch that cracked against the man's cheek like thunder. In a smooth spin, he whipped his baton backward, striking the side of the ninja's head with a 120-degree twist. The man dropped silently, his body folding like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Sleep tight," Daredevil muttered, checking below. No alarm yet.
He leaped down from the ledge, slipping quietly into the building's ventilation shaft.
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Rooftop — Moments Later
A new figure emerged from the shadows, in the same red spandex, landing lightly on the same rooftop with a theatrical thud.
Red and black suit. Katanas.
Unmistakable.
Deadpool.
He crouched beside the unconscious ninja whose jaw Daredevil had dislocated and started slapping his cheek lightly.
"Hey, buddy, wake up. C'mon, sleepyhead." Slap. Slap. Slap.
The ninja stirred, blinking in confusion thinking he was fellow teammate. "A-alarm the others… someone infiltrated… we must inform Black Sky—" in whole sentence the only black sky was in english rest remain muffled voice in japanese
Deadpool's head tilted. "Black Sky? Huh. Only thing I understood in that sentence was 'Black Sky.'"
Deadpool nodded seriously. "Got it. Ching chong ding dong."
Before the poor man could even process that, Deadpool drew his katana and—shhk!—ended his night permanently.
"Well," Deadpool said cheerfully, cleaning the blade on the ninja's robe, "looks like both of you are off on an early retirement plan. No refunds, no returns."
He stood, peering down toward the building below, where faint sounds of combat echoed through the rain.
"Daredevil's down there, huh? Dude's really working overtime."
He sighed dramatically, placing a hand over his heart.
"Well, if I don't help him, who's gonna put food on my table? Gotta earn that merc paycheck somehow. And hey, women dig hero work too, right?"
Deadpool was about to follow Daredevil down the same path when the air behind him shimmered like rippling water.
A low hum built up, the kind of sound that made every hair stand on end. Then—fwoosh!—a swirling blue portal burst open, lighting up the rain-soaked night like a slice of neon heaven.
From the portal stepped a figure draped in white.
Sleek, futuristic armor gleamed under the moonlight. A black visor covered his face, marked with a glowing V-shaped streak of blue that pulsed like a heartbeat—his "eyes." The same azure light flowed from the core of his suit, illuminating the rooftop around him in an otherworldly glow. A white cloak fluttered behind him, giving him the look of a futuristic assassin—or maybe a cosmic knight who had taken a wrong turn from the year 3050.
Deadpool froze mid-step, his eyes wide behind the mask. Slowly, dramatically, he pressed a hand to his cheek.
Then, in a half-whispered, half-panicked voice, he said:
"...Holy shit. Tron Jesus."
The new arrival—Aethereon—stopped dead in his tracks, visibly confused. His head tilted slightly, and if one could see beneath the visor, they might've caught the exact moment his mouth twitched.
"Did… you just call me Tron Jesus?" he asked flatly.
Deadpool gasped, dropping to his knees like a sinner at confession.
"I—I'm sorry, Jesus! I don't know what came over me! Ever since I was a kid, I was so pure—then one day, some random dipshit put a gun in my hand and said 'bang-bang,' and now here we are!"
He spread his arms dramatically, letting the rain pour down his mask like divine judgment.
Aethereon just stared. Silent. Processing. Regretting every decision that led to this point.
He had thought—for reasons that now seemed astronomically stupid—that maybe Deadpool could be an asset. A wildcard worth recruiting.
Now… he wasn't so sure.
Finally, he sighed, his voice calm but weary.
"Deadpool, I don't know why you're following Daredevil, but listen. You might've heard of me—name's Aethereon. I'm putting together a team. A group of heroes who can make a difference. Improve how the public views metahumans—and keep Earth safe."
Deadpool blinked. Then, very slowly, he dug a finger up the inside of his mask, picking his nose.
"Never heard of you," he said casually, inspecting the result like it was more interesting than the glowing man in front of him.
For a few seconds, only the sound of the rain filled the air. The city around them hissed and breathed like a living thing.
Aethereon tilted his head, the faint blue glow from his visor flickering like an annoyed eye twitch.
"Well," he said finally, "if you haven't heard of me, then let's just say—joining me might give you some... opportunities."
Deadpool crossed his arms, unimpressed.
"Uh-huh. I don't know who you are, buddy, but you look like the futuristic third cousin of Moon Knight who got lost at a Tron convention. I work solo."
Aethereon's visor pulsed once. Then he dropped the line like a mic.
"Do you want Batman's autograph?"
There was a pause.
Deadpool's mask turned toward him slowly.
Then, in an instant, his whole posture changed.
"You son of a bitch…" he said, pointing a dramatic finger, "…I'm in."
He sprang to his feet and clapped Aethereon on the shoulder like they'd been friends for years.
"Alright, glowy man, let's go save the universe—or whatever you said. But if we meet Batman, I'm calling dibs on a selfie."
Aethereon exhaled through his nose, muttering under his breath,
"What have I gotten myself into…"
"Well, first off, why are you following Daredevil?" Alex asked, his tone calm but curious, eyes narrowing slightly as he turned toward the mercenary. "Did someone put a bounty on his head and hire you for that?"
Even as he spoke, his supersenses flickered to life. Through the echoing heartbeat and faint vibrations of the environment, Alex sensed Daredevil locked in a fight nearby—against someone quite capable. The vigilante had only been active for about ten months now, still inexperienced when it came to facing truly dangerous opponents.
"Eh… oh, I forgot!" Deadpool's voice cut through the silence, muffled slightly by his mask. "There was this request from someone called Mephistopheles1901. A letter sent straight to my house—Vanessa picked it up, actually. I checked it out, and hey, the pay was pretty damn good, you know?"
Alex's brows furrowed slightly, a faint chill rippling down his spine. "Mephisto?" he muttered under his breath. "Is he that Mephisto—the ruler of Hell?"
He hadn't meant for anyone to hear it, nor was he expecting a reply, but just saying the name out loud brought back memories of the last time he'd faced that infernal manipulator. After the recent incident involving Mephisto—the ruler of Hell himself—Aethereon had grown wary of anything connected to that name.
Deadpool, meanwhile, took a casual bite of a sandwich from God knows where, talking through a mouthful of bread and meat. "Nah, he's an author of a novel. That's just his pen name."
Alex blinked. "…"
There were moments where words failed him completely. This was one of them.
"Well, if the FBI talk is over," Deadpool added nonchalantly, wiping his hands on his suit, "should we go help Daredevil? I really don't wanna cancel my payout of easy money."
"Hm." Aethereon nodded faintly, still deep in thought. Mephistopheles1901… knowing both Daredevil and Deadpool's positions, and able to contact them directly? Whoever this person was, they weren't ordinary. If he's hiding his name, he might be someone important within the Marvel world. I need to inform Cara to track that mail order immediately.
As the two finished their talk, the camera of the scene seemed to drift downward, phasing through the rooftop and into the chaotic underbelly below.
There, Daredevil was mid-fight—blocking a sword that stopped just inches from his throat, his batons locked against the steel. Sweat glistened along his brow; his breathing was heavy, his muscles trembling with fatigue. The opponent was fast—too fast for someone still relatively new to the hero game. If it had been one-on-one from the start, Daredevil might've already won. But now… the floor around them was littered with the aftermath of his battle.
Nine ninja bodies lay scattered across the alley—some unconscious, others groaning weakly in pain, arms and legs bent at awkward angles. The man Daredevil now faced had arrived last, stepping over his fallen comrades with cold precision.
Then—
A loud thud crashed from above.
Before either fighter could react, something—or rather, someone—came crashing down from a ventilation duct, knocking them both off their footing.
Both men stumbled, tumbling backward as a familiar red-and-black figure landed between them in a perfect three-point pose.
"Hero landing!" Deadpool announced dramatically, smoke puffing up around him as if on cue. He had, quite literally, fallen from the vent—just to perform that entrance—and somehow managed to cushion both Daredevil and his opponent in the process.
From beneath the pile came a low groan, followed by Daredevil's strained voice. "Someday… I might really kill you, Deadpool."
Deadpool bounced up instantly, dusting off his suit. "Aw, you always say the sweetest things."
The ninja scrambled back, putting distance between them, kunai drawn and eyes narrowing in disbelief. "Who the hell are you?" he hissed, confusion flashing in his gaze.
His weapon hand trembled slightly as he stared at Deadpool—who had a kunai sticking directly into his chest, right over the heart. He'd impaled the mercenary by instinct when he fell—but now the man stood there whistling, cheerful as ever, like nothing had happened.
Deadpool tilted his head, hands on his hips, and began to whistle louder—completely ignoring the kunai.
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AUTHOR NOTE- FOR STORY PROGRESS I AM JUST UPLOADING 4 CHAPTERS 1 CHAPTER DAILY TILL 6 NOVEMEBER AFTER THAT I WILL UPLOAD IN JANUARY WITH 6OR 8 CHAPTERS