Emil Blonsky filled the abandoned warehouse like a collapsing moon — hulking, mottled, dangerous. The Abomination's skin was a bruised green-brown; muscles and veins stood out as if someone had wired the flesh with steel. He still thought like a man, but moved like a cataclysm.
Deadpool, improbably calm and impossibly cheerful, sat cross-legged on a chunk of concrete, twin katanas across his knees. When Blonsky loomed, Wade popped to his feet with the grin of a man who treats apocalypse like a punchline.
"You ready, kid?" Blonsky rumbled, each step rattling dust from the rafters.
"Born ready, ugly giant!" Deadpool threw the knives up and caught them, blades flashing. "I'll carve your face into modern art!"
Blonsky answered with a roar and a swing that shook the floor. A slab of concrete hurled through the air like a meteor. Wade sliced it in two mid-flight, flipped, drew pistols, and shot at the monster's back for sport — then laughed as Abomination punched a hole through a pillar and sent him skittering across the room.
Wade's schtick wasn't bravery so much as biology: he couldn't stay dead. He talked about it like a man reviewing a mediocre vacation. A column impaled him; he tapped it with a bloody finger and recited gory research notes like a bored professor.
Blonsky, furious at being mocked, offered a blunt incentive. "Join me. Dark Avengers. Power. Money. Revenge." His voice trembled with something that pretended to be control.
Deadpool spat, amused. "Join a team? I don't do teams. I do chaos. Also, bribe me five million and I'll think about it between bouts of self-disembowelment."
That earned a snarl and a promise from the Abomination: he'd bankroll the Dark Avengers — and he'd make sure anyone who refused would be useful or dead. He had the Secretary of Defense twisted around his finger now; money and access would follow. The plan smelled like vengeance wrapped in a government stamp.
"Fine," said Blonsky, scheming and swollen with fury. "We'll start with you and me — and Magneto next. If Magneto sides with us, his Brotherhood will bring more muscle and metal. Mystique, Quicksilver — they'll follow. With them, we'll crush the X-Men and rip Ryuuto's head off."
Deadpool shrugged, blood pooling at cuts as if his body were a slow leak that always filled again. "You build your weird superhero cult. I'll build a highlight reel of your mistakes. Also — FYI — I want to see Death. But Thanos cursed me, so I keep RSVP'ing 'not yet' to the after-party." He tapped his mask. "It's tragic, really."
Blonsky thought of simple fixes — incinerate him, pulverize him — but Deadpool explained, in deadpan detail and with morbid curiosity, why even that wouldn't stick. The molecules that once were Wade would re-aggregate; even digestion was just a temporary phase. Blonsky, who'd been stripped and probed by military science, frowned at the idea that someone could be more indestructible than he.
"Fine," Blonsky decided. "Contain him, recruit him, or break him later. For now—welcome to the Dark Avengers." He extended an enormous hand toward Wade.
Deadpool eyed the hulking palm and hopped away. "Dude, no thanks. Also, change of clothes next time? Your human look was… awkward." He winked. "Not my aesthetic."
They sealed the deal in a way that would disgust most people: a handshake, a laugh, and a promise to work together — or at least to share a stage. Abomination swaggered off to buy clothes that wouldn't shred when he transformed. Deadpool sat on the balcony, peeled off his mask, stuck earplugs in, and hummed like a serial showman. His wounds knit at a ridiculous speed — faster than Wolverine's even — and his grin never faded.
Blonsky left the warehouse to talk to his new puppet: the Secretary of Defense. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Director Fury had already been in private consultation with the Secretary, but that didn't stop Blonsky from forcing his way into the Pentagon halls. He wanted the Dark Avengers attached to S.H.I.E.L.D. — cover, access, tracking, global reach. With S.H.I.E.L.D. backing, a Dark Avengers front could look official and carry the clout a vengeful monster craved.
At the Secretary's office, Blonsky barreled in like an earthquake. Fury rose, shocked to see him.
"Emil? What are you doing here?" Fury demanded.
"Why wouldn't I be here?" Blonsky barked, anger sparking under flexed muscles. "X-Men declared war on the government tonight. If the nation doesn't strike back with something stronger, we get taken over. The minister freed me, and I'm forming an answer. Director Nick — Dark Avengers. Isn't it a perfect name?"
Fury's jaw tightened. Outside, a political system teetered: a speech had shaken trust, and senators who wanted control were now sanctioning a monstrous, government-tied response. It would look tidy on paper. It would smell rotten up close.
On the balcony, Deadpool watched the world burn with a bored sort of affection. "Bring popcorn," he muttered. "This mess is going to be fun."
Somewhere in the chain of events spun by a broadcast and a stolen scepter, the country had let a dangerous plan slide into motion. A puppet had a crown. An unkillable wildcard sat in the wings. And the Dark Avengers — whether by vengeance, politics, or revenge — had begun their ugly audition.
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