Chapter 30 - Aside : With a Mouth

This non- canonical interlude contains copious amounts of cursing - of course. Ye be warned.

Consider this an 'omake' chapter - it takes place in between part 1 and 2, which means it's technically before the previous chapter. Also, the canonicity of some things here is - questionable. Consider the source, people.

We will be returning to our regularly scheduled programming soon.

I open my eyes, and it's dark as the night. Great, I'm blind again.

I've woken up like this before, of course. Becoming anatomically challenged is a bit of an occupational hazard for me, since I get shot, stabbed, or crushed regularly. Usually, nobody's around to piece me back together (or they don't care enough to try), so whenever my brain get squashed to jelly it's always a big ol' mess.

When I call the dry-cleaner afterwards, he charges me like it's highway robbery. He knows that he's the only one around who will actually handle my rancid crap. Ah well. If only Weasel were still around to fix my stuff; I really should have thought twice about threatening to shoot him in the face for daring to mess with my Bea Arthur picture collection. And then actually going through with my threat. Ah, burnt bridges and all that.

Didn't we dream that? I'm pretty sure Weasel's alive...

Eh, probably. Maybe. We should check continuity later, because I think I actually funneled his cash to our offshore account already. Perhaps that lifetime supply of Chimichangas we got in the deal was also a ruse. Man, I'm not gonna be happy if that's the case! Maybe I should shoot him anyway, just to be sure? Also, little yellow voice, why are you so - washed out? That doesn't look healthy...

"I know you're awake. I can hear you mumbling," says a very annoying, very British voice, interrupting my internal monologue.

Of course you can hear us, ignorant simp! It's called narration, get with the fucking program.

Dialogue, whatever. I am instantly pissy at the owner of that whiny voice - not just because he interrupted my wildly untopical stream of consciousness, but because he's British. Last time I ran into one of those limey bastards I was still wearing that fugly-ass X-Force suit, and taking orders from raging assholes who should have thought twice about involving me at all.

"...Al? 'S that you?" I mutter to myself as I turn towards my captor, feeling rather tipsy, though I know I can't be - I haven't had a proper buzz since I became a human guinea pig. Speaking of which, I'm tied up like I was back then, and the annoying British voice, if entirely different from that of anyone who actually tested on me, brings back bad memories.

The sound of it is definitely worse than Wolvie's Canadian drawl, and edging pretty close on the annoyance-factor of another Canadian I know quite well. I can't quite recall who, right now. Just that I'm used to hearing an awful lot of him.

Hey, me! We're not dripping all over the floor this time! I think we're okay!

Oh, right. Me. That's who I meant. Fucking schizophrenia.

Chatty-ass voices in my head aside, I seem to be in pretty decent shape, which is very unusual. My nerves have been shot since around the freaking Nixon administration, but I can still tell when someone's been hacking at my parts - and as far as I can tell, I'm whole. I've even got a damn mask on my scabby face, and I'm fairly sure I feel the contours of a loaded .45 pressing against my left ass-cheek. My captor's apparently a gentleman, and didn't feel around everywhere.

Or he wants to get into our pants.

Well, that is a pointless observation, little yellow voice of mine. Everyone wants to get in our pants.

Hah! Keep dreaming! Are you crazy, or am I?

I took a long moment to analyze that thought, considering the notion that truly crazy people would probably not realize they were nutty to begin with, but I countered it with the observation that I had long known I was insane - I just didn't give a shit. My musings were cut off by the Brit.

"I'm talking to you, stop zoning out. Ennervate!" A surge of energy charges through me, and it leaves me all tingly - for a moment I consider the possibility that I ended up in a really different kind of dungeon than I expected. Fingers snap in front of my face, twice, three times. "This is the first time anyone's taken this long to recover from a measly little stunner... Wonder if it really does work differently on Muggles...?"

A stunner? Pithy name for what hit me, really. It had all the subtlety of running a 1985 Chevy Silverado directly over my face, while blasting Nickelback at full volume. My head was still ringing to the tune of 'Fight For All the Wrong Reasons.'

Also, that stunner had most likely been followed by landing face-first on the ground like a ton of bricks, pulverizing a few dozen vertebra and most of my upper body if past experience was anything to go by. Admittedly, I don't have any recollection of the moment, but I've busted my head enough times to see a trend emerging. Might explain the blindness, too.

Right - reality check. I'm strapped to a big ol' chair, there's a British guy hanging over me with a magical voodoo stick that makes stunners or whatever, and I have the cast of Survivor playing an African war-chant on my poor skull. This is an ugly situation.

Well, at least we were already ugly.

"Shut the fuck up," I mumble to myself.

"There's no need to be rude, American," the Brit says in such a disparaging tone that for a moment I want to jump to a spirited defence of the land of freedom, booze, and inexplicably narrow-minded religious bigots - then I remember I'm a Canadian, and I stop giving a crap entirely. I silently apologize to myself for forgetting that detail, since it seemed like the appropriately stereotypical thing to do.

"American, you say? No more than you, guvnor," I blurt after a moment, because my thoughts rarely stay locked inside for long. "Also, if you haven't noticed, I'm blind, so I have reason to be a little peeved. If you gouged out my eyes, I swear I'm gonna Super-Mario your ass into a body cast, or maybe until coins start coming out."

It's a friendly introduction by my standards, even if I'm unsuccessfully attempting to mimic Wolvie's lethal drawl. I try to stretch in my seat, but my captor snaps his fingers, and ropes tighten around my wrists.

Oh, right. Yeah. The wand-waving Waverly Place guy caught us red-handed.

Fucking hell, that's what I was missing before. He's the damn wizard of Oz. The mental connection re-establishes itself, probably around the same time my tortured brain decides to stop being a lazy bastard. I remember now. I tried to stylishly assassinate a wascally wizard, completely and utterly failed at it in every way imaginable, and now he's got me all chained up in his dungeon, and probably not in a hot way.

"I'm officially in the deep smelly stuff, aren't I?" I ask wearily.

"Hmm. You could say that, yes. As for your sight..." the wizard says, and suddenly the world snaps back into existence around me, rushing in like a wave of colour. A dark hardwood floor and smudgy grey walls flow into being as exposition sets the scene. I'm strapped to a chair, fair enough, but it's a very large, very fluffy armchair that seems to have little flying baseballs stitched all over it - and they're moving. He's a wizard. I keep forgetting. A lot of things keep flitting away from me, really. I hate stunners.

Okay - why am I here again? Fill me in, voices?

Hell if I know. I'm you, remember?

Well, a fat load of good I am.

"I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding," I try at last, scrunching up my face as I try to gather my scrambled memories - this crap usually happens when I land on my head, but it tends to go away more quickly. "I could get you roses as an apology, and maybe a nice dead cat for your arcane rituals to contact Mephisto, Dread Lord of Mystical… Evil..."

Shit. I remember why I'm here, once again. The assassination stuff. I tried to shoot in the face.

The wizard stands before me with that little stick - a magic wand - raised in his hand, a shimmery cloak over his shoulders, glaring in clear annoyance. "You tried to shoot me in the face."

He has a point. I did, in fact, empty several large-caliber rifles into his smarmy posh head. He had probably refrained from mentioning my katanas for a good reason - I had never actually gotten to use them before they were inexplicably turned into two very surprised and irate swordfishes. It had actually been rather amazing, though very inconvenient.

Note to self: swords and copious amounts of bullets are not weaknesses of wizards. Next time, we should try acid and biting sarcasm.

"Right, yeah, the shooting thing," I retort dryly. "Sorry about that. You gave me a bit of an opening there." I wince as I realize how my little defence sounds, but I can't stop the words from coming out of my mouth. I never can. "If you well-mannered Old-Worldly types didn't go through polite niceties, I'd never get the chance to shoot you in the face at all, so it's mostly your fault. Be thankful I'm Canadian - Imagine what an American would have done to you!" I shudder. "Worse yet, a freaking New-Yorker!"

"Funny, that." The wizard sighs to himself. "You do know that I live there, right?"

Fuck, I'd forgotten about that. He's that wizardly guy - the only one I actually knew about, but that is beside the point. He'd been all across the evening news for days now, in the wake of all those crazy videos appearing on the net. This was the guy who fulfilled a dream that my inner self has held since childhood - riding on the back of a nuclear missile like Slim Pickens, being a total freaking badass.

Alright, I have to admit it. This guy is kind of awesome. So why did I want to shoot him again?

"You're lucky I was prepared for Muggle weapons," the wizard notes easily. "If you'd actually had a chance of doing serious damage with those guns of yours, I would have been a lot less merciful."

I let out a weary sigh. "Yeah, about that. What kind of world is this, where arrogant, dolphin-hating, hippie-kicking mercs can't even get a good hit in at all?" I mutter as the wizardly dude raises an eyebrow. "Well, let's be honest - it's not fair when the bullets bounce off you like they're not made of metal and screaming death. Invulnerability is some lame-ass overpowered DC shit, and you know it."

"I have no idea what you mean," the wizard says dryly. "As for my personal protection, which was clearly a very good idea, I've gotten used to it since a little incident a while back. Nuclear missiles and alien shape-shifting robots, you might have caught some of that on the telly. I tend to wear properly bulletproof clothing and a bit of anti-Muggle wizardry these days, all the good stuff." He frowns. "The upshot is, I can only be found by people who really want to find me. And you tracked me down while I wasn't even in costume."

Ah, yeah, the secret identity thing. People hate it when that comes out, I vaguely recall - I just wear a mask because of the ugly gob. I might have screwed up a teensy little bit there when I went and blasted the mystical wizard with an AK-47 in the middle of the street. "Yeah, I went looking for you. Thought that getting you as a civvie would be easier. It wasn't good enough, was it?"

The wand-waving fellow -

Did you just think 'fellow'? For shame.

- was silent for a very long time, and he seemed to study my mask, as if he was trying to see something there except for red and black and my lovable eyes. I took a certain delight in imagining the guy's expression when the mask came off, and he found out I looked like a cross of Ryan Reynolds and a melting Shar-Pei.

Hey, don't insult those wrinkly dogs, they're cute and cuddly!

Man, i'm such a fucking softie. I should burn down an orphanage later to balance that out.

"Questionable motives for assassination attempts aside, how did you know where to find me?" The wizard asks, cocking his head to the side, no anger visible on his face at all, just curiosity. "Maybe tracking me down in New York wouldn't even have been a surprise, since it's where a lot of us super-weirdoes hang out, but here in England? Barely anyone knew that I even came here at all..."

Yeah, fuck if I know the answer to that one right now, with my scrambled messed-up head. "Can I... pass on that one?"

The wizard sighs like Al tends to, and I wonder if he's going to let the matter go out of sheer exasperation, since that tends to be the trend back home. Probably not, unfortunately.

"I thought you'd avoid answering. Do you even know who I am, mercenary?" The wizard raises an eyebrow inquisitively.

"I caught the lowdown on the telly - just 'the Magician', right?" I don't know a whole lot beyond what had been on my daily programming. "MSNBC's been singing your praises, CNN's utterly unreliable as usual, and Fox & Friends think you're an atheist devil incarnate and probably a project of the American government, like little old me. So, are ya?"

The wizard seemed utterly tired as he shrugged. "Of course not. And I'm not even from the States, obviously. You'd think after that interview I gave, people would have figured that out."

"Eh, people are idiots. Besides, Brits are -" I cross my fingers, "- tolerable. I'm Canadian, remember. We can mock America derisively from our respective positions of moral superiority! Or at least I could make some pretty good fart jokes." I frown, as something niggles at the corner of my brain. Something very important.

His name totally sucks monkey-balls.

"Yeah, I agree. Magician is a shit moniker," I say slowly. The wizard's eyebrow twitches momentarily. "Seriously, I was thinking stage magician when I first heard it, and that's just pitiful, since you can do awesome shit like turn all sorts of things into fish. Who does that? You're like the one person who could make Aquaman respectable again!"

"Merlin, you're another bloody Tony," the wizard mutters, rubbing his forehead.

"You should retcon the name. How 'bout making it something awesome? Like, strap pouches everywhere, and go by Wizard X! It would be sweet! I even did that thing, long ago. It's really useful, and Liefeld would love you. If not that, you could just go with something like the Thaumaturge..." I stop myself, but the bullshit name slips out. "No - too pretentious, too hipster. Magi, maybe? You could go for Dark Lord, if you're into that sort of thing. Hey, what about good old Sorcerer? That's cool."

The wizard frowns. Crap. He seems unconvinced.

"Just add something to it, to make it extra awesome. Mega Sorcerer - or Badass Mc Magic, or maybe you could be like the Sorcerer Supreme or something?" There's a roll of thunder in the distance, and I'm pretty sure half of my brain is shouting something about heathens and blasphemy, but at least I bought myself some time. "...Yeah, that sounds nice."

Nice? Sheesh. Think, brain, think. That's what I keep you around for!

What about me, then?

The wizard walks over to a window, glancing momentarily out from between the covered blinds. He looks almost cool, if not for the messy mop of hair on his head, and the fact that he talks like he's from England - which he is. Only James Bond gets to be awesome with an English accent, and most of the actors playing him aren't even English, anyway - or was he supposed to be Scottish? Whatever. Wizards were supposed to chant in mystical Latin, not edge on Cockney.

"I admit, there's a good idea or two in your suggestions," the Magician - blegh - says. "But again, that's all irrelevant when it comes to our little - situation. You're awfully talkative for someone who's on his own, without backup, actually." He frowns. "I got a little info on you while you were out cold - and I doubt there's too many people who get bent out of shape over a missing merc."

"You'd be surprised!"

He shakes his head. "Want to know what I found? Wade Wilson... Remnant of some defunct classified project, now a mercenary for hire going by the nickname Deadpool."

I nod enthusiastically. "Yeah. Now that's what I'm talkin' about - that's a badass name, ain't it?" I mentally give my little voices a high-five. "By the way, since I shot you in the face, and you shot me in the face, in my experience that means we're friends. So - just Wade, until we go at each other's throat again, kay?"

I grin merrily, hoping to catch him off guard - and honestly mostly playing for time, and enjoying the little head-to-head. It's clear that this guy's not going to try and off me.

"Wade, then. I've never been on a first-name basis with one of my assassins before," the wizard says, apparently a little amused. "Nice to meet the infamous Deadpool; I've heard a few stories. You got into a tussle with a few S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in Tuscany once, isn't that right?" He smirks. "If I'm calling you Wade, just call me Harry."



Harry scowls. "Yes. Why does everyone keep sounding so surprised about that? It's a perfectly valid name to have. Even the prince is named Harry, honestly."

I shrug. "It's just - Harry the Wand-waving Wizard, it's sort of a - thing," I explain to him. "Look - when you're near a good bookstore, go look in the fiction section. You'll probably find it in between the collected works of Shaft and -"

My mouth keeps moving, but my voice is gone. It takes me a few moments before I stop out of bafflement, and a bad memory bubbles up. I just became the Merc Without a Mouth again. As long as I don't start growing swords out of my hands or shooting laser-beams, I should be fine.

Must... resist... terrible adaptation...

"There, that's much better." The wizard paces slowly around the chair. "All jokes aside, there's something we have to discuss. You came to kill me, and mercenaries tend to do that kind of thing for a single reason: money. So, I want to know who hired you." The wizard reaches into his pouch - his hand vanishing way too far into it for comfort - and he pulls out a tiny little bottle. "In case you were thinking of lying to me - I don't want to go this far, but I will. This little vial contains a potion that's called Veritaserum. If your Latin's rusty, you'd know the stuff as truth serum."

Ah, crap. Definitely a negative in the boding well category.

"I expect a name, so I can pay your employer a visit. I could also read your mind, I suppose, but it would be - painful. Excruciatingly." He looks almost apologetic. "I'm not usually a violent person unless I can help it, but these days I find myself in these situations more than I'd like. At least I'll make sure to drop you off somewhere populated afterwards. So, please work with me, Wade."

Just make something up! Like Bob Saget! Or maybe you can blame Satan or Morgoth or something, he seems like the type to be on first-name basis with 'em.

My tongue suddenly unties, and I admit that the choice between truth-serum and brain-invasion was a tough one, and neither option appealed. Honestly, telling the truth would probably be easier - it's not like I had any loyalty to speak of. And that serum is awfully threatening, given all the crap hidden away in the crannies of my tortured cranium.

Still, there's one other thing I want to know…

"Before we get to that shit - you know my whole name, excluding the embarrassing middle names that shall not be spoken of, so I demand to know yours too!"

The argument makes no sense, but what the fuck do I care? I'm curious, and odds are I'm about to be screwed over anyway. Might as well have some fun. My question clearly catches my captor off guard. Then he cracks a smile.

"I thought we'd covered that. You really are a weird one, aren't you?" He shrugs after a few moments, as if sharing a joke with himself - I know the feeling. "Eh, what the hell, it's not like anyone would recognize it. I'm Harry Potter."

Harry Potter.

"Well, no wonder you changed your name," I say dryly. "Troll 2 was goddamn awful."

Potter just looks defeated.

"Besides, Potter in a nickname would be awful," I continue. "Mage Potter? Bleh. Sorcerer Potter? Passable, but still shit. Magician Potter? Ridiculous. Dark Lord Potter - well, that's taken. How about -"

"Would you please shut up and answer my question?" Potter seems downright impatient now. "If you want to call me any of your weird titles, go ahead - but I don't have all day to mess around with a deranged mercenary. If you won't comply, I'll have to go for this." He wiggles the little bottle. "We'd probably both prefer to avoid that."

"It would be pretty rude," I point out unnecessarily. "Besides, it would be pointless. Nobody hired me."

I bet he didn't fucking expect that!

That's because it's a lie.

It is? Actually, that's a very good question. Why did I come all the way out here to the land of tea and crumpets, just to fire a few rounds at this wizardly guy's head? Wasn't I watching television late at night, snacking on a whole lot of popcorn while on the second re-run of The Wire?(A show full of pussies, by the way. Shoot them all in the head and be done with it!) I'm pretty sure I'd planned on nothing but porn and crime procedurals for the next few days, too.

"You're actually not lying," Potter says wonderingly. "You weren't hired to kill me? You're a mercenary - a killer for hire. That's how you work. It's what you do. Why the hell would you go after me, unless you were hired to?"

I bite my lip. "...Pass? Ah, shit, I already used one..."

The wizard frowns, and raises that flimsy-looking wooden wand, then pauses. "There is something I could try - just the surface thoughts should be fine..." He reaches back into his pocket, and retrieves a second wand, a bumpy and dangerous-looking one that he handles with a certain wariness. "I've got a suspicion, and I'll have to go and check. I'm pretty sure you were manipulated into coming here, perhaps through a Muggle equivalent of the Imperius. Wouldn't surprise me, with all the things I've seen lately."

Fuck if I know what a Muggle is supposed to be, but his threat of mind-reading is still clear in my mind.

"Eh - didn't you say something about excruciating pain earlier? Because I'm not a huge fan of being tortured while strapped to a chair. I have a history." As expected, my brain pipes up with its unwanted screams of mercy. Fuck, I'm such a wuss.

Not again. Not again! I won't let us be taken again!

Yeah. That side of my brain's a damn coward.

Potter shrugs slightly. "Well, Veritaserum wouldn't help any, and there's not a whole lot of alternatives, really. If you wish, I can wipe your memory of it afterwards, that'd remove any residual effects. If your bio's accurate, I'm pretty sure I couldn't screw things up further than they already were, anyway."

No. Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare.

My mind is a cacophony of panicking voices, and a sudden and insatiable desire for crumpets. One overriding thought emerges after a moment. I was manipulated to come here. Someone had been messing with my head, again. Was it Taskmaster's work, like the last time he fucked me over? Killebrew? Damn, what if that bald bastard from the damn X-freaks? It doesn't matter. I'll kill 'em all. But I'll need to know who to spray with a hail of lethal gunfire first.

"Well, if you're gonna see all the juicy insides, might as well see the outside bits," I say jovially. "It's getting a little stuffy in here, you know." I gesture vaguely to my head. "D'you mind?"

At least I'll have his reaction to savor.

Potter removes my mask without hesitation, and there's not even a twitch. No retching, no quick departure for the - what do they call it? A loo? No scrunched nose or expression of pity. Just indifference. I'm a little disappointed.

"That's it?"

He smiles. "Honestly, I've had teachers that are uglier than you. Did you honestly think that scabs were going to send me running? If you wish, I could act disgusted, though." He smirks as he raises his wand. "Let's get this over with. Legilimens."

A flash of momentary light erupts from the tip of the wooden stick, and I'm ready to let out a bloodcurdling scream. I have already checked to see how I can best slump down while tied to the chair - but I don't feel a goddamned thing. The wizard's eyes are vaguely distant, twitching ever-so-slightly as he shifts his wand back and forth - and I'm perfectly fine, staring at him with mild befuddlement. Nothing happened.

For several long, drawn-out moments, nothing continues to happen.

"Well, that was fucking anticlimactic."

Getoutgetoutgetoutgetout! You don't belong! Nononono, go away! NONONO! That's not yours! That's mine! My own! My precious memories!

Ah. I guess instead of screaming out loud, I'm using my inside voice.

Don't! No! IneedthatIneedthat! Itsimportantimportant!

A momentary surge of pain erupts just behind my left eye, and I blink in consternation as the voice diminishes, mumbling incoherently as it vanishes to the background. All the chatter in my head stops, all the insane mumblings, the crazy little asides, the perpetually present hum of the Best of Queen that I memorized a decade ago. Total silence takes over.

For the first time in what has to be twenty-odd years, I feel like Wade Wilson again, instead of twenty-four other people vaguely conglomerated into one mind. I spend about thirty seconds considering my newfound stability, and observe that my insatiable need for senseless murder has quite suddenly vanished. Indeed, I feel like heading home and having a good long talk with Blind Al about my inconsiderate behaviour - and I should probably apologize to Logan, too.


Blessed silence.

I sigh. "Meh. I almost forgot that sanity is fucking boring."

Then, with a blast of mind-searing cold and the shock of neurons realigning, everything snaps back to how it was before, and the wizard in front of me sags a little, dropping his wand to his side as he stares in disbelief. I briefly listen in on a particularly good bit of Queen's The Miracle before I meet the guy's eyes again.


You're back! Oh how I've missed you, cute little yellow voice!

"That was - disturbing," Potter says after a long moment, in which he looks vaguely nauseous. "Very disturbing, actually. What the hell did those people do to you?"

There. Now I see it. The pity.


Eh. Maybe later.

"All sorts of stuff, I'm sure," I answer dryly. "You took a peek inside my head, so you tell me. I don't care to remember most of it." I prod my little voice, hoping it'll shut up and let me think. "Also - don't do that again. I think you upset my brain a little."


Mercifully, that particular voice quiets down as it starts mumbling to itself.

"You didn't feel any of that...?" Potter pauses. "Obliviators would have a bloody field-day trying to fix you." He paces again. "Even when I shoved all that random crap aside, it came right back! Your whole mind's adapted to insanity. It's working on several different levels, most of which are completely pointless. Why? What kind of project would produce something this - this broken?"

I sigh. I don't need melodrama. "Shit happens. Should I blame the government? Blame society? Or should I blame the images on TV?" I smirk victoriously. "Nah. I'll blame Canada!"

A South Park reference? That was fucking awful.

Ah, my inner voice is still there - though not quite the same, since I can still hear the other one mutter to himself in some corner of my prefrontal cortex. Probably just created a new one, actually. Hopefully, the other will recover - or I'll have to buckle down and start calling him Sméagol so that he can entertain me. He's got most of it down already.

"Right. That happened. So, who the hell was it?" I ask.

Potter grimaces. "Right. It seems Tarleton's not the only one that's been busy with things. Have you ever heard of a General Thaddeus Ross? Known as Thunderbolt to some." He narrows his eyes dangerously. "He's been on a friend's case for a long time, but he's never shown interest in me before. I wonder if I should pay a visit..."

The guy who tried to hire us last month? He's a proactive bastard, isn't he?

"He got to me? How?"

"Apparently - he spiked your milk with something," Potter says, looking slightly embarrassed for me. "Don't know what was in it, but it knocked you out despite this healing thingie you've got. Whatever came after, it's not anything that you remember. You were unconscious, I imagine."

I knew that milk had tasted off, but had he honestly been drugged? Who even had drugs that could take him down in a hurry? Heck, you'd need something strong enough to take down the freaking - oh. Yeah.

A friend, Potter had said.I could guess which one he meant. Big, green, and angry.

"Well, it looks like I'm gonna filet a motherfucker," I mutter in annoyance. I hate it when people hire me without asking. "Look - Harry, Potter, Magician, whatever - stay the hell out of this. Take it from a friend, you don't want to get involved." I smirk. "I'll go see what the fuss is about. Shoot a few people, ask a few questions, maybe in reverse order. You - do whatever wizardly crap you do."

Potter grimaces. "That's all well and good, but I can't trust you, Wade."

"God no, of course you can't," I agree. "But that doesn't mean I won't do what I say."

Actually -

Shut up.

"I'll handle it myself," Potter says, and he looks to me with an apologetic expression that I really don't like. "This has gone on long enough. I won't bring you in - I'm not really a policeman, and I sort of lied when I insinuated that someone was coming. I'll leave you by the road, so you can hitch a ride home." He raises his wand. "Sorry about this, Wade. Obli -"

"Won't work." I smile, and he falters. Thankfully, since whatever that was, it would totally have worked. "This whole interrogation thing, you're not very good at it, you know that? Yeah, you disarmed me, but you should have probably gotten me out of this suit, too. Or at least gotten rid of my belt."

Potter pauses. "Right... Because?"

I wink. "Bodyslide by One!"

His baffled expression entertains me tremendously as I teleport home.

Next time, put a bullet in his fucking ass!

God, no. This is not that kind of story.