Chapter 368: Eight Versions of Wolverine
"Didn't realize this world's version of me had picked up a grave-robbing hobby. Guess I'm really that desperate for company, huh," Hell's Kitchen's Deadpool said, watching his other-universe counterpart digging with everything he had — genuinely convinced this world's Deadpool had some kind of fetish going on.
(For clarity, we'll call Ethan's own Deadpool "Hell's Deadpool" going forward.)
Wolverine, furious, was already lunging forward, claws snapping free from his knuckles.
Luckily, Hell's Deadpool grabbed him before he could go anywhere. "Hey, hold up, hold up — could be a misunderstanding here. Maybe this isn't even your grave. Maybe you're not even dead here, and this other me's actually trying to save you."
That was enough to cool Wolverine down, at least a little.
Before long, the mainstream-universe Deadpool's frantic digging finally uncovered the body.
"FK! FK!" He scrambled out of the pit, cursing without pause.
Watching from a distance, Hell's Deadpool and Wolverine exchanged a confused glance, having no idea what had set him off so badly.
"Guess this world's version of me doesn't just have a nasty hobby — he's got a temper to match," Deadpool muttered, unimpressed.
The mainstream Deadpool's outburst had come from seeing Wolverine's remains — the body had already decomposed down to bone, the only thing untouched being the adamantium claws, the single most iconic part of the man himself.
No question about it — Wolverine was dead. Which meant their world really was dying.
This universe's own Wolverine had been his last hope. Damn it all!
Before this, Deadpool had already worn out the doorstep of countless parallel universes, chasing any sliver of hope that might save his home timeline. He'd tracked down version after version of a man named Logan Howlett — but every single one had treated him with total indifference as some unwelcome "outsider," a few even slamming the door in his face outright.
Out of options, he'd pinned his last hope on his own universe's version of Wolverine — however faint that hope, like the dimmest star in the whole night sky.
Which was exactly why he'd resorted to digging up his own universe's grave in the first place. What if the guy hadn't actually died?
Unfortunately, Wolverine really was dead. No hope left there at all.
Which meant his only remaining option was to go back and try to talk one of those earlier, hostile Wolverines into coming along after all.
Deadpool shivered just thinking about the parade of Wolverines he'd already run into.
Every single one of them had been insufferably arrogant.
First he'd found a short Logan holed up in some bar — the guy had been visibly disgusted with him, barely five-foot-something, built like a kid.
Nothing like the tall, imposing Logan back in his own world. Total downgrade.
Not that Deadpool would ever admit the real reason he hated Short Logan was that the guy had actually mouthed off at him first. No negative reviews accepted.
Next he'd found himself in a casino in another universe, spotting a Logan in a crisp white suit and an eyepatch — total villain energy.
Eyepatch Wolverine had potential, honestly — except the second Deadpool called out to him, the guy decked him on the spot.
Turned out Eyepatch had been working undercover as "Patch" at the time, completely unnoticed by anyone — right up until Deadpool blew his cover to the entire room.
(I genuinely don't get how putting on an eyepatch makes literally nobody recognize Logan. Are the people in that universe just idiots? How does none of his sworn enemies clock those two goat-like sideburns of his? That eyepatch trick is a direct rip-off of Superman's glasses over at DC — same brain-dead logic. Writers and comic-book people just phoning it in, treating us readers like fools! — Deadpool ranted, thoroughly ticked off.)
Still stewing, Deadpool jumped again, landing in a completely different universe — this one crushed under the iron fist of the original Apocalypse, darkness and despair blanketing every inch of it. Amid the ruins, he'd found his third Wolverine — a punk-rock-styled fighter with one arm missing. This Logan, despite the missing limb, carried the same untamed, defiant wildness burning in his eyes that Deadpool remembered from his own world's version.
Deadpool's eyes had lit up instantly — like finding a long-lost kindred spirit.
The joy hadn't lasted long, though. One-Armed Logan, a member of Apocalypse's resistance, treated every stranger as a potential threat. The moment he spotted Deadpool, instinct took over — claws lashing out mercilessly, no hesitation at all.
Caught completely off guard, Deadpool had barely managed to scramble out of the way, thinking bitterly to himself, THIS is what a real Wolverine looks like — more savage than the last two combined! Realizing this wasn't a place to linger, he'd fired up the time-jump device and bailed immediately.
Then there was the one who looked exactly like DC's Superman — who, without a word of provocation, sent him flying just like his DC counterpart tended to.
(A cameo's a cameo, but did you REALLY have to punch me into orbit? I'm not just some prop in your little routine! The audience came here to see YOU, sure, but I'm the actual protagonist!)
Next, Deadpool had run into an aging cowboy Logan holed up in some rundown shack in the middle of nowhere — genuinely handsome, genuinely painful, since the guy had greeted him with a gunshot the second he showed up.
He'd also come across a Wolverine literally nailed to a cross — a world where the X-Men had gotten wrecked so badly they'd retreated all the way to Australia, only to lose again there too, leaving Wolverine crucified and tortured as a result.
None of these Logans, Deadpool figured, could realistically be brought back to serve as his world's replacement Anchor Being. His only real shot was probably that last hungover bar-drunk Logan he'd first met.
Guess he'd have to go sweet-talk that one all over again.
Just as he was mulling it over, danger struck again. Two sharp gunshots split the silence, bullets streaking toward Deadpool like death's own messengers. Sharp instincts and quick reflexes barely got him clear of the shots, alarm bells blaring in his head.
Then the air around him rippled, and countless orange time-doors materialized out of nothing, tearing the space around him apart into fractured pieces.
Out of those doors stepped a squad of strangely-uniformed TVA agents, expressions blank, eyes fixed with singular, mission-driven purpose.
Deadpool knew exactly what this meant — they were here for him, and only him. Their goal was simple: bring him in.
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