Cosmic Wade Wilson-Spacepool in the MCU

The void trembled.

The endless darkness of space seemed to fold in on itself, bending under the presence of something vast, something inevitable.

The shadow loomed larger, swallowing the stars, until it emerged.

A cosmic titan, clad in ancient, celestial armor that pulsed with the energy of galaxies long devoured. His helmet, adorned with two great curved horns, framed a face that was neither cruel nor kind—but absolute.

Galactus. The Devourer of Worlds. The Hunger That Never Ends.

His voice rumbled like the dying breaths of collapsing suns.

"Herald…"

Even Deadpool—merged with the Silver Surfer's power—felt the weight of that voice. It wasn't just heard. It pressed into his mind, vibrating through his very existence.

"My calls were left unanswered. State your reasons."

Deadpool blinked. "Ooooohhh, spooky space daddy is mad. Hey, uh… ghosty, is he talking to you or me?"

Inside his head, the ghost of the Silver Surfer stirred, his voice carrying something close to… desperation?

"Master, he is here… perhaps he could help us."

Deadpool smirked. "Uhhh, hello? You serve someone? All this power, and you're still a slave under Mr. Extra Helmet?"

The ghost groaned. "Have some respect. This is Galactus—the Devourer of Worlds."

Deadpool rolled his silver eyes. "Oh nooo, Devourer of Worlds. Spooky. I should be shakin' in my space boots. Oh wait—I don't have boots!"

The ghost's frustration was palpable.

Meanwhile, Galactus studied him, his enormous eyes narrowing as if peering through time itself.

Deadpool ignored the tension and threw his hands up. "Hey, big guy, I don't know what kind of toxic workplace this is, but I ain't your slave. In fact, I think I'm gonna beat you up right now. Square up, big helmet!"

Silence.

Galactus frowned. His herald… insulting him?

His massive face—a cosmic storm of unreadable emotion—twisted into something approaching a scowl.

"Herald… are you insulting me?"

The ghost inside Deadpool groaned louder.

"Please. Stop provoking him. I beg you."

Deadpool snorted. "Who the hell is Harold? I'm Wade Wilson! Hey, ghost buddy, does your master always call you Harold? Is that, like, your middle name?"

The ghost went silent in sheer frustration.

But Galactus… he understood.

Something was wrong.

This was not his Herald.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Galactus raised his hand. Reality twisted. A pull—deeper than gravity, stronger than black holes—yanked Deadpool forward, into the grasp of a god.

"Oh—OH CRAP. WAIT. I'M NOT READY FOR THIS—"

And then, Galactus saw.

With a single glance, he consumed Deadpool's history.

He saw pain—a young Wade Wilson, scarred and dying from cancer. A man broken by experiments, forced into an immortal body that refused to let him die.

He saw madness—a mind fractured beyond repair, talking to voices no one else could hear, laughing while drenched in his enemies' blood.

He saw defiance—a mercenary who played by no rules, who mocked gods and danced with death without a care.

He saw chaos.

And Galactus… was intrigued.

This new Herald, unlike the last, was not an idealist.

He was unprincipled, unpredictable, uncontrollable.

A force of pure disorder.

Galactus slowly released him.

Deadpool gasped. "Holy hell, big guy, you just deep-dived my memories without consent. Not cool."

Galactus ignored the complaint.

"You amuse me."

Deadpool blinked. "Wait, what?"

The ghost stirred. "Master…?"

Galactus stared down at Deadpool, his infinite mind contemplating something new.

"I shall allow this… continued existence."

Deadpool tilted his head. "Wait. What does that mean?"

Galactus' eyes glowed. "You may keep the power."

Deadpool's jaw dropped.

The ghost's despair was almost audible.

==============================================

Deadpool stood there in the endless void, arms crossed, his new shiny silver bod reflecting the cosmic abyss around him. Across from him, Galactus loomed, silent and godlike, watching his new herald with an unreadable expression.

Deadpool finally broke the silence.

"Wtf, dude? What do you mean 'you keep the powers'? The silver guy gave me these powers, not you."

Galactus exhaled, a soundless but profound wave of energy vibrating through space. He had already grown tired of this one.

Before Deadpool could continue his banter, Galactus raised a hand.

And suddenly—

Deadpool's mind erupted in light.

Images, knowledge, cosmic history—everything flooded into him at once.

For a moment, there was no Deadpool. No jokes. No voices.

Only knowledge.

He saw civilizations rise and fall in seconds, entire galaxies consumed, planets reduced to nothing but dust in the wake of the Devourer. He felt the hunger of Galactus, an all-consuming need stretching back to the birth of the universe itself. He understood his role—not as a hero, not as an anti-hero, but as something far worse.

A Herald.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun—

It ended.

Deadpool staggered, his head pounding. For once, he had no words.

But then—his mouth moved on its own.

"I... serve Master."

The words felt foreign to him. Something inside him screamed at the obedience in them.

Galactus studied him for a moment. "Better."

Deadpool clenched his fists. He had to fight the urge to say something sarcastic.

But then, Galactus continued—

"Before I assign you greater duties, let us test your worth."

He gestured with a single massive hand—

And suddenly, a vision appeared before Deadpool.

A New Target

A planet-sized orbital station, floating in the vast darkness. Not as grand as Xandar, not as mighty as Asgard—but a fortress nonetheless.

It was a Kree war outpost.

A forgotten relic from an era of endless conquest, still manned by warriors, scientists, and weapons engineers. It had once been a staging ground for invasions before the Kree expanded elsewhere.

Now, it stood in Galactus' path.

"Destroy their defenses. Break their will. Make way for my arrival," Galactus commanded.

Deadpool simply stared at the vision before him.

Not a single joke left his lips.

Galactus gave no further words. With a mere thought, he vanished into the void, leaving Deadpool alone, floating in the cold abyss.

The silence stretched.

Deadpool exhaled.

He was finally alone.

And for the first time since waking up in this body—

He had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do.

==============================================

Deadpool—or rather, the guy formerly known as Not-Deadpool—floated aimlessly in the void, finally alone for the first time since this whole space soap opera started.

Well. Almost alone.

"You should not tamper with the gifts of the Power Cosmic," the ghostly presence of the previous Silver Surfer muttered.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you, Ghost-in-My-Head," Deadpool dismissed, staring at his hands, flexing his shiny silver fingers. "But see, the problem is, these gifts are totally not my style."

He glanced down at his reflection on the surfboard. His silver-coated face stared back, masked like before, but now sleeker, more alien. His body? Bigger. Stronger. More… ridiculously perfect.

"Damn, I look like a CGI model of myself."

He struck a few poses in the reflection. Front flex. Side flex. Ab check.

His Deagles were gone, but the holsters still remained, attached to his silver suit. And they clashed.

"Okay, no. No, no, no. This? This is a crime against intergalactic fashion."

With a flick of his will, the holsters disintegrated into nothingness.

…And that's when his hand twitched.

His fingers curled into a gun shape on instinct.

And then—

"PEW."

A streak of blazing cosmic energy shot from his fingertip, slicing through a floating asteroid in the distance.

KA-BOOM.

Silence.

Deadpool stared at his hand.

Then at the obliterated space rock.

Then back at his hand.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his masked face.

"…Oh my god."

"No." The Ghost groaned, realizing exactly what was happening.

Deadpool snapped both hands into finger guns and started rapid-firing cosmic bullets into the void.

"PEW-PEW! PEW! BLAMO! BAZZAAAAP!"

Asteroids exploded. Space dust scattered. A shooting star in the distance got absolutely wrecked.

"Cease this ridiculous display at once!" the Ghost hissed.

Deadpool twirled his fingers, holstering his imaginary guns in his non-existent belt.

"This is the greatest day of my life," he whispered dramatically.

"You are reckless."

"You are dead," Deadpool shot back. "So maybe let the guy who's actually in control make the calls, huh?"

The ghost grumbled in disapproval.

Now, onto the biggest crime against personal taste—his ride.

He turned back to the surfboard. Sleek. Shiny. Smooth.

And absolutely not his vibe.

"Yeah, this thing? No thanks."

He reached out, focusing. The Power Cosmic wasn't just power—it was control. Control over matter, over how things were shaped. He could feel the molecules of the board shifting, waiting for his command.

He grinned.

And remolded it.

The board stretched, split apart, twisted—until it became two thick, European broadswords.

Deadpool gasped in pure joy.

"You… turned the Cosmic Glider into weapons?!" the ghost's voice was aghast.

"Correction. I turned it into something cool." He twirled the massive silver blades experimentally, feeling their perfect balance.

Then, just for fun, he flicked his feet—

—and the swords snapped beneath them, reshaping into sleek silver skis.

Deadpool laughed.

"Okay. NOW we're cooking with cosmic gas."

"This is an abomination."

"This is fashion."

"The board was an elegant and efficient means of travel—"

"Yeah, and now it's dual-wield ski swords. Tell me that doesn't sound cooler."

The ghost did not respond. Deadpool took that as a victory.

He adjusted his belt, making sure it still had room for guns. Guns were non-negotiable. Sure, he had all this new cosmic hocus-pocus, but bullets are bullets. And bullets are awesome.

Finally satisfied with his cosmic drip, he turned toward the void.

Time to get to work.

Galactus had given him a mission. Some ancient military outpost, floating somewhere in the depths of the cosmos. Long before Earth even mattered. Not a planet, but a station, guarding something.

Deadpool squinted at the distant lights in the darkness.

"Welp. Time to ruin someone's day."

And with that, he launched forward—slicing through space on his new, badass ski-blades.