Marvel: Life is Good

Helen Dill, Philip Coulson's superior, two hours after his meeting with Salamander.

The conversation with Philip had been unpleasant, to say the least. That arrogant little "agent" had completely ruined her mood. "A stupid plan," he had the nerve to say. As if she didn't know that already. "I didn't push it further because it would've only made things worse." Men… Coulson, Salamander, that bald bastard… they all pissed her off to no end.

Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't have insisted on such methods of recruitment, but a close friend had asked for a favor. For some reason, the police had taken a liking to this boy and weren't keen on handing him over to S.H.I.E.L.D.

Not that it was some kind of major loss. Just another dick-wielding brat who thought too highly of himself. Her soul simply couldn't take this kind of injustice. A man's place was at home, under protection, not on the battlefield.

Tobias should be grateful. Coulson was practically a desk jockey. Smart, sure, but he rarely risked his own skin. And this kid? With his abilities, he'd be thrown into frontline assault units or infiltration teams in no time.

Besides, it would all work out for him in the end—just as her friend had assured her. A few strings pulled in the police department, a medal pinned to his mother's chest. She had, after all, put up a respectable fight against a supervillain. She lost, obviously, but still, the optics were good. They had even secured a benefactor to cover the costs of her prosthetic. Of course, it wouldn't be the top-tier quality that S.H.I.E.L.D. could provide… but, honestly, with all the advancements in the world these days, it might end up being even better. It wasn't like they'd give her anything truly cutting-edge anyway.

So, everything would turn out just fine. The lieutenant gets a medal and a prosthetic, the brat walks away with a bad taste in his mouth about S.H.I.E.L.D.—not entirely sour, but enough to keep him from enlisting. Police would get their new PR toy. The arrogant Coulson would take a black mark in his file for not executing the recruitment strategy in full, and she would be walking away with a very nice stack of cash. Enough to buy Barthie something new.

And there wouldn't be any blowback. Who the hell was Salamander? Just another mutant riding the hype wave. The higher-ups didn't take him seriously—they were just keeping tabs on anyone with potential. No special oversight, no protection. She had checked. First thing. Any adjustments to the reports would get lost in the shuffle of similar cases, especially since she'd be the one overseeing the final edits. Coulson's would need a bit of tweaking, but hers? She would write it exactly the way it needed to be written.

Tobias's Aunty.

Everything had gone almost according to plan. The only issue? The executioner had failed to follow through completely. The woman grimaced. Such incompetence. Given detailed instructions and still freestyling? Unbelievable. But not a major concern.

A well-placed lover of a high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was still happily siphoning money from her, while her 'police friend' continued supplying funds—small favors in exchange for thick stacks of green bills. The police had made their stance clear—they weren't sharing the boy. A small request, a large wad of cash, and…

The mystery benefactor had already been arranged. Elizabeth would receive a top-tier prosthetic—with a few undocumented features. Enhancements that would increase her survivability while simultaneously ensuring greater control and loyalty.

The girl had grown too attached to her so-called family, forgetting that everything she had didn't belong to her. Her entire life was a debt—a debt owed to the lineage and legacy of her benefactor.

Yes… the woman knew she had allowed herself a moment of weakness. That brief lapse at the hospital… Unacceptable.

No matter. It would be corrected soon.

Nicholas Joseph Fury, one hour after Coulson's conversation with his superior.

The man scowled.

This wasn't just annoying. This was a full-blown problem.

On his table lay a report from one of his agents. And two separate official statements—one from Coulson, the other from his superior. Three files in total. And while the official reports painted Coulson's failure as a simple misstep, the personal debrief told a much nastier story.

The one thing working in Coulson's favor? His report included a note that his submission had been edited. And the one who had edited it? Helen Dill.

Now that, in itself, wasn't suspicious. It was standard practice—if a superior officer deemed it necessary, they could revise or expand upon an agent's report. To provide clarifications or complete information. But in this particular case, when paired with the agent's follow-up report and Coulson's "corrected" version, it looked an awful lot like… sabotage.

Fury exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the desk.

Coulson had been given a simple assignment—establish initial contact with Tobias.

Christ, this kid was becoming a real pain in his ass. Every time he popped up in the reports, Fury's blood pressure spiked. But in this particular case, he was actually grateful for how things had played out.

Because the way things had worked out, no one had realized how closely he had been keeping tabs on Tobias. All the official tracking had been buried in routine updates, general security summaries—standard S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol. Fury had made damn sure that nothing stood out, that Tobias looked like just another kid in the system. His personal interest? That was handled through alternative channels—nothing that would leave a trace in the database.

And thanks to that? Thanks to the fact that no one thought Tobias was under close surveillance…

He had just uncovered a serious fucking problem.

Coulson hadn't just been given generic briefing points—he'd been handed a detailed script with explicit instructions on how to handle certain topics… in the worst possible way.

First and foremost—Tobias' injured mother. Not his biological mother, sure, but every report made it crystal clear how much she meant to him.

The correct approach? Offer help. No strings attached. Make it a gesture of goodwill, a show of trust.

What had actually happened?

They dangled the prosthetic like a bargaining chip. No concrete timeline. No firm commitments. Just empty promises floating around like a fart in the wind. 

Coulson, already uncomfortable with these kinds of tactics, had immediately noticed that the kid's response had turned negative. The initial trust Tobias had tentatively placed in him? Gone.

Hell, it wasn't just gone—it had dipped into the negatives.

And then there was the second additional directive—mutants.

Or, more specifically, the "strongly recommended" idea of gently nudging Tobias toward spying for S.H.I.E.L.D.

Fury scratched at the bridge of his nose.

This was where shit really went off the rails. Tobias had been supposed to receive a veiled offer to inform on mutant activity to S.H.I.E.L.D. Nothing overt, but the implication was meant to be clear.

The problem?

The kid wasn't stupid.

A little green, maybe, but not a fool. His school records painted the picture of someone with a firm moral compass—a kid who didn't snitch. Hell, there was even an incident where he'd gotten into a fight defending a girl who was being bullied.

And now, because some idiot had decided to push a manipulative, half-assed recruitment attempt, instead of considering S.H.I.E.L.D. as a possible ally, the boy had written them off as another group of opportunistic bastards.

If you're stacking this on top of his loyalty to the people who saved him twice from Stryker, fed him, clothed him, trained him, plus the fact that his friends and girlfriend are all there? Yeah, Tobias would never turn against the mutant community of his own free will. That wasn't just a bad move—that was a steaming pile of shit dropped right onto Fury's desk. 

A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had deliberately shut down any possibility of recruiting a highly promising asset. And if you factored in the whole "future son-in-law" angle Fury had been contemplating? How the hell would that conversation have gone if Coulson hadn't taken some initiative?

Nicholas Joseph Fury closed his eye and exhaled slowly through his nose. His fingers twitched with the very real desire to track down Helen Dill and personally rearrange her face. But that wouldn't get him anywhere. Knee-jerk reactions were stupid.

No, this needed an investigation. And he'd personally oversee every step.

With Coulson's report and the unfolding mess with his superior, it would be perfectly reasonable for Fury to start showing an active interest in Salamander. And from there… he could make his oversight of the kid a little more explicit.

Yeah.

Nothing ever happened without a reason. And if Dill really was sabotaging S.H.I.E.L.D., they'd figure out why, who she was working with, and how deep it went. If she had co-conspirators? They'd dig them out, too. And Coulson? He'd get a commendation for initiative.

But if Coulson had, for whatever idiotic reason, fabricated this whole thing just to stick it to his boss—something that honestly didn't track with his record—then he would get a disciplinary action instead.

And Fury? He'd walk away with a legit excuse to keep very close tabs on Tobias. Let them call it nepotism, personal bias or "male overprotective instinct" or whatever the hell they wanted.

Tobias & Wanda Wilson, Immediately After Her Question

"Mmmaa…," I choked out, full-on cosplaying Kakashi-in-shock, except I had both my eyes open. Meanwhile, the smug grin on the woman standing in front of me was only getting wider.

"Good afternoon, Miss Wilson," I finally managed to say, pulling myself together. "Not really. Got here a little earlier than planned—no traffic. Had some coffee, killed some time. Speaking of, would you like some? It's actually pretty good here."

"Why the hell not?" Deadpool adjusted her glasses —which I was now fairly certain had no actual prescription— before flashing me a playful smile. "And let's drop the formalities, just Wanda, we are friends, after all."

"Yeah, about that…" Okay, now I was actually feeling kinda awkward. Her grin was so damn genuine. "I, uh… Sorry for throwing your name out there so freely. I didn't really think it through—" And now I definitely felt guilty. Wanda had always treated me well. Hell, she stormed into Stryker's compound for me. She was insane, yeah, but still…

"Oh, please," Wanda scoffed, looping her arm through mine as we strolled toward the coffee stand. "I like that you thought of me! Tell me, how's your mom? Need any help? 'Cause I do have a few friends who specialize in… y'know, special things."

I shot her a look. She wasn't teasing me. She wasn't playing. That mischievous smile had softened into something… gentler, something encouraging. And her hand gave mine the slightest squeeze.

"It's not that bad," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "She lost a lot of blood. Fractured clavicle, some bruises, a mild concussion. But the doctors say she'll make a full recovery. If it weren't for the… you know… the arm… there wouldn't even be much to worry about." My throat tightened involuntarily. "Wanda, what would it take for your people to help with those 'special things'?"

We reached the stand. Wanda ordered a quadruple eXpresso. In one cup. I hissed under my breath, "Espresso, Wanda. Es-press-o."

Her response? A playful flutter of her lashes and an exaggeratedly demure giggle.

I got myself a mint tea.

Once we were away from the coffee stand, she finally answered my question.

"So, what exactly do you want?" she asked, as if we were discussing what toppings to put on a pizza. "A new arm for her, or a prosthetic? A new arm would be easier, but a prosthetic's totally doable too—just takes a bit more effort."

I nearly choked on my tea. "A new arm?"

"Well, yeah," Wanda replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"New arm, new arm, absolutely new arm," I rasped, my voice cracking like I'd just hit puberty all over again. "What do I need to do?"

She hummed, tilting her head in exaggerated thought. Then she grinned and held up a hand, fingers spread. "Five! Yeah, five!"

My stomach dropped. Five million?! I didn't have five hundred thousand, let alone five million! I was about to start panicking when—

"Five dates!"

…Wait, what?

I froze, blinking at her, completely short-circuiting.

Did I hear that right?

Wanda, reading my stupidly stunned expression the wrong way, let out a dramatic sigh and folded down one finger, pouting. "Fine, four. But you're really breaking my heart here, Tobi."

I, still operating at 10% brain capacity, reached out and unfolded the finger she'd just bent down.

"Five," I mumbled. It was all I could manage. Holy shit, my eye was suspiciously watery. Must've been that legendary speck of dust floating around…

Wanda hesitated for a second before her usual playful smirk returned. She flicked my nose. "No sulking, Tobi! C'mon, let's go somewhere warm. There's a great burger joint nearby. And don't stress about your mom—I guarantee she'll be fine. But don't forget—five dates!"

We walked arm-in-arm, her nonstop chatter filling the air. And honestly? I didn't get why people thought she was crazy. She was hands down the best person in this goddamn world.

As she launched into the exquisite details of our first romantic date—because apparently tonight was just a friendly outing, but next time? Oh, there would be candles and white wine—I discreetly wiped at the totally-not-a-tear on my cheek. Wanda, as if sensing it, squeezed my hand just a little tighter.

By the time we got to the restaurant, I'd calmed down. Wanda seamlessly steered the conversation back to our upcoming first romantic date—"Not tonight, tonight is just friendly!"—and before I knew it, we were joking back and forth like always.

We also collectively agreed that a table set on the back of a giant cloned mammoth was a bit much for a date. And that a choir of red-haired dwarves dressed as leprechauns would be more distracting than atmospheric.

We settled on a small, cozy restaurant with private booths.

"You better call me if you need anything," Wanda said, slipping off her jacket and revealing a crisp white blouse—unbuttoned just enough to be tantalizing, but not overly suggestive. Delicate lace peeked through underneath, just hinting at the fancy lingerie. I appreciated that she didn't make a big show of pulling out my chair or anything—she just sat down with effortless elegance.

"Oh, and by the way," she added, leaning in slightly, giving me a perfect view down her neckline. "I run a referral program. You bring in a big contract, and you get a ten percent cut. But if we partner up? Fifty-fifty, baby." Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper. "Keep that in mind, Tobi."

I nodded absentmindedly, trying very hard to maintain eye contact. Look, technically, the distance between her face and her chest wasn't that big. Less than a meter. So, realistically, this was just a case of bad eyesight, right? Yeah. Let's go with that.

From there, our conversation meandered into all sorts of random topics—well, mostly her talking and me happily listening. Wanda knew a lot of mutants, had even worked with some on missions. She laughed as she recounted how both Toad and Beast had chased her off after she pretended to flirt with Blob. I had no idea how she managed it, but by the time she finished telling me about the time she beat an enemy army commander with her own severed arm, I was wiping away tears from laughing too hard.

For some reason, the way she told stories reminded me of an old friend from my past life—one of those guys who could charm the hell out of any girl just by rattling off funny anecdotes, firing off joke after joke with pinpoint precision, and slipping in just the right amount of casual compliments. And you know what? I didn't mind at all. I was having a damn good time. No alcohol, no tension, just pure fun. And it didn't hurt that the woman across from me was stupidly attractive, rocking that whole sexy-but-playful-teacher-who-knows-exactly-what-she's-doing vibe.

Honestly, if I didn't know any better, I'd swear she somehow found my well-hidden collection of very specific adult films and crafted this whole persona just to mess with me. Not that I was complaining.

As the night wound down, we split the bill fair and square, which, again, was a major green flag in my book. And even though we didn't end up going on that Ferris wheel—I wasn't about to let her freeze her ass off in that light outfit—we made plans to go when it warmed up.

On the way out of the park, I couldn't hold back my curiosity anymore.

"You ever work for S.H.I.E.L.D.?" I asked.

Wanda didn't tense exactly, but the playful smirk disappeared. Instead, she shot me a sharp look and asked, "When did they approach you?"

"Uh… Right before our meetup, actually." I scratched the back of my head. "Wasn't a big deal. They just wanted me to consider joining them in the future. Well, he did. The agent. Guy was pretty chill, but… the conversation didn't go all that smoothly."

"Not Phil Coulson?" Her voice was casual, but there was something… measured about the way she asked.

"The one and only," I confirmed. "Said they'd be willing to help if I ran into trouble, didn't push too hard, but…" I hesitated. "The way he dangled my mom's prosthetic in front of me? Like it was some kind of carrot? It left a bad taste in my mouth."

"That's weird," Wanda muttered. "I know Coulson—he's a damn sweetheart. And he's not an idiot. Maybe they don't take you seriously yet? Eh, whatever." Her grin returned, bright and mischievous. "By tomorrow, they can shove that prosthetic up their asses, so forget it." Then, lowering her voice just slightly, she added, "Oh, and if things start getting… weird, don't freak out. And give your family a heads-up, yeah?" She winked. "By morning, your mom's gonna have both hands."

We were already at the taxi stand when she said it. I stared into her laughing eyes, feeling an overwhelming wave of gratitude. Without thinking, I pulled her into a tight hug. And for a second, I just stood there, feeling her arms wrap around my back.

The honk of the cab startled us apart. Before I could say anything, Wanda leaned in and kissed me—hot, quick, but undeniable.

"That was my advance payment," she teased, winking before sauntering away with a hip-sway that should've been illegal.

I climbed into the cab with a shit-eating grin.

Advance payment, huh? Whose, exactly? Heh.

Wanda strolled into her apartment like she owned the place. Her jacket hit the couch in one smooth motion, and she practically sauntered up to her mirror. She turned this way and that, letting down her hair, unbuttoning a couple more buttons on her blouse until the lacy bra beneath was just visible. She ran her hands down her hips, cocked her head… then nodded to her reflection with a satisfied smirk.

"Damn, I am hot," she purred. Then, looking up toward the ceiling, she added with feeling, "Thanks, Author. No, seriously. Solid work."

With that, she peeled off her civilian clothes and slipped into the familiar red-and-black of her Deadpool suit. After rummaging through some junk, she pulled out a machete and headed for a particular room—one that had been occupied for quite some time by an… unwanted guest.

Inside, a woman sat slumped against the wall, her eyes glazed over in exhausted misery.

Tobias would've recognized her immediately—the former head torturer at Stryker's facility.

Wanda grinned, sharp and predatory.

"Well, hello there, sweetheart. How's life treating you?" she cooed, stepping into the room. "Listen, I'd love to sit and chat, but I'm kinda on a tight schedule today. See, I need a left arm. And mine…" She glanced at her own hand, flexing her fingers. "Well, mine just won't do. I wouldn't want to give my favorite boy's beloved mom something tainted, after all."

Her grin widened as she twirled the machete in her grip.

"So! Time to pay for your extended stay, honeybunch."

Her captive finally reacted—tensing, eyes darting wildly in panic.

"Now, now, don't squirm," Wanda tsked. "You'll ruin the clean cut."

The woman definitely squirmed.

Wanda sighed. "Ugh. Why are you like this? You do realize I still have to kidnap an injured cop, smuggle her through the sewers, find the Sculptor, convince her to do her thing, and then return my dear future mother-in-law safe and sound? Just sit still and—ugh! Will you quit squirming already?!"

The woman's screams echoed through the apartment.

Half an hour later, with a proper organ transplant cooler in hand, Wanda whistled a jaunty tune—one she'd recently heard from a certain someone's well-hidden stash of very niche adult films—as she waltzed out of her base.

Behind her, a cooling corpse slumped against the wall.

With neither arm.

"Gotta make sure this goes smoothly, sugar. So, right arm for practice—then the left."

Those were the last words the torturer ever heard before she passed out from sheer pain.