Los Angeles. In a quieter sector of the city, a matte-steel prison rose like a fortress, its periter ringed with high concrete walls and layers of reinforced fencing, guards stationed at rigid intervals. This facility housed a concentration of death row inmates, and its security was stricter than most, every approach watched and every movent logged.
Not far from the penitentiary, a faint golden halo resolved into light, and a figure stepped out of it with calm purpose. Kurogai arrived with the sa quiet confidence he carried into every operation. His target was the penitentiary, and he had no intention of wasting ti.
He paused, scanning the compound, then muttered under his breath, "Los Angeles Penitentiary." He had planned to enter and extract the condemned all at once, but lacking precise positioning, he materialized a short distance away instead.
As he prepared to move, Kurogai felt another presence, soone concealed in shadow beyond the compound, observing. His eyes narrowed, he focused, and a man in a red trench coat ca into view, the hood drawn low so that only the shape of the mask showed, and two knives were sheathed across his back. The outfit was unmistakable. Wade Wilson, Deadpool, stood beyond the periter, and the sight tightened sothing in Kurogai's attention.
Deadpool's appearance here confused Kurogai for a mont. In Kurogai's recollection, Deadpool often struck at prisons to rescue a child nad Russell in a later thread of events. Seeing Wade now suggested that tilines or circumstances might have shifted, but Kurogai kept that speculation to himself. He had another motive, and he preferred to confirm facts in person.
He stepped forward and activated his portal, the familiar shimr swallowing him. The next instant he was behind Wade.
Wade whirled at once, and his hand was already on a pistol. A shot slamd out, the round streaking toward Kurogai, but it passed clean through him as if eting nothing, producing no more than the faintest ripple. Kurogai remained unphased.
"It's , Kurogai," he said calmly, raising his hands slightly to show he ant no imdiate threat. He had t Wade before, in a New York speakeasy, and later had tracked Doctor Banner with him in Canada, a trip that had ended with Kurogai walking away when Wade's mouth ran too freely. Their acquaintance had been awkward and volatile, but not unfamiliar.
Wade slamd a gloved palm to his mask, audible even through the fabric, his tone a mix of mock outrage and genuine annoyance, "Damnit, Kurogai, you sealed my mouth, rember? You left in Canada!" His voice carried the exaggerated cadence that always made it impossible to know how much was performance and how much was sincere.
Kurogai listened without indulging the theatrics. He had encountered Wade's unpredictability before, and he preferred to stay focused. Wade's first mory of that Canada incident fit the kind of petty grudge the rcenary loved to replay, and when the mory landed, Wade's face — or the angle of his mask — reflected satisfied anger.
"You abandoned , you swallow-all-the-info rat," Wade continued, half insult, half punchline. For a mont Kurogai simply let the rcenary run his mouth, amusent faint at the edges of his attention. Wade's reactions were predictable chaos, and Kurogai used predictability when he could.
Wade's mood shifted fast, and he seized the mont to confess his purpose, the words tumbling out in his trademark rapid-fire style. "No, I'm not here to rob the joint, I'm here to kill a guy inside. Big client, big pay, a million dollars on the line to take out one prisoner. Don't be my competition, Kurogai, or you'll be stealing my gig!"
Kurogai regarded him with the sa neutral reserve he applied to most exclamations. "Kill a prisoner," he said, letting the plan land in his mind. If Wade was here on a contract, then this was not the prison rescue Kurogai had briefly feared, and he could relax the level of caution he'd held for a mont.
Wade, crestfallen that Kurogai remained unreadable, scratched at his mask and complained, as if wounded, "Why are you so quiet, man? You always take the best lines."
Kurogai suppressed a small, private smile. He was not here to compete with rcenary theatrics, his goals were surgical and specific. For him the prison represented a source of subjects for the gene transformation experints he planned, people whose lives the system had already written off. Death-row inmates were ideal candidates, expendable to the world and thus useful to researchers with less sentintal aims.
"You're in my way if you stir too much trouble," Kurogai said, the words even, uncluttered by flourish. "My objective doesn't conflict with yours. Keep your distance and do what you must."
Wade's expression shifted again, from performative outrage to opportunistic grin. "Oh, we can be partners, we can split the payday, you know I work for chaos and coin. Also, I have blades. Very pointy. Very hurty." He gestured casually at the twin knives on his back, the hint of pride in his voice betraying a love for his tools.
Kurogai's eyes flicked to the blades, and though he kept his face neutral, his mind cataloged the detail. The knives were familiar in concept, weapons that, in other contexts, had properties that could interfere with regeneration. That fact might be useful in the future, but Kurogai did not volunteer that thought. He kept what he needed close.
Wade, sensing his conversational partner's practical reserve, padded his way into usefulness, "Listen, boss man, I'll take care of the noisy parts, you do the quiet science stuff, and we won't stab each other. Sound like a plan?"
Kurogai considered it only briefly, for his plans answered to advantage and efficiency rather than the rcenary's theatrics. Having Wade run interference might create the distractions Kurogai preferred—chaos in controlled doses that masked the true objective. It was workable, so long as Wade's performance did not derail the operation.
"Stay out of my line of sight unless I call you," Kurogai said, a clear boundary rather than a command. "If you make a scene, I will remove you."
Wade gave a theatrical bow, mock-offended and imdiately back to his usual showmanship, "Ouch, I'm wounded, I'm wounded in the pride. Okay, okay, cold and efficient, got it. But if there's a million dollars, I'm taking a cut."
Kurogai turned his attention back to the prison, the hum of distant alarms and the muted city life folding around them. The mission remained the sa: infiltrate the facility, secure the condemned, and begin the transformation experints with minimal visibility. Wade could be an asset if managed, but Kurogai's mind remained fixed on logistics. He would use what served the objective and discard what did not.
He opened the portal again, the faint shimr revealing the path he preferred. "I go in first," he said. "Keep watch, make noise if you must, but no theatrics near the cells."
Wade threw up his hands in a dramatized surrender, "No theatrics, got it. That's like asking not to breathe."
Kurogai stepped through the portal, leaving Deadpool to lance his complaints to the empty air. The prison lood ahead, a place where sentences were final, and where Kurogai intended to take the next step toward power. He carried the sa controlled purpose with him as he crossed the threshold.
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