#rhonda and deadpool: the iceboxening

[chromecutie]

Not A Ghost - part 29

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Taglist: @emma-frxst  @ra-ra-rasputiin  @holamor ​  @empressme-bitch  @marvel-is-perfection  @hazilyimagine ​ @marvelhead17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash ​ @whitewitchdown ​ @master-sass-blast ​ @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen @emberbent @leo-writer . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

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Rhonda tugged at the ugly yellow jumpsuit. Somehow, the Department of Mutant Control had gotten uglier and more uncomfortable jumpsuits. She growled under her breath, "Upgraded the collars, downgraded the clothes. What else did they cut corners on to cover these?"

Wade chirped, "Good ol' privatized prisons! Gotta love 'em, right Jackboot Thug Number Three?" He nudged the guard who was ushering them to the mess hall.

Jackboot Thug Number Three was not amused and hit Wade with the cattle prod he carried. With a pained yelp, he crumpled to his knees on the metal grate they walked on. Rhonda slowed, but didn't stop for fear she'd get hit next. Hair still cold and wet from when the officers hosed her off, she shivered. Wade groaned his way back to his feet, "He's a little spicier than you, Pikachu." He played it cool, but his coughing was worrisome.

The Icebox itself looked mostly how Rhonda remembered it. Chilly, hard surfaces everywhere so even quiet sounds echoed extensively. The areas that Cable had broken through only a matter of months ago had been repaired, but were done with functionality in mind and not uniformity with the rest of the facility. Rebar, concrete, and steel jutted at rough angles. Guards stood watch near many of the repaired areas, making it difficult for inmates to try to investigate if there were any weaknesses.

Passing by a group of inmates, Rhonda only recognized a few, but those gave her dirtier looks than the ones she didn’t know. A man with red-rimmed eyes bared his teeth - filed to points - and hissed at her. Showing infinitely more confidence than she felt, Rhonda said, “Hello to you too, snaggletooth. Miss me?”

 A buzzing alarm rang, and inmates flowed around Rhonda, Wade, and their officer escort to the mess hall. “Go ahead,” their officer said gruffly. “Don’t start any shit in there or I will let you die.” Jackboot Thug Number Three melted away into the crowd, leaving Wade and Rhonda to exchange a look.

“Okay,” Wade was way too cheerful, “Let’s get our lunch trays and figure out which cool kids we can sit with.” 

“Nobody, Wade,” she answered flatly as they got in line for food. “I can’t sit with anybody here.”

The other inmates gave them a wide berth. Trays clacked and slid along the metal rails, and even though everyone was hungry, no one got too close to Rhonda. Wade muttered out of the side of his mouth, “Jesus, what did you do, huh?”

“Not here,” her voice was so raspy she was barely audible when she spoke quietly.

The food that was scooped and plopped onto their plates was beige and barely warm. The mess hall staff said it was beef and noodles, but whatever was passing for beef was too pale. There was also a small scoop of green beans - somehow worse than the canned kind, a half an orange that was dry like it had been cut days ago, and the Icebox’s trademark little chocolate pudding cup. “Still better than my piece of shit dad used to make,” Wade shrugged. Rhonda sighed, remembering why some days she had simply opted out of eating. Something tugged and twisted in her heart.

Shoulders up and head down, Rhonda held her tray close, such as it was, and scanned for a table they could take. As they walked past each one, inmates would spread their elbows or scoot a few inches so they all took up more room than they needed. Making an executive decision, Rhonda planted herself at the end of a table, and if the inmates there wanted a bubble around her, they would have to make one. As Wade settled in across from her, the wiry men who were there first scooted a few inches to put some distance between them.

With no appetite, Rhonda started to force down the food. The noodles were too soft, the meat too salty, though it was pretty much the only flavor on the whole plate. She tried the green beans and had to keep herself from gagging. Why were they slimy? Taking a deep breath, she was still deciding whether she would bother trying the orange, when heavy footsteps stomped from across the mess hall and stopped a few feet away from her table. 

“New bitches give me their pudding,” a deep voice echoed through the room and somehow managed to sound a little whiny.

“Ooh, here we go!” Wade said gleefully as he bit into the rind of his orange like it was an apple. 

She briefly closed her eyes and shook her head, her heart already surging with adrenaline. “We’re not new,” she replied, just loudly enough to be heard.

“Oh?” the deep voice grew louder and he took a couple steps. “Because I ain’t seen you here. Where the hell you been if you ain’t new?”

Rhonda fought to keep her breathing slow, controlled. “I’m not gonna spend time explaining myself to idiots.” She glanced over her shoulder, just to gauge this petulant aggressor. 

He was meaty, had a bit of a gut. There was a big burn scar on his face, which spread down his neck and trailed under his collar. His breathing was heavy, though he didn't look like he'd recently exerted himself. His face started turning red as he huffed, "Listen, bitch. You're new, and I'm gonna get your pudding."

Looking back to Wade before the man was even done talking, Rhonda rolled her eyes and shook her head. She knew this type all too well. No amount of conflict de-escalation could salvage this conversation. "Play your intimidation show with someone else." She wasn't loud, but her dry throat sounded like she'd just drank cement mix. Her tone was flat, neutral. Unfortunately, belligerent idiots still hear neutral as combative. Especially when other inmates start snickering.

The red-faced brute came hurtling his full force at Rhonda, and at the last second she swung her legs around the end of the bench, spinning to her feet. She grabbed the man by the back of his head and slammed his face into the edge of the metal table--to a sickening, wet crunch of his teeth breaking. Pieces of his teeth flew over the table. He howled in shock and pain, blood pouring from his mouth, lips busted.

Rhonda shoved him away from her, onto the floor. She picked up her little plastic cup of pudding--the only not-terrible thing in the Icebox and the single hottest commodity--and threw the damn thing on the ground with her whole strength, close to the man’s head. The foil seal broke and pudding splattered over the concrete floor. 

The rest of the inmates stopped laughing and fell silent, watching.

Rhonda wanted to roar and shout, but her throat was too sore, voice too hoarse. Instead, she croaked at the man moaning on the ground, “If you want my pudding so bad, you will lick it off the fucking floor.” When he didn’t move, she tangled her fist in his hair and shoved his face in it, snarling, “Go on, lick it! I’ll wait.” 

He made pitiful sounds, and after some hesitation, finally started licking it off the floor. 

“Wade, come piss on this idiot,” she waved him over.

He winced and balked, “Aw, come on, it hurts to pee!”

She answered him with a glare that very clearly said, Motherfucker, do not test me here or I will make an example of you.

He gave a whining groan like a kid being told to take out the trash, and crossed over to piss on the man who attacked Rhonda.

She searched the immediate area and picked up the broken pieces of teeth from the table and floor. Rattling them in her hand, she raised her voice just loud enough for the other inmates (though it hurt to speak), “Next person who touches me eats these teeth.”

When there was no answer, the inmates resumed their meals and Rhonda and Wade returned to their seats. She forced down her food, despite her nausea, and hoped she didn’t regret it later. 

“Soooo,” Wade raised his eyebrows and picked at his food, “Guess I’m never stealing any french fries from your Happy Meal. Food aggressive, much?”

She chewed her next few bites just as little as she could get away with in order to swallow her food, before giving up eating any more. “If we have the slightest chance for survival,” she said, “We’re gonna have to get control over as much of the prison as possible.”

“Sooner’s better than later,” Wade agreed. “We don’t know what kind of timeline we have.”

Scanning the room with the corner of her eye, Rhonda observed, "You see the tall, skinny guy with the blue hair?" When Wade confirmed, she continued, "He's sitting with the Vicious 13. Last time I was here, he was high-ranking with the Red Disciples." She stole a glance around the room. "I don't see who I'd expect for the Disciples, so something happened. We need to find what."

They finished their meals and as they returned their trays, the other inmates gave them sideways glances. It was respectful - sort of - like the way all animals must drink during a drought, and there will be surprising moments of tenuous peace. However, as people clustered to return trays was also a good time for a whole gang to shank one victim and then disperse with no one sure who did the attack. When neither Rhonda nor Wade was stabbed, she was sure the semi-respectful glances were the other inmates sizing her up, calculating who could take her down, when, and how.

“I see it too,” Wade’s voice was low in her ear, “Come on.” He pinched part of her jumpsuit to lead her to a less crowded part of the mess hall, less obvious than taking her by the elbow. They could hear the tiny rattle and rustle of the teeth fragments in Rhonda’s pocket. Her exterior looked calm enough, but her heart was pounding and she kept every muscle tensed just to keep from trembling. When they were out of everyone’s arm’s reach, Wade had a coughing fit. It was a deep, choppy cough that wracked his body.

Rhonda put a hand on his shoulder, brows creasing, “What’s wrong?”

Wade groaned as his cough subsided, “Probably a bunch of fuckin’ tumors. I didn’t tell you my superpower is just not dying of cancer?”

Realization dawned and turned to horror on her face. “So the collar...Wade! Why did you jump in on this?”

A guard barked, “Inmates! Turn in for the night. Lights out in one hour.”

Clearing his throat to stave off another coughing fit, he answered, “Because I’m the right choice. If Cable’s cut off from his powers, his metal arm will become his metal everything; we already covered how Colossus wouldn’t make it a day without getting his shit wrecked. Maybe Domino would get by fine, but I know the Icebox better.”

Stunned, Rhonda said quietly, “I could do this on my own if I had to.”

“It’s bad enough to send you back in here at all,” Wade shook his head, “Nobody’s saying you aren’t tough, but everyone’s got their limits.”

“How long do you have?” her voice cut out in her hoarse whisper, like a phone call with a bad connection.

Wade shrugged, “At least a few days, we’ll be fine.”

Her eyes widened in dread. Before she could answer, the guard yelled a few feet away from them, “INMATES! Cells! Now.”

Wade squared his shoulders and turned on the charm with a fake English accent, “Ah, concierge! Show us to our rooms please, we’ve only just arrived.”

The officer gripped his cattle prod, a warning. Then he waved his hand to usher them along. They shuffled up some stairs, steps echoing through the concrete cavern. He led them to their cell block and stopped at one cell that was occupied by what looked like a werewolf with terrible mange. “You’re in here,” he shoved Wade in.

The realization that they were separating made Rhonda’s heart leap into her throat, veins turning cold.

If Wade was worried, he didn’t let it show. He waved, “Bye, bestie! See you in the morning!”

Somehow, she forced herself to nod and allowed the guard to herd her further down the row to her cell. Someone was in there, but it was too dark to see who; the lights were busted in that cell. There was something cruel in the way the guard chuckled, “Good luck, mutie,” as he pushed Rhonda in, right before the doors mechanically slid closed.

“I heard the rumors that Guestbook was back,” a feminine voice like crushed velvet purred, “but I didn’t believe it until I saw for myself.”

Rhonda sighed, irritated. “Hello, Mimi.”

#xmen #rhonda and deadpool: the iceboxening #deadpool #piotr rasputin #colossus #colossus x oc #piotr rasputin x oc #angst #icebox #mutants #longfic