ain't no rest for the wicked
"Times Square is a ghost town," Wade growls in a low voice from his perch on the roof of the rundown building that was once the Gershwin Theatre. As he scans the empty streets below, he removes his mask and tucks it away, activating his holographic thingamajiggy almost immediately. "Our hero scours the streets, taking comfort in the listlessness of the quietly settling dust and the fact that he now looks like that one guy in that Christmas movie where he was fat and then he wasn't."
In one swift movement, Wade pounces off of the roof, humming to the tune of 'The Wizard and I' as he falls and lands expertly on his feet. "Get it?" he asks no one, chuckling to himself. "Because this is where Wicked used to play? God, I'm so clever."
He saunters down the street past the various makeshift memorials that sit in front of abandoned buildings, war torn and destroyed. No one ever makes it down to Times Square anymore out of respect for the dead as well as the memory of what once was a great city. Wade knows this, but still he sticks around, if only for combat practice or to run into the different theatres and perform his own renditions of their old shows.
As Wade makes his way to the heart of the square, the sound of moving rubble catches his attention and he whips around, crouching low in a defensive stance, fingers poised at the pistols holstered at his sides. "Our hero has company," he says, eyes darting about the area. "Good. I needed someone to play Glinda."
