The Hilton Hotel’s bathroom was far too fancy for a guy who fought crime in spandex and carried tacos in his utility belt. But here Deadpool was, adjusting his cheap tuxedo in front of the mirror, trying to convince himself that the mysterious charcoal stain near his lapel was definitely from spilled chimichangas and not because he’d accidentally worn this thing to a sewer fight last week.

Then she walked in.

D.Va, eternal esports queen, badass mech pilot, and owner of a neon-pink battle suit that made cosplayers weep with envy, was casually fixing her hair like she owned the place—which, let’s be honest, she probably did.

Deadpool, being Deadpool, couldn’t resist. He leaned against the sink, tilted his head just right (or at least what he thought was right), and unleashed the smoothest, cheesiest, most internally-regrettable line of his life.

“You ever just look in the mirror and think—‘Damn, I am way too hot to be saving the world when OnlyFans exists’?”

D.Va froze. Then, with the slow, deliberate horror of a person who'd just witnessed a trainwreck in slow motion, she turned toward him with utter disgust.

“Dude. I’m sixteen.”

Deadpool’s mask somehow turned pale. His entire existence paused. Every single one of his neurons collectively screamed, ABORT MISSION.

Suddenly, the Merc with the Mouth had no mouth—just panic.

“Oh. OH. Oh wow. Okay. Uh. That’s—I mean—not what I—♥♥♥♥. Like, I just meant—y’know—the outfit’s very… military chic? Not in a weird way! Unless military chic is weird—wait, no—you pilot a giant robot, that’s cool as hell, actually—oh God, why am I still talking—”

D.Va stared.

Then she burst out laughing. Hard.

“Oh my God, dude. That was so bad.” She wiped a tiny tear from her eye. “You realize I get actual thirst tweets hourly, right? Like, yours wasn’t even top ten cringe. More like… disappointing fast-food level. Weak cheese.”

Deadpool—hero slayer, fourth-wall breaker, expert in emotional trauma—was flustered for possibly the first time ever.

“I—well—okay, good? Wait, no, not good—just, uh, statistically less creepy than—”

“Toodles, fanboy!” D.Va gave him a playful elbow nudge (which, coming from her, probably cracked his ego like a base ball bat) and strutted out, leaving Deadpool alone in existential horror.

He sank against the mirror.

“Alright, universe. You win this round.” A beat. “BUT I WILL GET BETTER AT COMPLIMENTS.”

Somewhere, a single cricket chirped in solidarity.

And thus, the Most Badass Hero awards lost all dignity before they even began.