"New York Journal, February 13, 2009."
"The U.S. military announced today that Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, was ambushed by terrorists during a missile demonstration in Kunair Province, Afghanistan. Thirteen American soldiers accompanying him were confirmed dead. Stark's current whereabouts remain unknown. Military search and rescue efforts are ongoing…"
On a chilly street in Brooklyn, Robert stood alone at the edge of a narrow alleyway.
The wind rustled the pages of an old, crumpled newspaper in his hand. He had ditched the tattered uniform from the lab and now wore a dark hoodie and a pair of secondhand slacks scavenged from a donation bin.
He read the headline again.
Tony Stark.
The man who would become Iron Man. The spark that would ignite the birth of the Avengers.
In the Marvel cinematic universe, this news marked the beginning. The beginning of heroes, of aliens, of world-ending threats... and hope. But for now, Earth was still in that fragile prelude. No Avengers, no SHIELD in the spotlight, and no alien invaders—at least not yet.
Robert folded the paper and took a deep breath.
So that's the timeline.
Roughly a month had passed since the reported attack, which meant Stark was still out there—somewhere in a cave in Afghanistan, probably hammering together a prototype suit out of scraps.
Right now, the world was still blissfully unaware of what was coming.
Robert wasn't sure if that made him feel safer… or more anxious.
Footsteps approached.
He turned his head to see a familiar figure wearing a hoodie, hands stuffed into his pockets.
"Find her?" Robert asked.
Wade nodded, but his eyes were downcast. "Yeah. I found Vanessa."
Robert studied his friend. The loudmouth mercenary looked uncharacteristically quiet. That wasn't a good sign.
Wade exhaled, voice soft. "But I didn't go in. Didn't say anything. Just stood outside the apartment and watched her from across the street. She looked happy… normal. And I—" he paused. "I looked like a damn monster."
Robert said nothing. Wade didn't need pity. Just honesty.
Wade looked up, eyes clouded. "You didn't see the way people looked at me on the way here. Like I crawled out of a horror movie. If Vanessa saw me like this... I don't think she'd scream. I know she'd shoot me."
Robert patted him on the shoulder. "Relax. You've got a healing factor now. A bullet won't kill you."
Wade stared at him.
"…Seriously? That's your version of comfort?"
Robert shrugged. "Would you prefer I lied?"
Wade groaned. "Forget it. Come on, I want you to meet someone."
He led Robert deeper into the alleyway. They stopped at a metal door riddled with dents and rust. Next to it hung a crooked, worn-out sign that read:
Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children.
Robert blinked. "This is the mercenary bar?"
"Classiest place in Brooklyn," Wade said proudly.
He banged on the door.
"Weasel! Your daddy's home! Open up before I huff and puff and blow your dump down!"
The door creaked open, revealing a wiry man with thick glasses and a permanently frazzled hairstyle. His wide eyes scanned Wade, and his jaw dropped.
"…Wade? Holy crap. You really crawled out of your grave, huh?"
…
Inside the dim bar, Wade and Robert sat at the counter, devouring sandwiches from a plastic bag Weasel had reluctantly offered. Wade, as expected, had helped himself to a bottle of unopened whiskey.
Weasel rubbed his temples. "Let me get this straight. You beat cancer… then escaped a secret lab... with this guy…"—he gestured to Robert—"…and now you're squatting in my bar, asking for my help."
"Exactly," Wade mumbled through a mouthful of bread.
Robert, uninterested in alcohol, opened the bar's old freezer and pulled out a chilled soda. He popped the cap and took a long swig.
Weasel scowled. "Great. I run a bar, not a charity. And now I'm feeding a disfigured mutant and his mooching roommate."
Still, he didn't kick them out.
That was the kind of guy Weasel was—perpetually annoyed, but always loyal.
He eyed Wade's hooded face and added more quietly, "You know, Wade… Vanessa spent almost a year looking for you. She never gave up."
Wade stiffened.
Weasel softened his tone. "She loves you. I don't think she'd care what you look like."
With a deep breath, Wade slowly pulled down his hood.
The light revealed the full extent of his transformation. Charred, pitted skin stretched over bone. Deep ridges and puckered scars where once a charming face had been. A walking nightmare, held together by regeneration and sarcasm.
"Do you like what you see?" Wade asked grimly.
Weasel didn't even pause. "No. God, no."
Wade's mouth twitched. "Fair."
He turned toward Robert.
"What about you? Like the new me?"
Robert tried not to wince. "It's… unique."
Wade leaned in, hopeful. "Special how?"
Robert hesitated.
He looked left.
He looked right.
His mind went blank.
"…It's... very ugly."
Dead silence.
Weasel choked on his drink.
Wade blinked. "You suck at compliments."
Robert took another sip of soda. "I tried."
…
They sat there for a few moments, the tension slowly melting into familiar sarcasm.
Wade chuckled despite himself. "You know, it's weird. For the first time in forever, I don't have a plan. Just a face only a villain could love and a friend who doesn't sugarcoat a thing."
Robert leaned back in his stool. "Could be worse."
Wade raised an eyebrow. "How?"
"You could still be impaled on a steel rod," Robert replied, deadpan.
Wade shrugged. "Fair."
As laughter echoed through the bar, a quiet moment settled in. They were still fugitives, still scarred, still hunted.
But for now, at least… they had each other.
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