.
Weasel stared at Wade's scarred, monstrous face for a long moment… and then gave up trying to offer comfort entirely.
There was no sugarcoating this.
No speech, no sympathetic pat on the back, was going to change the fact that Wade Wilson now looked like a human-shaped avocado that had lost a fight with a meat grinder.
With a sigh, Weasel turned toward Robert instead.
"Wait—Wade told me both of you got hit with the same experimental serum, right? So… why don't you look like a burnt chimichanga?"
Robert took another sip of soda, leaning casually against the bar. "Wade's body was riddled with cancer before the experiment. The serum didn't actually cure it—it just made his self-healing cells outrun the cancerous ones. Now they're locked in a never-ending race. His healing keeps him alive, but the cancer keeps tearing him apart."
"Ouch," Weasel muttered.
Robert continued, voice even, "I didn't have cancer. So the healing factor just… worked."
Wade slammed his glass down. "Great. Thank you for explaining how I became a melted gremlin with a sense of humor. Really clears things up."
Weasel chuckled. "Well, to be fair, you do look like a hybrid between a mutant and a Freddy Krueger stunt double. Actually, you and Freddy from Elm Street could be twins. Have you ever thought about auditioning for a remake?"
Wade stared at him.
Deadpan.
"…Weasel."
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to take that bottle and shove it so far down your throat that you'll be burping tequila until Christmas."
"Fair enough."
With a growl, Wade slammed his hands on the table and stood up. "Forget it. I've made up my mind. Before I ever go near Vanessa again, I'm finding Francis. I'm gonna make him fix this face—or what's left of it—and then I'm going to return every second of pain he gave me with interest. And finally, I'm going to put a bullet in his skull and turn his head into a… a decorative desk ornament."
Weasel looked nauseous. "Okay, that last bit was unnecessary. And frankly, terrifying."
Robert interjected calmly, "To be fair, Francis probably thinks we're both dead."
"Exactly," Wade said. "That's our advantage. He thinks he won, that the fire wiped us out. He has no idea the chimichanga and the immortal boy wonder survived."
"And if you're planning to go after him," Weasel said slowly, "you'll need a disguise. Not to be mean, Wade, but… your face is a walking spoiler."
Wade shrugged. "Already thought of that. I need a name too. Something with style. Something heroic. Like... Captain Wade."
Weasel gagged. "Please don't."
Robert looked up at the blackboard above the bar—the infamous betting pool where mercenaries wagered on which of them would die first.
At the very top was the word DEADPOOL in bold chalk.
He pointed. "Why not just go with that?"
Wade turned and squinted. "Deadpool?"
The name lingered on his tongue for a moment.
Then his eyes lit up.
"That's it. That's the one. Deadpool… It sounds edgy, mysterious… like I kill people for justice and fashion."
Weasel rolled his eyes. "You kill people for money and spite."
Wade beamed. "Even better!"
Robert leaned forward. "Okay, Deadpool. So how exactly do you plan to find Francis? The lab's gone, the records are destroyed, and there's no way that guy left a paper trail."
Wade smirked. "They need people. Constantly. The kind of scum that don't ask questions. They can't advertise publicly, so they recruit in secret. If I trace the recruitment line back far enough, I'll find the people pulling the strings… and then Francis."
Robert nodded. "And when that happens, I'll help."
Wade glanced at him. "You don't have to."
"I want to."
Still, both of them knew the truth: Robert didn't have Wade's combat experience. His healing factor made him durable, sure—but a durable amateur with no firearm training in a world where bullets fly faster than decisions?
Not ideal.
So neither of them pushed it.
The silence that followed felt mutual, understanding.
Wade had his revenge mission.
Robert had something else.
Identity.
He didn't belong here—not in this timeline, not in this country, not even on this Earth. He had no papers, no legal record, no existence.
And in America, especially this America, not existing was the quickest way to get locked up, deported, or worse.
He needed to find a way to live in this world.
Legally.
Safely.
Robert glanced at Weasel, still sipping from his bottle, watching them both with the wary patience of a bartender who's seen too much.
"…You said this place runs a mercenary network, right?" Robert asked.
Weasel narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. Why?"
Robert leaned on the bar. "I need work. And I need papers. Figured this might be the fastest way to get both."
Wade coughed. "You? A mercenary? Buddy, you're more tofu than terminator."
Robert smirked. "That tofu survived Francis, Gina, and a collapsing lab with nothing but a broken rifle and bad luck."
"…Fair point."
Weasel sized him up. "You sure? This isn't a playground. These people shoot first and forget names later. You don't get a 'practice run' in this business."
Robert stared him down.
"I don't need a practice run. I need a life."
Weasel blinked.
Then shrugged. "Suit yourself."
He reached under the counter and pulled out a clipboard.
"Welcome to Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Contracts."
Wade grinned. "Ooh, I want to watch. This is going to be so fun."
Robert grabbed the pen.
Signed his name.
And just like that, the immortal time traveler took his first step toward becoming a mercenary.
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