So, belated Merry Christmas to all of you. I would have posted a poem, as is traditional, but I was in rural Chech Republic, spending time with my extended family. There are many things that you can do in the countryside of Europe, however unfortunately participating in the lynching of twipires is not one of them.
With that said, I'll get on with the game. I figure that those who no longer post (pretty much all of you) can pick it back up if you want to, but in the meantime we should just get on with it. So that's what I will do.
Here's what passes for a present, the next installment of the brothers Wilson.
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The man was short and compact, a half a head shorter than average and wiry rather then sturdy despite his broad shoulders. His skin was naturally pale but long since burned nut brown by sun and time, and he had a squashed, mean face that put one in mind of a fox, a sloping forehead and a broken nose, and plenty of attitude, that, along with his natural roughness, gave him looks that were a real hit with many wilder ladies. His hair was distinctive, big and tall on the sides coming up to brush points in a devilish manner, and he favored a prominent pair of side-burns that grew in a wiry, course thicket along both sides of his face. He wore a pare of faded jeans, a leather coat, and old well-broken in cowboy boots. A throwback from the look of him, like a neanderthal that had against all probability survived and thrived in the twenty first century. The motorbike out the front was his.
The 'Crocodile Bar and Grill' was one of seven commercial buildings in the town, though that might be too strong a word for a cluster of prefabricated, identical terrace houses, a small lumbermill that pulped wood, and an oil refinery. Their certainly wasn't much in the way of community or society beyond a certain working-class solidarity and shared occupation. If you wanted to work, you could find it here, but there were little in the way of luxury, it was as far on the outskirts of civilization as anywhere in this hemisphere. Which is why he was visiting. He preferred to live away from humanity, though he had been having dreams of Japan, and felt a strange ache that told him to go back to one of the few homes he'd known in a life that had, in many ways, been far too long. His life had been ugly, brutal and unending, but before he joined the X-men most of his happiest memories had been in Japan. Maybe, when he was ready to be a person again, he would go back, but for now he just wanted to be alone.
Logan was a wild, natural personality that liked women and to gamble, drink, smoke and fight. Despite that, seemingly in contrast he possessed a dignity and high degree of honor, derived from the samurai code of Bushido. While once a brutal, ruthless fighter, Wolverine has mellowed somewhat over the years. He has made a definite effort to subdue the 'beast' side of his mind, although he can call on it when necessary. He also has a certain degree of self-loathing, due to his past and perceived value as a killer. He was a loner, through and through.
Felicia wasn't doing so well, in their shared self-imposed exile. She was a city girl, born and bred, and while at first life in the wilderness had interested her due to the sheer novelty value, she was a girl who liked her creature comforts, and was beginning to get miserable. What she wanted and what he wanted were very different, and while he was dangerous enough to keep her addiction to living on the edge under control, she wasn't happy on the edge of civilization, where there were no clubs, no ready avenues of socialization, nothing to steal or flirt with, and the VIP treatment was running water and a roof over your head, and she was more or less completely dependent on him for everything. As a result she was beginning to get snappish and withdrawn, and he as beginning to fear that he was in the midst of yet another relationship that wasn't going to work out.
He still wasn't altogether sure what attracted him to her. He cared for her, and they had fun together. Her enthusiasm and carefree spirit were appealing to him, as was the fact that she was independent enough to take care of herself, and the fact that such a ravishingly beautiful woman and fantastic in the sack was more than contributing as well, but the two of them fitted together badly, and were too different in their wants to keep it up for long. An amicable split might be best. Don't bring love into it, not after all you've been through, just accept that you're being selfish, and only holding onto her because she's the only person that you have left, and you don't want to be alone.
Let the girl go, and you got plenty more time to feel sorry for yourself before you finally get a life, and when you do crave company (like you do now, like you do every few months) you can show up here, to drink, and to feel like a stranger.
But he wasn't, not really. Alone in a crowd, he still could tell more about these people, about their lives and their habits than all but their closest acquaintances. You could tell a lot about a man by their scent, if your senses were as advanced as Wolverines. His nose was so sensitive he could track a week dead trail under fresh fallen snow, if he gave it his best. But sometimes finding a faint trail was easier then distinguishing specifics from a multitude. Humans were always a cacophony on their own, each one detailing their past as surely as any tell. Some were always present, usually soap, stale sweat, and mint, along with the distinctive smell of humanity, all mixed together with the other lingering odors that clung to them, each one a reminder of some part of their life. And beneath that, there was where they were from and who they were. Experiences and feelings had their own distinctive odors. The man pouring his drinks, for example, had a scent of good, oiled hide.
Almost everyone else stank of fire ash and flint, bone dust and chemicals and mineral dust. They worked on the refinery, turning crude oil into gasoline, and it had left it's mark on them, even if they didn't know it. Others smelled of resin sap and mould, lumberjacks and saw-mill workers. And a few others, of hard, good steel. There were fifty in the bar, it being the only source of entertainment in a town of six hundred. And he could tell you everything about them, where they'd been, what they did, what they were trying to hide, whether they were nervous or happy or scared out of their minds, and where they'd come from, just with a single sniff.
He sniffed again as the door opened and a blast of cold hair hit his back. Now, there were two more scents mingling in the air, one who stank of machine oil and blood, the other like stale decay, of a sickness that he recognized as cancer, the disease that rots. The latter was so overwhelming even the ordinary people could sense it. Wolverine knew that scent. Only one man was walking around smelling like that.
"Not you." He groaned, not turning around. Only one man had cancer at that advanced a state and was still walking, unwelcome wherever he went. The red-headed stepchild of the superhero world.
"Hello, Hugh Jackman! It sure is nice of you to cameo in my movie that is about me." Deadpool said, prompting Wolverine to groan again. He didn't want to deal with this. Not now. Not ever. "And it's already ten times better then yours! The cast has great chemistry, the sets are really well done, and -"
"We have a schedule." The voice was cold and rigid. He didn't recognize it. And he knew almost everyone in the game. "A consistent timetable. Enough of the banter."
"Rightyo, Willy." Wolverine looked up. He'd just realized who the other was, the one who smelled like the Taskmaster. The two had a shared history, and he'd been going through a lot of that lately. He'd wondered when he'd get around to this.
"Don't call me that." Slade Wilson said.
"Wilson?"
"Not acceptable. We're working."
"But Deathstroke sounds so nineties." Deadpool whined. "I'm not even going to comment on 'The Terminator'. Former Governor of California, you ain't." There was a smooth sound of oiled steel scraping lightly against on oiled steel, and suddenly Deadpool was focused and on the job and all business. "Anyway, attention all random people in this scene! We are dangerous lunatics who are, needless to say, out of our minds! Anyone not out of this place by the time I draw my weapons and start firing them indiscriminately will get killed to show just how dangerous I am, most likely in a gratuitous and gory fashion to attempt to wring emotion from a jaded audience, and display just how awesome I am without losing any valuable characters who sell comics. You have until the pre-fight banter comes to an end to get out of here. Over to you, boss."
This was not Slade's preferred style at all. He had to take a prisoner, Wolverine would take time and effort to kill, but he would have preferred to take his target out from half a mile back with a dark rifle, then move in. Failing that, if contact was absolutely necessary, a series of thumb jabs to the nerve cluster at the base of the neck would be his chosen modus operandi. Quiet as a whisper. To Slade, the ideal fight was one that your opponent didn't even know about, although he rarely got to do that.
But that wouldn't do any good against a regenerator. He'd get back up before you'd even finished. Even something like a high-powered explosive detonated at close range would only slow him down. The only way to do it was to kill him and keep him dead, overwhelm him before his abilities could bring him back, then restrain him in such a way he couldn't get back out. Which meant getting in close and getting your hands dirty. And Slade could do that too, and had done time and time again. And in this instance, he was actually looking forward to it.
"Well that's just adorable." Wolverine said, turning to look at the two of them, as the rest of the patrons exited the premises. Police would be called, but their weren't any law enforcement in a tiny place like this. By the time they'd mobilized and actually arrived in a position to do something, both the Brother's Wilson and their target would be long gone, one way or another. "Family outing, is it?"
"Something like that." Slade replied, folding his arms across his broad chest. The mask was half black and half copper with a single eye, the costume all layers of leather and kevlar and chain-mail well-fitted so as not to inhibit movement, the arsenal considerable. He hadn't drawn any of his dozen weapons slung on his back and clipped to his belt, but one only had to glance at him to tell he was spoiling for a fight. This wasn't just a job. This was something that had been festering in him for almost three decades, ready to let out, all at once. And once he began striking, he wasn't going to be able to stop.
Which was just fine with Wolverine. That was the sort of fight he enjoyed. "I keep telling people. I'm the best there is at what I do." Wolverine boasted, clenching his hands until they were as hard and tight as iron sledges. His claws slid out with an audible snikt as he did, and even in the low light they gleamed. "Well lets see what you got, bub. Come at me."
Slade's face shifted beneath the mask. "Thought you'd never ask."
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"So both at once, or one at a time, bub?" Wolverine said, lowering his center of gravity and spreading his arms, waiting for an opening. You don't just charge a man as good as Slade unless you have back-up, or he's distracted. Slade was faster then him, just as skilled, and he could probably crush Logan's neck in one hand.
"Hey, if we're not getting paid, then what's in it for me? No money, no Deadpool." Wade folded his arms and smirked. His face seemed more misshapen than usual, as though it had been made by a child out of clay, without the benefit of tools, or of skill. "There is no honor, without dollars, American. Shakespeare said that. I'll just hold-back, take a few pictures, and make cutting comments now and again to remind everyone I'm here." He paused, side-tracked by questionable logic. "Because if I don't, there'll be no reason for me to be in the scene. And then I won't exist." He paused. "Besides, my own cunning plan to take him out was fiated."
Slade smirked as well, ignoring his brothers tangential prattling. "Hardly seems sporting. Perhaps I should tie one hand behind my back." he said, cold, calculated, yet patronizing.
Wolverine came forward swinging. Time to put that theory to the test. Wolverine had never fought Slade before, and wasn't entirely sure what his weak point was—he was all armor and solid muscle—so he went for the usual failsafe: the face. There was a mask, but his claws would go right through it and out the other side.
He should have seen the return blow coming. Slade leaned back out of the way, the claws whistling harmlessly past, then did something with his feet, shifting his weight before he countered. The hard fist smashing into his face caught Wolverine off-guard and he stumbled back several feet before losing his balance completely and landing roughly on his rear, an embarrassing blunder in any fight, but even more humiliating now.
"Get up." Slade said plainly, adjusting his stance minutely, yet somehow endeavoring to seem relaxed and contemptuous. It was a gift.
Fuming, Wolverine scrambled to his feet. His inner equilibrium barely stabilized before he crouched low and began to circle his prey like a hunter on safari. Not for one second did Slade take his eyes off of his formidable opponent, but he made no moves of his own, content to watch. Running out of patience, Wolverine leapt at his adversary with an angry, frustrated growl, baring his sharp teeth.
His rush at the mercenary was doomed from the start. Slade easily side-stepped the most dangerous mutant in the world's strikes, then countered with a single kick to his back that knocked him off his feet again, flat onto his face. "This time get your balance first. You're embarrassing me." he goaded, adjusting his stance again. Wolverine clambered to his feet and lowered himself, only to find that Slade wasn't playing defensively anymore.
Slade was on Wolverine before the former X-man he had a chance to react, slamming his hard fists into the smaller mutant. A thumb jabbed at his neck, going for the pressure-points, while his knee drove up like a piston between Wolverine's legs. Wolverine felt the agony, but he felt it the way he knew it was night outside. It was undeniable, but it didn't meaningfully effect him very much. He only grimaced and resolved not to let that happen again.
Slade lashed out twice more, and Wolverine could barely match them, stumbling backwards with every blow while Slade moved around his claws as though they weren't there. He was hit three more times, then he managed to catch Slade's fist in his hand, stepping closer so that he could feel the mercenary's breath sting his face, and drove his claws at Slade's throat. Slade twisted his arm, breaking the mutant's grip, turned aside the claws with his other hand, and even as Wolverine struggled to reassert dominance, he surged forwards, with a dizzying combination of high left, to the temple, a savage low right, to the kidney, and a devastating second left in the center of his face, flattening his nose like a pancake with a spray of blood and cartilage, leaving only a pulpy mess where once had been Wolverine's face. He'd be fine. His features were already pushing itself back into shape, but the violence was immensely satisfying.
Slade spun and kicked downwards, his heel snapping the links between ligament and bone beneath the knee, sending Wolverine staggering and stumbling and swaying away, barely able to keep upright. He staggered back out of reach, and wheezed, a bit more theatrically then necessary. "Gotta hand it to you, bub." Wolverine panted. "You been eating your spinach. Don't think legs are supposed to bend that way."
Slade didn't say a word. He just advanced, fists raised, single eye narrowed.
Wolverine picked himself up, and no sooner had he got his feet underneath him then Slade waded in, suddenly exploding into brutal, astonishing action. His economy of movement was both lethal and almost hypnotic, there was a cruel precision in the punches and kicks as they came, hard and fast. It was all Logan could do to ward off the first few. He threw up his claws desperately but it made no difference at all.
There was no time to speak, or even to think, because he was too focused on avoiding those knuckles coming at his face, or that boot about to stomp down on his back. He knew that he was being an idiot, trying to match Deathstroke's skills. He needed to stop trying to think of a strategy, and let the animal take over. His instincts could handle this, but he wasn't given a chance to do more than act—
Something awoke in Wolverine then. Something fierce and primal and unwilling to give up, not willing to just lie down and take his beating. 'Let your mind go limp. Your instincts can handle this. Use the claws. Go for broke. Just enjoy yourself. No time or space for anything fancy, just -'
He staggered back again, but this time he didn't lose his balance. He didn't fall. He only bared his teeth, and fought harder. 'Use the claws. He can hit you as much as he likes, you'll get right back up again. No matter how hard, how painful it might be, there's nothing he can do to keep you down. Because he's just a killer, and you're the most dangerous man alive.'
Wolverine was a blur. He attacked wildly but craftily, leaving himself opening and taking advantage of every opportunity, bending back, leaping in, feinting, thrusting, warding, striking trying to overwhelm his opponents immaculate defenses. He spun, attempting to slash into the meat of Slade's legs with his spare hand while Slade held his right, then when Slade leapt back he sprung from his spot with all six claws aimed forward and at the Mercenary's chest. But Slade had never lost his balance, he leapt eight feet in the air and Wolverine sailed beneath him to crunch into the wall. Recovering quickly, Wolverine flipped up and landed on his feet, but Slade was ready for him again, and sent him staggering back with a well-placed kick.
Slade remained cold, calculating, scintillant. He made no waste of movement, no motion not absolutely necessary, now forced onto the defensive but with no hesitation or so much as a momentary lapse. Indeed he seemed almost content. But no matter how hard Wolverine pushed himself, Slade was always faster, stronger, a dozen steps ahead. His skills were incredible, a perfect rhythm to everything Wolverine had to offer. Indeed, he barely even seemed to be trying.
Then he lowered his hand a fraction too late, a minute accident but the only one he'd made, and what Wolverine had been desperately waiting for. Swinging in, one of Wolverine's claws ripped across his chest-plate and into the softer flesh beneath. It was only a glancing blow, but it did send Slade back a step. Before Wolverine could capitalize on that, Slade regained his balance and lowered his arms. Then he glanced down at the cuts.
"There he is. I was starting to worry you were going to disappoint me." He sounded pleased and of good cheer, now that he had three bleeding cuts on his chest. The fight had lasted barely three minutes including the banter, but it felt like far longer to both of them. "That there was nothing left of you. It took you a while, but you showed me otherwise. Now, let's see what you have to show for it."
Slade stepped back again, and stretched out his right hand.
"Quit playing around, or you're off the team, and you'll have to give back your badge and discount card." Deadpool said, then gestured at his brother. "Hey, look. Blood. You're actually bleeding. I can see it. Which means, we're not censored. Which means, anything goes. So why don't you take one of those nice weapons you always have, and actually use one of them? This scene needs some explosions!"
"Good suggestion." Slade replied, then reached behind his shoulder and pulled at the handle of something silver. Wolverine tensed, expecting a gun (bullets couldn't kill him, or at least they hadn't yet, but they certainly hurt), and so was surprised to see that it was a sword. Not the usual, short hacking blade Deathstroke favored in close-quaters, more suitable for butchery then marital arts, this was something else, something altogether different. This was a long, fine piece of Japanese steel that had been shaped by a master to a deadly blending of purpose. The Muramasa Blade. He'd know it anywhere.
Shiny and very, very sharp. Shiny enough to throw his own shocked expression back at him. Sharp enough to slice through adamantine. Sharp enough to even kill him.
"Where did you get that?" Wolverine breathed, suddenly very conscious of his heart pounding in his chest. "Tell me what this is about."
"No." Slade replied simply. He didn't brandish the weapon. That's not what it was for, it was for killing or, failing that, maiming. Which was the use he was going to put it to.
"Tell me what this is about, and you walk away with a flesh wound." He growled.
"Mister greasy canadian pedophile is threatening me? Oh this is rich." Slade chuckled softly to himself, then slowly walked forward, the sword held loosely in his right hand so that the tip of the blade scraped along the ground as he advanced, cutting into the wooden floorboards like they weren't even there, and leaving a long scar behind him. "But why not answer? This is about you. You've lived too long, and made too many enemies. Some of them have toys like this, and know men like me."
"Scott wouldn't -"
Deadpool rolled his eyes, in a manner that was perhaps just a little jealous that one dangerous psycho was accepted and he wasn't. "Fearless leader doesn't even know it's gone. Now why aren't you fighting?" He shook his head. "Or are you going to wax philosophical about your respective burdens, duties and obligations and eat up our time? Because people hate that when the characters start doing that sort of thing, particularly when they could be fighting for no adequately explained reason. Nobody reads the words, but they like it when the men in brightly colored costumes hit each other, preferably with big sound-effects." Although now that he thought about it, there was a lack of ludicrous sound-effects in this story, bar that one 'snikt' when they first got here. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with that.
Slade swung the blade in a fierce crescent that Wolverine threw himself out of the way from. Snatches of his reflection—flashes of expression, faded blue of his jeans and deep earth tones of his jacket darted across the surface of the thin, deadly blade when it slashed up at him. Before Slade could bring it to bare again, he tossed himself at the mercenary, bringing two fistfulls of claws at his kidneys. Too slow. Always too slow. Slade stepped aside, letting him stagger past, and then cut into the meat of his back, shearing through muscle an inch deep, from left shoulder to right hip.
Blood gushed, and muscular action didn't close the wound. Slade's mask shifted again, as Wolverine made a grunting noise and turned. He was smiling beneath the mask.
Slade whipped the blade four times so fast it looked like one movement that you'd have missed if you blinked, leaving Wolverine's clothes and skin red with the blood that oozed from cuts on cheek, breast, arm and thigh. Cuts that were not closing. They'd be worse, except Slade was toying with him. He enjoyed it too much to want it to stop and be over. He stepped back, giving Wolverine room, and rested the blade on his shoulder. The pose was casual, but the tension in his shoulders was not. He was trying to lure Wolverine into doing something stupid.
Wolverine was not taking the bait. Not anymore. Instead, he was watching every movement Slade made, no matter how minuscule, in case it was the precursor for an attack. He wouldn't be caught off-guard. Slade simply kept the blade where it was, occasionally striking out with the speed of a striking snake, cutting him superficially then returning to place. With the reach the sword afforded and his considerable skill, Slade was free to attack with impunity, and all Wolverine could do was try and minimize the damage by dodging. It wasn't working out all that well for him. In a melee, the claws were invaluable. But here they were barely better then nothing.
"Luthor offered me money for this. I wouldn't take it." There was a blur, and a hot sting above his left eye, and suddenly blood was dripping from Wolverine's forehead all over his face from a long gash. "And he's just the only one who came to me. Some people have offered quite a considerable bit more over the years. You've made a lot of people very angry, James." He feinted with the sword, then brought it between the two of them, hefting the sword and switching it from right hand to left hand and back again. He moved up onto his toes, then rocked back on his heels.
"But to me, you're not worth anything but the pleasure I get from this." He feinted again, and when Wolverine closed in he put his shoulder behind a straight cross with his empty hand, hitting Wolverine in the solar plexus and making him choke and gasp for air as he almost swallowed his tongue. Then punched him in the mouth, cracking six teeth and dislocating a jaw, bruising his knuckles in the process. An adamantine skeleton and a near-instant healing factor made that sort of violence less then effective, but Slade was too stubborn to stop it just because it hurt him a lot more then it hurt Wolverine. He stepped back as Wolverine righted himself, and waved the sword threateningly, forcing him to back down.
"Because when I volunteered for Weapon X, I thought I was going to be a hero, not another murderer on a government payroll. Thought I was going to be Captain America. I learned better pretty fast, and got smart. See, a country isn't worth working for, nor are the idiots who inhabit it. They want something done, they should fight themselves rather then wait to be saved… but you…"
"Well, you're selfish, like me. Difference is, you were Weapon X, even if I was the first person they worked on. Thanks to you, thanks to your blood, my brother is now a maniac who doesn't know who he is half the time because he can't see the world through his own delusions." Slade cut him again. A line across the chest, ragged and deep. "Which makes you ultimately responsible, and if it wasn't for you, one way or another Wade would still be himself."
"Talk to your therapist." Wolverine spat.
"Oh don't worry about my mental health. Now that you're in front of me, I have a pretty good opportunity to vent." Slade said, and cut him again. The chin. It would have been the throat, but Wolverine had ducked fast enough - just - not to die.
"Whoah! Lets slow down here. It's good to know you care and all, sometimes I have my doubts, but leave me out of this." Wade said, in an unusually quiet voice, holding up his hands, although neither was paying attention. "I'm pretty happy the way I am. You probably think I'm mad, but it feels good to me."
Neither of them reacted. Slade was too busy milking the fight for all it was worth, and Wolverine was too busy trying to stay alive. Wolverine, as the most dangerous mutant alive, didn't make a habit of running from fights. But he knew hopeless when he saw it. Any moment now, Slade was going to run out of things to say, and take his head off. And that would be that. It wasn't that he was outclassed, it was simply that this fight favored Slade, his brand of martial arts to start with, then he got the sword and Wolverine didn't. Which meant he had to escape. His bike was still out the front, if he could get to it, then the wilderness would swallow him up. And if the two hired killers tried to follow, then it would swallow them up as well. Here, Slade had the advantage, a clear target and all the weaponry he could want. But in the wilds, things would be more even. Out of civilization he wouldn't even see Wolverine coming, and all his fancy skills and weapons would only get in his way.
The problem was actually getting away. Slade was between him and the exit, and the only thing that he knew about which could definitely kill him was between him and Slade. He tried circling around, and got a shallow cut on his upper bicep for his trouble. It was odd, his wounds weren't healing, and he was bleeding heavily, but if he felt the ebb of his powers, his body wasn't showing it beyond numbness and pain. But that could change any moment. He didn't want to go down here, unable to even fight back.
Then Slade lunged, going for the kill. The move was hurried and left an opening. It was his second mistake, and again it was all Wolverine needed. Throwing himself forward, he darted into Slade's swing, twisting aside at the last second. it was a risky maneuver, but it was so unexpected Slade was momentarily put off balance, and Wolverine got away with only another jagged cut across the chest as he slipped past. Fortunately, there was no earthly use for the male nipple, as his right one was now a mess of badly lacerated flesh and pounding agony. Turning his staggering momentum in a running start, he darted for the door, making a break for it. He expected to hear the thump of boots behind him, or smell the sharp discharge of gunpowder. But there was nothing. They weren't pursuing. He didn't stop and consider why, he just lept for his bike, kicked it to life, and roared up the road.
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Wade rounded on his brother, who was standing in the middle of the room, completely unconcerned. His chest was clotting, and his body language was relaxed, that of an artist who has visualized every step of his masterpiece, then completed it to every detail all at once. Deadpool didn't know if he was angry, or worried that he was in the presence of a man madder then he, or what he was seeing, but his brother was acting positively bizarre and out of character, and he was sick of this secret agenda he refused to talk about. Maybe they'd had a change of writers who just didn't get Slade's character, or wanted to rewrite him as a jazz critic or something. It had happened to him a few times. Hell, it had happened to everyone, as far as he could tell. "You let him get away. You let him. Get away. What the hell are you doing?" Wade asked. "I mean, I figured he'd get away, but not because you let him. What game are you playing?"
Slade looked at him blankly, then dropped the blade. "It glanced off his spine on the first cut I made. It might wound him and keep him wounded, but it doesn't cut through adamantine. I was bluffing the entire time."
Deadpool blinked, then shook his head. "No. You were not. So you can't cut his head off. Big deal. You can hit any major artery, stab him in the kidney, cut his throat, or just keep on going until he's mince. You don't need to cut bone to kill a man, and I shouldn't have to tell you that."
It was a curious fact of their association that while Wade brought out the best in Deathstroke, Slade brought out the worst in Deadpool. In each others company, Slade relaxed and his affable side rose to prominence. But Deadpool suppressed his better nature in an effort to live up to Slade's standard.
Slade remained blank at the highly accurate point. "Maybe. But I would have had to get close. Then he could retaliate. Wounded, cornered animals bring down their hunters before they realize they're dead. I have no interest in dying with him, particularly when I have a few more irons in the fire."
"And I suppose you're going to drag me along." Deadpool had remained on subject a record eight sentences, and felt his mind wandering back into the more comfortable avenues of spontaneity. "Yeah, right. You know, Wolverine doesn't actually have a healing factor. Us Americans are just easily impressed by a universal healthcare system." He folds his arms, as he remembers the other reason he's angry. He's not hugely thrilled by what Slade said about him. "So what's the plan now? Let him get away?"
"Yes." Slade bared his teeth under the mask. "Timing wasn't right. He'll run. We'll catch him."
"Did you at least put a tracer or something on him that we can track as a signal?"
"No."
"Damnit, you're heading into amateur hour now! Why not?"
Slade ignored him. Wade got distracted.
Deadpool thought about Logan, about the times the two of them had worked together in Weapon X, in the bad old days. The strange blend of feral man-beast, the wise old man, and the metal-clad killing machine all wrapped into a stocky frame. Now, they were mortal enemies. Time changes everything. Except for the Wolverine, of course. "Sure that he'll run? Don't think that might be a bit of an ego thing? Seems more his style to set up an ambush and get even."
"It is. But he has a squeeze. He has an instinct to protect, and animals always listen to instincts. So he'll run." Slade picked the sword, and replaced it, not bothering to clean the blood off, then handed it back to Deadpool. "Just not fast enough."
"Right. And you'll cure me?" It was a pointed question.
"If it can be done, I'll find a way. You deserve better, Wade."
Wade tilted his head. This was as sensitive and nurturing as his brother got, and by his standards it was great progress, but Wade wasn't entirely happy to know decisions were being made about him behind his back. "And you were planning on telling me when?"
"I told you just now, didn't I?" Slade didn't wait for a reply, he left the empty taproom, heading for where they'd left the jeep in the middle of the street.
Walking to the open back, he unslung a massive silver gun, close to a high-powered rifle if built on a much bigger scale, and began to load it with his other trump card (and if this one didn't work he'd have to get inventive). Carbonadium-adamantine alloy bullets. They'd switch off all a bodies systems, including even the most advanced healing factor, until it down, usually in about three hours, at which point it was rendered it harmless and dissolved it's component elements. But by bonding it with an indestructible substance… Well, chances are Wolverine would fossilize before his systems started again. Slade had tried magic, but it was unreliable. Fortunately, he wasn't a purist. He was happy to utilize both sides of the board, an equal opportunity sort of assassin. Now, he'd try science.
"You want to be paid? There. Every bullet you don't fire is a hundred thousand dollars worth of adamantine." Slade said, handing his brother the gun, who sagged a bit under it's weight. They didn't all have a reinforced muscular structure that let them power-lift about 2000 pounds.
"Yeah, to who? Who with a hundred thousand dollars to burn decides to spend it on a useless tiny piece of metal? Somehow I don't think anyone will accept it, unless it's loaded into a gun that's pointed at them. And if I did that, well why bother throwing away such an expensive bullet, when they'd probably be just as receptive to a normal one?"
"Try some dangerously unstable maniac who wants to take over the world. There's enough of them around."
Wade conceded the point with a nod. "Alright, I suppose that works. And they're all rich from all the banks they rob with their trillion dollar hardware and space-age tecnology. Good call."
Slade turned the key, and the engine grumbled to life. "Time to hunt. You're paid. Coming this time?"
"Haiku isn't really my thing. Try and pad your sentences with a few subject nouns and tenses, oh mighty warrior poet."
Slade rolled his eye, and started up the truck. Wolverine had a head-start, but they already knew where he was heading. He wouldn't get far.
"Now, when we catch him, just don't do anything that will compromise our newly formed family values assassination image." Deadpool warned. "No torture, or maiming, or letting him go to dwell on the shame of his defeat, or making him watch you kill his girlfriend first, or whatever. Just kill him."
"Wade, all I want is to see him dead. I don't care in the slightest whether he suffers or not."
Spoiler
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Wolverine didn't live like it, but he was very wealthy, a long life, a dozen fortunes he'd won and with few needs he could certainly settle comfortably down. But he'd wanted to get away from the trappings of civilization and the problems that came with it. So he'd come back here. The house here had sentimental value, though it was also the site of his single worst memory. The big cabin looked very innocent; quiet, windows dark, and nestled between soft drifts of fluffy snow. The white powder coated the roof and window ledges of the cabin as well. A chill, icy wind buffeted the structure lifting flakes into the air, and rustled the branches of the green pines dotting the otherwise empty field around it. It was built in a shallow depression, out of sight unless you knew what you were looking for.
It was a log cabin styled house, large, stately, a comfortable retreat from the cold. There were three long leather couches in the area and several glass and wooden tables by their corners while a small table stood behind him. A long dining table with a closed window frame, and a large fire was burning in the gray stone fireplace. He looked up at the stuffed heads of his various prizes and sighed before turning back to the fire. He wanted to collapse. There was perhaps enough blood left in him to keep a small kitten alive, and he could barely keep his head straight.
It would be so easy to succumb. To just slide down, let himself drift off and only wake when it was all over. But he took the hard way, like he always did.
He was Wolverine. And he never gave up. Ever.
Behind him, he could hear the wind hitting the side of the house and he could see closed windows keeping it out. Above, the roof crisscrossed and from it's center, a chandelier made out of deer antlers hung from a iron chain. The floor was mostly bare and wooden, but the area in front of the fireplace was carpeted. Their were locks on all the doors and windows, and keypads in the corners of the room. He'd had made this place a fortress.
It wouldn't keep Slade out. Not for a heartbeat. It wouldn't keep his less competent but annoyingly persistent brother away either.
He was going to have to run.
"Felicia?"
"Here lover." He blinked. There she was, in costume. Up close she was stunning. Five feet eight inches of impossible perfection poured into skin tight leather that clung to her flawless curves. Full red lips that begged to be kissed and hinted at other talents complimented blue eyes only partially hidden behind a half mask that complimented her charming, heart-shaped face. Long white hair in tresses as smooth as silk.
For a moment he tensed, then realized she had just planned on surprising him and relaxed. "Get your coat." He said, a bit harsher then he intended.
"Aren't you awful surly tonight? I thought we were past all this." She purred, a deep vibration in the back of her throat that he didn't know humans could make, and slunk closer, swinging her hips a touch more then necessary. "I was planning on an early night tonight."
He sighed. "I mean we're leaving. Or we're in trouble."
She sighed, and folded her arms under her breasts. "You're serious?"
"Yes. Anything you want to pack?"
"Nothing. Lets get going then, we might be able to find a decent hotel if we move quick."
"Just a moment." It took more effort then it should have, to force his wounded body to stagger down the hallway and into his room. But he needed to do one more thing in order to feel like himself. He was in costume less often than other adventurers, but he'd brought it even if he was going into partial retirement. Didn't feel right not to have it along. He pulled on a yellow full-body spandex suit with blue shorts, boots, shoulders and gloves, a red belt and a yellow headpiece with large black 'ears', which only left his muscular arms uncovered. Three metallic pieces on both hands serve as channels for his claws when he needs to pops them out.
He still felt sore. His head still swayed, his vision wavered, and he really needed a sleep. But now, they were just problems to be overcome. He turned, and made his way back outside, heading for his motorbike. He'd have to backtrack as far as route 73, but then he could follow the open road wherever he wanted. Next time he'd be more careful. He wouldn't be found again unless he wanted to be.
Luthor had put a hit on him. The man had made a big mistake. Shortly, he'd find out just how big.
He swung a leg over the bike, and revved it a few times. The black leather clad woman with flowing ivory hair leaped onto the bike behind him. "You know," she said, lacing her arms around his chest from behind him. He could feel her breasts press up against his back and felt a little aroused at the prospect. "All this racing and secrecy is enough to get all the adrenaline pumping… get a person all worked up. You worked up?"
Her hands started to trace the definition of his chest and abs, but he pushed them off. "Yeah. Never can resist you. But we can't be distracted. Not now. If either of them find us, then things'll get really ugly really quickly. It's Deadpool and Deathstroke, working for Luthor."
She raised one delicate eyebrow. "Danger as well. Exciting. You do know how to show a girl a good time."
"That's really distracting." He said, revving the engine and driving back up the way he'd come.
"Kinda the idea, big boy." Sometimes, a silver-haired flirt/nymphomaniac with a very skewed series of priorities was exactly as much trouble as she was worth.
He didn't remove her hand. He was too busy steering. "Time and a place."
"Well I can't wait." She pouted, then stopped all at once, as a chill crept down her spine. There was a figure standing on the road ahead.
"Contact." Slade stood in the center of the road waiting for them, humming Creedence Clearwater Revival's 'Run through the Jungle' under his breath. His rifle was held in his hands, and he'd taken his mask off. This time, he didn't bother to fight, to build up to it. This time, he was going to settle things. He braced the stock solidly against his shoulder, keeping his arms loose, narrowed his eye as he took careful aim, then put his finger on the trigger. It was a big, powerful rifle that dealt with customized amunition. As has been mentioned, the bullets it was currently loaded with were worth a hundred thousand dollars each, and with a fire rate of 25 every second, It cost fifteen million dollars to fire it for six seconds. But he only needed to fire one.
Range accurate to a mile. No wind or other factors that mattered. He was a distant target, but a clear one, no cover or mitigating factors. No need to account for acceleration, no wind to speak of, things couldn't be better. His finger tightened on the trigger but he didn't pull it yet, double-checking all the motions in one micro-second, then he fired. The gun spat fire, and he felt the world come crashing back, but his eyesight and concentration were uncanny. In the space between the tic of a second his eye following the bullet as it sped across the distance to his target, traveling more then a kilometer a second and outracing it's own sonic boom. Wolverine's back was turned, but he had no compunction killing a fleeing enemy. He watched as Wolverine spasmed as the bulled hammered into his body, the bike wavering, wobbling alarmingly then skidding as he lost control and crashing into a tree. Black Cat leapt clear. Wolverine did not. He slumped to the ground, pinned under the twisted remains of his bike.
"Game to Deathstroke." Slade said, and got back in his jeep.