At ground zero of what used to be a perfectly functional torture facility, Francis arrived on the scene like a man surveying his ruined kingdom.
The explosion had turned the corridor into something that belonged in a war zone documentary. Smoke poured from twisted metal fixtures, sparks showered from severed electrical cables, and the air tasted like burning plastic mixed with industrial-strength regret.
Behind Francis, a dozen guards hauled fire extinguishers and emergency equipment, looking like the world's least enthusiastic volunteer fire department. They spread out to tackle the blazes with the enthusiasm of people who definitely hadn't signed up for this level of workplace hazard when they'd applied to be torture facility security.
Francis surveyed the devastation with the cold calculation of a man tallying property damage, but his expression shifted to something much more dangerous when he noticed the oxygen deprivation chamber in the corner.
The reinforced glass door hung open like a broken jaw, and the interior, which should have contained one Wade Wilson, cancer patient and professional smart-ass, was conspicuously empty.
Oh, that's not good, Francis thought, his hand instinctively moving to the pistol holstered under his lab coat. That's not good at all.
"FRANCIS!"
The roar came from the smoke like the voice of a very pissed-off demon.
A figure exploded out of the haze, moving with the fluid lethality of a predator who'd just discovered that natural selection had made a clerical error. Wade Wilson, or what was left of him, slammed into the nearest guard like a guided missile made of rage and spite.
Glass fragments from the destroyed chamber glittered in his hand as he dragged them across the guard's throat in one smooth motion. Blood sprayed across the smoke-filled air, and the guard collapsed with nothing but a wet gurgle where his scream should have been.
Wade stood over the body, and Francis got his first good look at what his "treatment" had accomplished.
Jesus Christ.
Wade's face looked like it had been put through a blender, then reassembled by someone who'd never seen a human before. Every inch of visible skin was a patchwork of scar tissue, burns, and flesh that looked like it had been melted and reformed multiple times. His body was a roadmap of horror, each mark a testament to Francis's creative interpretation of medical ethics.
But Wade was alive. More than alive, he was thriving in the way that only came from surviving something that should have killed you and deciding that revenge was the only reasonable response.
"Miss me?" Wade asked, his voice a rasp that sounded like it came from a throat lined with gravel. His scarred lips pulled back in what might have been a smile on anyone else but looked absolutely terrifying on him.
Well, Francis thought with the detached clinical interest that had made him such a successful psychopath, the serum definitely worked. Accelerated healing factor, enhanced physical capabilities, complete cellular regeneration. The disfigurement is an unfortunate side effect, but the results are undeniable.
"You son of a bitch," Wade continued, his eyes locked on Francis with the intensity of a laser sight. "You turned me into walking hamburger meat, destroyed my face, and probably ruined any chance I had of convincing Vanessa that I'm still the same devastatingly handsome man she fell in love with."
"The procedure was a complete success," Francis replied with the bedside manner of a glacier. "You should be thanking me. You're cancer-free, effectively immortal, and possess physical capabilities beyond normal human parameters."
"Oh, I'm going to thank you alright," Wade said, scooping up the dead guard's assault rifle with practiced ease. "I'm going to thank you so hard that when I'm done, you'll need a spatula to scrape yourself off the walls."
Francis didn't waste time on further conversation. "Kill him!" he barked to his remaining guards.
Wade was already moving.
The rifle came up in a fluid motion that spoke of years of military training and natural talent for violence. His first shot took out a guard's head in a spray of crimson that painted the smoke-filled air. His second and third shots followed so quickly they sounded like one extended gunshot, dropping two more guards before they could properly aim their weapons.
Still got it, Wade thought with savage satisfaction as he dove behind cover. Two months of torture and my muscle memory is still intact. Thanks for that, Uncle Sam.
The remaining guards finally got their act together and opened fire, filling the air with the staccato rhythm of automatic weapons. Bullets sparked off metal debris and punched through the smoke, but Wade was already moving, using the hellish landscape of twisted wreckage like a deadly jungle gym.
For Francis, this was exactly what he'd been waiting for.
While his guards played their lethal game of cat and mouse with Wade, Francis melted back into the shadows, taking cover behind the mangled remains of what used to be a very expensive medical apparatus. He wasn't concerned about the outcome of the firefight, Wade might be enhanced, but he was still outnumbered, and Francis had contingencies for situations like this.
What he needed now was information. How had Wade escaped his restraints? How had he acquired explosive materials? And most importantly—
Crunch.
Francis turned at the sound of footsteps on debris to find a guard scrambling over the wreckage, rifle clutched in smoke-stained hands. The man dropped down beside Francis with the relieved expression of someone who'd just found cover in the middle of a war zone.
"Jesus, Doc," the guard panted, wiping soot from his face. "This place is insane. I thought I was going to get cooked alive out there."
Francis nodded absently, his attention focused on Wade's position. But something nagged at him, something about the guard's voice, his mannerisms, the way he moved.
The guard caught Francis looking and turned to meet his gaze.
Time stopped.
Those eyes, Francis thought, his blood turning to ice water. I know those eyes.
"Dr. Francis," the guard said with a conversational tone that was entirely wrong for the middle of a gunfight. "Fancy meeting you here."
Francis stared at the face he'd been studying for two months, now wearing a stolen uniform and a smile that belonged in a horror movie.
"What are you doing here?" Francis demanded, his hand moving toward his weapon.
"Oh, you know," Noah replied with the casual air of someone discussing the weather instead of crouching in the wreckage of an exploding torture facility. "Just trying to find the exit. Got a little turned around. This place really needs better signage."
Francis's mind raced. This was impossible. This subject should be broken, barely functional, certainly not capable of escape during a facility-wide emergency. "You're supposed to be restrained!"
"Yeah, about that," Noah said, shifting his grip on the rifle in a way that was definitely not casual. "I decided to give my two weeks' notice. Effective immediately."
"The neural damage alone should have—"
"Left me as a drooling vegetable?" Noah interrupted. "Yeah, I got better. Funny how that works."
Francis felt the first stirrings of genuine fear. Something had gone wrong. Very, very wrong. "Who are you working for? What organization sent you?"
Noah's grin widened, and Francis realized he was looking at something that hadn't been there before, confidence. Deadly, unshakeable confidence.
"I understand everything I understand," Noah said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "and it's useless to explain what I don't understand. The situation is complicated, involving multiple parties with vested interests in maintaining plausible deniability."
Francis's eye twitched. Not again.
"So basically," Noah continued, "I know what I know, you know what you know, and the real question is whether you know what I know about what you think you know. You know?"
The gunfire around them seemed to fade as Francis processed the familiar word salad that had haunted his dreams for weeks.
"It's YOU!" Francis snarled, recognition hitting him like a physical blow. "The riddler! The one who—"
His hand went for his gun.
Noah was faster.
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