"New York Herald, February 13, 2009."
"The Department of Defense announced today that Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, was attacked by insurgents yesterday afternoon following a demonstration of the company's new Jericho missile system in Kunar Province, Afghanistan.
All thirteen U.S. military personnel accompanying the weapons demonstration were killed in the attack. Stark's whereabouts remain unknown. Pentagon officials stated that search and rescue operations are ongoing..."
Noah stood alone at the mouth of a Brooklyn alley, the crumpled newspaper trembling slightly in his hands. He'd traded his stolen guard uniform for a nondescript hoodie and jeans, clothes that Wade had "borrowed" from a laundromat with his typical disregard for conventional concepts like "paying for things."
But Noah's attention was laser-focused on the headline that had just turned his understanding of his situation completely upside down.
Tony Stark. Iron Man. The fucking Marvel Cinematic Universe.
He wasn't just in some alternate reality with mutant experimentation facilities. He was in the Marvel Universe, at the very beginning of what would become the most documented superhero saga in cinematic history.
Tony Stark was currently being held captive in a cave in Afghanistan, building the first Iron Man suit out of spare missile parts and sheer desperation. In a few months, he'd announce to the world that he was Iron Man. A few years after that, Nick Fury would start assembling the Avengers.
And I'm here for all of it, Noah realized, feeling a mixture of excitement and existential terror. Front row seats to the apocalypse.
Because if this was the Marvel Universe, then eventually Thanos would show up with his sparkly glove of universal genocide. The question was: did Noah want to be around for that particular finale?
"Deep thoughts, college boy?"
Noah looked up to see Wade approaching, his hood pulled low over his face. Even in the shadowy alley, Noah could see the way people instinctively crossed the street to avoid him. Wade's new appearance had the same effect on civilians as a zombie outbreak, immediate, visceral revulsion.
"Find Vanessa?" Noah asked, folding the newspaper and tucking it into his jacket.
Wade's shoulders slumped in a way that conveyed more pain than any of Francis's torture devices had managed.
"Found her," Wade said quietly. "Watched her through the window of her apartment for about ten minutes. She was cooking dinner, singing along to some song on the radio. She looked... happy. Beautiful. Perfect."
"But you didn't go in."
"Are you insane?" Wade gestured at his face, though the hood kept most of it hidden. "Look at me, Noah. I'm a walking nightmare. Kids see me coming and start crying. Adults reach for their phones to call the police. I'm one facial reveal away from being the star of someone's urban legend."
Noah felt a genuine pang of sympathy for his fellow escapee. Wade Wilson had gone into that facility as a handsome, wisecracking mercenary with terminal cancer and a beautiful girlfriend. He'd come out as an immortal, indestructible monster who couldn't even look at himself in the mirror.
"She loves you, Wade. The real you."
"The real me had a face that didn't look like it lost an argument with a cheese grater," Wade replied bitterly. "The real me didn't look like something that crawled out of a horror movie."
Noah wanted to argue, but Wade had a point. Love conquered a lot of things, but seeing your boyfriend transformed into something that belonged in a medical textbook's nightmare chapter was a pretty significant hurdle.
"Come on," Wade said, starting deeper into the alley. "Let's get you introduced to civilization. Or at least my version of it."
They walked through the narrow space between buildings until Wade stopped at a nondescript steel door with a sign that made Noah do a double-take.
Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children.
Of course, Noah thought. Wade's mercenary bar. Where the morally flexible gather to drink and plot elaborate revenge schemes.
Wade pounded on the door with the enthusiasm of someone announcing the Second Coming.
"Weasel!" he shouted. "Your favorite customer is back from the dead! Literally! Open up before I start charging you rent for standing in your alley!"
After a few moments, the door cracked open to reveal a man who looked like he'd been assembled from spare parts found in a computer repair shop. Wild hair, thick glasses, and the general air of someone who'd seen too much and processed too little.
The man, Weasel, apparently, stared at Wade through the crack in the door with the expression of someone who'd just seen a ghost walk up and ask for a beer.
"Wade?" Weasel's voice cracked. "Holy shit, man, we thought you were dead. Like, actually dead. There were rumors you'd died in some government black site, and—" His eyes flicked to Wade's hood. "God, what happened to your face?"
"Long story," Wade said, pushing past him into the bar. "Short version: I got better, but the warranty on my original face expired."
The interior of Sister Margaret's looked exactly like what Noah had expected from a mercenary hangout: dim lighting, questionable stains on everything, and the kind of atmosphere that suggested most conversations involved discussing the best ways to dispose of bodies.
Wade immediately made himself at home, grabbing bottles from behind the bar while Weasel watched with the resigned expression of someone who'd given up trying to enforce payment policies.
"So," Weasel said, setting up drinks with practiced efficiency, "let me get this straight. You disappeared into some government medical program, got cured of cancer, somehow acquired a... new look, and now you're back with—" He looked at Noah questioningly.
"Noah," Noah supplied, helping himself to a bottle of Coke from the mini-fridge. "Recent graduate of the same fine educational institution."
"Right. And you both just walked out?"
"Walked is generous," Wade said, downing half a bottle of whiskey in one go. "More like ran screaming through a burning building while being shot at by people with questionable aim."
Weasel absorbed this information with the weary acceptance of someone who'd heard Wade's stories before.
"Okay, but Wade," Weasel said carefully, "about Vanessa. She's been looking for you, man. Every day for the past year. She comes by here asking if I've heard anything. She's not going to care about—"
Wade pulled back his hood.
Weasel's words died in his throat. His eyes went wide, then wider, then achieved a diameter that suggested his optical nerves were considering filing a formal complaint.
"Oh," Weasel said weakly. "Oh, that's... that's quite a change."
"Do you like it?" Wade asked with the desperate hope of someone fishing for compliments at a funeral.
"No," Weasel replied with brutal honesty. "Absolutely not. You look like you got into a fight with a belt sander and lost badly."
Wade turned to Noah with the same hopeful expression. "Noah? What do you think? Give it to me straight."
Noah looked at Wade's face, which resembled what would happen if someone tried to sculpt a human head using only scar tissue and bad judgment, and tried to find something diplomatic to say.
"Well," Noah said slowly, "it's definitely... distinctive."
"Distinctive how?"
"Very... memorable?"
"In what way memorable?"
Noah felt like he was walking through a minefield made of Wade's feelings and armed with only good intentions and terrible communication skills.
"It's, uh," Noah struggled, "it's got character. Lots of character. Like, an unusual amount of character for one face."
Wade's scarred features somehow managed to convey hopeful anticipation. "Go on."
"It's..." Noah searched desperately for something positive to say, "it's really quite special."
"Special how?" Wade pressed.
Noah looked at Weasel, who was shaking his head frantically and making throat-cutting gestures. He looked at Wade, whose ruined face was somehow radiating desperate need for validation.
There was only one honest answer.
"It's spectacularly ugly," Noah said gently.
The silence that followed was so complete that Noah could hear his own heartbeat.
Wade blinked. Once. Twice.
"Well," Wade said finally, "at least you're honest."
Weasel buried his face in his hands. "Jesus Christ, Noah. You don't just—you can't—there are ways to break news like that gently."
"He asked for honesty," Noah pointed out. "I gave him honesty."
"There's honest, and then there's brutal," Weasel replied.
Wade, meanwhile, was staring at his reflection in the bar mirror with the expression of someone seeing themselves clearly for the first time.
"You know what?" Wade said suddenly. "I appreciate the truth. Francis spent months telling me I was becoming something beautiful. At least now I know where I actually stand."
He raised his bottle in a mock toast. "To being spectacularly ugly and impossibly hard to kill. Could be worse."
"How?" Noah asked.
Wade thought about it. "I could be ugly and mortal."
Noah had to admit, that was a fair point.
As they sat in the dingy bar, drinking stolen alcohol and contemplating their respective facial situations, Noah couldn't help but think that this was probably the most honest conversation he'd had since arriving in this world.
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