Looking at Wade's face, which resembled what would happen if someone tried to make a sculpture using only scar tissue and regret, Weasel abandoned any pretense of optimism.
"Nope," he said definitively. "There's no way Vanessa won't notice that. That's not a 'love conquers all' situation. That's a 'call an exorcist' situation."
Weasel's attention shifted to Noah, and a puzzled expression crossed his features.
"Wait a minute," he said, adjusting his glasses. "Wade told me you both went through the same treatment. Same facility, same torture, same experimental serum. So why do you still look like a normal human being while Wade looks like he lost a fight with a wood chipper?"
Wade had indeed given Weasel the full story during their reunion, or at least the version where both he and Noah had developed identical healing factors through identical genetic mutation. It was easier than explaining Noah's bizarre talent system and the metaphysical implications of being literally unkillable.
Noah took a thoughtful sip of his Coke. "Different biology, different results," he said with the casual confidence of someone making up medical science on the spot. "Wade's cancer cells are still in his system, they're just reproducing at the same rate as his healing factor destroys them. It's like a biological arms race happening under his skin."
"Fantastic," Wade said bitterly. "So I get to be immortal and look like a melted action figure. Lucky me."
"On the bright side," Weasel offered helpfully, "you could probably get work in horror movies. You've got that whole 'nightmare fuel' aesthetic down pat. Very authentic Freddy Krueger vibe."
Wade's scarred hands slammed down on the bar with enough force to rattle the bottles.
"That's it!" he snarled, his voice taking on the edge that had made him one of the most feared mercenaries in three time zones. "I've changed my mind about the whole 'accepting my hideous new reality' thing."
He stood up, pacing the small space behind the bar like a caged predator.
"Before I even think about facing Vanessa, I'm going to find Francis and his little dish soap empire. I'm going to make him fix my face, and then I'm going to return every single favor he did for me in that facility. With interest. Compound interest."
"Okay, but how exactly are you planning to, " Weasel began.
"And then," Wade continued, building momentum, "I'm going to put a bullet through his skull and use his empty head as a—"
"Wade," Noah interrupted. "I think we get the picture."
Weasel looked relieved. "Yeah, please don't finish that sentence. Some images can't be unthought."
"The question is," Weasel continued, "how are you going to find this Francis character? He probably thinks you're dead, right? That's a pretty big advantage, but only if you can actually locate him."
Noah nodded. "The facility burned to the ground. Any records, contact information, paper trails, all gone."
Wade's scarred features managed to convey something resembling smugness. "That's where you're wrong, my chronically pessimistic friends. Francis and his merry band of medical maniacs need a steady supply of desperate test subjects. But they can't exactly put up a Craigslist ad for 'Volunteers Wanted: Terminal Illness Required, Survival Not Guaranteed.'"
He pulled out a chair and sat backwards on it, like he was about to deliver a lecture on Advanced Villainy 101.
"They recruit through underground channels. Black market medical referrals, word-of-mouth in cancer wards, shady doctors who've had their licenses revoked. There's a whole network of people feeding victims into their system."
"And you think you can trace that network back to Francis?" Noah asked.
"I don't think, I know. Because I'm the one who got recruited through it in the first place."
Wade's confidence was infectious, and Noah found himself genuinely impressed with the mercenary's strategic thinking. It made sense, Wade Wilson hadn't built his reputation on pure violence alone. The man had a brain under all that scarred tissue.
"Alright," Noah said. "Sounds like you've got a plan. Need any help with the whole 'hunting down medical war criminals' thing?"
Wade looked at him with something that might have been appreciation if his face was capable of normal expressions.
"I appreciate the offer, but this is going to get ugly fast. And not just 'my face is ugly' ugly, actual bullets and explosions and creative violence ugly. You're immortal, but you're also..." Wade paused diplomatically.
"Completely inexperienced with firearms, combat tactics, or violence in general?" Noah supplied helpfully.
"I was going to say 'refreshingly non-homicidal,' but yeah, that too."
Noah couldn't argue with that assessment. His total combat experience consisted of getting tortured for two months and one brief, unsuccessful attempt to shoot Francis. Not exactly résumé material for a revenge mission against a facility full of enhanced killers.
But Noah had a more pressing problem than Wade's quest for facial reconstruction.
"Actually," Noah said, "I've got my own situation to deal with first."
He looked around the bar, taking in the betting board covered with mercenary names, the wall of weapons that probably weren't legal in any state, and the general atmosphere of organized criminal enterprise.
"I need papers," Noah said simply. "Identity documents, social security number, birth certificate—the whole fake identity package. In this country, you can't even buy a cup of coffee without showing ID three times."
Weasel raised an eyebrow. "That's... actually a very practical concern. Most people in your situation would be focused on revenge or finding their place in the world. You're worried about documentation."
"I like to prioritize," Noah said. "Hard to build a new life when you don't legally exist."
Wade snorted. "Welcome to America, land of the free and home of the bureaucratic nightmare."
Noah turned to Weasel with the expression of someone about to make a life-changing decision.
"I heard you do recruiting here," he said. "For mercenaries and... other independent contractors."
Weasel's eyes lit up with the gleam of someone who'd just spotted a business opportunity.
"You want to become a mercenary?" Weasel asked. "No offense, but you seem a little... wholesome for this line of work."
"I'm unkillable, I learn fast, and I desperately need money and documentation," Noah said pragmatically. "Plus, I figure if I'm going to be stuck in a world full of supervillains and cosmic threats, I might as well get paid for dealing with them."
Wade looked genuinely impressed. "That's surprisingly practical thinking for someone who just escaped from a torture facility."
"Two months of being Francis's favorite chew toy teaches you to be realistic about your options," Noah replied.
Weasel was already pulling out a notebook, his entrepreneurial instincts kicking into high gear.
"Okay, so here's how this works," he began. "Sister Margaret's operates as a... let's call it a placement agency for morally flexible individuals. We handle documentation, equipment procurement, job placement, and conflict resolution."
"Conflict resolution?" Noah asked.
"We mediate disputes between clients and contractors," Weasel explained. "Usually involving payment schedules and acceptable casualty rates."
"That sounds both illegal and dangerous."
"Welcome to the wonderful world of freelance violence," Wade said cheerfully. "It's like the gig economy, but with more explosions."
Noah looked around the bar again, weighing his options. He could try to build a normal life somehow, but that would require resources he didn't have and skills he wasn't sure he possessed. Or he could embrace the fact that he was literally unkillable and turn that into a career advantage.
When in Rome, Noah thought, do as the Romans do. And when in a universe full of supervillains and cosmic threats, apparently you become a mercenary.
"Alright," Noah said, extending his hand to Weasel. "Let's talk business."
Wade raised his bottle in a mock toast. "Welcome to the dark side, Noah. We have bullets and morally questionable health insurance."
This is either the best decision I've ever made, Noah thought as he shook Weasel's hand, or the worst. But at least it won't be boring.
Outside, somewhere in the city, Tony Stark was probably building his first suit of armor in a cave. Meanwhile, Noah Malachi was about to become a professional problem-solver in a world where problems had a tendency to involve gods, aliens, and homicidal robots.
Just another day in the Marvel Universe.
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