Chapter 9
Wade rounded on his brother, who was standing in the middle of the room, completely unconcerned. His chest was clotting, forming a scab over the cuts and his body language was relaxed as he tossed the sword aside like a litterbug tossing an empty can, walked over to the bar, and poured himself a couple of fingers of whiskey.
Deadpool could only watch. He 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. "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, thrown off the scent for a moment, then shook his head. Nope, he still smelled a rat. "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." He folded his arms. "That last lunge was the sloppiest thing I've ever seen. You have to try to slip-up so badly."
"Japanese steel isn't exactly my weapon of choice, Wade." Slade said, rolling his eye.
"Spare me. You could have won with a piece of rebar, much less an actual weapon."
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 not to be left behind.
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 realise 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 number of 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. None of us do. 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. "Though why he calls it that… what do you call your ability to regenerate?"
Slade blinked. "My ability to regenerate?"
"Exactly! Who calls it a factor? Who describes anything they can do as a 'factor? Idiots, that's who. Huh, I'll use my 'tall factor' to reach the jar at the top of the shelf. Better use my 'breathing factor' to oxygenate my blood to keep from passing out. Better use my 'basic english factor' to communicate these incredibly obvious concepts to my brother. 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 finally turned to look at him. He did so slowly, as if it was an act he performed only rarely, and at great physical effort. Deadpool halfway expected to hear gears grinding in his thick neck. "Because I renegotiated the terms of the contract. I get to do it the way I want to. Sportsmanlike, I suppose you could call it. Man-to-man." Slade rolled his shoulders. "I want to run him down. I want him scared and running as hard as he can, so hard his heart can't keep up with his legs. Then I want to kill him." he said, and then turned his head back to its original position again, just as slowly.
Wade opened his mouth to reply, then 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 - well, Slade seemed sold on that idea, at least, and a part of Deadpool, a big part, was with him on that. Killing Wolverine - as plans go, you can't get much better then that - and he had plenty of reasons himself. Time changed 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 here. He has an instinct to protect, and animals always listen to their instincts - even when they shouldn't. So he'll run." Slade picked the up sword, and replaced it in it's sheath, not bothering to clean the blood off, then handed it back to Deadpool. "Just not fast enough. Or smart enough either."
"Right. And you'll cure me?" It was a pointed question.
"If it can be done without making things worse, 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. "You never asked me if I want to go back to being your alternate company equivalent. And you were planning on telling me when?"
"I told you just now, didn't I?"
"So what, this is about some kind of validation? You dragged me all the way here for that?"
"Do you want to say no to Vandal Savage?" 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.
Deadpool stepped infront of him, blocking his exit. "I'm going to ask a question. And you're going to be honest. Or we'll never talk again."
Slade quashed the unkind remark that came to mind, then forcibly relaxed himself. "Ask."
"Are you and Wolverine secretly best friends?"
Slade gaped. He had heard the expression, of course, but he really, truly was speechless. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.
"'Cause this is just the sort of thing that people who are secretly best friends do. I know the formula, I've seen John Wick." Deadpool continued. "You couldn't refuse the contract without blowing your cover, so you make a big razzamatazz about taking it, bring me along so you have a witness who will say you did your best, then let him go and slyly pass information so he can go after Savage himself. Then when he wins the fight you throw up your hands, make some regretful noises, then the two of you meet for drinks somewhere you won't be recognised (maybe a pirate convention), probably with him wearing that stupid eyepatch as a disguise, drink beers and laugh. Is that what I'm missing here?"
"Are you coming?" Slade asked, walking past him.
"Do I have a choice?" Deadpool muttered, following.
Walking to the open back of the jeep, 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 the metal naturally broke 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 fossilise before his systems started again, if they ever did. Slade had tried magic, but it was unreliable. Fortunately, he wasn't a purist. He was happy to utilise both sides of the board, an equal opportunity sort of assassin. Now, he'd try science.
"You want to be paid? There. Full clip. 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." Slade suggested.
Wade conceded the point with a nod. "Alright, I suppose that works. And most of them are rich from all the banks they rob with their trillion dollar hardware and post-space-age technology. Good call." he clapped his hands. "So, given the direct approach didn't do much more then waste the special effect budget on complex choreography, what do we do next?"
"The subtle approach."
"Subtle isn't really you're thing, mister 'Deathstroke the Terminator. I mean seriously, redundant much?"
"Says the man in a ladybug costume. Clint Eastwood you’re not.”
“Ha. Looked that one up, did you? Well, if the pot could keep what he thinks about the kettle to himself," Deadpool replied airily "we can try and come to terms with the unfortunate name you possess. I'll say it again, Deathstroke the Terminator. What, didn't like the ring of 'Switchblade McStab-blood-death, too subtle and sophisticated for your tastes?' You know, don't quote me but I think that back then, Killgrave wasn't even taken."
"You need a moniker in this line of work. It's a business asset." Slade responded. "Deadpool."
"My name is tres ironic, completely different." Deadpool replied. "Seriously, Deathstroke the terminator. What the hell is up with that? You know what sounds menacing? Slade. That's a name an evil genius can respect. You should just go by your first name, instead of trying for threatening." He paused. "Or hell. Captain Slade. Why not? You actually made captain, you know." Deadpool pouted. He'd wanted to be 'Captain Deadpool', but didn't merit the title, and while he might kill with impunity, kidnap, possess illegal objects, weapons and substances, endanger people and commit assault, battery and slander, in a few memorable occasions treason, even vandalism, as well as a list of other felonies that came about from his line of work, even use the occasional profanity, he drew the line at impersonating an officer.
Some things were just not done.
"Two things. First -I made it to major by the time I got a dishonourable discharge between me and my rank." Slade replied. "And Major Slade doesn't do a thing for me."
"So buy a boat!"
"Second, I didn't actually pick the title, you realise."
"OK, I agree that major is lame. It's practically a desk job. And who joins the army for a desk job? As for the rest, I understand that ultimately it's the fault of some over-enthusiastic government suit, or some writer who thinks adjectives are edgy, but this industry is a thing where rebranding can be successful. Though not often."
"Too late to change now."
"You need to start branching out into new things."
"I'm an old dog. I'll stick with the tricks I got." 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 had scoped out the territory before the confrontation. 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." Slade lied as he pulled onto the highway.
And if Deadpool noticed, he let it go this time.