Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Children.

-New York Journal, May 5, 2008-

The military announced today that Tony Stark, chairman of Stark Industries, was attacked by terrorists yesterday afternoon after demonstrating the newly developed Jericho missile in Kunar Province, Afghanistan.

All 13 American soldiers who accompanied him were killed. As of now, Tony Stark's whereabouts remain unknown, but the military has assured they will not give up the search and rescue operation…

. . . . . . . . . . .

Brooklyn, New York.

Val stood alone at the entrance of a dimly lit alleyway, the damp streets buzzing with city life around him.

After their explosive escape from that hellhole in Canada, Wade had led him here, pulling every shady favor from his mercenary contacts to smuggle them across the border. It had been a ride, to say the least.

In his hands, Val held an old newspaper, the ink slightly faded, the texture brittle.

'Tony Stark…'

It was weird seeing his name in print like this. In his old world, everyone knew the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist—Marvel's golden boy. The man who single-handedly launched the MCU into superstardom.

But here?

Here, he was just an arrogant weapons dealer who had yet to get an arc reactor shoved into his chest.

This paper was at least a month old, which meant Val was currently in the pre-superhero era. No Avengers. No Thanos. No time-travel shenanigans. Captain America was still a popsicle.

Mutants? Well, that was a giant question mark. Val figured they existed—Deadpool's existence made that pretty clear—but their current situation is hard to tell. Since they were still not public knowledge yet.

"So, I guess Earth is relatively safe for now…" he mused, though deep down, he knew better. "God knows what kind of shit is brewing in the dark."

Just then, a figure in a red hoodie approached him.

"Well," Val called out. "Did you find your girlfriend?"

"I found her," Wade muttered.

Val raised an eyebrow. Something's off.

Wade pulled his hood back, his face shadowed with something rare—genuine sadness.

"Didn't even talk to her," he admitted. "I mean, you should've seen how people were looking at me on the street. Like I was a naked grandpa running through Times Square. If Vanessa saw me like this… she'd probably mistake me for a horror movie extra and shoot me on sight."

Val placed a hand on Wade's shoulder in the most comforting way possible.

"Don't worry," he said, utterly serious. "You have healing powers now. One shot won't kill you."

"..."

Wade blinked. "Wow. That was… incredibly uplifting. Really. You should work for a suicide prevention hotline."

Val smirked. "Just saying. Might take a few bullets, but you'll get through it."

"Great. Can't wait to be an emotional pincushion." Wade sighed.

"At least you won't have to worry about shaving anymore."

Wade flipped him off. "Anyway, come on. I'll take you to meet a friend."

Val hesitated. "...Define friend."

"Relax, it's not that bad."

"Wade, the last time you introduced me to someone, they punched me through a wall."

"Okay, that was different," Wade defended. "This time, there's a 20% chance we won't get violently assaulted!"

"...That's not comforting."

"Look, do you wanna meet my friend or stand here contemplating your life choices?"

"...Fine. But if I get stabbed, I'm taking you down with me."

Soon, the two stopped at the end of a dimly lit alley. Wade knocked on a rusted iron door with the confidence of someone who'd never been kicked out of a place before.

"Weasel, your daddy Wade is home! Open up before I start peeing on your doorstep!"

Val sighed and glanced at the worn-out sign next to the door:

Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children.

"Nice name for a bar," Val muttered. "Very... inviting."

Before Wade could respond, the door creaked open, revealing a short, scruffy man who squinted at Wade like he was seeing a ghost.

"Wade, it's… really you? You crawled out of your grave!? Fuckin' zombie—"

. . . . . . . . . . .

"Oh, so that's how it is," Weasel muttered.

He watched as the two men sat in front of the bar, shamelessly devouring the lunch he had just bought. His expression soured when Wade reached over, grabbed an unopened bottle of wine, and popped the cork like it was his personal stash.

"So let me get this straight," Weasel continued, rubbing his temples. "You got cancer, cured cancer, got nearly killed by a mutant slave base, ran away with your… bedmate, and somehow ended up back at my bar, mooching off my food and booze?"

Wade took a long, loud gulp of wine. "Our food and our wine, buddy. Sharing is caring."

Weasel looked like he aged ten years on the spot.

Meanwhile, Val, unfazed, reached into the freezer and pulled out… a bottle of water.

Weasel blinked. "Water?"

Val twisted the cap off and took a sip. "What? I don't drink."

"You're in a bar, dude."

"And?"

Weasel exhaled so hard his soul nearly left his body.

"Anyway," he said, turning back to Wade, "Vanessa loves you. During the whole year you were missing, she never gave up looking for you. I promise she won't care about your—"

Wade, ignoring the emotional moment entirely, pulled off his hood, revealing his face.

Weasel flinched. "Oh—oh wow. That's… oof."

Wade wiggled his eyebrows. "So? Would she still like me?"

Weasel hesitated for exactly one second before muttering, "It's… uh… hard."

Wade squinted. "What is? Down there?"

Val was this close to making a joke but was immediately silenced by Wade's palm smacking over his mouth.

Weasel quickly shook his head. "No, I mean, it's hard to say."

Wade turned to Val, hopeful. "Okay, what about you? Do you like my face?"

Val sighed. Is this really a question that needs answering?

But Wade was his friend. And friends support each other. Even when they look like a half-melted wax figure of Ryan Reynolds.

Val forced a smile. "It's… um… special?"

Wade grinned. "Oh? Special how?"

Val scrambled for an answer. His brain hit every empty filing cabinet in his mind.

"Uh… well, it's very… textured?"

Wade's face fell.

"I mean! Not many people have…" Val motioned vaguely at Wade's entire existence, "that level of… uniqueness."

Silence.

Then Weasel clapped Val on the shoulder. "Bro. You tried. You really did."