Legal ID

Seeing Wade's completely disfigured face, Weasel gave up on the idea of ​​persuasion.

He wanted to be supportive. He really did. But no amount of optimism could prepare him for the biological disaster staring back at him.

He turned to Val, narrowing his eyes.

"Wait a damn second," Weasel said, pointing between the two. "Didn't you say you both have the same abilities? So why does Wade look like a burnt potato while you look like you just walked off a damn magazine cover?"

Wade looked over, now equally suspicious. "Yeah! Explain that, Pretty Boy!"

Val calmly sipped his water, completely unfazed. "Because his cancer cells never fully went away. His healing factor keeps them from spreading, but they're still there, so they're basically having a never-ending cage fight with his healthy cells. His body heals, but it also still thinks it's constantly dying."

Weasel blinked. "So what you're saying is… Wade is an immortal, self-regenerating, walking tumor?"

"More or less."

"…Huh." Weasel nodded thoughtfully, then turned to Wade with genuine pity. "Dude. I get you now. You look like a surgeon just give up halfway through your face surgery?"

Wade slammed the table and shot to his feet. "THAT'S IT! I knew I should've killed that soap-brand knockoff bastard when I had the chance! First thing I do before seeing Vanessa? I find Francis, force him to fix my face, and then, after he's done, I use his head as a dog's personal Porta-Potty. Because I'm generous like that."

Weasel, unfazed, took a slow sip of his beer. "I did not need that mental image. And now it lives in my brain rent-free. Thanks for that."

Wade, still fuming, started pacing back and forth like a villain monologuing in a telenovela. "It's not even about me at this point. I mean, I can live with this face—"

"Can you, though?" Weasel interrupted.

Wade ignored him. "—but Vanessa? She deserves better! I mean, can you imagine her reaction if she saw me like this?"

Weasel tilted his head. "Actually, yeah. Probably a lot of screaming. Maybe some gagging. A little bit of crying. And then a long, awkward silence where she wonders where she can have sex with you without someone bothering."

Wade put a hand over his heart, looking betrayed. "Tone it down a bit, Weasel?_"

Weasel sighed. "Look, man, all I'm saying is that Vanessa really loves you. She spent the whole year looking for you. I don't think she's the type to care about a few… uh…" He gestured vaguely at Wade's face. "Cosmetic setbacks."

"But wait," Weasel added, looking between them. "This Francis guy you're talking about… he doesn't know you two are alive, does he?"

"Nope," Val said, stretching. "As far as he knows, we died in the fire."

"As a friendly reminder," Weasel said, raising a hand like a concerned parent, "if you're planning to go after Francis, you might wanna, you know… disguise yourself. Wear a mask or something."

Wade scoffed. "Pfft. Why? Afraid someone will fall in love with me at first sight?"

Weasel deadpanned. "No, it's just that your current appearance is… let's call it 'distinctive.' You're like a walking 'Wanted' poster that doesn't even need a description."

Surprisingly, Wade nodded in agreement. "You make a fair point. And since I am going to need a disguise, I might as well give myself a badass code name too. Something cool, like Captain America! Or, ooh—how about Weapon XI?"

"Yeah, definitely not. That's taken. And cursed. Try again," Weasel shot down immediately.

Before Wade could come up with another cringeworthy alias, Val casually pointed to the blackboard above the bar. "Just name yourself Deadpool."

Wade followed his gaze.

The blackboard was covered in names and betting pools—one of the bar's signature games. The concept was simple: bet on which mercenary wouldn't make it through the next few weeks. If your guy croaked, you doubled your money.

Seeing the name, Wade's eyes lit up. "Deadpool? Oh, that slaps. Sounds mysterious, edgy, a little dangerous—"

"A little tragic," Weasel corrected.

"—but marketable," Wade continued, ignoring him. "Okay, that's it! I'm Deadpool now!" He took a dramatic sip of his stolen wine. "I need merch. T-shirts, posters, maybe a theme song."

Weasel muttered under his breath, "Jesus Christ, it's already happening."

Val, amused, leaned back. "Alright, Deadpool. So, uh… how exactly are you gonna find Francis? The guy's long gone, the lab's a smoldering pile of ashes, and unless he left you a 'Find Me Here' business card, you're pretty much screwed."

Wade smirked. "Oh, Val, sweet summer child… how do you think I got into that lab in the first place?"

Val blinked. "…A Groupon?"

"Recruitment, dumbass," Wade explained. "They need fresh guinea pigs all the time, but they also don't wanna attract government attention. So their recruitment is quiet. You know, very 'Psst, hey kid, wanna buy some superpowers?' I just gotta follow the same shady breadcrumbs, find the next batch of unfortunate bastards, and boom, I'll be in Francis' lap before he even knows what's happening."

Val nodded. "Huh. Not a terrible plan."

"Of course it's not," Wade grinned. "It's my plan."

"…That's what concerns me."

Val sighed, then patted Wade on the back. "Alright, man. Best of luck. Call me if you need help."

Wade gave him a once-over. "Yeah, about that—probably not."

Val raised an eyebrow. "What, you don't want backup?"

"It's not that," Wade waved him off. "It's just, I have the ability to heal from getting my ass kicked. You? You'd just be… y'know, getting your ass kicked."

Val squinted. "I have a healing factor too, you know."

"Yeah, but you don't even know how to throw a punch yet." Wade leaned in and stage-whispered, "No offense, but you give off 'gets winded from jogging' energy."

Weasel, trying not to laugh, subtly nodded in agreement.

Val sighed. "Okay, fair. I am new to this."

"Exactly!" Wade clapped his hands. "And

until you're at least sidekick material, this is a one-man show."

Val smirked. "I'll remember that when you inevitably do need my help."

Wade scoffed. "Please, I—" He took a step back and immediately tripped over a barstool.

Weasel shook his head. "Yeah, he's gonna need your help."

Val ignored all that as he had bigger issues to deal with—like the fact that, legally speaking, he didn't exist.

He needed an ID, some kind of legal document, or at the very least, a convincingly fake one.

America wasn't exactly a "vibe" when it came to undocumented people casually wandering around. Cops here loved asking for ID like it was a backstage pass to life. Without one, Val's future looked less like a "normal life" and more like an episode of Cops.

So, yeah. Step one: Identity.

Step two: Not getting arrested while looking for step one.

Val stroked his chin in thought, his gaze slowly drifting toward Weasel.

Weasel, catching this, immediately stiffened. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Val didn't answer. He just _kept staring. Finally, Val broke the silence.

"I heard you recruit mercenaries here. Think I'm a good fit?" He set down his bottle of water like he was sealing a business deal.

Weasel blinked. Then blinked again. Then turned to Wade.

"Is he joking?"

Wade shrugged. "Oh, buddy, I hope not. This is about to be hilarious."