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 Eensy Weensy Spider, [p] for DP
Black Widow
Posted: Apr 27 2012, 12:18 PM


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Group: Flatscan Mod
Posts: 362
Member No.: 402
Joined: 27-April 12



The wind was coming out of the East tonight and that would have mattered, once, if this had been a forest and Natasha a hunter and her prey something that would have been startled by the scent of her blowing towards it. She'd hunted like that once, just her and a deer and a moonlit snowscape, her freezing every time that the doe looked her way and inching closer when it wasn't, the wind in her face the entire time until she'd been able to leap and a knife-strike had stained the white snow crimson...

But Natasha Romanoff hunted different prey tonight. One that didn't care about what she smelled like or the direction of the wind and, besides, this high up all anyone could inhale was the fumes from the street below it felt like. New York air sometimes felt like being locked in a garage with a running car, but Natasha was used to it by now. And even if she hadn't been...well, she'd always been good at forgetting everything that wasn't the job.

By now, things as petty as mild discomfort faded into Natasha's background awareness. Lying on her stomach on a chilly rooftop may not have been the most glamorous spot she'd ever found herself in before, but it was familiar - stake-outs were a standard part of her work these days and she was as patient as a saint by this point in her life, for all that she was hardly a holy woman. It was a simple operation really, if the ease with which she'd wired the room three days prior had been anything to go by, and a small earpiece was hidden beneath the fall of her dark-red hair, black in the dark. These guys probably thought they were hard men, up and comers in the Koreans' territory, looking to shake up the fairly new gang domain with a big weapons deal that had been whispered about on the wire, but Natasha had seen a thousand of their type before. They were hardly worth her time...except someone working for the Triads had made it so. Apparently there was only room on this particular block for one group of thuggish, tattooed, organised criminals and the Chinese wanted it to be them.

By Natasha's count, there were the four Koreans she's been watching for the past week in the room now and that the dealers would match that, maybe add on an extra one or two pieces of muscle to be safe. That meant that at the time of the handover, at the time she'd want to strike and deliver them - men and weapons - to the Triad there'd probably be about ten men in the room for her to deal with.

Easy.

Timing was the only point of real concern here if a message was going to be sent, if she was going to be sure to catch them all. Looking supremely unconcerned, Natasha snuck a look at her watch and then raised her compact viewfinder to her eyes once more where it was focussed on the window across and down from her vantage point. Yes, she was complacent but (for her) this was an almost insultingly easy job. She hadn't messed up something of this level since she'd been ten. Some called her attitude arrogance. Others just called it knowing that you were excellent at your job.

Not long now
Deadpool
Posted: Apr 30 2012, 08:26 PM


Unregistered









Wade was currently peeing on a man.

Sure, when you look at it that, it seems like a completely pointless and slightly rude action. That was true, but Wade had a point behind it and he held little ill will towards the dozing guard and actually pitied the aches and pains he would get when he awoke. And the piss smell. Well, not really. Wade didn't have a super-sniffer like some other mutants he knew (cough, cough, Patch), and though he could zero in on food sources and dead bodies, Wade was not known for his sense of smell.

None of that explanation, however, is getting you any closer to knowing why Wade was peeing on a man. It started with his infiltration of the Korean Mafia-KGB whatever so he could get this damn contract out of the way and get paid. There was only a soon-to-be-dead man between him and tacos, and the world knows that you don't get between Deadpool and his food of choice. (Especially tacos.)

Of course, the only thing keeping Wade from being the absolute best in the business was the same thing that led him to hum the Mission Impossible theme song while rounding a blind corner and almost running into a guard. The full regalia of Deadpool was enough to surprise the guard into a stupor for a fraction of a second and in that moment, there was only one thing on Wade's mind.

WWDPD?

Of course, to those playing at home, this means "What Would Deadpool Do?" Yeah, no. Wade knew exactly what he would do - so why ask that? No, no. This particular acronym meant only one thing.

What Would Dogpool Do?

And that's what Wade did. Immediately, Wade started growling at the guard, leaping with his arms spread out and biting him on the neck like he was some crazy person. Mostly because Deadpool was some crazy person. The guard freaked out, naturally, and forgot that there was a gun at his hip and instead started shoving and punching at Wade desperately. One particularly well-guided fist hit a sweet spot, leaving Deadpool curled up with his hands at his crotch and making noises that should belong to a litter of angry kittens rather a full grown man. (Ouch.)

Then, this shit was on. As soon as Wade recovered enough (a few seconds of whining), he wrestled the new-found gun from the guard's hands and whacked the man upside the head as quick as he could before shouting at him. "This ain't preschool, kiddo. YOU DON'T PUNCH A MAN IN THE NADGERS." He wasn't terribly happy at this point in time. You could shoot and stab and bruise Deadpool all you wanted, but if you remove his organs or electrocute him or hit him in the jewels? Fucking idiots. Didn't anyone have any class these days?

So, after Wade was a little less murderous, he continued with the WWDPD and pissed on the man. See? I explained things eventually. He was feeling a bit cocky now, with one man disarmed (and in a moment the guards outside the key room were disabled as well). In a typical Deadpool fashion, he paused, grinned, then pulled a Leroy. Literally.

Guns drawn and firing, Wade charged into the room with the Asian guys in it, screaming all the way. "LEEEROYY JENKINNNSSSSSS." He didn't care who the contract was, especially since the fleeting glimpse of Asianness hadn't given Wade enough time to pick out one particular face, so bang bang, he shot them all dead. It wasn't that easy, though. Two shots to one man, two and a graze to another. Both disabled, with the first dead in a minute or so and the second regrettably alive. A non-fatal hit for a third, giving that man time to pull a gun and fire a bullet through and through Deadpool's side. His body reacted to the pain, but Wade reacted to the lack of a dead guy, sending a shot through the man's skull. "Oh, no you don't, Mister."

The last man standing shot at Wade as well, and in the close quarters, the Korean was successful in shattering a few ribs and putting a hole in his lung. The injuries were nothing new, so Wade simply shot two bullets in the lucky guy's chest while he was expecting the red and black suited hitman to fall. He'd readied his healing factor before charging into the room, so the wounds had already stopped seeping blood and were quietly reknitting their selves. "And checkmate." Wade was proud of himself, as per usual, and habit led him to reload the clips for his guns before holstering them and clutching at his side. Business before pain. "Oh, that's gonna sting a little."

There was a noise from one of the men, and Wade went back to work, pulling out a katana and checking and then double-tapping the fools if necessary. He was humming and wondering if he could go rent Zombieland from the video store or something after he finished with playtime. "Am I done here?" Deadpool glanced about the room, nodding and pointing his sword at the dead guys as he did. "Dead, dead, dead, dead. Yep. Hurricane Wade, out. Peace!" With the last bit, he replaced the katana and pounded his chest with a hand before making some complicated gang symbol he saw on a TV show once before wincing at the sudden movement. His work here was done.

And now it was time to cough up blood. Yep, just a typical day.
Black Widow
Posted: May 1 2012, 04:50 AM


Non-Registered Human
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Member No.: 402
Joined: 27-April 12



Natasha...Natasha would like to very much state for the record and continued existence of her professional reputation that this was not her fault since her research around her mark had not revealed any other people to whom the hit was offered and she therefore had not planned for any outside interference from a 'professional' direction.

The other translation of her thought processes there was, more simply, is Natasha going to have to choke a bitch?

(The bitch is Wade. Just to be clear. Though there are of course plenty of Natasha-bitches out there, choked and unchoked as of yet.)

Ahem.

The problem with surveillance from outside a building's room and across a street from it was that you didn't get a view of the inside corridors. Natasha had kept track of the main exits and entrances out of a sense of general thoroughness, but nothing out of the ordinary attracted her attention and her primary focus had been on waiting for the dealers to show.

Looking back on this later, she would realise that someone had slipped past her web and that would piss her off.

In the present though, her first sign that something was wrong came through her earpiece. It was a muffled noise - by both the secondhand nature of her admittedly high-tech recording gear and the fact that it didn't originate from the room in which her bugs were planted - but Natasha's ears were sharp, seemingly sharper than those belonging to the Koreans who continued to chatter in low, fretful voices between themselves. She pressed a hand to her earpiece, frowning and trying to block out the roar below of New York City at night.

It could have been a cat. It could have been a couple fighting a few rooms down. It could have been anything. But Natasha Romanoff was what they called an official suspicious bitch and the fine skin between her eyebrows crinkled as she attempted to narrow down the possibilities.

The end of this particular chapter is that she didn't do it fast enough.

"Derr'mo," she hissed under her breath (really, it's too rude, don't google it) as she reached for her left bracelet, but it was already too late. She could see (and hear) the carnage being wreaked in that room, carnage she herself was not responsible for, and the red and black, the guns and the swords and the yelling, you couldn't be in the mercenary business and not know who that was.

Natasha would have said she was going to kill Wade Wilson, except she'd heard that was supposed to be impossible. Instead she had to settle for looking tightly unamused as she broken down her extremely temporary base of operations, swiftly and efficiently eradicating the signs of her presence here even as she heard her marks scream and die.

The most insulting part of people like the so-called Deadpool were everything that Natasha had been taught never to be - loud and ostentatious and talkative. Besides, his signature was extremely personalised (guns, katana, widespread mayhem) and the lack of professionalism made the woman snort in disgust even as she was a swift-moving shadow against the night sky, leaping and jumping and swinging her way across the rooftops until her feet touched down quietly on the roof of her original target.

Deadpool was a blight on the reputation of mercenaries everywhere...and yet, somehow, impossibly he was good at what he did. It frustrated Natasha endlessly and...seriously? He'd peed on a guy? Left DNA evidence at the site of a hit?

He'd never have survived the Red Room.

Natasha made a face and skirted the urine-soaked guard currently cluttering the floor, passed the other downed men as well. Her guns were a comforting familiar weight in her palms when she slid them out and, yes, this was already a loss, she knew that. But someone needed to talk to Wilson about this because, really.

She paused. Took a breath. Swung around the damaged doorframe into the room, all braided red hair and sleek black material and guns trained on a man she'd heard they wouldn't succeed in killing, but hey it made her feel better if she allowed herself to imagine shooting him. In spite of her speed and dynamic entry, though, her expression was cool and her tone almost conversation when she spoke.

"Wilson," Natasha said by way of greeting, automatically putting the window at her back. "I believe you're poaching hits again."
Deadpool
Posted: May 9 2012, 08:53 AM


Unregistered









Yep, that was Deadpool. That annoying little bug that fell into your web and the fucked the placed up by tossing and turning and tearing the spindles of your barb-wire silk until he managed to destroy everything and cocooning himself in the process. Top that off with the fact that Wade was probably a stink bug and had super-exoskeleton and still wouldn't die. In any world or metaphor you can come up with, Wade was essentially the Leroy Jenkins of it. (Reference for you people.)

That being said, he was currently trapped in that one room, nursing at his injuries. Yeah, sure, Deadpool could heal fast, really fast, but there was a finesse to it. Lacerations? Cuts? Torn muscles? Easy peasy, lemon squeezie. The hole through his side was proving to be an annoyance to Wade (especially when he was being an idiot and poked his finger through) since even though the bullet was not stuck inside him, it had still torn through muscle and more importantly organs. Organs that were leaking and generally being messy. Gross. That was healing very slowly, and Wade could expect most of the damage to be fixed in five or so minutes.

The real issue, however, was the hole through his lung and the broken ribs. The bones were going to heal really, really slowly, and other than a shooting pain or two, Deadpool could handle it. Besides, shooting pains made him focus more. "Oh, hey, tacos, I could get tacos later, OW, oh, right, I'm still in trouble here." That kind of stuff. His lung was already reknitting and hopefully the bullet was residing somewhere nonlethal or else Wade was going to have to play doctor later, which was going to suck balls. The coughing was the real issue here. To a normal person, the coughing would be nominal, unimportant to the rest of the issues, but, damn it, it was affecting Deadpool's ability to ramble, and he couldn't have that.

Especially since a new player showed up to the game.

Wade, who was 98% talk and stupid, still had that 2% instinct that forced him to reach for his guns when the lady in black (and red hair) showed up. He relaxed when he saw it wasn't an Asian dude and began speaking, waving around his weapons as he did. "Oh, hey, thereeee," Deadpool drew out his words, digging into the trash heap of his mind to identify the semi-familiar design of the obvious mercenary-friend-person. "Um." (Black Widow.) "Oh, yeah, thanks. Black Widow, right." I never said Deadpool didn't cheat off of his parentheses, just that the parentheses never gave him useful information. It'd tell him what he forgot to TiVO, but not, you know, the combination to unlock a high security door. It was usually "C4", Deadpool had come to understand.

"Poaching hits? Me?" Deadpool asked, semi-innocently, as he gestured with the barrels of his guns towards his chest and ended up coughing violently for his attempted drama. Were other people contracted for this hit? Wade didn't know. He could have tried to check, but all in all, Wade preferred spending that time watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta/Orange County or trying to call Nitro Circus to let him be featured on the show. No could do, apparently, but it was still time well spent. Coughing finished and DNA spread all over the crime scene via blood (not like that was really going to stand out), Wade went back to work. Talking, that is. "Did you call dibs? Damn, I'm never invited to these meetings where dibs get called. Do you guys just not like me?" He grinned, then made a pouty face under his mask.

Just shoot him now, please.
Black Widow
Posted: May 10 2012, 04:11 PM


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Posts: 362
Member No.: 402
Joined: 27-April 12



Natasha had wrists that looked as if too firm a gust of air would snap them, but there was an unerring, quiet steadiness to the angle of her arms as she levelled her guns at him. It was an uncharacteristically and directly aggressive move for her, but the Merc with a Mouth had a reputation and the only consistent thing about him was his inconsistency. He was unpredictable, dangerously so, and it seemed to Natasha that being nuts was the only thing that actually made him so excellent at his job when he was loud, talkative and about as discrete as a punch in the face, all traits that should have seen him in jail a long time ago.

And yet he was a famous name in their corner of the world, shadowed and criminal as it was. Natasha wasn't about to ignore that, especially not when he so obviously had the physical edge on her. She may have hated the garishness of his outfit (so much red...) when her own was matte and dark and anonymous, but even a blind man could have seen the body and the muscles that lurked beneath all the garish cloth.

For once, maybe her guns were necessary.

But it seemed, at least, that she was an infamous in her own way as he was. Natasha supposed she ought to be worried about being identifiable, but then Wilson was in the business and one could run in the circles that she did only so long without becoming notorious (when one was successful, anyway.) So she didn't deny her identity and merely arched an eyebrow at him, expression neutral and watchful all at once (you know, behind the guns.)

"Indeed," she said coolly by way of confirmation. Codenames. She could do those. "And you're Deadpool. Consider this our formal introduction." Actually, as far as the average mercenaries went, drawn guns in a room full of dead bodies probably was what counted for a typical first meeting. Huh.

Natasha's stance stiffened when his guns moved, but...um, okay. He was pointing his gun at himself. She didn't quite know what to think about that. If he'd looked even vaguely threatening towards her, she wouldn't have been afraid to shoot (please, it wasn't as if she could kill the guy) but his casual treatment of a weapon was both appalling and compelling all at once.

"Did you not see my post on the facebook group?" she asked archly, but Natasha was already resisting the urge to sigh. In all honesty, if there were people out there placing multiple hits on the same people, this sort of thing was inevitable. Annoying, since she liked to see her jobs completed - failing was bad for one's reputation - but it wasn't as if she was exactly strapped for this cash. Being good meant you got to charge a lot.

She did actually sigh then and, making a decision, put her left gun back in her thigh holster. It slotted into place with a neat click and the other was merely lowered to hip-height, her stance less aggressive now for all that she hardly looked relaxed, or like an easy target. "Try not to make a habit of stealing my kills, Deadpool," was what she told him in the end. "I had these guys staked out for a week. And I get tetchy when my dates don't put out at the end of the night."
Deadpool
Posted: May 29 2012, 11:34 AM


Unregistered









Wade had a special kind of magic about him. Sure, this is the WoHverse, and magic is not allowed, but Hell, Wade had something. If it was not magic, it was a guardian angel (or devil, really), and if not that, then maybe Deadpool should go research how his luck was faring to see if he had some kind of quiet luck mutation. People had those, right? Though Deadpool having any kind of mutation that was quiet would definitely be a first. If anything, he needed something with explosions. Loud obnoxious explosions. Maybe firework type things that rained candy like C4 piñata. Candy and buckshot. (Back to the magic.) Oh, right. Deadpool had some kind of magic going on that allowed him to do incredibly stupid things and face very few consequences that he could not already deal with. That was the beauty of a stolen (borrowed?) healing factor. Wade was allowed to be stupid.

And this stupid allowed Wade to have four guns pointed at him. Two of his own. Two of Black Widow's. He supposed that he should probably point the guns at the woman pointing the business end of her weapons toward him, but Deadpool just nonchalantly ignored that fact. He did not put his guns away, though, instead letting his arms fall to his side in a relaxed position and gesturing with the barrel of the weapon in his left hand when needed. After he started to speak and began coughing violently, Wade took a second to concentrate intensely in hopes that his healing factor would work a little harder and reluctantly returned one gun to it's holster in favor of using that hand to hold his side.

Deadpool was not stupid. At least not in this particular sense. He knew that it was extremely risky for him to put away one of his weapons in the presence of another mercenary, but he also knew that holding the wound in his side shut would be a lot more helpful than moving about and tearing it open as he went. Besides, he was not about to be paid for killing Black Widow, and everyone and their brother knew that you could not kill Deadpool even if you tried. ”Pleasure's all mine, spider-lady.” Wade began after he'd calmed his coughing down again, noting with a sense of satisfaction that the pain from coughing was getting less and less with each time. Deadpool's Healing Factor, for the win.

”There's a Facebook group?” Wade threw a note of incredulity (bonus points awarded for spelling that word right the first time) into his voice, and he went back to pouting in jest. ”I bet you guys even have events and invite all the cool cats to the group.” He made a hrmph-ing noise and did his best to glare at Black Widow from the other side of the white panels in his mask. Sometimes it was hard to be a masked merc. No good way of showing facial expressions. ”If you don't want me poaching, then you'd better damn well tell me so. Money is money, Widow-person.” (Failure. That name was a failure. ) Wade ignored the Parentheses for the time being. He was much more intent on healing than debating references with structures of the written language. ”And unless I know you called dibs, it's free game.”

Not that Deadpool played by the rules anyways. He was unpredictable – that was his entire game. But then Widow did the unexpected as well and put away one of her guns, which made Wade a little happier. He did not particularly want any more bullet holes in him today, thank you very much. ”Are we calling a truce? Hardly be fair for you to have to fight me out of prime. Still wouldn't be fair to you, just much less fun for me.” Wade did not wait around for the answer, holstering his second gun and making a point to touch and straighten out his katanas in their sheaths as if to remind the Widow that he had more weapons than just high-speed projectiles. He was still a mercenary at the end of the day. An insane one. A loud and obnoxious one. But a dangerous one all and all. ”I don't think these guys would have been good dates anyway. They were really, really bad shots.” (So says the man with two bullets in him.)

Deadpool continued ignoring the Parentheses, poking at the wound in his side to find that there was only surface tissue left reknitting now. He did the same for the wound in his chest, which was still healing but much farther along than before. Good. Soon he would have no bullet holes in him once again. That was a pleasant thing for Wade.
Black Widow
Posted: Jun 14 2012, 01:42 PM


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Joined: 27-April 12



Spider-lady.

That made Natasha's eye want to twitch. Just a little. She'd thought she'd reached a point in her life where the words of others couldn't get to her, ice-cold operative that she'd made herself into, but there was something about the merc with a mouth mangling the name by which she was known in the underworld - a name that was meant to inspire fear and represent competency and being the best at what she did - that got to her. That alone was enough to earn him her displeasure, even if her response was just to sigh internally and watch with coolly clinical eyes as he seemed to do his best impression of coughing up a lung.

Having heard of Deadpool's...approach to any and all missions, this was a definite possibility and, really, sometimes it wasn't fair the advantages that powered people had. Natasha avoided injury by being precise, by planning her hits and by working damn hard to not be in the place her opponents expected her to be when they were aiming a strike at her, all the while still attempting to get the job done. Wilson and his healing factor though...he could take hits that she as a human could not. Now, she didn't have any strict opinions regarding the whole pro- or anti-mutant stance in the political world right now, but she did object somewhat when she felt that powers made up for sloppy technique.

It was just the principle of things, okay?

"In complete agreement with you on that one, Wilson," was her admittedly somewhat snippy reply in response to his discussion of the allocation of 'pleasure'. Natasha was never normally so easy to rile, but apparently she was having a bad day. (Having one's hits poached tended to do that to a person, in all honesty.)

The glare had little impact on her (mainly because she couldn't see it, but hey) and Natasha returned to looking infuriatingly unruffled and competent, sleek and well-presented in her appearance as she bent down to examine one of the dead men. "Personally, the annual company picnic is my favourite," she said, almost absently as she allowed a bare hand to hover a scant few centimetres above the body, feeling the warmth still radiating from the fresh kill. "And as for 'dibs', there are standards to be had, Wilson. My employers wanted this done quietly, with the minimum of mess left behind." She looked pointedly around them at their surroundings. "I'm assuming your client was not quite as fussy."

She stood up, skirting the ever-expanding pool of blood and other bodily fluids originating from the closest body - she may not have been finicky, but dousing one's self in viscera was never a smart move. Plus, you know, evidence. "I don't see any point in trying to kill you," was her frank response, accompanied by an idle shrug of the shoulder. "No one's paid me to take you out and you haven't insulted my mother. No motive whatsoever." Her lip curled briefly as she looked around the room again. "You are going to clear up after yourself, aren't you?" It wasn't any skin off her nose if he didn't, but...well, there were standards. A certain way of doing things that people in their profession had. It would have been amusing, the way in which Natasha was looking a little like a scandalised minister's wife, except for all of the dead bodies of course.
Deadpool
Posted: Jul 1 2012, 10:22 AM


Unregistered









The twitch that represented the Black Widow’s dwindling patience was ignored, and instead Wade scratched at the newly knitted skin where his wounds had been. It was remarkable how damn itchy the healing process was. Pain was unimportant. Pain was a constant feeling when you were in this business, but the itchiness? Obnoxious. If Deadpool had been prone to pondering such things, he’d probably come to the realization that the feeling was from his body weaving tissues back together and such, but no. Wade was much more content to mentally complain.

At least until it was time to actually complain. ”See? You don’t even invite me to the company picnics.” (You’d probably put razor blades in the food.) ”It’s a team of highly trained assassins. I don’t think they’d eat the food anyways. Poisons, yanno?” Wade was completely distracted when the Widow went to examine a dead man, and Deadpool shifted his weight to his toes in order to crane and “examine” that fine piece of ass. Healing factors were the best buffers for being a perv. Ohmaigawd, she had a nice ass though. (Down, boy.) You shut up.

She looked back up at him, and Wade pointedly started rocking on his feet like he was bored and no, what, he hadn’t been looking at her ass, geez, what’s wrong with you. A large shrug indicated that Deadpool did not, in fact, give a fuck. ”Dead is dead. My clients don’t care, s’long as the contract is dead.” He squinted on the other side of his mask, tapping his chin with one hand before pointing to one of the dead fellows. ”Pretty sure it was that guy.” He jerked a thumb back toward another man, who looked pretty similar, to be honest. ”Could have been that guy.” Who knew? Wade was about as subtle and precise as a shotgun blast, but it didn’t really matter if the contract was still dead at the end. Casualties were part of the job description.

With a flourish of drama, Wade clasped his hands together and tilted his head. ”Oh, thank you, Spider-lady, for deeming me unworthy to kill.” Part of him was completely and totally pissed off at this fact. The pride bit. You know, the random bit of Deadpool that, when offended, overrides most of his “common sense” and makes him do stupid shit. Sure, whatever, she said she didn’t have any motive, but that was only a few word changes away from, “I don’t care”. Grinning, Wade made an entertaining decision that was probably going to ruin Black Widow’s day even more.

”Oh, I gots the cleanup covered.” He reached into one of the random pouches on his person (and then another) and pulled out a few hand grenades. There was another grin on his face, half sadistic, half sarcastic, as his sense of pride allowed Wade to do complete, utter stupid. ”Hope you run fast,” and that was all he said before pulling the pin on the explosives and tossing one to the front, two to the side, and running like hell toward the nearest window. Fantastic! He was going to get to do one of those exciting leaving explosion camera shots. The damn artists better give this credit, later.
Black Widow
Posted: Jul 7 2012, 08:36 AM


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Posts: 362
Member No.: 402
Joined: 27-April 12



Oh, the fucker.

She'd never met the infamous Deadpool before, but he was as famous in their field of work as she was. More so, actually, and she had no qualms about admitting that. It was as if he'd been around for longer than she had and was, rather obviously, far more flashy than she was. And noticeable. (Red and black, seriously? And swords?)

But he had a reputation for insanity, one that Natasha was only just experiencing for herself now, and he certainly wasn't doing anything to make lies out of what the Widow had heard about him. He was messy and dangerous, erratic and unpredictable and just down right chaotic until it actually came to the part of the madness that involved getting the job done. Then he was deadly and effective, if more dramatic than Natasha was herself unless she was being paid to make a point.

Right now, though, he just sounded nuts. Mainly because a lot of what he said was not in response to words that she had spoken and, fucking hell, assassins with voices in their head. How had he not been caught yet?

And she caught him staring at her ass, which earned him a narrow-eyed and warning look (on the job, she didn't take shit lightly, especially not from masked crazies who'd just poached her kill) before rolling her eyes and letting it go. Of course he'd looked because, a, she had an amazing ass thank you very much and, b, she'd heard rumours that he was some sort of cockroach mutant, namely one that would never die. So at least he didn't have to worry about her shooting him in the brain for perving on her when she was working.

"How kind of you to give them more bodies than they paid for," she said, voice dripping in sarcasm as she resisted the urge to facepalm. "I'm sure they'll appreciate it." Ugh, it was just so senseless and messy and poorly-organised, unlike Nat who liked to creep in and out and draw as little attention to the scene as possible. This was just evidence waiting to be discovered and, wait, what?

(Backtracking, this explained the earlier 'Oh the fucker.')

Of course she ran fast, but she didn't exactly enjoy it when an incipient explosion was close on her heels. The only real option she had left was the window Deadpool hadn't used and so, spitting curses in Russian as she went, she fiddled furiously with the heavy bracelets wrapped around her wrist, pulling free the thin wire stored there and looping it through convenient notches at her belt line, even as she she jumped and dove and felt a shard of glass slice at a spot beneath her ear where she hadn't quite covered all of her face with her arm, and then she was tossing the loose rappelling end of the wire out in the same motion as she fell...
Deadpool
Posted: Aug 15 2012, 06:57 AM


Unregistered









A lot of things were going “wrong” at this moment.

For Deadpool, “wrong” was a term used by other people. He had no plans. He had very few preferences. Avoiding pain for the sake of avoiding pain was relatively pointless, and Wade could handle more of it than any person could imagine. It was only the sane who were limited by their bodies. Absolutely nothing could be done to him that changed the way he worked or thought, and no amount of pain could “break” someone who was already broken. He did not like getting hurt (most of the time), but it was only a minor inconvenience in the scheme of things. It was remarkable how people tended to try to put pieces back together - namely, those mortuary goofs. It was obnoxious, though, waking up on a slab. (“Slab”. He didn’t know the right term, but TV never lied, right?) One minute he’s getting torn in half, the next, his pieces are back together and he’s naked and cold and annoyed. Fucking scientists trying to solve problems. Solving problems AND taking away his weapons. It was a sad fate.

Anyways, back to the point. Things going wrong. Ahem, “wrong”.

The explosion was all sorts of right. It was perfect and wonderful and exactly what the sadistic Deadpool wanted. Anddddd, it sent shards of glass and bits of burning things pounding into Wade’s back and shoulders like annoying mosquitos. After the first few, the feeling was dismissed. He was long used to ignoring pain, and after the initial shock, it was more of an ambient thing. Wade would regret this later, but he had a feeling he was going to regret his other choices a lot more and a lot quicker.

Namely not having any sort of tow line. His imminent issue was the ground rushing up at him, and a quick inventory check reminded him that he neglected to pack his grappling hook, parachute, and/or Bat-cape. Fuck. This was not going to be pretty. In a few seconds, Wade made a point to kick in his healing factor then he went to his happy place, completely ignoring the ground flying up at him and the mental screaming of the Parentheses.

There would be no point in explaining everything that happened after this moment. It was fairly obvious. There was a reason Wade wore a red and black suit, and it wasn’t just because it was cool. (That was a contributing factor, though.) His body would heal on it’s own, give or take, but the suit masked the blood and it held all the appropriate bits together so that when the shit hit the metaphorical fan - or, more accurately, Deadpool’s human-strength body hit the non-metaphorical and very real road.

A indeterminate amount of time passed before Wade started “waking” up again. Technically, he had never been asleep, even with the massive brain/skull damage, but he had a stasis-mode, almost like a video game pause, that kicked in with a certain amount of damage. The first thing Wade did was cuss. Internally. Because he’s a god damn superhero, kids, and Superman doesn’t curse. Then, he and the Parentheses exchanged words, with Mr. P updating Wade on how much approximate time had passed because certainly the assassin didn’t know.

A quiet groan escaped before Wade’s usual mercenary immunity to pain and expressing pain kicked in and silenced him. Complaining was another story, but actually making noises was unprofessional, and God knew Wade had to be professional. ”That’s gonna bruise.” He started to push himself up, pausing when he realized his arm was broken and that much weight wasn’t going to fly. Grumping internally, Wade rolled over, setting the bone in his arm and checking the other, tweaking his nose unceremoniously until the cartilage fixed itself in the right position and generally shifting body parts until they were in the normal position. The shattered skull would be slow to heal (well, “slow”), but Wade could take bullets to the brain and still run. Having a fracture in the bone did nothing to him, especially since the bleeding and soft tissue damage was mostly healed already.

Now, to check on the spider and see if her web worked right.
Black Widow
Posted: Aug 20 2012, 05:01 PM


Non-Registered Human
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Posts: 362
Member No.: 402
Joined: 27-April 12



You didn't want to be facing an explosion, not as it happened. Plus, heroes don't look at explosions. Projectile glass, flames chasing down the path of least resistance through the oxygen in the air - you didn't want your vulnerable side turned towards that, the soft line of your jugular, the meat of your abdomen, your eyes, your mouth...

No, explosions and the human body in general didn't mix well. And unlike the person who had actually set off this particular blast, Natasha hurt and bled and healed just like any other human being. A mortal wound, for her, was just that - mortal. So an explosion like this?

It could hurt. It would hurt. And Natasha's job was to make sure that, in the face of that certainty, the damage wouldn't be too great.

She'd already thrown herself through a window. You only did that when you were desperate, what with doing so equating to risking gutting yourself on the jagged glass that you went soaring over. And, already, blood leaked from a gash in her hairline, only distinguishable in its presence because of how wet it felt, not through temperature since it was so freshly spilled from her body But that was the least of her concerns in the moments when her world slowed down, as if the time between heartbeats stretched on and on...

The explosion would come. And she needed to balance both not ending her life smashed into the concrete below from the fall and not baring the most delicate parts of herself to the gouts of glass and flame and shrapnel that the impending explosion would soon be spewing outwards... She twisted as she fell, knowing rather than feeling that her rappelling wire and its minute grappling hook had made contact with the ledge of the windowsill she had just thrown herself out of.

Because it was all about the math now, the calculations as to how much wire to let out so that her weight would catch, so that she would swing towards the building below the window and the floor from which the explosion would erupt. Because down there, she would be safe. Well, safer. And what mattered now was that arc happening before--.

Her weight caught on the wire - painfully, jarringly - and she started to swing inwards, just as the world seemed to turn to red and gold fire, impossibly loud and blindingly hot. Natasha ducked her head automatically, but she felt the heat scorch across the back of her neck, felt the moment when the hair coiled at the base of her skull caught alight, felt the burning stab of several fast-mocking, sharp, hot things colliding with the meat of her shoulders.

It hurt. Oh, it hurt. But her face was protected, her throat and stomach and chest too, and if she was capable of feeling pain then she wasn't blown to bits. Always a good thing.

The noise was deafening, though, the percussive blast more than a little disorientating, and Natasha lost a few moments there. When next she blinked though, blinked and really saw with her eyes, she was dangling flush against the wall - dizzy and bleeding and more than a little scorched, but conscious and fully capable of moving all of her limbs. Nothing was missing (nothing important anyway) and in spite of the almost deafening ringing in her ears Natasha, even as she hung there, Natasha was already casting around to assess the situation. She had prevented herself from hitting the ground, but Wilson...

He lay there, below here, looking dead or unconscious for all intents and purposes. But Natasha knew better. More than that, she knew three other separate things - that he was even more insane than the rumours said, that he could heal from wounds like the one sending blood pooling around his skull right now...

...and that she had no intention of being around when he woke up.

Laboriously, painfully, she pulled herself up the wire. Hand by hand, inch by inch. Her shoulders and the wounds there burned with the effort and the skin around her hairline felt scorched, scalded. But her muscles worked well enough and her wiry, desperate sort of strength, that had certainly not left her. She'd climb back up to the room from which the damn explosion had originated. She'd climb up higher than that afterwards. She'd be gone by the time Wilson even opened his eyes behind that stupid mask of his because she needed to get back to her apartment, back to where she had a suture kit and bandages and vodka, lots and lots of vodka.

But this was most definitely not the end with it. Wade had stolen her kill tonight. More than that, though, he'd injured her, assaulted her reputation. And at some point - when she was less hurt, less injured - he would pay for this.
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