The scene detonated into chaos, the kind of gritty, bone-crunching mayhem that screamed R-rated. Logan stood center stage, his claws snapping out with a metallic snikt that echoed like the prelude to a violent symphony. The dim lighting of the industrial hideout threw sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the wild glint in his eyes and the permanent scowl carved into his features. He rolled his shoulders, muscles taut under his leather jacket, and let out a feral growl that seemed to vibrate in the very walls.
"Francis," Logan said, his voice as rough as gravel. "I've seen some sorry excuses for bad guys in my time, but you? You're not even trying, are you?"
Francis stood a few feet away, leaning casually against a glass case displaying a small arsenal of weapons. He was the picture of smugness, all lean swagger and smirking arrogance. His platinum-blond hair caught the faint light, and he tilted his head as if Logan's insult was nothing more than background noise.
"Ah, Wolverine," Francis drawled, spinning a tomahawk axe he'd plucked from the display in one hand. "Still leading with your fists instead of your brain, I see. Tell me, do you have a daily quota for grunting and brooding, or is it just muscle memory at this point?"
Logan's nostrils flared as he took a step forward, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete floor. "You know, Francis," he said, his voice dripping with menace, "you remind me of a bad hangover: loud, annoying, and just begging to be smashed."
Francis chuckled, spinning the tomahawk once more before grabbing a second one, his smirk widening into something bordering on manic. "Oh, that's cute," he said, his voice light and mocking. "Did you workshop that line, or did it come to you while you were busy failing at personal growth? Let's be honest, Logan—you're just a rabid dog someone forgot to put down."
Logan stopped, his claws flexing in the air, the overhead light glinting off the razor-sharp adamantium. "You're about to find out just how rabid I can be, bub."
Francis grinned wider, the kind of grin that made you want to punch him on principle alone. "Let's dance, then," he said, twirling the tomahawks like he was auditioning for a discount Viking-themed music video.
Logan cocked an eyebrow, his lips curling into a humorless smirk. "Dance? You're gonna be doing the worm when I'm done with you." He cracked his neck with an audible pop and stepped forward, his claws slicing the air with a soft hiss.
Francis lunged first, swinging one of the tomahawks in a wide arc aimed at Logan's head. Logan sidestepped effortlessly, his movements sharp and predatory. "Is this it?" Logan asked, his tone almost bored. "I thought you'd at least make me sweat."
"Oh, don't worry," Francis retorted, feinting left before coming at Logan with a downward strike. "You'll be sweating buckets when I bury you."
Logan blocked the strike with one claw, sparks flying as metal met unbreakable adamantium. "Bury me?" Logan growled, pushing Francis back with a surge of brute strength. "Buddy, I've crawled out of more graves than you've had hot meals."
Francis staggered back but quickly recovered, spinning both axes with impressive speed. "And yet, here you are," he sneered, circling Logan like a predator looking for an opening. "The eternal has-been, stuck in a loop of anger and failure. You're not a man, Logan. You're a relic."
Logan's smirk returned, sharper this time, edged with something dangerous. "You done with the monologue?" he asked, his voice low and threatening. "Because I'm about to teach you the first rule of being a relic."
Francis raised an eyebrow, his grip tightening on the axes. "And what's that?"
"Relics don't break," Logan snarled, charging forward with the kind of raw, animalistic aggression that had made him a legend. His claws lashed out, slicing through the air, and Francis barely managed to deflect the strike with one of his tomahawks.
Francis laughed, a wild, almost unhinged sound. "That's it!" he shouted, blocking another strike with the flat of his axe. "That's the animal I've been waiting for! Come on, Logan! Show me what you've got!"
Logan didn't bother with a response, his focus razor-sharp as he pressed the attack. His claws slashed in precise, deadly arcs, forcing Francis to stay on the defensive. The sound of metal on metal rang out, echoing through the space like a brutal symphony.
"You're fast," Logan admitted, sidestepping another swing from Francis. "I'll give you that. But speed doesn't mean jack when you're bleeding out on the floor."
Francis grinned, his teeth bared like a wolf. "And yet, here I am, still standing."
"Not for long," Logan said, his voice a low growl as he lunged again, his claws aimed straight for Francis's chest.
Francis dodged by a hair's breadth, using the momentum to swing one of his tomahawks in a counterattack aimed at Logan's ribs. Logan caught the axe mid-swing with his claw, the force of the clash sending a jolt up both their arms.
"You're stubborn," Francis said, panting slightly as they locked eyes. "I'll give you that. But all it means is that you'll take longer to die."
"Talk is cheap," Logan shot back, shoving Francis away and readying for another charge. "Let's see if you've got the guts to back it up."
Francis grinned again, his cocky confidence still intact. "Oh, I've got plenty of guts. Question is, will you still have yours when I'm done with you?"
The two launched at each other again, their strikes faster, fiercer, and more brutal than before, the industrial hideout transforming into a battlefield. The clash of their weapons was deafening, and the fight was just getting started.
—
Alvarez entered the fray with the kind of confidence that only a man who had lived life on his terms could possess. The twin knives in his hands gleamed in the low light, their silver blades catching the occasional glint like the predatory eyes of a hunter. He spun them with a fluid grace, each motion so precise that it felt choreographed, almost as if he were dancing instead of preparing for violence.
"Francis," Alvarez called out, his voice smooth and dripping with a heavy Spanish accent, his words wrapped in disdain. "You should have run when you had the chance. Now? Now, you'll wish you had."
Francis, ever the picture of smugness, arched an eyebrow, his lips curling into a sneer. "And who are you supposed to be?" he mocked, twirling the tomahawk axes in his hands with unnecessary flair. "Zorro's angrier cousin?"
Alvarez smiled, a knowing glint in his dark eyes as he tilted his head slightly. "No, hombre," he said, his voice low and filled with a dangerous calm. "I am the man who will carve regret into your soul." He stepped forward, every movement exuding the deadly elegance of a predator stalking its prey, a slight edge of thrill in his voice as he prepared for the fight.
Francis scoffed, his arrogant grin widening as he shrugged. "Cute," he said, readying himself for the fight. "Let's see if your bite matches your bark."
Without another word, Francis roared and lunged forward, swinging both axes in wide, brutal arcs. The swing was wild, fueled by arrogance and the underestimation of his opponents. Alvarez's knives moved in a blur, each one darting out to meet the incoming tomahawks with a sound of ringing metal. He danced away from the axes' reach, moving in on Francis with a predator's instinct, his body like a snake coiling, his knives flashing in the dim light.
But Logan wasn't far behind, charging in with the raw power and deadly precision only he could manage. His claws extended with the familiar snikt, their gleaming edges catching the light just before one collided with the handle of Francis's first tomahawk. The metal screeched as it was forced aside, a shockwave of impact traveling up Logan's arm as he shoved Francis back.
"Francis," Logan growled, his voice a gravelly rasp, filled with the kind of menace only a man who had been through hell and back could possess. His eyes gleamed with a dangerous amusement. "You really think you can take both of us on?"
Francis, unfazed and grinning like a wolf ready for the kill, managed a casual shrug. "Oh, I'm counting on it, bub. Two-for-one special, don't you think?" With a laugh that bordered on insane, he swung both axes again in wide, vicious arcs, aiming for both Alvarez and Logan.
Alvarez danced back, the flick of his knives so fast it was as if the air itself parted before them. His eyes locked with Francis's, dark humor dancing in them. "Special? I prefer to think of it as a personal delivery," he said, dodging the slash aimed at his head with the grace of a matador avoiding the horns of a bull.
Logan, meanwhile, wasn't wasting any time with flashy moves. His focus was purely on the fight, his senses sharp as ever. He sidestepped one of Francis's wild swings, his claws leaving a trail of sparks as they met the edge of the axe. The two were a whirlwind of violence, Logan's brute strength and relentless attacks meeting Francis's calculated fury and finesse.
Francis's grin never faltered, even as his attacks were met with resistance. He was quick, but he wasn't quick enough. "You're gonna have to do better than that, Logan," he sneered, swinging both axes with the intent to cut through both men.
Alvarez, his smirk still in place, was clearly enjoying himself, the challenge of the fight nothing more than an appetizer. "Better than that?" he said with a chuckle, easily sidestepping a wild swipe of one axe and sending a knife hurtling toward Francis's chest. "This is just the warm-up."
The blade missed by inches, Francis swatting it away with a swift motion, but Alvarez was already in motion again, his body flowing with the ease of a man who had lived for this very moment. He moved as though the battle was nothing more than a beautiful dance. "I've tangoed with worse than you, chico," he teased, swiping at Francis's side with one of his knives, a calculated strike designed to get under his opponent's defenses.
Francis hissed in frustration as he barely avoided the strike. He was starting to realize this wasn't going to be as easy as he had hoped. The two men, Logan and Alvarez, were relentless, each pushing him closer to the edge.
"Is that all you've got?" Francis taunted, his voice dripping with arrogance. "I've had better fights with my gym's punching bag."
Logan's eyes narrowed as he let out a soft growl, his claws gleaming menacingly. "Careful, Francis," he warned. "You're gonna run out of jokes before you run out of breath."
With a roar of fury, Francis launched himself at Logan once more, axes raised high, but Logan was already in motion, charging forward to meet him head-on. It was brutal, it was vicious, but it was also clear—Francis was losing his edge.
Alvarez, in the meantime, stayed on his feet, cutting through the air with his blades like a man toying with his prey. His movements were faster, sharper, more efficient than anything Francis could throw at him. He weaved in and out of Francis's defense with a deadly rhythm, the knives in his hands seeming to hum with anticipation.
"You know, hombre," Alvarez said with a dark chuckle, "I was hoping for a challenge, but you're just disappointing me." His blades flashed, forcing Francis to parry yet another strike.
"Disappointed?" Francis laughed bitterly. "You think you can take me down just like that?"
Alvarez's smile didn't waver. "I don't think," he said, spinning one of his knives with a flourish. "I know."
As Logan and Alvarez kept Francis on his toes, the fight raged on, each man locked in a deadly ballet. The clang of metal on metal filled the air as their weapons collided, sparks flying with every contact. They were united by one goal: to bring this arrogant bastard to the ground. And Francis? He was realizing that his bravado was no match for their relentless drive.
—
Christine (Angel Dust) charged into the fight like a juggernaut, her tank top straining against the rippling muscles beneath it, as if she were a freight train with legs. She moved with an animalistic power, her eyes locked onto Warren, who was already anticipating her charge. With a twist of his wings, a volley of razor-sharp feathers shot out toward her. They whizzed through the air, each one aimed with precision, but Christine simply laughed as she raised her forearms, deflecting the feathers like they were nothing more than annoyances.
"Feathers?" she scoffed, the sound of her mocking laugh echoing through the room. "Really? What are you, a pissed-off peacock?"
Warren hovered in mid-air, his wings spread wide, their sharp edges gleaming under the harsh lighting. "More like an angry angel," he retorted, his tone biting as he effortlessly dodged a haymaker from Christine that would've sent any normal person flying through a wall. He flared his wings for a second, making a sharp pivot to avoid her, the sheer power of her strike leaving a dent in the floor where her fist had missed him.
From the side, Sofia entered the fray, her movements as smooth and precise as a flamenco dancer twirling across the floor. Her stance was steady, pistol in hand, a deadly calm radiating from her as she took aim and fired at Christine. The bullets hit with a spark, bouncing harmlessly off her superhumanly tough skin, but Sofia wasn't deterred.
"¡Mira aquí, bruta!" Sofia called out in her melodic voice, a mixture of playful challenge and fiery confidence, drawing Christine's attention toward her.
Christine turned, her lips curling into a predatory grin that could've curdled milk. "Oh, I like you," she purred. "You've got spirit. Too bad I'm gonna break you like a twig."
Sofia's lips curled into a smirk, and she holstered her pistol, the move as fluid as her previous one. "You can try," she taunted, her voice like silk wrapped around a dagger. "But I doubt you'll get the chance." Without hesitation, Sofia sidestepped a wild swing from Christine and planted a sharp kick to her knee. The force of the strike was enough to make Christine stagger, but she was quick to regain her footing.
"Maybe you should stick to arm-wrestling competitions, eh?" Sofia quipped, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she stepped back, ready for the next round.
Christine, unfazed, shook out her leg and straightened herself, glaring at Sofia with renewed fury. "You'll regret that, sweetheart," she growled, cracking her knuckles and rolling her shoulders. Her eyes flicked to Warren, who had swooped in, his wings a blur of motion as they sliced through the air toward her. He slashed them across her side with precision, but she barely flinched, the feathers leaving superficial marks against her skin.
Warren shot a glance toward Sofia. "We're supposed to be stalling her, not pissing her off," he muttered, his tone tinged with frustration as Christine spun to face him, her fury intensifying.
Sofia raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. She flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder. "Where's the fun in that, pájaro?" she replied with a wink, her voice laced with playful defiance. She was no stranger to dangerous fights, and Christine's attitude only seemed to fuel her determination.
Christine growled at the pair of them, rolling her shoulders and cracking her knuckles. "You're really starting to annoy me," she hissed, her voice laced with menace.
Sofia, still maintaining that perfect balance of poise and swagger, shot her a smirk. "Annoyance is what happens right before I make you wish you stayed in bed today," she shot back, the warmth of her playful tone never betraying the deadly focus in her eyes.
With a final sneer, Christine lunged at them both, but Warren was already on the move, his wings flaring wide as he zipped into the air, darting just out of her reach.
Sofia, moving with the precision of a seasoned fighter, stepped into Christine's path, her eyes narrowing. "Come on then, let's see what you've got," she challenged, ready for whatever came next. Christine's rage was palpable, but Sofia knew how to handle herself in a fight—especially when she was having fun.
The battle between them was a blur of rapid movements, sharp strikes, and quick dodges, each of them playing their roles perfectly. But one thing was clear—Christine was no slouch, and neither was Sofia. Each moment brought them closer to the edge, but neither of them was willing to back down. It was a dance of raw power against quick wit, and in the end, it was anyone's game.
—
The hideout was a war zone. It looked like a set from one of those action movies where explosions happen every five seconds for no reason, and the hero just keeps walking away like it's no big deal. The floor was littered with broken furniture, sparks still sizzling from the short-circuited electronics, and a faint smell of burnt popcorn—don't ask why.
And there, in the middle of it all, knelt Wade Wilson, the only guy who'd take a bullet for you and then make an inappropriate joke about it. His mask was halfway up, revealing his scarred face—like someone had used a cheese grater on it, except the cheese was molten lava. But if you thought that was bad, wait until you heard his voice. This wasn't the usual snarky, "I'm going to make your life a disaster" Wade. No, this was the "I'm about to lose the love of my life and I need to make sure I don't lose my mind" Wade. And trust me, that's a rare sight.
He gently brushed a lock of hair off Vanessa's face, careful not to mess up the whole "deadly mercenary" look he had going for him. His voice cracked like the old CD player you had in middle school.
"Vanessa, darling," he said, his voice about as smooth as sandpaper, "It's me. The guy who makes bad decisions look too good—even when they're covered in second-degree burns." He gave her a crooked smile, one that looked more like a grimace. "Pretty sure I'm the definition of 'hot mess' right now."
Vanessa groaned, blinking slowly, her eyelids fluttering open with all the grace of a half-dead butterfly. She looked up at Wade with a weak smile that could still melt hearts, if anyone had the time to appreciate it before getting shot.
"Wade… you look like... burnt lasagna," she said, voice raspy, but still laced with that sharp humor she always carried with her.
Wade chuckled, a sound more broken than his heart. "Ah, the lasagna look. My signature move. Get used to it, sweetheart." He grabbed a nearby blanket and wrapped it around her, doing his best to make her feel like she wasn't lying in a war zone. "Don't worry, babe. I'll make sure the assholes who touched you get a triple death penalty. Maybe four times if I'm feeling extra stabby today."
Vanessa's grin was barely there, but it was enough. "Same old Wade."
"Always, babe," Wade said, his grin widening as he effortlessly scooped her into his arms like she weighed as much as a pillow. "Same old Wade. But with a bigger budget, better CGI, and way cooler choreography." His voice dropped into a more playful tone. "And for the record, I look way better now. I'm like the James Bond of broken faces. Except, you know, less suave, more... broken." He winked, never missing a chance to lighten the mood with some ridiculous one-liner.
Behind him, Logan was busy with a guy who looked like a Hulk's steroid-addled cousin. The sound of claws meeting flesh was satisfying, like opening a can of tuna with your bare hands—but this time, there was way more blood involved. Logan's growl could probably scare off a lion, but right now, he had bigger problems. Like the fact that Wade had just tossed his girlfriend into his arms.
"Yo, Hugh Jackman!" Wade shouted, not even bothering to turn around. "Catch!"
Logan barely had time to react before Vanessa was airborne, her limp body dropping straight into his arms like a deadweight. His face immediately hardened.
"What the hell are you doing, Wade?" he growled, adjusting his grip to cradle her carefully.
Wade didn't even break a sweat, doing a twirl like he was in a Broadway musical. "Delegating, bub. You're the grumpy dad material. I'm the sexy anti-hero material. We all know our roles by now, right?"
Logan shot him a glare that could melt steel. "Don't you die on me, Wade."
Wade spun on his heel, pulling his katanas from their sheaths with a flourish that was entirely too dramatic for someone who was about to engage in a fight to the death. He glanced at Logan with a grin that could only be described as "ridiculously confident." "Please," Wade said with mock indignation, as he flicked one of his blades at a thug's throat. "I'm like a cockroach in spandex, bub. You can't kill me, but I'll certainly ruin your day. And probably your week."
Logan, of course, didn't respond. He was too busy being Logan. His fists were already flying, his claws slicing through enemies like they were made of wet paper. But somehow, even in the midst of all the carnage, there was something oddly comforting about Wade's banter. Maybe it was the chaos he brought. Maybe it was the fact that he could laugh at anything, even when the odds were stacked so high they could touch the moon.
And despite the blood, the violence, and the absurdity of the whole situation, Vanessa still found herself smiling weakly in Logan's arms.
"Same old Wade," she muttered, letting herself sink into Logan's grip as the battle raged on.
—
Logan carried Vanessa in his arms toward the exit, his muscles taut, and his jaw set in that brooding, "don't-mess-with-me" way only he can pull off. But all that heavy, intense energy around him was somehow punctuated by Wade, who was bouncing on his heels like an over-caffeinated kangaroo with a death wish.
Wade's voice echoed over the sounds of chaos as he turned to face Francis. "Okay, Francis, darling," he said, his swords gleaming under the dim light like they were straight out of a James Bond villain's fantasy arsenal. "Time for the grand finale. Just you, me, and the overwhelming sexual tension we've been building for two movies. Honestly, at this point, I feel like I need a cigarette after all that foreplay."
Francis (Ajax, as played by Ed Skrein) sneered, his muscles bulging as he twirled his axes with that creepy confidence only a guy who has absolutely zero sense of humor could muster. "You talk too much."
Wade's grin widened like the Cheshire Cat on a caffeine binge. "That's funny, coming from the guy who won't shut up about how cool he thinks he is. Seriously, Francis, you're like a discount Bond villain. All style, no substance. No charisma. No 'zhoom'—you know what I mean? You're like the villain in a low-budget action flick. The kind that gets killed halfway through but still somehow manages to convince himself he's the star of the show."
Francis growled, his eyes flashing with rage as he lunged forward, axes raised. Wade dodged effortlessly, rolling to the side and slicing his sword through the air to land a clean hit on Francis's side.
"First blood!" Wade yelled with exaggerated cheer, glancing at the camera with that trademark, ridiculous flair. "Mark that down, kids. The good guy is winning. Wait, am I the good guy? Eh, doesn't matter. You can all agree I'm at least more fun than this douchebag."
Francis didn't seem too impressed by Wade's commentary or his swordsmanship, and he roared, swinging his axes in a wide arc. Wade danced around him like a showgirl at a strip club, his swords flashing with every step as he cracked jokes that would've made most people question his sanity.
"You know, Francis," Wade said, twirling his sword with ease as he sidestepped another wild swing, "if you spent half as much time training as you do waxing your pecs, you might actually stand a chance. Look at you. You're like a walking oil spill with anger issues."
Francis's eyes bulged with fury, and he swung an axe downward with such force it could've split a car in half. Wade wasn't impressed, though. He caught the descending axe with his sword, smiling like he was on a first date. "Oh, you're mad. I can feel it. Come on, Francis. Let it all out. This is a safe space. Get all that rage off your chest. I promise it won't hurt… well, not much."
Francis bared his teeth and snarled like a rabid dog, his muscles rippling with every swing of the axe. The fight was fast, brutal, and almost comically out of place as Wade continued to jab at Francis with sharp, cutting remarks, all while avoiding blows and delivering precise hits that left Francis sputtering in fury.
"You know," Wade continued, twisting to avoid another slash, "I bet if we teamed up, we'd be like the ultimate buddy cop duo. You'd be the grumpy, muscle-bound guy with an axe, and I'd be the guy with the jokes and, you know, the sword fighting skills."
Francis wasn't amused. He snarled and took another swing, his axe grazing Wade's side just barely as Wade spun out of the way. "Oh, come on, Francis," Wade teased, "You've got to admit, I'm the only one here having any fun. Look at me—I'm practically doing a tango while you're over here looking like a discount Spartan with some serious self-esteem issues."
The battle between them was a blur of flashing blades, insults, and chaotic violence, but somehow, despite everything, Wade was coming out on top. It was like he had an uncanny ability to turn even the most life-threatening situation into an opportunity for one-liners and slapstick humor.
"You know," Wade mused as he narrowly avoided another swing, "if I die here, I'm definitely asking for a do-over. I mean, really? This is how I go out? I was hoping for something a little more explosive. Maybe a high-speed chase or a fight with a giant mutant panda. But no, it's just me, Francis, and his tiny little temper tantrums."
Francis was practically frothing with rage now, his swings growing wilder and more erratic. Wade couldn't help but take a moment to appreciate the sheer absurdity of it all. This was what it meant to be Deadpool—constantly outmatched and underappreciated, but always in the mood for a fight.
"You know what?" Wade said with mock sincerity, sidestepping another wild swing, "You're actually kind of like a B-list villain at this point. Maybe C-list. No offense, but you're just not cutting it. I'm like the Deadpool, you know? The guy who beats the bad guys while making them question their life choices. And you're just… not in my league."
At this, Francis lost his cool entirely, his axe coming down in a powerful arc that aimed straight for Wade's skull. But, in typical Deadpool fashion, Wade twisted out of the way just in time, sending Francis's axe straight into the floor with a loud crack.
"That's a good try, Francis," Wade said, spinning around with a dramatic flourish. "But we both know who's getting the last laugh here." He leveled one of his swords at Francis's throat. "And spoiler alert, it's not you."
Suddenly, with a single, clean strike, Wade drove the sword into Francis's chest, pushing through with a resounding thunk. Francis's body jerked before he crumpled to the floor, dead as a doorknob.
Wade stood over him, panting from the adrenaline, before glancing at the camera again. "And that, folks, is how you kill a villain. The Deadpool way. No CGI, no unnecessary slow-motion. Just pure, unadulterated awesome." He winked. "Can we get an award for that? Just a thought."
As Francis crumpled to the floor, Wade turned his attention back to Logan, who was still carrying Vanessa toward the exit, his grim expression never wavering.
Wade tapped him on the shoulder. "Yo, Hugh Jackman! I got this one handled. You good over there, grumpy dad?"
Logan shot him a look that could cut glass but didn't say a word. He just kept walking, carrying Vanessa with a careful, determined grip.
Wade sighed dramatically. "Tough crowd. But hey, I saved the day. I always save the day. Just don't tell the rest of the team, alright? We don't need their sappy gratitude."
And with that, Wade turned toward the others, ready to break more bones, crack more jokes, and somehow come out alive on the other side. Because that's what Deadpool does.
---
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