Collateral Damage (DeadpoolxOC)

I - The Severed Limb Special

The Severed Limb wasn't a bar so much as a post-apocalyptic fever dream with a liquor license, the kind of place where hope came to die after a three-day bender. The flickering neon signs bathed the whole scene in just enough light to remind you you were alive—and what a bad idea that was. The regulars? Oh, they were an absolute delight—mercs, degenerates, and career scumbags. You know, the type who'd rob you for your spare change but leave your credit card because they had standards.

But the Severed Limb didn't judge, and neither did the empty glasses piling up between Deadpool and Bullseye. They both fit right in—like a shotgun in a preschool. Wade tipped back another shot, the burn doing nothing to drown the taste of failure still clinging to his mouth. Next to him, Bullseye twirled his latest toothpick, flicking it across the bar like it was part of some drunken ritual.

The peanut bucket was almost empty now, casualties of Lester's unrelenting accuracy, but the tequila kept coming. They weren't toasting success—they were drowning a failure so spectacular it could've been a blockbuster. One man who never missed, one man who couldn't die, and both of them were drinking like the answer to all their problems was somewhere at the bottom of a bottle. So far, it wasn't working.

The mission had gone belly-up in spectacular fashion—not because of them, of course. No, the blame landed squarely on Taskmaster. The smug bastard had tuned them up like a discount violin, swiping the prize and leaving them in the dust.

"Man, that bastard's good," Bullseye said, tossing back another tequila shot. "You see the way he played us? Almost impressive. Almost."

Wade snorted, fiddling with the rim of his glass. "Played you. I knew something was fishy when he said, 'Trust me.'"

Bullseye flicked the last but one peanut at him, nailing him square in the mask. "Please. You were too busy monologuing to notice he was two steps ahead."

"Hey, monologues are an art form," Wade shot back. "They add flair. You wouldn't understand, Mr. Toothpick Tricks."

Bullseye smirked, leaning casually on the bar. "Yeah? Well, flair doesn't get the job done. Precision does."

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I hallucinate the part where Tasky pulled the ol' 'Look over there!' and left us holding the bag? Because last I checked, you were right there with me, pal."

"Sure was," Bullseye said, pouring himself another drink with infuriating calm. "But at least I don't make a career out of getting my ass handed to me and calling it a win." He flicked another toothpick into the dartboard behind the bar. Dead center. Of course.

Wade sighed, swirling his drink. "God, you're exhausting. Do you rehearse this shit, or does it just come naturally?"

Before Bullseye could retaliate, the bar door creaked open. The room fell quiet—not the kind of quiet where people were too drunk to care, but the kind where every instinct screamed pay attention.

Wade turned, mid-sip, and froze.

She walked in. And by walked, it means she made an entrance that, at least from his booze-soaked perspective, could've sent a Navy SEAL team into therapy.

Women didn't just waltz into The Severed Limb—not unless they had a death wish or a vendetta. But this one? She looked like she was there to collect. And probably leave a few broken bodies in her wake. She wasn't tall, but sharp-edged, her dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Not the delicate, princess-in-a-tower kind of beauty. No, this was the kind that made you beg for a swift death after she stomped your guts out.

He felt his heart stutter, not the romantic kind of skip, but the fight-or-flight kind. Something in her presence hit him like a live wire, a jolt straight to the brain—and maybe a little lower—that made him think, Well, hello there.