"You gearing up for World War III?"
"As a mercenary, having some extra firepower is perfectly reasonable."
Weasel stared at the mountain of weapons and ammo Robert had just dumped on the floor. "Are you sure this is just a little extra?"
Robert grinned. "Listen, we're about to face off with Mutants. People who can shrug off bullets. This isn't just firepower—it's insurance. And everything here? Custom-modded by yours truly."
Weasel cautiously picked up a pistol from the pile. "This one looks normal. Just an M9. What's so special about it?"
"That one?" Robert puffed his chest proudly. "Fingerprint-locked trigger. Only I can fire it. Try to use it without my print and—"
"What? What happens?" Weasel leaned in, curious.
"It'll explode."
Weasel: "...Excuse me?!"
Robert chuckled. "Relax. I haven't activated the detonation trigger on that one yet. You're safe."
Weasel immediately set the pistol down like it was cursed. "Yeah, I'm not touching anything else in this deathtrap pile. Thanks."
Wade, meanwhile, was eyeballing the gear with growing admiration. "Man... you're a real one. I mean it. After two months of spooning in that sh*tty apartment, here you are... bringing me a mountain of friendship bullets. I swear, when I finally turn Francis into tomato paste, I'm engraving your name on the tombstone."
Robert rolled his eyes. "Yeah... no. That's my gear. I'm not donating it to you. I'm coming with you."
Wade blinked. "You're what now?"
"I'm in," Robert said simply, loading a mag and chambering a round. "I'm helping you take him down."
Wade raised an eyebrow. "I appreciate the sentiment, really. But we're not going to a pie-eating contest. Francis has a full-on private army and a bulletproof Mutant gorilla on his team. This isn't something extra firepower alone can fix."
Instead of answering, Robert raised his arm and casually fired a shot.
Bang!
The bullet curved through the air—around Weasel—then nailed a bullseye on the dartboard behind him.
"WHAT THE F—?!"
Weasel nearly collapsed. "Did... did you just shoot me!?"
Robert grinned. "Nope. You're still standing."
"I heard the gun! I closed my eyes! I saw my life flash—wait, how... how the hell did it curve?"
Wade's jaw dropped. "That bullet bent like Beckham! Are you serious!? What kind of voodoo physics is this?!"
Robert casually reloaded. "It's called gun-fu. Basically, I rotate my wrist at the moment of firing to give the bullet horizontal spin, causing it to arc."
Weasel backed up a step. "So your idea of a target demo is trying to assassinate your friends?"
"Relax," Robert said, already prepping another round. "You're not dead. That's what matters."
"Sold," Wade said instantly. "You're hired. If I'm going to charge into a deathtrap, I want the bullet-bending freak with me."
Just then, Wade's phone buzzed.
He checked it—and his face twisted with rage.
"That dish soap bottle of a man just texted me," he growled. "He's got Vanessa. Wants me at some grimy-ass scrapyard tomorrow at six a.m. SIX! As if I can catch a cab that early in New York!"
"They've set a trap," Weasel muttered. "They're waiting for you to show up angry and alone."
Robert didn't hesitate. He grabbed the gear on the floor and started strapping on weapons like a walking armory. "Then we'll spring it our way."
Weasel blinked. "We?"
Robert looked back. "Yeah. Three of us. You, me, Wade."
"Excuse me?" Weasel asked, baffled. "You're not actually counting me, are you?"
"You're not a person now?"
Weasel stared. "I'm logistics! I do tech! I fetch coffee! What part of that screams 'frontline soldier' to you?"
---
Ten minutes later...
Robert emerged from the back room fully geared up like a one-man army.
He was wearing tactical gear, twin revolvers holstered at his thighs, a sawed-off shotgun across his back, two belts of grenades across his chest like bandoliers, and more magazines strapped to him than a gun show.
Weasel took one look at him and whistled. "Dude... you're a walking explosion hazard."
"You can never have too much firepower," Robert replied, then stuffed two more grenades into his side pockets for good measure.
Weasel grimaced. "Yeah... remind me not to light a match near you."
In contrast, Wade stood nearby in his sleek black and red suit, two katanas strapped to his back. Stylish. Deadly. Surprisingly practical.
He sized up Robert and nodded approvingly. "You look like a badass... assuming you don't trip and detonate yourself before we even get there."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Robert smirked.
"Alright, names!" Wade said suddenly. "We're clearly a duo now. What are we calling ourselves? The Deadpool Alliance?"
"God no," Robert grimaced. "Sounds like a Facebook fan club. How about... 'The Immortal Duo?' Both of us heal. Both of us shoot. And as long as we don't take off our pants, we're basically unkillable."
Wade's eyes lit up. "The Undead Duo! That's straight to the point. I love it."
"Then it's settled." Robert extended a hand.
Wade slapped it with his own. "Let's go give Francis a symphony of bullets."
-------------
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