[INT. DEADPOOL'S SAFEHOUSE – NIGHT]
The city outside is still tense, flashing red and blue under the skyline. Inside the safehouse, however, chaos has taken on a more domestic tone.
Arthur sits at a crate-turned-table, calmly disassembling his revolver and running a cloth down the barrel. His eyes stay sharp, hands practiced.
ARTHUR (muttering):"Damn modern world... still gotta respect a clean barrel."
Across the room, Micah rifles through the fridge with growing frustration.
MICAH (slamming the door shut):"What the hell is this? No whiskey, no moonshine, just... sparkling water? Kombucha? Who drinks fungus tea?!"
DEADPOOL (lounging upside-down on the couch):"Hipsters, my dear Meth Cowboy. The kind who wear scarves in July and have opinions about oat milk."
Micah grabs a beer can anyway, cracks it open, and sniffs it like it's a foreign object. Then shrugs and gulps.
Dutch stands silently at a boarded-up window, arms behind his back, looking like he's trying to solve a puzzle no one else can see.
DUTCH (to himself):"There's always a way... some order in chaos. Always."
Meanwhile, in the corner, Jake is sitting on the couch with John leaning over his shoulder. They're hunched over Jake's phone. John squints at it like it's sorcery.
JOHN:"What in hell is that? Little picture screen?"
JAKE:"It's called Instagram. It's where people lie to each other by posting their happiest moments and pretending their lives aren't burning down."
JOHN (laughs):"So... campfire gossip for city folks?"
JAKE:"Exactly, but with filters and influencers who cry for likes."
Deadpool suddenly yanks off his mask with dramatic flair.
DEADPOOL:"Alright, truth time! Let's let the face breathe."
The four outlaws all glance at him. Arthur's the first to react.
ARTHUR (grimaces):"...Jesus Christ. Put that back on. That ain't a face, that's what happens when a rattlesnake mates with a barbecue pit."
DEADPOOL (mock hurt):"Ouch. That was oddly specific. Also accurate."
MICAH (eyeing him):"What in god's name happened to you?"
DEADPOOL (smiling):"Cancer, torture and a secret government torture program..."
Jake stands up, clapping his hands.
JAKE:"Alright, weirdos. Dinner time. I'm ordering in. What do you all want?"
DUTCH (suspiciously):"You ordering food... like from a restaurant?"
JAKE:"Kinda. It's like a stable for food. But instead of horses, it's Uber Eats. And instead of saddling up, the guy brings it to your door. Magic."
ARTHUR:"Got any stew? Beans? Bread that ain't white and sliced like paper?"
JAKE:"Closest I can do is chili and cornbread."
JOHN:"Meat. Lots of it. Doesn't matter what kind."
MICAH:"Whiskey-marinated steak. With whiskey on the side."
DEADPOOL (grinning):"I'll take sushi, a side of Hot Cheetos, and a milkshake flavored like existential dread."
JAKE (typing):"Right. So... food roulette it is."
[INT. FISK TOWER – UNDERGROUND TASK FORCE ROOM – NIGHT]
In a cold-lit underground chamber beneath Fisk Tower, monitors flicker and hum. Suited men gather around a central table. At the head of it stands Wilson Fisk, stoic, arms folded behind his back.
FISK (watching the replay footage from earlier):"Six of them. Four are armed. All dressed like they walked off a film set. And one... that red-suited freak."
A uniformed officer nods, flipping through dossiers.
AGENT:"Vigilante behavior. Civilian casualties. Multiple officers down. Property damage. They've already done more harm than the Devil of Hell's Kitchen."
FISK:"Then it's time we reminded the public who keeps this city safe. Bring the task force online. I want every facial scan, every license plate, and every social post within two miles combed through."
AGENT:"Yes, sir. Mobilizing Anti-Vigilante Task Force."
Fisk turns to the screens, voice cold as iron.
FISK:"No masks. No games. Anyone operating outside the law... will be dealt with."