WADE: Some days, he didn't have anything better to do. Some days there wasn't a single job to be had, and all his magic box had to show him were tired old reruns, so Wade went out on the town. His latest pet project these days was the hotel: Paradise Hotel, which wasn't at all commercially active anymore, but still had a startlingly large influx and -- outflux? -- of youths. It tickled the imagination, it did! And so it was that this sunny afternoon, Wade had brought along his own lawnchair (pink) and set up camp in the bushes (largely green), digging his way through a deliciously greasy bag of chips (jalapeño flavor) and peering through, yes, a telescope. When Wade went into Stalker Mode (TM), he went all-out. Never let it be said that he skimped on expenses when it came to sheer creeper effect.

And in his own (totally unbiased, totally professional) opinion, this was pretty high-grade lurking right here, folks. Deadpool was proud of his lurking. You could bottle it up and sell it in stores, it was that potent.

These kids weren't being particularly interesting, though. He was starting to consider the merits of heading back home for some intellectually stimulating Discovery Channel watching. Consequently, he had turned almost all of his attention towards scrutinising and peering into the dregs of his plastic bag. Sweet, sweet jalapeños! Never leave me!

MADELINE: Leaving the common areas of the hotel was like climbing out from beneath the surface of a crowded swimming pool. Everything felt like it was amplified out of her control in the shuffle between her room, the stairs, the lobby. Thoughts came through the walls in the stairwell faster than she could push them out, like through water, sounding anguished and urgent through the twisting interference of her own resistance even if they were about last night's Grey's Anatomy. When she was eleven and twelve, she used to try and cover her ears when this sort of thing happened, but she soon realized that was like closing one's eyes to make the weather change. She was better at blocking out the various detuned radio signals now that she was older--which, granted, wasn't saying much. Her head was spinning when she came out of the doors of the lobby, sunglasses on and her face angled down at the sidewalk. On days like this, when something extra electric in nature--gossip, anxiety, impending change--was zooming around the brainwaves of the hotel, it took the full walk to make her headache calm itself down.

And Madeline prided herself on being a relatively calm person, these days. Gone were the 'episodes' from her time in foster care, of blowing out the windows of the second floor when someone snuck up behind her, or of unconsciously levitating the contents of her room during a nightmare. Days like this, she hardly needed the calming breath to sweep out the last bits of borrowed consciousness from her brainpan; days like this, she almost had back her full attention span by the time she cut through the bushes, her typical route to class.

Yes, everything was going swimmingly--that is, until she started rummaging through her messenger bag, lost sight of where she was going, and didn't feel the presence of another mind rear up until she quite literally ran into it. Now, tripping over a pink lawn chair and its dubious contents was not something Madeline did everyday, and as she fell, she opened her mouth to scream, or shout, or perhaps curse. It was impossible to tell which, as no sound came out. She just started falling.

WADE: An ungainly sprawl of limbs resulted, and Wade suddenly found himself in the enviable position of disentangling himself from a beautiful young woman. He didn't like the part where his bubblegum-pink throne had been knocked over, but the fact that she had a decent rack and had fallen right onto him, now that was A-OK.

After the requisite long moment of surprise, he struggled to scrabble off and back to his feet, with a curt litany of, "Hey hey hey-- watch it, toots--"

His sword may or may not have gone skittering across the ground, too, disturbed from its stand behind the lawn-chair. Yes. Wade has a sword.

MADELINE: He didn't really even get to finish the 'ts' at the end of the diminutive, because his presence alone was enough to violently draw up reflexes Madeline Pryor had long since suppressed. It was as though by breaking the verbal silence he'd split the seal on something else, something decidedly less congenial, something that took that moment to come roaring out. The trite pair of aviator sunglasses had been knocked askew on her face, and one--rather angry, clearly frightened--eye was visible. In the fraction of a second it took her to narrow it in his direction, the stranger was flying backwards, as though he'd been snagged beneath the ribcage by a meathook, picked up, and swung. Madeline watched it unfold like a surreal panorama before her, not quite understanding that she was the author of this event, as it was partly out of her control.

Oh, right. She'd set him on fire, as well. By the time a tree had abruptly stopped Wade's little airborne detour, he was more on the 'well-done' end of the grilling spectrum. Sadly, she wasn't finished. A split second after his back hit bark, the sword followed, pinning him through his stomach like a neon-colored garage sale flyer to a telephone pole.

Her vision blurred for a few seconds, starbursts popping at the edge of her eyes and dripping and multiplying, like she was looking through a kaleidoscope. One attempt at getting up was enough to inform her that she'd need to stay sitting for a moment or two. Her voice, however, when it emerged after a long pause, was as cold and collected as one assessing a crucified and likely dead intruder could possibly be. She would deal with the implications of this as soon as she could stand.

"A sword. Really?" It was as much to herself as anyone else.

WADE: "Sure fucking do."

The voice, when it came, came at a gravelly little wheeze. Pinned and skewered to the tree as he was, his weight was dragging him inexorably down on the blade, and his chest and ribs laboured to get enough breath to speak. But incessant chatter was the be-all end-all of Wade's existence, so by god, he'd get enough breath to speak, even if it killed him! ...Which it probably wouldn't, all things considered. He squirmed and wiggled a bit, like a worm on a line. Jeeeeesus christ, this was uncomfortable.

JESUS CHRIST, had she actually thrown him through the air?

When his head finally lifted from his limp shoulders, Wade was at full alert. The immense trauma to his system had kicked in the healing. He felt a little smoky. And a little barbecued. He'd never been barbecued before. He angled his legs and kicked himself out from the tree, enough to pull on the sword until it came free, and then Wade went tumbling to the ground along with his weapon.

"Man, I prefer my shish kebab when I'm not the one being shished," he grumbled as he slowly got back on his feet, using the sword as a crutch. The livid burns were already starting to fade, the charred skin through Wade's torn clothing turning back to a more normal pinkish tone.

MADELINE: It would have been less disturbing if she had actually killed him, even if this meant less figurative paperwork.

"You surprised me." She didn't say 'scared,' and wouldn't, ever, even if it would have been implicit in the look she'd given him right before the whole charbroiling, shish-kebabing...thing. Spurred on by the unnatural sight of him hiking himself to his feet mechanically, new skin shining through the layers she'd dispatched even as he spoke, Madeline gained her own back. She rose as smoothly as she could manage, using a sapling behind her as surreptitious support. It was all about appearances, after all, and if Mad had her way, she'd be strong until the very instant of death. With any luck, she'd be back in full by the time he decided to take his revenge.

Of course, Madeline didn't even consider that he wouldn't attempt retribution, despite the fact that thus far she'd been the only one to show signs of aggression.

"Who are you."

WADE: He was still reeling, but it only took a few moments before Wade rose back to his full height, his back ramrod-straight and the steady flow of blood from his belly already staunching. The man tightened his grip around the handle of the sword. With a slight stretch and a few joints popping, the audible cracks strangely conspicuous on this sunny day, he felt good as new and ready for another round. Peachy-keen!

"Deadpool," he said, after a pause. "--But they call me Mister Tibbs!"

The last half of the answer turned to a bellowing yell, and with that, he lunged. The flat of the blade came swinging in a wide sideways arc; he wasn't being paid for this shit, so he wasn't directly trying to kill her yet. But any more psychic explosions in his direction would be direly unappreciated, thanks. Fight and quote Sidney Poitier first; ask questions later.

MADELINE: "What about Neo," she said, flatter than Kansas. The moving flash of the weapon came to a frozen halt nearly six inches from her face. Sure, there wasn't enough juice left to do what she wanted (that is, give a shot at tearing him in half and seeing if his body could find his head), but Madeline would be damned if he'd touch her. Pop-culture references or no. That creepy stare thing Madeline had going for her? It was kicking in right about now, no matter how much taller than her this Deadpool character happened to be. She wanted to memorize him.

"What sort of a name is Deadpool, anyway? It makes you sound like festering sewage." She could hear the aborted force of the sword ringing in the air next to her ear. A bead of sweat trickled down from her hairline to her cheek, but that seemed the only visible sign of her exertion. Welcome to suppression.

WADE: He couldn't help the little jolt of interest which flickered across his expression when solid steel met solid mental exertion; Wade maintained a secure grasp on the weapon, leaning forward into the telepathic wall currently keeping him and the girl from clashing. His struggle, being physical in nature, was far more visible: his teeth gritted and his muscles wound tight.

But that still didn't stop him from talking.

"I'm cooler than Keanu. And it's sorta an inside joke. You know, the dead pool -- predicting, betting on deaths, the assassination market, with the added bonus of being a Dirty Harry movie--" He would have shrugged, if only it wouldn't have thrown his balance askew. And aside for that bead of sweat on her cheek and the forced strain in his voice, they might just have been having an innocent conversation. "Total fun times. So who the fuck are you? A jedi? If this is the Force, it is absolutely effing awesome."

MADELINE: "Sure," she said, "The Force. Let's go with that. I'm glad you approve."

It occurred to her that this deadlock wouldn't be changing anytime soon, and given that she'd never seriously tested her own limits against an actual foe before--never mind one that could shake off being impaled--, she didn't want the first time to be in a situation where her face could be the first and last casualty. Never let it be said that just because she was a little fatalistic, Mad didn't have an advanced sense of survival.

"It doesn't take too much effort to be cooler than Keanu, dude."

She took in a breath and held it, and seriously hoped that precision work wouldn't backfire on her, under the conditions. There was a tiny tug at the corner of his strange red mask, and then another. With gratitude that both his hands were occupied with the sword, she gave one final psychic yank, punctuated by her next words.

"But seriously, who. are. you."

WADE: His enhanced stamina aside, even Mister Tibbs didn't want to continue this deadly stalemate with badass female Neo forever. Then again, he could think of a few nicer ways to end it -- being demasked was definitely not one of them, because it sent the man rocking backwards on his own feet, abruptly abandoning the inverse tug-o-war in order to clap a hand to his face. With the red material whipped off and over his tousled hair, Deadpool's looks were fully visible. There wasn't a bad foundation there, really; good bone structure, but there was no hiding that his formerly-good-looks were so formerly it hurt. Cancer scars had ravaged his face, and that flare of self-consciousness gave Madeline the upper hand, for now.

"Aw, man, way to hit my super secret -- and ridiculously clichéd and recognisable -- weak spot," he complained, his tone canted to a surly grumble. "You're supposed to wait until I'm done with the power-crazed monologuing, then pull some sort of slimy-ass trick to disarm me." Pause. "And maybe I'll say something which'll make me sound vulnerable and endearing to the audience, and you'll stop for a moment in surprising empathy. Shit, you're just not doing this one by the book at all."

MADELINE: It was like when you run without stopping, and hit that breaking point where collapse seems non-negotiable...that is, until you pass it and keep running, balancing along a new, unknown threshold above which you've never been but now feels perfectly natural. She felt a sudden clarity, and marveled at how much it felt like she was floating, with an extra-strength helium balloon attached to her brain. She could get used to this, she thought, along with the strange and sickening rush of happiness when she saw her new foe stumble away in (albeit temporary) defeat. Power over her world wasn't something she was used to having, and she drank it up like a flower soaking up sunlight.

Of course, this post-awesome glow was downsized considerably when she looked down and realized she actually was floating, about a foot above the ground. She really didn't have time for new developments like this, Christ.

"You'll have to forgive me, Mister Tibbs. This is all pretty new." Funny thing was, Wade wasn't totally off about a surprising moment of empathy, though it had nothing to do with the (admittedly delightful) gems of pop culture spilling out of his mouth. It was his face. Madeline so rarely had an opportunity to be surprised that the truly idiosyncratic was capable of nearly stopping her in her tracks. As though some bouncy castle she was standing on had the air let out of it, she was lowered to the ground.

"No use crying over spilt milk," Madeline said, almost too quietly for anyone to hear. Without moving, she took a step forward, and pressed at the cloud of consciousness hovering around his head, like knocking at a front door politely before she kicked it down with a pair of borrowed combat boots. He wouldn't mind, would he? She was already getting the signal, snippets of conversations and strong emotional concepts coming through the ether to her mental television set, as complex as DNA code scrolling down the screen.

WADE: "Spilt m--" He only had enough time to register surprise before, suddenly, she was in. Madeline's first welcome to the mind of Wade Wilson would be a rush of profanity bubbling on the surface, as his entire being recoiled with the pain: jesus fuck this wasn't fair, she could javelin him into a tree and set him on fire and she can ninj his mind, which department store did she get her powers from and could he go buy some too, please--

The second welcome was a sledgehammer blow of mix-matched colours and impressions, his thoughts leaping from context to idea to television shows like greased lightning on crack. His mental instability was overwhelming. But so was her unexpected intrusion into his head, and even as he pondered this new and unique form of violation, Wade's mind blinked out. Darkness swept in and he fell ungracefully backwards.

But before he slipped into full unconsciousness, and before he hit the ground, he looked her right in the metaphorical telepathic eye and muttered: If we were gonna get this intimate, you could've at least bought me dinner befo--

Bam.

MADELINE: This was better than dying, it had to be. She parted his brainwaves like electric beaded curtains in her fingers; one moment she was falling, and the next she was walking with confidence among the melée of ghost soldiers and plastic day-glo colors, the hail of obscenities feeling wet, angry, and beautiful as rain. Madeline had never before possessed a mind as much as it possessed her, and as exhausted as she was, she let herself float down the river of it, buffeted by his anger, and kick around like a blissful kid with puddles to stomp. Time didn't move the same way inside someone's mind as it did in the real world, she'd found--cells died and were born at the same instant in white crackling explosions, inane messages were sent from one hemisphere to the next as slow as molassess or quicker than lightning. Nothing was cleaner or dirtier than the private side of the human mind. She tried to incapacitate him without flipping the 'off' switch, to become part of the yellow sky.

Unfortunately, she was getting a bit too exuberant in taking out the walls of her new house, and the whole place started to flicker like a string of bad Christmas lights, cartoon angels and tweeting birds swirling overhead like an impending K.O. in a Looney Tune. She was sucked out, somehow, whispering forcefully on her way: It wasn't me that did this to you. Remember that. Rememb--

And then she was out, flat on her back in the grass. Her freakish blue eyes rolled back in her head for a moment, but she reclaimed control with a wide, toothy smile, taking a moment to appreciate the privacy of the spot Deadpool had chosen for his spying. The vegetation around the hotel was intimidating in areas, and other than the noise of the heat blast, Madeline doubted anyone would have noticed them. A honeybee hovered over her nose before moving on in search of proper pollen, and she almost laughed. With a bit of exertion, she pushed herself up to her hands and looked at the strange man on the ground beside her. His face was gorgeous. No one could know what she'd done to him.

Madeline pulled out her phone, and started an entry on Tessa's secure network, even as a tiny trickle of blood threaded its way out of her left nostril.