Many thanks to all of you who reviewed: ZabuzasGirl, LovelyFandomLover, CJ/Oddball, EliseWatson, and Ashley1016. You all wanted an update, so here you go! Yay!

Eleven

Images of Mercy bleeding against the filing cabinet haunted Wade for the next few days. He wished he had snapped her neck like he was supposed to so he could stop thinking about her. He'd murdered plenty of Francis's female goons in the past, so why was Mercy so different?

Blind Al laughed lowly when he vented about his sudden feelings to her. "I think you know," she said cryptically.

Wade rolled his eyes. "I clearly don't. Thanks for nothing."

He chalked up her vagueness to her being old. And blind. And really bad at putting together IKEA furniture.

So Wade resolved to ignore these nagging emotions and continue with his mission. After some careful spying downtown, he discovered a lead that Francis was going to accompany the next drop off of future slaves and that they would be going over a major highway. If the timing was right, all Wade had to do was create a diversion so he could find Francis in one of the transports.

And that was how he ended up blocking the interstate with a litter of vans, cars, bodies, and 12 bullets.

"Francis!" he sang, skipping down the road. Wade scanned the area for his nemesis, careful not to pass him. "Come out and play, you giant sack of dicks."

A lone motorcycle came barreling towards him as if on cue. He grinned beneath his mask and grabbed a long sword from his back, spinning it in his hand for show. The driver swerved to avoid him, but Wade threw his weapon with pristine accuracy, snagging the bike's tires, toppling the driver.

He fist pumped with victory and ran over to the unconscious man. Wade yanked his helmet off, and his skin prickled with excitement. Finally, he was face to face with his enemy.

"Francis," he said, smacking his cheek over and over. "Francis… Wake up!"

Wade slapped him hard, stirring Francis.

"What the—" he began, then swallowed his words when he saw the man in the red mask. Francis's eyes, once wide with confusion, narrowed with control. "I've heard about you."

"You've done more than that," Wade retorted, then lifted up his mask. "Ringing any bells?"

Francis grinned knowingly. "Oh, I know who you are, Wade Wilson. You're the only moron in this city asking for Francis."

Wade paused. He wasn't expecting this line of conversation. (But then again, Francis had a point… everyone else called him Ajax, so maybe he was murdering all those people for no reason…)

Meh. Now wasn't the time to dwell on these complicated moral issues; now was the time to kill.

"Then I suppose you're expecting this!" Wade drew a dagger dramatically—one that he stole from Mercy.

"Yes," Francis said calmly. His eyes wandered behind Wade, and he broke out in a toothy smile. "But were you expecting her?"

Wade turned at the exact second he heard an engine roar. He saw Mercy aggressively throw the bike from beneath her and jump on his back, choking his airway. Wade stumbled backwards, accidentally freeing Francis, who ran for the bike.

Wade flailed his arms, trying to break free, but Mercy's grip was strong—somehow stronger than even a week ago when they last fought. He managed to elbow her in the ribs and she instinctively let go. When he threw a punch, she went low and swept his feet, knocking him on his butt. Behind them, Francis revved the motorcycle engine and pulled it behind Mercy.

Wade scrambled to his feet, but Mercy was faster. She hopped on the back of the bike and wrapped one free arm around Francis. The other grabbed a knife from her belt. Wade charged at them as Francis hit the gas and Mercy threw the knife, landing just below his heart in his chest.

When the sound of the motorcycle disappeared into the horizon, Wade screamed with frustration. He was so close! This… close! Motherfuckering shit cunt fuck…

Wade kicked at the debris around him until he was sure his foot was broken, then punched the the lingering carcasses of cars around him, shattering his wrist. The pain was immediate, but ignorable. He guessed that was the one perk of having these powers.

Wade collapsed to the ground, his breathing heavy and fast. He didn't know what his next move should be… What was the point anymore? He couldn't even find one guy and fucking kill him. What was he trying to get at, anyway? Someone else besides Francis will rise up in his place and keep doing the same shit. Wade knew in that moment he wasn't being heroic; he was being selfish. But Jesus fuck he hated Francis with every ounce of his being.

After a few minutes of steady, angry breathing, Wade remembered the knife in his chest. He pulled with his good hand with finality, inspecting the new blood on the blade. The knife was kept sharp and well-maintained, though it was clear it wasn't new.

And just like that, Wade's chest swelled with nostalgia for Christmas, when he gifted Frankie her own knife with her initials carved into the handle. It was her favorite weapon—she took it on all their missions; it became something like a good luck charm for them.

He wanted so badly to find Frankie now, but if he did, he was putting her life at risk… Especially now that he knew that Francis knew who he was. After all, that was the easiest way to get his attention—capture the love of his life.

Wade ran his thumb over the dull end of the blade, plotting his next steps: go home, shower, find a new lead… He loathed the idea of starting from scratch again, but it was his only option. What else could he do? Quit this mission and star in horror films?

Wade's eyes followed his thumb to the knife's handle, a beautifully carved maple. And just then, his heart stopped. He brought the knife closer to his face to make sure he wasn't reading things, but there it was, broad as day: F.W. carved into the handle.

No. No way. New plan.

Wade panted anxiously, his heart hammering so fast he was surprised it didn't break through his chest. He nearly ran back to the apartment to shower and change, and then called his favorite cab driver to take him over to Sister Margaret's. It was still early—before 5—but if Wade knew Weasel's schedule, he would be setting up for the night.

"So things have changed, Mr. Pool?" Dopinder asked curiously.

"Oh yes," he said from beneath the hood of the sweatshirt that hid his face. "Everything's changed."

Wade gripped the handle of Frankie's knife in his palm so tightly his knuckles turned white. He wouldn't let himself consider the option that Frankie was Mercy, because the idea was ludicrous—even he had limits for crazy.

When he arrived (and paid Dopinder with a high ten), Sister Margaret's was quiet, clean, and empty—three things he'd never seen at this place in all his years as a merc.

"Uh, we're closed, dude," Weasel's voice floated from the bar. "You'll have to come back a little… Jesus Christ. Is that you, Wade?!"

Wade pulled off his hood, exposing his new face. Without waiting for a snarky comment from his best friend, he slammed the bloody knife on the counter.

"Why do I have Frankie's knife?" he demanded. "Where is she?"

Weasel's face, once panicked and confused, softened immediately. He didn't respond right away, seemingly searching for the right words to let him down with.

Wade repeated, more urgently this time, "Weasel, where's your sister?"

Weasel sighed deeply, then grabbed two shot glasses from beneath the bar. "We thought you were dead."

"I did too. And then… this happened," Wade explained quickly, gesturing to his face. "It's a long story. But that's not what I'm here for. So tell me: where's Frankie?"

He poured two shots of tequila. "Drink up," his friend said simply, pushing the glass towards him. "Because she's gone."