Owner	Pose
Wade Wilson	Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls is quieter than usual tonight. Maybe most of the mercs are out and about. Maybe Weasel raised the price on drinks again. There could be any number of reasons why there are not as many people in here as there usually are. But there is, of course, one person that will always be here. Come Hell, Highwater or Holistic Medicine... DEADPOOL. The Merc with a Mouth is relaxed in his signature booth. It's his signature booth because of the blood splattered logo design on the wall behind his head. There's also a plastic sign taped up there as well that says: Wade's Booth. He's playing Marvel SNAP on his phone and it looks like he's losing from the frustrated grunting and occasional whining. "Weasel! Your wi-fi sucks!" "Haven't paid the bill in three months." "Oh." Deadpool regroups. "SOMEBODY'S WI-FI SUCKS!"
Blade	It's not exactly Blade's scene. Not that he's never been here before. There was the pack of ghouls, moonlighting as mercs. There was the ancient bloodsucker who preferred to hunt prey prepared to fight back. There was the last time he needed nigh-unkillable, disease-immune backup on a Hunt. Any one of these reasons could be the cause of the statuesque dhampir's dour demeanour as he breaches the door to the bar at once forcefully and gracefully. The portal opens swiftly, strongly enough to have been kicked in-- but it never makes a sound. There's no evidence but that blink and you'd miss it moment of the slayer's strength as he strides forward, a fingerless leather-gloved hand on the outer knob, abating its swing with a nonchalant touch. The monstrous monster hunter's longcoat trails his movements as he enters the bar, scans the interior from behind dark, mirrored shades, and bee-lines straight for Wade. Blade is armed for bear tonight; armored under and at key points outside the coat, holsters and bandoliers visible beneath it. He left the long guns in the car. "Mr. Wilson." He says it all dry. Like he doesn't know the joke. Like Wade has never explained it before. There's nary a quirk of the old hunter's lips to betray him. "Hate to interrupt your busy night." No he doesn't. But even the obvious sarcasm barely rings as such. Old world stoic politesse can be -so- backhanded, sometimes. Especially in the now-understated accent of a Guy Ritchie protagonist.
Wade Wilson	"UGH! I hate this phone! I really should give this back to Gwenpool but..." Deadpool shrugs and tosses the phone over his shoulder-- where it smashes into the wall. Guess he wasn't as good at Marvel SNAP! as he was hoping to be. "Next time, I'm stealing a LexTel." Deadpool takes a moment to look out here at us. Because of course he does. Then BLADE COMETH and Deadpool almost chokes on the badassery of an entrance. "Weasel, keep it in your pants!" A quick cut to Weasel looking as if he were about to say something awestruck but Wade's words send him back to wiping down the bar. Wade's standing up in his booth by the time we cut back to him. "He's here for me." Deadpool almost giggles at that thought. It takes him a moment to compose himself and he tries to put on his own 'badass voice'. It sounds like Christian Bale and Kermit the Frog combined voices. "Dennis." Deadpool keeps a straight face because his mask makes that possible as he lets Blade know he's in on the potential joke as well. "Wouldn't you know it, I was looking forward to being interrupted tonight. It's why I wore my lucky socks." Deadpool reaches to pull up a pants leg far enough to show off his Pinkie Pie socks. "Works every time." Deadpool plants his hands behind his head to get back into a comfortable position. "What is the up, my dogg?"
Blade	"Got that one backwards, don't you?" Especially when Spider-Man is nowhere to be seen. It's just icy smooth indeed, not a beat missed. Which is great when one is making dumb jokes. Helps to sell the experience. It's rhetorical though; Blade doesn't actually care. And who can blame him? "Nest of critters, real bad sort of motherfuckers. Infectious. Intelligent. Deadly. Been working up to critical mass to threaten a real outbreak of monsters. We're talking national news." Long as they're still broadcasting. "Got to hit them hard, make it decisive. Total containment." Wade knows that drill; no survivors, no outside contacts, a target burned to its very foundations, scattered as ash to the four winds. "Has to be tonight."
Wade Wilson	While Blade's making his pitch, Deadpool's all ears. Chin on hands. Swooning inside of his mask. There may even be hearts in his eyes. There's a whole lot going on because there are a whole lot of words being said that he's in love with. Also, it's freaking BLADE standing in front of him right now. Come on. Who wouldn't be half-past smitten. "I do." Deadpool responds to the proposal that he heard and not the actual commentary that's been given. It takes him a second to shake himself out of that and he slaps the table to do it. "I mean, I'll do it-- but you're gonna' have to sweeten the pot. I'm gonna' need more than cashola this time around." Wade's been on a job like this before and regretted not asking for extra perks. Time to not let that happen again -- lest Weasel never let him hear the end of it. "Ante up and I'm all yours."
Blade	Weasel. Blade barely pays the man a second glance. Didn't even bother to order a drink; those -really- on the ball would know that's just the kind of rush the hunter is in. No time for whiskey. "We're already on the clock here, Wilson." Blade points out, impatient without the slightest quiver in his matter-of-fact bass. He never even sat down, and now the slayer turns to walk right back out the door. Like every love in Wade's life. "Terms are negotiable-- but I already told you." If he doesn't hustle, Deadpool may miss the punchline. Blade's focus is on getting back to his ride. If he -is- on the hustle? Wade gets the door held for him, like a real princess. "You ain't really my type." It's not hard to pick out Blade's work commuter in the parking lot. There just aren't that many cherry looking 1968 Chargers in New York City these days, for one thing. Even fewer have windows that have lost most of their visibility to armor, with viewports and access points that can really... only be designed for firing guns through. Or ablative carbon fiber and kevlar plating reinforcing the entire jet black and chrome affair's key points without sacrificing -style-. The dhampir pops the trunk, which opens into a multi-tiered display of gun and knife cases, incendieries, and more esoteric sundries, the vehicle's interior -massively- warded in a variety of traditions for a wider variety of adversaries. "You need to stop for anything else?" -Is- there anything else?