#had they just ignored that finale and brought wolverine back we would have felt ROBBED

[gojifan97]

I have watched Deadpool & Wolverine. I must say I greatly appreciated that they showed right off the bat how they were going to respect the tear jerking ending of Logan.

That scene, with its honesty, frankness, and homage to X2, brought a smile to my face while my friend next to me was probably close to tears.

[durrzerker]

Taskmaster: The Line. Chapter 7: Play The Fools

As the ragtag party of children and their eclectic assortment of guardians climbed the stairs leading to the roof of the old Masters of Evil mansion, Wolverine was starting up a conversation with Akeja, who had been openly admiring her fighting style and claws all night. Eric, somehow, had become the favorite of almost all of the other kids; the Scions were warming up to him, whatever crime that Mara claimed that he and Taskmaster had committed against them all but forgotten as they asked him about what it was like to shrink, how it felt to be a giant, and if any of them would ever be twenty feet tall.

"Maybe!" Eric replied. "I've seen crazier things." He was clearly enjoying the attention, carrying the wounded boy whose name Tony had already lost across his shoulder like a sandbag, yet even taking the time to ensure his broken leg wasn't bouncing around. He was clearly enjoying the positive attention, and Taskmaster didn't blame him; there wasn't a whole lot of that in Bagalia.

For his part, though? Tony wasn't taking his eyes off of Spymaster, and it wasn't just because she had a sweet can (she did). He wondered if she knew, like Black Ant seemed to, that The Hub was apparently his wife. How common was this? Was it even a secret, or were they all laughing behind his back? Resisting the urge to corner Eric about it right this moment - not the time - Tony glanced back over his shoulder. The only one of the children who wasn't with the rest of the group was Cassandra, who was watching him as intently as he was Spymaster.

"What?"

"Waiting for ya tae run away."

"Very funny, and not happening," he scolded her.

"Did last time."

Not having a response to that, he fell silent until they reached the helipad. With a button on her wrist, Spymaster de-cloaked the quinjet that she had waiting for them; sleek and black, it looked to Taskmaster like a stolen SHIELD prototype; he could even get a sense of the missing markings on the wings. "You appropriate this yourself?" He asked curiously.

"Maybe. Not like SHIELD's intact anymore, what use is it sitting in some hanger?"

"I'm sure Uncle Sam would find use for it."

"Considering our current situation, I don't really give a fuck what Uncle Sam finds a use for," she replied harshly. "You've been thinking about what I told you, right?" Opening the kamikaze door of the quinjet, she started gesturing the children closer. To Tony's surprise, Mara stopped in front of him.

"You think we should go with her?"

"I think so, yeah." He didn't hesitate; it seemed clear enough.

"...You're a weird guy, Taskmaster. I mean, the costume really gave it away, but...I hope you understand that what's coming next for you isn't your fault. That doesn't mean you can't take responsibility for it, though." The way she stared up at him as she spoke took the witty retort right out of Tony's throat. He lingered for a moment, watching this strange little child with the wisdom that she had no business displaying like this, before she turned and promptly boarded the quinjet.

When Taskmaster and Eric went to follow, Spymaster stopped in front of the both of them. "We need to split up. Taskmaster, I have a location for you to go after Ross. He's going to send an extensive force after both of us; he's almost as angry at you as he is eager to get the kids."

"Now hold up a minute, lady," Taskmaster complained. "WHY? What the hell did I actually -do-?"

"I don't have time to explain, and a short version will just make you more curious," Spymaster replied. Before he could speak again, she cut him off by grabbing hold of Eric by the collar. "You and Wolverine are with me. Need your abilities, and the kids like you more." Laura didn't protest; it was obvious that she was always going to

"Yeah!" Black Ant cheered, hopping on board the quinjet. "Hear that, Tony? I'm the MvP."

"No, that's TESS-one, but she's too heavy for the plane," Spymaster assured him. As Eric slumped his shoulders, she brought the rest of the children aboard and turned her attention to Taskmaster. "Masters, this is important: You're going to find out what happened here soon. I -promise-. But trust me, because this comes straight from the Hub: You can't know until the children are safe. She asked me to relay that, and for you to keep believing she has your best interests in mind -- because she does." Ensuring that all the children were on the quinjet, Spymaster climbed on as well, grabbing the sliding door to start closing it until she was stopped by Taskmaster's harsh words.

"If she cares so much, why the hell hasn't she told me she's my WIFE?!" he snapped.

Glancing back at him, somehow sounding sad even through her voice scrambler, Spymaster shook her head. "...Oh, Tony. She has."

And then they were gone.

Standing there in the midst of a warm Bagalia night, clear skies offering a lovely view of stars that he had no interest in seeing, Taskmaster took a moment to collect himself. The violence and hedonism of his current lifestyle was effective at drowning it out, but in quiet moments like this, he could feel it; a deeper guilt, a hungry and gnawing void of self-loathing that threatened to consume him if he didn't feed it.

'Why do you think he takes these jobs?'

By the time he opened his eyes, the quinjet was gone. No Spymaster, no Wolverine, no Black Ant. He tried to reassure himself that this was a good thing. He worked better alone anyways, and the kids needed the backup the most.

"At least I got you, Tessie." He looked up to the gargantuan adamantium robot, who was still dressed like a twenty foot french maid. It was dusting the roof.

--

Taskmaster's mission, ultimately, was simple: he just had to follow the Wrecking Crew. Doing so with Tessie as his backup would be easier said than done, considering that even with the robot's prototype flight technology, it was still something of a massive and loud target. Instead assigning it to follow at a distance, he descended into the garage of the old Masters of Evil headquarters, heading for the vehicle bay that he'd had installed shortly after he had taken over. As tempting as his over-designed blue-and-orange motorcycle was, he needed to take a different approach; even idiots like the Wrecking Crew would know when they were being followed, if only because Ross was likely reminding them to check.

True to Spymaster's assessment, they were clearly hustling to get out of the city. The tracker she'd given him displayed them as making a beeline for the Marina; they were rapidly navigating the city's dense streets with superhuman jumps from the way the display 'bounced'. Considering his options, Taskmaster eventually left the garage not in one of his well-armored war wagons, but a simple and sleek black ferrari. This would require a different kind of approach.

--

Piledriver grumbled as he approached the marina's reception center; this place was pretty damn high security, which was unsurprising considering what kind of goods Bagalia both imported and exported. Checkpoint, checkpoint, ID card reader, ticket salesman, weird demon that only spoke backwards, checkpoint -- but after nearly half an hour, he was finally through and had passes for each of the rest of the Wrecking Crew. "You wouldn't believe the fucking wait out here," he grumbled as he started handing the entry badges to his companions. "Come on."

By the time he'd gone back to get the rest of the crew and headed into the marina, Piledriver could tell that something was amiss. "We're in Dock 3...wait. Whose is -that-?" What should have been their empty spot was occupied by an enormous and garish yacht, white and blue with a massive statue of a posing siren on the front.

"What an ugly piece of shit," Wrecker grunted. "Hey! Who the hell's in our spot?! We got a ride coming! You gotta move!"

"Tally HO there, friends!" Came a booming voice. Emerging from the deck of the yacht, a thin and older-looking man planted his hands on the rails. "Say I parked in your spot, eh? Didn't mean to! I've been making this my 'marina marination' center for the past ten years, though, ha ha! Didn't think they'd rent it out to anyone else!"

Exchanging looks with each other, the Wrecking Crew shook their heads before Piledriver spoke back up. "Hey, idiot! We ain't here to chat about it! Just move your ugly fucking ship unless you want us to destroy it!"

"Oh, I sure don't want that! Let me just come on out of here...." He started towards the steps.

"Don't come out here!" Wrecker complained. "Just -- just move, man! We're not kidding!" He sighed in frustration when the elderly gentleman ignored them entirely, making his way out from the yacht onto the ship and approaching the four supervillains with oblivious cheerfulness.

"Well now, I'd be remiss not to shake your hands for the warning first! No need to rush, no sir...name's Art Vanderbilt! Don't know art, never built a van, but I stand behind the nom de guerre nonetheless! You all attending a costume party, then? Why wait for your vessel? You should ride with me instead! The Painted Pomegranate's a class act of a ship, yes sir; once made it around the coast of Somalia in only four days!" He boasted.

"...That don't sound very fast, old timer," Bulldozer chimed in. "Look, you seem pretty nice, and we ain't in the business of beatin' up random old people, but you really got to go. Our ride's gonna be here any minute."

"Oh, I'm sure they'll see me and wait their turn!" The gent replied, dismissively waving a hand. "Come, come, you'll love the Pomegranate! Sweet as her namesake, and twice as juicy! You may be asking how a ship can be juicy, but no sir, I won't spoil the mystery! You'll just have to find out for yourselves!" Whirling a ruby-headed cane, he started back towards the yacht. Wrecker raised his weapon, eyes bulging with rage, but Piledriver stopped him with a hand.

"Wait. This old coot's clearly lost his damn mind," Piledriver whispered. "We follow him aboard, maybe we can rob that ship before we sink it. We got time before Ross shows up."

His irritation giving way to a smile, Wrecker nodded in agreement. "Best idea you've had all day. I could use some cheering up after that hide-tanning we got back at Zemo's. Come on, then. We'll knock him out when we get on board, then loot to our heart's content."

All feeling very smug, the Wrecking Crew boarded the yacht behind Art.

"This here's the deck, where I like to play shuffleboard with the missus," the elderly man droned on as they circled around towards the cabin. "Are you gents and ladies feeling parched? I've got a 1912 Vermouth that you wouldn't believe; goes down smoother than my morning medication, that's for sure!"

"I could use a drink," Demolisher eagerly replied. "You hear that, -gents-? I'm a lady. No one ever calls me a lady; I think I like this old guy!"

"Oh, I like you too!" Art replied, opening the door to the cabin. "Remind me of my daughter; professional weightlifter. Built sturdy like yourself." As they all filed into the luxurious room, with leather seats and a large navigator's table that seemed to meticulously track the location of every brothel between Bagalia and California, the garishly dressed elderly man retrieved a large bottle and five glasses, pouring each halfway full and passing them around.

"Classy place," Wrecker complimented, his eyes already roaming over an expensive-looking statue above the steering wheel. "All these trinkets must cost a fortune."

"Oh, you'd best believe it! Never settle for less than the best; that's what father always taught me," Art replied. "Four million dollars worth of furnishings in here alone!" He didn't seem to notice the greedy smiles traded by the Wrecking Crew at that. Raising his glass, Art toasted the group, then took a deep draw. Everyone else did as well, with only Piledriver hesitating briefly to make sure that the old man was actually swallowing his. Figuring that meant it was safe, he drained his glass.

"Wow, that's good stuff," Demolisher complimented. "I had my doubts considering this ugly ship, but you've got decent taste, grandpa."

"Thank you!" Art puffed out his chest happily.

"Shame we're gonna have to take it all from ya," Piledriver said ominously. "You offered us a ride - think we're gonna take it. This vessel's ours now. You gave us a drink, so if you ask real nice, we'll let you off without any broken...broken..." Mumbling a bit, the man touched his tongue. "...Ith numb...my tongue numb."

"Hey...yeah...I don't -- I don't feel good," Wrecker grunted, blinking rapidly. "Old...old bastard poisoned us. You son of a--" He took a swipe at the elderly man, but with surprising quickness, Art simply ducked back, smiling innocently.

"Oh my...has the wine gone bad?" He took a sniff, then sipped it. "No, seems good to me."

Collapsing against the table, Piledriver watched the rest of the Wrecking Crew start to go down. Demolisher sat heavily in the captain's chair, already unconscious; Bulldozer was trying to make himself throw up, but faceplanted before he could. "How...?" Piledriver asked. "I saw you...saw you drink."

"Sure did, slick. Didn't poison the wine. Like I said...it's fine." Dropping his disguise, the impression of an old, frail man giving way to the skull-masked visage of the Taskmaster, their host threw his head back and drained half the bottle in a single go, belching as Piledriver lost consciousness.

"It was your glasses. I told you D-listers not to fuck with me."

It had been about four years ago that Taskmaster had come up with the 'Art' persona. From body language to facial expressions, his photographic reflexes allowed him to impersonate just about anyone and anything he could physically copy; what most people didn't realize was that this allowed him to take on other identities. From the accent to the walk, he could become someone else entirely at the drop of the hat. With his image inducer, the design of which he'd been improving every year since the first time he'd picked it up, he could even alter how he felt or how much he seemed to weigh; it was amazing what you could accomplish with enough stolen Stark tech and a willingness to get your hands dirty with it.

Vanderbilt, specifically, was known as a bit of a ponce around these parts; that was just how Tony liked it. If there was one lesson that Taskmaster had taken from Deadpool - not that he would ever admit it to the lasagna-faced bastard - it was that people were inclined not to take you as seriously if you acted like a complete fucking idiot all the time. 'Art' was as close to Wade as Tony would ever act, and that was an act of great pain for him -- but the mission demanded it this time, and the Crew had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker; not that he'd ever consider fooling these morons a real achievement.

Crouching down to dig through Wrecker's pockets, he retrieved the tracker that Spymaster had placed and then swiped his cell phone, checking for text messages. Nothing. "Damn How am I supposed to know when Ross is comin--" He didn't even finish the thought before the yacht began to shake. "What the fuck?" He glanced out of the window; waves were rising far too fast to be natural, and nearly six other vessels, spaced out as far as half a mile away, were starting to capsize as if something under the surface was lashing out at them from below.

He knew better than to stick around; no sooner had the floorboards began to crack and snap than Taskmaster dove out the cabin window onto the deck, then sprang over the railing back towards the dock. His haste saved his life, as he'd barely made it in time to avoid an enormous metal form crashing through the edge of the walkway and through his very expensive, very nice Painted Pomegranate. In place of the wrecked ship, torn apart like so much paper, was a gargantuan nuclear submarine, pitch-black and twice again the size of an aircraft carrier, the likes of which Tony had never seen before.

Yet something about it felt incredibly familiar.