The Process of Elimination

August 18, 2014: There's a hit out on Hawkeye. Two mercs enter. One merc leaves. The other leaves a little later. (Language and violence.)

Clint Barton's Apartment

This place is a mess. Bachelor life for the win.



  • Some unnamed neighbor

Mood Music:

Odds of finding a yet unclaimed contract against someone Domino personally knows: 1 in 18,502.

Odds of knowing where to find Deadpool, during the time of contract: 1 in 58,427 and 1 in 92,416, respectively.

Odds of tempting Deadpool into helping with cash and additional time to see her in form-fitting armor: Sucker bet.

Barton's got a dark history of running in the city's underworld. As someone like Domino knows, history like this isn't something a person can up and walk away from. It'll always be there, lurking. Waiting for the right moment to attack. Today's hit is one such moment. The archer is the target, and wouldn't you know? Dom knows where the guy lives.

She also knows that he's no slouch. She got lucky in not taking an arrow in the back from him once. She may not get another chance. So, against her better judgement, Deadpool is her ace in the hole for this job. He doesn't die when he's shot. Splitting the coin is worth it if not just to have herself a mobile meat shield.

On a rooftop from a nearby building the albino lies prone, eyeing Barton's apartment through the scope of a Mossberg MVP patrol rifle, the only bolt action rifle currently made that takes AR-15 magazines. Running out of ammo will never be a problem, though it's compact and lightweight enough to be perfect for the job. Easily found suppressors are rather handy, too.

"This guy's hearing is pretty well shot, I could start picking off the cups on his counter and he'd probably never know it. I could go right to the front door and keep him occupied while you go through the window and flank him."

He'd never see it coming. So much for having keen eyesight.


Back from the range; it doesn't hurt to get the longer distances. Only so good one can get in the apartment at short range. And Brooklyn actually has a couple of indoor archery ranges- go figure. So, Barton's got a quiver of arrows on his hip, bow unstrung and in a case as he comes up the sidewalk towards his apartment building.

On 'normal' business days, the archer is a little more 'engaging', if that's what one can call his less than friendly manner and mien. When he's heading home today, he ignores most people, his destination cast in stone.

Just before reaching the front doors, a young mother stops him, babe in arms. Through the scope, it could be discerned that Barton is taking care in paying attention to the woman, and his response has as much to do with his hands as they do speaking. A nod, a hand to the shoulder from mother to archer, and the pair move off once again, he making his way through the doors and she away to a bus station just a block down the road.


Odds of actually contacting Deadpool and having him show up on time at the right address: 1 in 187,652.

Somehow, Domino does it. Via carrier pigeon, singing telegram, or just a good ol' phonecall. Twelve knives, eight guns, one beacon. No long range rifles. The railgun was left at home, this contract is paying to be precise. Something that Deadpool is usually not. That's fine though, not that he cares about paying Domino back. It's what mercenaries do, it's their field of work, Deadpool would sell out Domino for a packet of gummy bears given the right situation.

Now he sits, on the corner of the building with his legs hanging off the side. Eight steps ahead, that's always his motto. It doesn't matter if Barton sees him, everyone sees him all the time. At the deadhut, at the graveyard, at the Kiva grocery store. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do.

"What did the cups do to you?" Deadpool says, kicking his legs back and forth as he leans back a little bit. "Why am I always the one to go through the window. Howz about you go through the window, and I'll go through the front door. That'd be surprising."


(How does someone like you go from making a name for yourself in the underground to being so goddamn domestic, Barton? We don't get to take root and pretend to be normal.)

"Are you -seeing- these cups, Wade?" Domino counters with a frown from behind the rifle scope. "They've got things growing off of things growing off of them. It's like Fungathon 2014 in there."

And she knows a little something about vengeful fungi.

He wants to go through the door, huh. "That could be arranged," Domino quietly replies while sweeping the faint red glow of the rifle's crosshairs onto Clint's TV through one of the windows. Maybe he wouldn't -hear- it but if she waits a few minutes he's sure as hell going to -see- it.

"How quickly can you get into position? Once he plants his ass on the couch we'll have all night to make a move." And it really is a pleasant night, too! Perfect evening conditions for short-range precision shooting atop of buildings. "I can go distraction to interference in fifteen seconds."

Squeeze the trigger, leave the rifle, grappel line across the street, bust through the window, snap the line, ready for direct engagement.


(Ask him that very question and it's a conversation in the making. Suffice it to say that as a concept, it's something he's desperately wanted. In reality, it's simply unattainable. But it doesn't mean that he doesn't at least -try-.)

The doors open and close behind the archer, and it's a couple of minutes wait before the door to the apartment opens, ushering in the lone resident. Closing the door behind him again with a kick of his foot, he's tossing the bow onto the table and pulling the belt that holds his arrows on his hips off at the buckle. Setting those down on a chair that is already holding yesterday's dirty laundry in a ball, Barton heads to the kitchen for the -last- beer in the paper/cardboard sixpack. Once the beer bottle top is popped, his steps bring him back to the living room, and once the remote is grabbed, he's down on the couch. Television turned on.


"Where's the fire?" replies Deadpool, standing up on the ledge of the building. Everything always has to be done so fast with these merc types. Oh wait. He's a merc type. Good point, idiot. No, you. Shuddap.

It would have been funnier if when he replied he was already at the door, but his translocation device was damaged beyond repair with Weasel dropped it into the toilet. He said he'd fix it, then he lost contact with the mousey fellow. Always that Weasel. Almost like an animal with similar traits.

With a slight jump, he's rolling onto the adjacent building in a light jog. He's well enough at avoiding detection, and when he's close enough to be line of sight, he disappears by jumping down the crevice between two other buildings, landing in the alleyway. The rest is a short, jolly walk to the employee's only entrance at the back of the complex. Door's locked. Figured.

With a hard enough turn, the handle snaps off and he's on his way through the back stairs. He's really taking his sweet time. Though any other route that a villain or hostile person would take? Trapped. There's probably noise traps on the fire escapes. Most of the windows are barred, too. The front desk might be tapped, and the civilian panic would alert Barton anyways. Atleast here, in relative peace he can watch for traps and ascend.

A man in street clothes rounds the corner from the laundry room and sees Deadpool, however. Relative peace, he said. Sputtering, the man with a mop of black hair sputters, "H-hey! You can't be here!"

Ugh. Not a henchman, not an arch enemy or a superhero. Just an average joe civilian. You didn't volunteer to get brought into this. Domino's next message from Deadpool over the comms is likely, "Almost there… *ziiiip*" And the muffled cries of some civilian he's zip-tying in the background. Come on. Really, did you think he was going to kill the poor guy?


Hmm. Change of plans. Sure, the TV's a nice, easy target for anyone, let alone the albino. But, if Domino scoots herself a little to the side, here…


One shot can serve multiple roles. Catch Barton off guard, disarm him of his primary weapon, leave him disoriented. It's a curious attack of opportunity. What are the chances?

1 in 812.

With Deadpool gone and Dom left alone on the roof she hums a soft tune to herself, trigger finger idly tapping out the rhythm against the side of the polymer stock as she watches and waits.

This is taking too long.

When the call comes through and the sound of a nylon zip comes through she breathes a gentle sigh and turns the crosshairs back onto Barton's TV. (Betcha didn't expect to watch SyFy with company tonight, huh? Are those..giant snakes? The hell, man! No wonder you're single.) "Getting bored up here, Wade," she comms back in a soft tone. "Quit playing with the civs and get into position. I'm still a sitting duck out here for any of Manhattan's ludicrously high superhero count."

And SHIELD spy satellites, and Stark Industries spy satellites, and SRD drones, and gods know what -other- spy satellites…

As with most things, timing is key. She waits, listens for the go code (which is probably not a code so much as Wade calling 'base' or something stupid,) then she zeroes back in on Clint's bow.



Through the window, through the bow, through the table, into the floor. A small, pale hand has the bolt snapped open and closed in a heartbeat, already looking to line up another shot. This one to the back of Barton's lower leg. Just in case.


Try looking for something even vaguely reasonable on television at this time of day. Court shows, Oprah… and Anaconda is the best thing on. Besides, it's for the background noise— which would be a great excuse if it weren't for the fact that the man is actually -deaf-.

The bottle rises to Barton's lips and falls, and as it rises again, the *crash* of the window sounds behind him; all quiet. It's when the bow, still in its sock, is hit and splinters from the wood fly everywhere as it's cut not so very neatly in half that he reacts. When the bullet passes -through- the bow, -through- part of his wooden table to lodge in the floor, he's rolling off the couch in the opposite direction, beer bottle dropped (but not forgotten). "What the hell?!"


After struggling with the civvie a second, Deadpool releases his hand from the guys mouth to shove in a sock he found from under the shelf. "Hey, Joe-blow. I don't know where that sock came from, but it sure didn't age like fine wine. I'm sure that stain's always been there." reassures Deadpool.

'Mmnmpffmnpnf!' "What? Of course you would say that." Wade chuckles, standing and leaving the man as he is. Duct-taped to the tiled wall in a cocoon of grey. He's an okay guy, not a /great/ guy. Now unhindered, he resumes his task of ascending the stairs. "Now which floor was it..?"

By a sheer stroke of luck, Deadpool exits stage right and ends up on the right floor. All these doors look the same, but hopefully with Domino's reminder of which room to go to, he's able to find the right door. Okay, prep. Guns in hand. Yep. Mask is on. Oh yeah. Fly zipped? ..No. *ziiip* Oops.

Reeling back, he plants his foot right into the door, busting it right off the hinges as he stomps in. Shouting, "I'm with the girl scout league, and this year we're raising donations to -kick your ass-!" His guns immediately go off, two submachine guns which pepper just about everything in the apartment with bullets and shell casings. Deadpool's not just standing there, either. He jumps with catlike grace in single bounds across the room, doing pirouettes, flips, and jumps in only the way he can. Always mobile.

"Is this your idea of interior decorations?! I thought /my/ apartment was bad, this place is a dump! How about a little remodelling?!" Some of the bullets are aimed at Hawkeye. Okay. Most of them. But he can't help but shoot those cups sitting on the counter. Look at that mold.


Suppressed or not, Dom can still hear the chatter of Deadpool's automatics and the wanton destruction that they leave in their wake. "Dammit Wade, we're not trying to -kill- the guy!" she hisses into the headset. "Tag him and let's get the hell outta here!"

One distraction's led to another. If Deadpool isn't going to tag Barton then it's down to her. (Big surprise.) Sticking true to her own plan she abandons the rifle and hops to a crouch, left arm extended long enough to fire a tiny piton from atop of the forearm. It sticks into the side of the brick building with a tiny puff of mortar and dust, then she's jumping right off of one building to swing down toward the window she had already perforated with one round. It helps weaken the surface for what comes next.


Line cut, forward roll into the familiar living room, onto her feet, collapsible batons in each hand and extended with a back and downward flick.

Take Barton down, tag him, get the hell ou-what-?


Once on the floor, Barton's taking stock of what he has and doesn't have. A quick glance easily tells him that the closest bow is completely out of commission, which is a shame. He had that one specially made for him by a bowyer in New Hampshire! His specs, his choice of wood!

The door bursting open is obviously seen, and the form and figure that comes barrelling through pretty much as the archer seeing his entire life up until about now. I shot him right between the eyes. Didn't miss! Those bullets that are flying around his apartment, and a good number of them in his direction isn't making things look any better for him.

Barton is up onto his feet, though now he's doing his level best to dodge the bulk of the bullets flying his way. Just as he's trying to get cover in the kitchen, behind the bar, a bullet tags him in the left calf, sending something of a hissed curse up Deadpool's way. "God dammit.. what the hell?" With a hand in a cookie jar that sits on a shelf just under the kitchen's bar, it comes out with a bunch of points that have neither been marked nor set upon a shaft. Place is getting trashed by the second, and poking a head out from behind the counter- catches Domino (?!) crashing through his window?!

"Sonovabitch.." comes and the first arrow point is winged at Deadpool. The moment it collides with anything, a net deploys with some explosive behind it, ready to try and trap whatever it is that is hit.

"I paid the damned rent to the New fucking Year!"


Deadpool's almost out of ammo on one gun. Landing near the entrance way to the living room, he drops the submachine gun in his left hand as it clicks. Empty! Ditch and continue. But what he draws out of his pocket is instead a folded piece of a paper with an adhesive backing. Uh.

Then Domino rolls through the window and lands right next to him. Kneeling to match her, he slaps his hand on her back to push her down. "Get down!" He shouts, unable to conceal a grin under his mask. The paper he's stuck to Domino's back is a "Kick me!" sign. It sticks pretty fucking well, too. This maneuver costs him however, and he's winged with the arrowtip.

The net explodes over him with a crack and sends him back a little bit. Second submachine gun is discarded in favor of a samurai sword, and he promptly cuts himself out. Though that's about all he can manage in this spot of time. "I hope you have good renter's insurance, the housing market sucks!"


(Aaand now I'm on the floor.)

The timing turns out to be rather perfect, however. With Dom pushed out of the way the net arrowhead completely clears her on its way to Deadpool. Too bad she doesn't know about the sign yet, but she'll find out soon enough. Wind resistance on otherwise sleek armor, it's such a small thing but it does make a difference!

"That explains why you can't afford to clean this rat nest!" she calls back while whipping a baton around, smacking the shit out of a small tower of used styrofoam containers which all but explode into barbecued rib bones and lightweight shrapnel.

Well then, their target's hunkered down in his home turf and apparently happens to be armed. Doesn't change the fact that he's the one they're both after. Throwing caution and self-preservation right out the window (see, at least -she- can throw things out when she's done with them!) the albino charges Clint's position with the batons held low at her sides, ready to strike. (Because they're ASP batons. Get it?)

Rushing head-long into obvious danger? Probability field is go.



The explosive net deploying gives Barton a moment to breathe, nothing else. He's not in the best of positions; only one way in and out of the apartment kitchen in terms of walkways, and going up and over the counter would be problematic at best. Another arrow-tip is winged out, and it's more an area of effect. Smoke begins to billow up into the living room, pretty much the same time he catches Domino rushing his position.

It's something of a struggle to get to his feet, both physically and psychologically (the bullets flying all over the apartment coupled with a freaking -samurai sword-? Life and death, Barton. As if nothing was before?), but he gets there only to try and heave himself up and over the center bar, crashing down on the other side and rolling as the albino merc makes her way to where he had been. "Ow…"


Deadpool is just right there a second after Domino. Sword drawn, and a leap over the counter to pin Hawkeye down in a tactical sense. Actually pinning Barton down at this point would be a little pointless. Get it? "Don't worry Green Ar-… Hawkeye. They didn't pay us enough to rip out your intestines and dress the walls, even if it would be an improvement over your current decor."

Awkward pause, Wade looks over to Domino and shrugs. "Really, we'd be doing ya a favor." Backing up a little bit, he stays enough that he couldn't be tripped down while still capable of ending Clint's life. "I'm /Deadpool/, nine out of ten would-be assassins would agree I'm the pallbearer and never the corpse. So make it easy and just stay there a sec."


Smoke. Problematic, but so long as it doesn't knock Domino on her ass or something then it's just an inconvenience. "You're out of your league, Barton! Your pals in the Division will come for you in less than a day, up to you how bad off you are when they find you!"

(Yeah, because -that- ever worked.)

Where words are going to fail? She's got a Deadpool. The counter is easily vaulted, kicking a few -more- ancient food containers to the floor as she lands next to the other two. One baton is already tucked beneath an arm as she reaches for the electronic tagger to slap right onto the archer. Stick it, flick it on, and whatever it's attached to gets teleported elsewhere, nice as you please.

Of course, she's paying attention to the mark more than the other merc. Mission first, etc. That it happens to break one of her own rules about never turning her back on Deadpool is somewhat unfortunate.

"C'mon kiddo, time to fly."


Yeah. Domino's got a Deadpool. The most faithful and loyal of all meatshields. When Domino vaults over the counter infront of him, he steps back. Go ahead. Tag him.

When Domino reaches for the tagger, Deadpool reaches for his dagger. Lightning quick, he makes to stick it right in the back of Domino's ribcage. Attached to the end of the hilt is a red, blinking device. The tagger. Assuming it hits, he'll smoothly follow the directions of the Kick Me! sign and drive a foot right into the back of Domino's knee. Where would she fall? Take a guess.

"Pickle surprise!" Deadpool shouts.


Out of the way of even a leg sweep. Dammit. Licking dry lips, Barton looks around at his now trashed apartment. Mugs, cups either shot and/or shattered, window's broken, bow's broken.. bullet holes *everywhere*. The smoke tip actually needs to serve two purposes; one, the obvious. The second, something of an alarm for a fire truck or a police cruiser- not that either are really around when one needs them in this area.

It's the dirty pool that comes next that gives the archer some sort of ray of hope in all of this. He's got something on him, sure.. but as Domino is stabbed and kicked back in his direction? Barton scrambles to sit up enough to take hold of the dagger that is now sitting in the back of the albino's ribcage and yanks it free in a single motion. In the next second, the SHIELD agent is armed and dangerous, with the point of the weapon flying through the air- aimed right at Deadpool's throat.

"I'll just have to try harder then."



Hawkeye's already gotten to see Domino surprised, pissed off, amused, livid, cautious, upset, and displeased. Tonight he gets to see her -shocked.- Pale eyes snap wide open as the dagger neatly pierces through her armor and finds a nice place to nest between her ribs, the wiry woman freezing up for that instant it takes Deadpool to kick her closer to Barton.

At least she manages to tag him with the tracker! The -other-..non-dagger-affixed tracker…

Then Barton makes his move.


Maybe this is karma coming back to her after shooting Evelyn square in the chest the last time she set foot in this apartment.

Now the dilemma is that she'll have her back turned on one person or the other if she doesn't do something, and -fast.- With the shock of having the dagger yanked back out of her she sort of pushes/falls into a roll on her side, the batons completely abandoned as she wrenches a pistol out from beneath her arm. Deadpool, shoot -Deadpool.- Barton's still SHIELD, the odds of him landing a killing blow are more in her favor than if she leaves Wade unaccounted for.

Suppression be damned.



Barton's rolling again, what with Domino now acting as distraction. He doesn't get far, however, before he simply *blinks out*. There, lying on the floor, bleeding, to *gone* in the next second. "Wha—"

On the 'other side', the archer finds himself back on his back, and the final letter to the word first uttered completes the thought. "—t.." Nothing else finds its way from his throat, however before he is soundly and roundly kicked in the side of his head by one of four men in a dimly lit, empty room, setting any and all lights -off-.


This is not how the plan was supposed to work out! One of the bullets hits the blade as it's flying through the air, causing it to deflect askance, spin, and hit a pizza box. The dagger and the pizza box dissolve in light, being teleported away and Deadpool /moves/. "I've been besmirched! They said it was instant!"

Of course. Domino is still touching Hawkeye, perhaps it will still work? It probably won't. "This is what we do, babe." Deadpool shouts, leaping over the couch and into the smoke for cover. "You were five seconds about to backstab me! We're /not/ friends!"

It doesn't, now he's stuck here with a bleeding Domino. Shit. Next to Barton, an old pizza appears with a dagger in it. Just. Next to him.


Their mark is gone.

The mercenaries both remain.

Domino's still lying on her side in copious amounts of pain when Deadpool tells her they're not friends. This is something she had already been acutely aware of, but having it spelled out like that?



Fifteen rounds of ten millimeter hollowpoints remain at her fingertip. Fifteen rounds systematically hammer through the open slide of her pistol. Every last one is aimed point blank at Wade Wilson. Maybe some will miss..?

Most will not.

Carbon-seared brass leaps over the counter and rains down into the debris-strewn kitchen beyond, pinging off of tile, bent silverware, and plate fragments, skittering and rolling about as they please as the pale-skinned woman's shaking hand drops back to the floor beneath the weight of her own weapon.

"Fuck you, Wilson."

That's it. There's nothing more she can do here. Their mark's gone. Only one of the two are likely to collect on the bounty, it just comes down to which one of them can collect it first. She's slowed down. He's only stopped for a few minutes, best case scenario.

The odds aren't in her favor.


Couches only provide so much cover. Even at just a few feet of range between Domino and himself, there's essentially no bargain on whether or not those bullets will blow holes right through the couch and into Wade's body. He's already feeling pretty shitty, but that's just his line of work. Worse yet, his world is just so small right now. Containing only Domino and himself.

For a brief moments, he considers treating Domino's wound. He's no doctor, he could bring her to the hospital. Try explaining that one. Someone could help. There would have been medical help on the other side.

That is abolished the moment a ten millimetre hollowpoint blows off the top of his head, blowing brains and blood over the floor and coffeetable. Another one blasts off half his face, and additional rounds blow chunks through his torso. There's not even time for a statement of pain, just a blood gargling noise and the sound of his body slumping against the floor.

He'll be fine. Domino's money, though? It's already being wired into his private account.

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