I’m not sure who else I owe, so if I missed something and you want to continue, just let me know.
"Bet—ter," he forces out, one or two ribs definitely broken but still, no punctured lung. Yet. Yet. Nick counts himself lucky, naturally. Even as swiss-cheesed as he happens to be. His body’s healing enough for things not to go FUBAR. He holds his upper body as still as he possibly can, wrestling a submachine gun from someone’s dying grip. It’s helluva lot more useful in spraying bullets than Clint’s pistol and the light recoil doesn’t knock them back on their asses.
Which is just icing on the cake at this point.
The slow crawl to the next piece of cover—any piece of cover—sets his teeth on edge, but all he can really do is control his breathing and clear the area.
Better’s good. He can work with better. He can’t feel much past Fury’s vest, but from the sound of it, the man’s got at least a broken rib or two. They hurt like hell and they’re dangerous when they’re too close to the lungs. He’s really fucking hoping they’re not too close to the lungs.
The spray of a new gun is a relief. As sharp as he knows Fury is with a pistol, there are only so many bullets — not to mention they don’t scare men away quite so easily. He holds at the cover, curves his head around and sights. The area’s clearer than it was, the men starting to thin out. “This next run — I think we can get out of the worst of it.” Assuming nothing goes wrong, of course.
Send anonymous Sticky Notes (“Sticky Notes” in ask box to specify) to help the character regain his/her/its memory, or deceive them into doing your bidding.
ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀ ʙᴀᴅ ᴅᴀʏ ɴᴏᴡ ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ғᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴅɪᴇᴅ ᴀ ғᴇᴡ ᴍᴏɴᴛʜs ᴀɢᴏ. ɪ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀᴀᴛᴇʟʏ sᴜᴄᴄᴇssғᴜʟ sᴜᴘᴇʀ ʜᴇʀᴏ. ʜᴀᴅ ᴀɴ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ғɪɢᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴏᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ. ʏ’ᴋɴᴏᴡ, sᴏ… ᴛᴏᴘ ᴛʜᴀᴛ.
It has come to my attention that there are fully legal adults who are not familiar with this, who do not know what to do when they hear it, and indeed, were born after it came out.
This is unacceptable.
It is irrevocably tattooed into the brain of anyone vaguely associated with Western culture who was old enough to form cognizant memories in the mid 90s. And yes, we can all do the dance. I guarantee you Dean Winchester can do the dance. Bobby can do the dance. Sherlock can do the dance. Tony Stark has made sure all his robots can do the dance.
And all of you over the age of 25 already know what it is before you press play.