for suicidemission

It had been jarring, to lose the Drift mid-fight like that. Herc had been left reeling, feeling like a rubber band that'd been snapped back into place too quickly, his synapses left stinging and raw. The silence in his head where Chuck's constant low-level mental grumbling had been is oddly oppressive. To cover for his discomfort, he had fallen back on old, somewhat stupid habits, looking a no-win scenario right in the eye and then shooting it there with a flare gun because fuck you there was no goddamn way he was going to let some ugly bastard like Leatherback destroy half of Hong Kong and kill millions of people, not if he had anything to say about it.

Herc knew they were going to die, but they were going to die with a snarl on their face and flare guns in their hands, their sacrifice would allow the people of Hong Kong maybe a few more minutes to get to safety and it would be worth it.

But then Gipsy Danger arrived at the eleventh hour (typical Americans, god) and their imminent demise was averted.

Which meant a lot of time wasted waiting for the choppers to come pluck them off of Striker's bowed head.

"So," Herc begins, cradling his hurt arm to his chest. Time to needle Chuck to distract him from the searing pain spreading across his chest and shoulder. "You and that pretty little scientist, huh?"