"Oh yeah! Who gets it right for bringing a parka? The Canadian, that's who!" Scott quipped with a short pump up of the sword. The more he pretended he was actually this jazzed, the more he actually started to believe it. "Maybe I'll lend you a pair of long johns sometime, Spidey."
Scott pointed ahead of them to where he knew that secret panel would be. It seemed his memory for detail was actually working for once, likely because either 1) the panel was like a secret game location that needed to be remembered, or 2) the wall by the panel stood out as the place he had retreated to in shame following his being totally useless to Logan. For the sake of his remaining dignity, he was going with the former. "Right there. Just need to lift that up, and we're in business."
Let the superhero open the damn doors. Next time. The fact that he had a good thirty pounds of muscle on the muscle didn't matter when cartoon metaphysics was involved.
Scott was busy posturing, and Spidey had evidently forgotten he came from NYC, which had about as many seasons as Boston. Baseball, basketball, football, marathons. It was the right time of year for yuppies in new shoes to prance around with ergonomic water-bottles filled with neon-dyed electrolytes matching their leg-warmers.
He hooked a toe under the hatch and pulled it up. No sense in trying to cram six people in here. It would melt the ice cream. If there was any left in the new world order. Probably. There were still cookies.
Maybe if they played nice tomorrow they'd get Neapolitan slime. Wonder where they're keeping that crap? He didn't wonder very hard. Predigested pap to match the cover story. And the townies would have real food. It didn't matter how many troops the Eagle had, if he put middle America (or a reasonable facsimile) on no-fry
( ... )
Luckily they were moving fast. The others got the door open and Taylor was already opening the floor panel before Indy even got close. The smell of rotting meat wasn't hanging in the air tonight, and nothing else seemed out of the ordinary, so he wasted no time in starting down the stairs.
It wasn't far now. Whoever had come through before them was heading in the same direction. The movements didn't seem to match up with properly trained ninja, however. No, the footprints left on the icy floor of the refrigerator belonged to larger men. Had they beaten the others to their meeting location?
It didn't matter in the end. They just needed to get there.
Comments 4
"Oh yeah! Who gets it right for bringing a parka? The Canadian, that's who!" Scott quipped with a short pump up of the sword. The more he pretended he was actually this jazzed, the more he actually started to believe it. "Maybe I'll lend you a pair of long johns sometime, Spidey."
Scott pointed ahead of them to where he knew that secret panel would be. It seemed his memory for detail was actually working for once, likely because either 1) the panel was like a secret game location that needed to be remembered, or 2) the wall by the panel stood out as the place he had retreated to in shame following his being totally useless to Logan. For the sake of his remaining dignity, he was going with the former. "Right there. Just need to lift that up, and we're in business."
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Scott was busy posturing, and Spidey had evidently forgotten he came from NYC, which had about as many seasons as Boston. Baseball, basketball, football, marathons. It was the right time of year for yuppies in new shoes to prance around with ergonomic water-bottles filled with neon-dyed electrolytes matching their leg-warmers.
He hooked a toe under the hatch and pulled it up. No sense in trying to cram six people in here. It would melt the ice cream. If there was any left in the new world order. Probably. There were still cookies.
Maybe if they played nice tomorrow they'd get Neapolitan slime. Wonder where they're keeping that crap? He didn't wonder very hard. Predigested pap to match the cover story. And the townies would have real food. It didn't matter how many troops the Eagle had, if he put middle America (or a reasonable facsimile) on no-fry ( ... )
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[to here]
Reply
It wasn't far now. Whoever had come through before them was heading in the same direction. The movements didn't seem to match up with properly trained ninja, however. No, the footprints left on the icy floor of the refrigerator belonged to larger men. Had they beaten the others to their meeting location?
It didn't matter in the end. They just needed to get there.
[to here]
Reply
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