stand in line as we march to the drums of the east;
WHO: oneeyedeagle and alegendpreceded
WHAT: Pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows. B|
WHERE: 6th Floor of The Bins, Manhattan
WHEN: Early evening, the Wednesday after Truthicon
WARNINGS: Look at the characters involved. Just look at the characters involved.
SUMMARY: A couple of warhorses rattling off about god knows what. Snake may boggle at his inability to escape bitter old men with fondness for cigars and eyepatches
Damn it.
It didn't matter how many times he weighed the options in his mind. Inevitably, everything was going to get messy. It was slowly grinding along that track before he had even showed up here - fear was in the air. Lies and indignation. For now, it was subtle, but if you looked carefully, everyone was ineffectually wringing their hands and waiting for someone else to take a stand.
Everyone but his men, anyway.
He paced around the modestly-size lounging area of his apartment, vigorously chewing a cigar as he went. No decisions he made anymore were easy, but damned if he still didn't have to slow down on occasion to question himself.
And every now and then, when Fury found himself in a hotspot, he would have to go for loud, noisy, and ugly. In his younger days, it was usually a treat to go in for the dramatics. But it was a tired routine, stolen by young men under the impression that the fire in the blood was a right, instead of a rite of passage. Let it never be said that he was getting too old for shit like this. What he was entirely too old for, however, was taking shit like this from absolutely anyone.
His hand twitched, flicking the stray ash from the cigar out the window. The flakes of grey and black fluttered artistically in the slight breeze, which he was in no mood to stop and appreciate.
Fine, goddamnit, he decided. If they didn't want a damn war, they wouldn't have dragged him or anyone SHIELD-related here. Being a man of battle did not always mean that one liked starting, or going into, a war. And as much as everyone might roll their eyes and grind their teeth at his resistance, he could already tell it was an inescapable outcome.
WHAT: Pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows. B|
WHERE: 6th Floor of The Bins, Manhattan
WHEN: Early evening, the Wednesday after Truthicon
WARNINGS: Look at the characters involved. Just look at the characters involved.
SUMMARY: A couple of warhorses rattling off about god knows what. Snake may boggle at his inability to escape bitter old men with fondness for cigars and eyepatches
Damn it.
It didn't matter how many times he weighed the options in his mind. Inevitably, everything was going to get messy. It was slowly grinding along that track before he had even showed up here - fear was in the air. Lies and indignation. For now, it was subtle, but if you looked carefully, everyone was ineffectually wringing their hands and waiting for someone else to take a stand.
Everyone but his men, anyway.
He paced around the modestly-size lounging area of his apartment, vigorously chewing a cigar as he went. No decisions he made anymore were easy, but damned if he still didn't have to slow down on occasion to question himself.
And every now and then, when Fury found himself in a hotspot, he would have to go for loud, noisy, and ugly. In his younger days, it was usually a treat to go in for the dramatics. But it was a tired routine, stolen by young men under the impression that the fire in the blood was a right, instead of a rite of passage. Let it never be said that he was getting too old for shit like this. What he was entirely too old for, however, was taking shit like this from absolutely anyone.
His hand twitched, flicking the stray ash from the cigar out the window. The flakes of grey and black fluttered artistically in the slight breeze, which he was in no mood to stop and appreciate.
Fine, goddamnit, he decided. If they didn't want a damn war, they wouldn't have dragged him or anyone SHIELD-related here. Being a man of battle did not always mean that one liked starting, or going into, a war. And as much as everyone might roll their eyes and grind their teeth at his resistance, he could already tell it was an inescapable outcome.