Percy Jackson Avenger and S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent

2015

2015 started off with a bang, literally. Sure, Coulson had been sending us out on easier missions than our first one, but that wasn't exactly hard. So it led to a gunfight on New Year's Eve, whoo!

While every other human on the planet was celebrating the new year, we were running for our lives and trying not to get shot (done that before, 0/10 do not recommend). Unusually, Jason Grace had been shoved on this mission along with us, so we weren't the only unlucky fuckers.

As Jason and I sprinted through the warehouse, I pressed a hand to my comms to talk to Clint. "How are you doing?" My voice crackled through the intercom.

"I haven't been shot yet, so pretty good on the whole." I laughed as I heard Jason make a sputtering sound on the other side of the comms.

"Is that what qualifies as good?"

Clint and I replied with a joint hum of "yes" and "absolutely".

"Yikes."

"Well, newbie, you've got a lot to learn," I commented wryly. "If we live, let's go out for drinks. We're not 21, but we've got those forged IDs that Coulson straight up gave to us."

I heard affirmation from both parties on the end of the comms link.

Clint's voice crackled through again just a few seconds later. "I've got a shot at the leader."

"Do it," I replied without a second's thought. There was more sputtering from Jason, but no statement to the contrary.

I fancied that I could hear the difference in the shots: where the enemy's was frantic and ineffective, Clint's was surgical in its precision. The gunfire eased but didn't cease altogether, providing the opportunity to move from our scattered positions and regroup.

"Are we just gonna shoot 'em out so that we can leave as quickly as possible?" Jason asked. "I'm exhausted."

"Aren't we all. And yes, there is no plan. Stick together and shoot them to hell. I want that drink. God knows we need to get off base."

Clint grinned, inserting a fresh clip into his rather large and terrifying assault rifle. Because sure, give the biggest, most destructive weapon to the youngest kid without any impulse control. He raised it to his shoulder and checked the scope. "Let's do this."

We spread out, leaving Clint to take out the majority, while Jason and I did it at close range, affording him some protection. I noticed that Jason fought well, but in a very deliberate and straight-laced fashion, like someone fighting in a big military line. He didn't seem the kind of guy who kick a downed man, which was unfortunate as that was quite literally our job.

The fight was short but vicious, ending as quickly as it had begun, and (shockingly) without any major injuries: the worst was a shallow cut on my knife arm from a lucky bayonet (who the fuck even still uses those?) swipe.

Clint joined us a few seconds later, gun still idly smoking. "I think I need a shower," he moaned. "Feels like I'm gonna have to rip my skin off to get rid of this vest."

"Oh, stop moping. At least you're not dying this time. Let's get back and meet after ten for those drinks. I think we've earned them."

o0O0o

Maybe in the heat of the moment I'd forgotten how much I loathed alcohol with a burning passion. I settled for a giant Coke and watched the pub get more and more wasted. Jason had no such qualms and could not hold his liquor, which made for some amusing escapades. I had to pretty much carry him back while he professed his undying love for me. Clint, on the other hand, had downed seven shots of vodka, could still walk and was almost coherent. Maybe Nat had taught him how to drink like a Russian all those years ago (three years ago).