"Crap," Slade curses quietly under his breath, sliding his guns back into his belt and kneeling by your side. What kind of kid didn't run from a shoot out, anyway? A stray bullet had hit your thigh, and he couldn't just leave you to bleed out on the floor.

"Breathe, kid, come on," he murmured slowly, applying pressure to the wound and supporting your back with his arm. He resisted the urge to roll his eye. "Bit stupid of you to stand and watch. Hey, you listening?"

He snapped his fingers.