Rory / O'Brien / Open
Considering how many people just referred to her as Doc, it was amusing to have a different nickname thrown her way. There was no harm in it, and honestly, there was something rough 'n' tumble about a name like that. These days, it never hurt to sound like you could kick someone's ass at the drop of a hat.
"Won't lose sleep if it sticks, I'll put it that way."
There was a good chance she'd lose sleep if she didn't prove to be competent at the game anymore, however. Rory felt confident, but it wasn't like she'd played a game recently. There was always that chance of failure. And, as a competitive individual, that just wasn't going to fly.
After lifting the dart and squinting curiously for a moment, Rory gave it a throw and then turned to O'Brien smiling. Forty points was a nice start, thanks.
"I was a resident. Wasn't invited to many galas," she said with a chuckle, flipping a dart in her hand to extend it, shaft towards him so he wouldn't grab right at the point. "Although I was in on a few organ donation surgeries. They were pretty fucking cool."
All comments about surviving in heels were met with a snort. A very un-ladylike one. Rory wasn't a chick who frequently slipped into dresses, and that was incredibly apparent. While she'd never been a tomboy, she was always pretty damn close. "I can still run a marathon in these heels. Zombies have got nothing on me, even now."