Sarah Manning (onlyonesarah) wrote in welcomethreads, @ 2014-08-30 01:26:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | daryl dixon, sarah manning |
Who: Daryl Dixon & Sarah Manning
What: Shooting things and being hardasses
When: Saturday-ish?
Where: Local gun range
Warnings: Presence of firearms and likely bad language
Status: In progress
With everyone having gone missing, there were just things Sarah didn't want to talk about or deal with. Logan got that, she assumed Steve got that, and as for the rest of Clone Club, she wasn't asking. She'd told them to sit tight and not go anywhere. Magic town probably didn't give a rat's arse one way or another, but with Helena having been sent back, she didn't much care about where she was going or whom she was meeting. This Daryl couldn't have been much worse than anyone she'd met so far and if he turned out to be a dick, then she always had the option of shooting his balls off.
If she could hit them. At close range, she figured it didn't make much of a difference anyway and if she ever managed to get back home, then the practice wouldn't hurt too much. Rachel could always come looking for her to even out the other eye.
And she might've nicked one of Allison's guns before heading out. Living in the same room, she figured Allison wouldn't mind and it wasn't like she'd been armed when she showed up in Storybrooke. Marion would've noticed that and probably thrown her in the cage with Project Castor, so the borrowed lady grip, goggles, and ear muffs it was. The shooting range didn't look that different from anything else in the town. If anything, it was just as quaint and overtly picturesque as the rest of Storybrooke, which made her wonder. It was like the whole bloody town had been put together by Christmas elves who fanned themselves over Martha Stewart - and that was an image she decided needed to get out of her head sooner rather than later.
As for Daryl, he wasn't so hard to spot. She knew the type - if a bloke suggested teaching survival skills and spoke in sentences that were maybe seven words or less, then he was definitely the type she was used to hustling around. Rednecks, blue collar workers, and tweaker assholes who sold cheap coke and cheaper heroine. Not that he was any of those things necessarily, but he fit the bill. That at least meant she could talk to him and not feel like a tit while still maintaining some sense of distance and anonymity.
Shifting the bag on her shoulder, she didn't lower her hood. Or wave. Instead, she just approached him and shrugged. "You're Daryl, yeah?" she asked. "The boy who somehow avoided listening to the shit that's on the radio?"
Honestly, she didn't even know how that was possible, but she got the feeling he wasn't looking to explain. It was just as well. She wasn't interested in explaining how her life was fucked up either, so they were on the same page there.