November 8th, 2038

PM 01:21:09


A/N: Hullo! Just wanted to update before I left for work. I'll be responding to everyone tonight/tomorrow night :D 3 Love you guys!


Everyone wanted to talk.

Connor asked if the two of you could discuss what happened. Hank tried to reinforce some fatherly advice you'd tuned out. Chris wanted to know what you were doing back at the police station. Fowler stopped you to ask what Hank was doing back at work.

The only person who didn't ask for an explanation – knew what to do immediately…was Gavin.

Detective Reed, the biggest douche bag on the force and a friend you loved to hate.

"Didn't think you'd take me up on my offer." He huffed.

"Almost didn't."

"Why did you?"

You strapped your vest on, and kept your mouth shut.

"Don't wanna talk about it?" He handed you a heavy pair of shooting earmuffs.

"Nope." You slung them around your neck.

"Wanna shoot some paper dudes in the face?"

"Yep."

He smirked, leaning against the wall, "Have at it."

Gavin was an unlikely sponsor, to say the least. The friendship began with a rocky start, and evolved into an avalanche of ill quips and under-the-table middle finger exchanges.

He had a rough exterior, sure. But somewhere under all that spiced body spray and worn leather, there was a decent enough person. A person who kept his badge clipped to his belt because everyone had to be reminded at all points in time that he had power. A person who didn't base his political views on any solid facts, but shoved them down peoples' throats. A person who was closed-minded and wouldn't know creativity if it slapped him in the face.

A person who knew when to back off when you needed it, because the two of you had one key trait in common:

Misplaced aggression.

But down in the basement of DPD's best precinct, in the shooting range, you had a few layers between you and the problems above. Reinforced steel and cement filled with rubber to drown out all the bullshit.

Down here, word of mouth didn't mean a damn thing. It was a gauntlet of brain and brawn; a fight for control over recoil and bullet drop. Calculations of air resistance and targeted ballistics. The practice of fight or flight, and how to aim the metal discharge in your hands.

Elijah was wrong. You didn't need to pick a side. You were the one that drew the fucking line in the sand. All you had to do was make sure you'd be left standing when you tried to barricade each faction into their halves…and whoever shot first would have a really pissed off cop to deal with – one who knew her way around a pistol.

An overworked, underestimated weapon that was common in practice, but uncommonly handled in the manner that you executed.

You saw the room through yellow-tinted shooting glasses. The rubberized grips of your gloves fit neatly around your gun. You'd missed it almost as much as the weight of a bulletproof vest pulling on your shoulders.

A second skin. Another layer. A security blanket that was heavy as fuck and had taken a beating.

Gavin covered his eyes and ears with his equipment, but he pulled back.

"You're not shooting?" You turned your head.

"Nah. Gonna watch a 'Pistol Master,' do her thing."

"I'm going to assume you didn't mean that to sound as creepish as it did."

He shrugged, "Fucked if I care about your feelings. I just wanna see how you shoot."

A shallow smile pulled on your mouth.

Yeah, this is what you needed.

Mindless shooting; your troubles, the target.

No talking necessary.

You hit a button with the side of your fist, and the pockmarked target slid on the rail towards you.

"Twelve kill shots outta' fifteen ain't bad." Gavin sucked his teeth, crossing his arms behind you, "Where'd you learn to shoot like that, anyway?"

"Practiced with a revolver." You reloaded your Glock, "It's kinda like learning how to run uphill. Once you do it enough, you're faster on level ground."

"So, what – you trained with a handicap and this just happened?"

You had practiced with your revolver. The things you couldn't tell him about were all the classes you took after threats against your life began to surface.

You weren't about to be chased around the country – you were going to stand your ground, no matter what. Things hadn't changed, in that respect.

"Some people just get it." You gave him a cocky grin, "And others…well, they have to try a little harder."

"You talkin' shit?"

"Yeah, Reed. I am. What are you gonna do about it?"

"Fuckin' one up you, that's what." His brows creased, and he opened the armory that lined the back of the dungeon.

"Good luck with that."

"I don't need your shitty luck." He mumbled under his breath as he armed himself, a gun plopping on a stand two stalls down, "Fucker."

"Mhm…" The paper target zipped to the end of the range, and you cranked a lever to push it back farther.

"Fifty feet?" He groaned.

"Is there a problem, Detective?"

His lips pursed, and he sent his own sheet flying, "Don't get cocky."

"You're one to talk…"

"Shut up and shoot."

You took your stance, one elbow slacked as the other straightened. A fighting stance, because you didn't stand there with two barred arms like most of your peers. Recoil was harder to control that way. You were easier to disarm, that way.

If that wasn't an option before Elijah's warning of an oncoming war…you'd be dead before you let it happen, now.

"What the fuck?" Gavin scoffed, comparing targets.

He hadn't done terrible, but definitely not as good as you.

"I can give you some pointers, if you-"

"I don't need your fuckin' advice, alright?" He growled, "You got lucky."

"What about 'not needing shitty luck?'"

"I said I didn't need it."

"You obviously got that one backwards, bud."

His scar bent as he bunched his nose, "You…"

His mouth twisted. His shoulders huddled around the base of his neck, covered by his "uniform" of street clothes under a brown leather jacket. He let out a frustrated sigh, and relaxed all around.

"…You better not tell anyone." He bit the inside of his cheek, "Especially that android fuck…"

"I'm not gonna tell anyone you took lessons on how to shoot 'from a girl,' Reed…"

He frowned, and crossed his arms. Slid his earmuffs off and raised his glasses over his forehead. Cocked his chin at you with that dicey glare.

"Sorry. About the whole sexual harassment thing. Shouldn't have texted you while I was drunk."

You raised a brow, "That all you're sorry for?"

"Don't push it…" He turned his back on you, getting himself ready for the next session, "Start talkin', hotshot."

You sighed, wondering if this was really worth it after all.

"First thing you need to do is practice front sight concentration." You rolled your unloaded gun in your hands, tapping the front sights, "Blur out the target. Blur out the rear sight. Front irons only."

"And?"

"Watch your trigger press." You adjusted his arms, "Pull all the way to the rear, and ease forward until you hear the click. When you do, take another shot."

His lip twitched, "Doesn't leave a lot of time to correct. Kept hitting left."

"It's you, not the gun. When you pull the trigger with your right hand, the barrel goes left. You have to steer it…wrangle it in, and line it up."

"That's a whole lot to think about while you're taking pot shots at someone."

"That's not the goal, here."

"What's the goal, then?"

"Trouble has a hard time sneaking up on you from fifty feet out," You looked at the target dotted with holes, "The goal is to gun it down and become bigger trouble."

"Ugh…" He groaned, doing what you told him, "Anything else, Doll-"

"I will punch you in the dick."

His face pulled back in surprise, "Rr-awr."

"Jesus fuck, you're hopeless…"

"Now you're startin' to sound like Hank."

"Will you just fucking focus?"

Gavin groaned under his breath, "Alright, here we go…"

Two headshots, five in the chest, and the rest were all over the place. He wouldn't have had a problem taking someone down beforehand, but with your guidance, he was starting to get it.

"There ya go," You gave him a condescending pat on the back, "Now you're shooting like a real cop."

He gave you a smirk, "You almost have me convinced you are a real cop."

"That's the closest thing to a compliment I'm ever gonna get from you, so…Thanks."

"Don't mention it." He yawned, rubbing his eyes with his palms under his shooting glasses, "Seriously, don't."

"You've got a serious complex, you know that?"

"It's not that…" He took his earmuffs off, digging his knuckles in his hips, "I'm trying to get promoted. That means I've gotta be the best of the best at everything and anything."

You looped the headband around your neck, the cuffs sweaty and gross, "You put too much pressure on yourself. You're a good cop, Reed."

"Yeah, I know I am." His face crinkled, "But with androids taking up space and shit…I mean fuck, look at RoboCop. It's a fuckin' Detective!"

"Is that why you hate him so much?" You shifted your weight, "You think he's going to replace you or something?"

"IT, already did." His jaw locked, "Goddamn fucking piece of fuck androids…"

"First of all, it's not his fault that CyberLife made him." You waved him off, "Second, you're still here, aren't you?"

"For how long, though," He slurred your last name, "They ruin everything."

"No, they don't."

"That's easy for you to say." Gavin shoved a freshly loaded clip in his gun, and pulled back the hammer, "You didn't come home to one fucking your girlfriend."

Your throat closed. Your brain came screeching to a halt.

"Uh…What?"

"Yeah, that's right. You heard me." He leaned against the small stand attached to the ledge, "Fucked this girl back in college and she turned into a real stage-five clinger. Was easier just to keep her around, you know, so she didn't fuckin' whine all the time…"

His eyes darted around the cinderblock room. You decoded his message – that he'd loved that girlfriend, asked her to move in, and was still messed up from it. Maybe there was some merit to all his harsh opinions. Maybe he just never talked to anyone. Bottled up all the anger, lined up the glass targets, and shot them all down.

"I spend so much time here, you know? Working, trying to move up, all that. She was 'lonely,' so what did that bitch do? Bought a fucking android. Said it was for cleaning. In my house." He punched the target slider, and it went zooming down the range, "Left early while it was slow around here one day to surprise her. And what do you know, she'd slipped and fell on its plastic little aftermarket cock."

This was weird. Uncomfortable. But he seemed like he needed to get it off his chest, so you engaged.

"What did you do?"

"What do you think I did?" He glared at you from over his shoulder, "I tore out it's stupid stomach whatever and made her clean up the stain. Then I threw all her shit in bags and kicked her robot-fucking ass to the curb. If it wasn't for Fowler, I'd have a property damage charge on my record."

You couldn't get mad. You had to reel it in. This was not the time to start a fight – not the time to tell him he was wrong, and that was murder.

"Sorry to hear that happened to you."

"Don't be." He flipped his glasses down to the bridge of his nose, "DPD's all I need. It's all I ever needed. Got plenty of family, right here."

He tapped his badge, and gave you a wink.

Your brow jumped, "That's pretty deep."

"Not as deep as I was in this girl last-"

"Okay – I GET IT." You chuckled under your breath, shaking your head as you returned to your post.

Locker room talk wasn't something you were foreign to. You were a woman on a police force. A male-dominated work environment. Sometimes you just had to roll with it.

"Wish I could go back in time and shoot the stupid mother fucker who made those goddamn androids…"

His was a harsh whisper – angry. To say he hated androids was an understatement. They were the bane of his existence.

"What's his name? Ezra something?"

"…Elijah." You swallowed hard, "Elijah Kamski."

"Yeah, that guy. Fuck him."

He took aim, and you barely had enough time to put your protective gear on before he pulled the trigger in rapid succession. The pops came quick, one after another.

Bang, bang, bang – click, click, click – he kept pulling, even after the clip didn't have anything left to fire.

"Time for a reload, Gavin…"

He wasn't the only one who needed to vent, but at least he could. There was no one for you to talk to, not legally.

You decided that was fine.

You felt like a hypocrite for how you'd warned Connor about letting Elijah in his head; how he had a way of planting word bombs only to wait for thoughts to stumble through the philosophical mine field.

You let him in. Again. And he had the audacity to make you doubt everything you'd come to terms with over the past few years.

"Also, you're right."

Gavin shoved a new clip in his gun, and turned his head, "About what?"

You raised your pistol. Found the target's head.

"Fuck that guy."

"I'm not even gonna ask-"

You fired. You were done talking...and so was he. About serious stuff, anyway.

The two of you emptied your clips at the same time, and he looked over his shoulder, "We gonna keep doing fifty feet?"

"That's the only way you'll be the best of the best, eh?"

He huffed, "Best three out of five?"

You weren't sure if you should let him win, or completely bury him in shame.

A troubling matter.

"Draw, mother fucker."

Easiest one you'd shoot down all day.