The smell of cordite and cold concrete was the same in any range, no matter where or when.This one was no different despite its small size, and the stink of some Storybrooke mustiness underneath Chad had long stopped trying to place. Regardless of smell, the concussive snap of his P229 bounced off the damp concrete wall, the signature Sig Sauer sound thudding through his arms with every pull. His elbows stayed locked and his gaze stayed forward, grip biting into his hand with a familiar clean friction.The paper target was his focus through the notch sights as three more brass casings ejected in quick succession, each one spinning under the fluorescents before tinking against the cement floor.
Like loose change.Chad lowered the weapon, empty mag dropped into his waiting palm after his thumb hit the release. In the same breath, he thumbed on the safety.The plastic air protectors finally came free from his ears, the ringing in his ears rushing in to fill the silence. Behind him, the door open“So…”
“So.”Boots sounded on concrete, pace unhurried and unbothered in the way that seemed to belong to a man who had already gotten over basic hangups of mortality. The man came to a stop against the concrete pillar just a few feet behind the firing line, a styrofoam cup of coffee in one han. One eyebrow raised itself high on Graham’s face. “You tried to kill Gold.”
Chad reached into the cardboard box of rounds on the metal folding table. One hand found a cartridge of 9mm, copper nose pressed down into the steel lip of a fresh magazine as the spring groaned under pressure.
"Yes."
“And you fucked up.”“I failed.” He slotted another round, pressing down till the click sounded off. “Yeah.”“And now…” Graham lowered the cup, staring forward at a pristine paper target. “There’s a very dark, very powerful wizard out there who know you want him dead.”He raised a third round, blue eyes inspecting the casing as he turned it this way and that. “Far as I know, pretty much.”A second of silence passed between the both of them, Graham simply staring until he finally found the words he’d been looking for. “Did you…” The styrofoam rose to his lips, the sheriff sighing for a moment. From stress or relief, Chad really couldn’t say. “Did you think any of this through?”"I put three injections of hot lead clean in his chest." Chad didn’t bother raising his voice as he slid yet another round into the magazine, a fourth now. "Center mass, clean draw, grouping no wider than a butter plane. I thought it through fine."
"Right.” Another sip sounded loud as Graham slurped his coffee. “Bullets. So you didn’t think then."
"I definitely didn't think he'd be goddamn Superman." Chad shoved the final round in, the base of the magazine smacked hard against the heel of his palm. "C'mon. When are wizards bulletproof? That wasn’t—”He bit down a hiss, teeth clenched as he shook his head. “Nobody put that in the goddamn Storybrooke brochure, Graham.”"We don’t have a brochure."“There should be one.” Chad rubbed the left side of his own throat, well aware the skin there was still slightly yellowed from the deep purple Gold had left behind two days ago. Phantom pressure still flared when he thought too much about it, a crushing vice closing off his air as he’d been lifted off his feet like a toddler. Fuck…“There really really should be one.” With a sigh, the blond turned to face the newly-reinstated sheriff. "Put the cup down, man."
Graham blinked up, pulled from his staring contest with the target. "Huh?"
"The coffee, Graham. Put it on the table before you fill up your boots with brown."The man opposite looked down to see a thin line of dark liquid trailing down the styrofoam seam and dripping onto the scuffed toe of his leather boot. “Damn it.”
The curse was all he had to say as he set the cup down, hands flat on the metal table around it.“You make that coffee yourself?”
Graham looked up at Chad, clearly rolling the question around for a second before he shook his head. “No, no, it’s from the diner.”“Makes sense.” It had looked a good five shades darker than the usual piss-weak instant swill found in the sheriff’s office. Chad hummed under his breath for a second, moving past the pointless question as his brain went to chewing on the only other real question still swirling around in his head. “What’s it like?”“The coffee?” The sheriff tilted his head. “Well, tastes like it’s halfway to eating at my molars, so not bad, re-”“No.” Chad’s eyes flicked up, hafl-narrowed in annoyance. “Being dead. What’s it like?”The dark circles under Graham’s eyes seemed to gain weight as Chad stared at them, heavy circles doubling as the man looked back. “Quite the change of subject, don’t you think?”“My bad. Just…” Chad leaned back against the lane partition, arms crossing themselves over his jacket. “You were in the ground, I mean… what’s it like?”Graham hissed out a sigh, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck before he bothered even looking back at Chad. “Restful. Pretty restful, actually. Quiet, too.”"That's it? Restful?"
"You want me crying about it?"
"No, I just — Jesus, I don't know what I want. Some kind of… maybe a tunnel of light, singing angels or… or something." Chad set the pistol down on the bench — safety on — right hand flexing until he heard the joints pop. “None of that, kid.”“...good to know, then.” Was it? To know that were was nothing on the other side, that everything he’d grown up with was not even real, but all the fairy tales were. A clean stop, huh? No purgatory, no fiery pits, no angels with flaming swords.
Just an unplugged television. I guess.Blue eyes slid shut as he breathed out a slow exhale. “Hey, Gray…”“Oh, I’m Gray now?”He didn’t open his eyes. “You prefer Ham?”“Forget I said anything.”Another sigh slid out as Chad opened his eyes again to meet the other man’s. "You'd tell me if I was losing my mind, right?"
"...Depends what kind of losing."
"I bent a crowbar in half the other day." Chad almost winced as the sentence slipped free almost in one breath, already annoyed at himself for saying it at all. Still, it didn’t stop him from saying more. "Just — I just bent it. Wasn't even trying that hard. That's not — leverage doesn’t work like that. I barely strained all that hard.” He looked at his own palms again, eyes straining as if he could catch that same blue light from the fight against the Nightmare. “That’s not normal, man."
Graham looked at him a second too long, the leaking styrofoam cup completely forgotten on the table. "You're sayin’ this to a dead man.”The nineteen-year-old couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of him, a half-smile forced out as he shook his head."...Yeah, okay. Touché." Nothing much else to say, Chad picked up the Sig from the table again, racking the slide back as he chambered a round. “You know…” Something almost like a smile moved through Graham's mouth too, there and gone in a half-breath as he leaned up besides Chad’s gear. “Your cousin?”“...Never heard of him a day in my life, why?”“Well, for one, you’re both not funny.” The sheriff tilted his head. “Terrible humor, the both of you.”Now, that was doubtful. Finn was, unfortunately, pretty funny and Chad could attest to that as one of his cousin’s few redeeming qualities. “I’m sure.”“Finn…” Graham finally dropped the name like he’d been circling it. “I only knew the lad a few months. Before, y'know." A finger tapped the space over his heart. “Wasn’t much time.”"Yeah, well, that’s Finn McHale for you." Chad turned his SIG over and over in his hand, letting the weight settle as a comfort like cold iron apparently meant much. "None of us really seem to get much time with him. Guy's a ghost even when he's standing right in front of you."
"He's your cousin."
"He's my fuck-up of a cousin," Chad rolled his eyes, "who ran away two years ago, because expecting to take responsibility for once in his fucking life and do what his dad expects is just too much to ask.” He grunted through gritted teeth. “All of this just to prove he never needed daddy’s money, I guess.”“...did he prove it?”“I guess.” Another grunt escaped him. “He probably just did it this way because he thinks he’s being cool about it, whatever that means.”
"He does think he's being cool about it."
“Yeah.” Chad huffed another not-laugh out, the breath fighting for freedom. “I know.”"You know your cousin's quite the dickhead, too."
"Again…" Chad turned back to the lane. “Preaching to the choir, Gray.”He pulled the plastic muffs over his ears, the world cutting out with only the sound of his own blood in his ears.
Chad settled back into his stance and raised the SIG. Both eyes open, he exhaled slow through his nose, sighting down the barrel the way Uncle Kurt had drilled into him.
He squeezed the trigger.
Three times.
Three snaps.
Fifty feet down the line, the paper target swayed in the stagnant air of the basement range as three holdes formed a tight triangle in the center of the printed dark skull.