entrancelogs | [ open ] up bright and early for their daily races

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[ open ] up bright and early for their daily races

Who: Will Graham (

notyourteacup) and YOU!
Where: the field near to the forest's edge
When: usually early afternoon from 8/24 to the next few days
Rating: PG for guns
Summary: Nothing makes Will feel like he's out of control more than something else pulling his body's strings. The angels & demons may be gone, but Will's sense of violation isn't.
The Story:

It might not even have been a worthwhile venture. With talk of werewolves and angels and superheroes, there was a real press on the psyche to make yourself useful, armor up, don't be baseline. It wasn't something he or others could have changed, of course, barring mechanical minds like Stark's and maybe the hearts to match coming not too far behind. Will felt too exposed to open air again. All the vengeance and doublespeak he'd cloaked himself in Wonderland couldn't keep strings from looping around his limbs and throat, a doll driven around for chaos and amusement.

How could progress be undone so quickly on a whim? Will tried to answer that with the easy pull of a trigger, kick back against his bad shoulder, and the unsatisfying, soft sink of bullets into hay bales leaned against a dilapidated split-rail fence.

Over the course of the next several days, the targets on the bales were torn to shreds and replaced regularly, almost mechanically since Will didn't have anyone to surface anything else for outside of his usual insomniac exhaustion. To the observer, his stance suggested formal training, and for the intrepid adventurer looking to learn self-defense, a former cop wasn't a bad choice. He wasn't the best shot, but he knew where to put it and how. Neither was he closed to suggestion.

There were all sorts of reasons not to bother him, but perhaps there were more to do otherwise.

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[There is an archer in the woods.

Okay maybe it's not an archer that you have to worry about. Maybe it's the arrow out of nowhere that just slams into the next over bale from Graham followed in succession by four more.

Then silence before the sound of boots and Clint - appearing on the forest's edge.]

Evelyn didn't need to forgive him for anything - as far as she is concerned, Will did nothing wrong. Events are fickle and unpredictable creatures, and she has known them in the past to be heart-wrenching, mind-boggling, painful. Few are so pleasant and tame as to lend themselves to a relaxing venture people look back on with fondness. That aside, Evelyn is afforded the luxury of having experienced worse at the hands of others.

Will, in a manner not unlike Philip or her husband, is the sort of man who likes his time alone, who broods. She won't fault him for it, but after noticing that he's gone out in the same direction with the telltale bulge of a sidearm for three days in a row, Evelyn has to shut her copy of Budge's Egyptian Magic and tenaciously follow with a weapon of her own.*

"You've been out here a lot lately," she observes as soon as he's emptied his clip, rifle hanging from its strap over her shoulder. Evelyn knows from experience not to interrupt a fellow when he's shooting for stress relief.

*(A somewhat impractical and obvious Lee Speed sporting rifle, but Evelyn had the feeling he'd gone off to knock cans from a fencepost or something equally boring.)

Blake hasn't heard gunshots from a real and proper pistol in a couple of years, but he knows right away the sound's coming from outside. Gunfire sounds different in the open, distant and hollowed compared to a closed off space (or even a crowded cityscape). In any sense, he doesn't prefer the sound, even if it's almost always been a part of his life. It leaves John feeling cold, like summer's on its way out, despite the sun shining all around them.

When he finally makes it to the range, it's no surprise to find Will Graham behind the gun. He'd guessed it might have been Dean, or maybe another of the resident hunters, but Graham makes sense: being a former cop, just like Blake, he understands the comforting heft of a firearm against an uncertain world.

Blake hasn't held a gun since Gotham, hasn't fired a single bullet since he killed two aggressors at a construction site, and Blake hasn't wanted to, either. But he's not afraid of guns, not afraid to use them, or of their use, just like he's not afraid to approach Will while he's holding a pistol sporting live rounds.

"Efficient," he comments, coming to a stop along the imaginary firing line, arms folded as if it's necessary to fend off a chill. "But not precise."

Lying Cat hears loud noises, unfamiliar noises. And right around her hunting ground, no less, scaring off all the prey. After several unsuccessful attempts at waiting for rabbits in the brush, Lying Cat growls to herself, stands up and starts creeping toward where the sounds are coming from.

Oh hey, it's the dog man. The dog high priest. And he's firing some kind of weapon at bales of hay? It's not a pulse cannon or a laser gun or even a heartbreaker. Is that a projectile weapon? Lying Cat doesn't think she's ever seen something so archaic.

She waits until he has paused in shooting to, apparently, reload, then approaches him slowly from the side. She's not stupid. She knows better than to surprise someone with a weapon, even if she is a very fast and very dangerous feline.

She mrorws inquiringly as she approaches. What are you doing, dog man?

Panne sometimes paces the edges of the woods. Her instincts are at war here; while she finds the untouched nature comforting, she is able to sense that there is something definitely wrong about them. She can tell that it would be dangerous to go too far in, as much as she would like to.

Today, she spots a human along her walk. She watches him from safe distance, in the cover of the forest. The way he's setting up hay bales like that... he must be readying himself for target practice. Panne expects him to pull out a bow, or perhaps a tome, but she is entirely unfamiliar with the weapon he has with him instead. The loud bang of it firing offends her ears, and she flattens them against her head.

What was he doing? His aim was perfectly true; why bother continuing to shoot the horrible contraption? Panne lingers within the trees, watching him intently, unsure if she should approach or not.

Crowley does not care about Will's psyche right now, unfortunately. Even if he knew the sort of things Will is going through, he wouldn't really care. Partly because Will is still mostly a stranger, and partly because Will is currently at the top of the list.

He's been trying to find Will alone for weeks now, but the man is hard to find and harder to isolate. Now, at last, Crowley manages to follow him and watch him for a few minutes. It certainly seems true that he's in law enforcement--he's got that stance, that obvious training. Interesting. Crowley approaches when Will is reloading.

"Keeping the dangerous hay bale population to a minimum, I see." He peers at all the bullet holes. Right now is probably a terrible time to approach Will, but oh well.

[ Well.

Will didn't explicitly set up the bales to be targets to the exclusion of things outside of gun bullets, but arrows are unexpected. Both as a chosen ammunition and as a method of announcing one's presence, prompting a slightly aggravated glance in the direction the arrow came from, far as he can tell.

Mystery archer has the grace to show himself instead. All these people he keeps meeting when his head isn't right and this one's the first to come out of the woodwork for proper introductions, Will breathing out in relief for reasons he can't quite grasp. ]

An angel last week, arrows this week. Your name isn't Cupid, is it?

There's a rustling in the forest, in an otherwise calm moment. It's a large sound, clearly coming from an animal of great size, but as soon as the bullets go off again it stops, and goes still.

If Will looks up, he may spot a large stag with black markings around the eyes just past the first row of trees, watching him carefully.

Prongs is trying his best to keep out of sight, but stags aren't the stealthiest of creatures. Truthfully, he hadn't realized someone set up a shooting range this close to the forest. He had originally been planning to exit over here and change back into himself, but it seems like that is no longer an option, unless he wants to become the next target. He had just felt like going for a walk outside with a more calm mind (as his stag form often provides), but the presence of a shooting range, and someone at the shooting range, destroys that.

So he watches for a moment, weighing his options. Clearly he can't leave this way, since that might be a Muggle hunter, but maybe he can turn around unnoticed. Or, maybe he should just be preparing to run for it in whatever direction seems like the safest option.

[Darcy was out walking, swinging by the range to see if one of the Avengers was at the range at the sound of the gunfire, seeming to work out some stress.

She toys with leaving him be, not one to startle anyone with a loaded weapon. She moves into his periphery, waiting until there's a break in the gunfire before calling out.]

I think the hay bale's dead, dude.

"Your technique is a little sloppy, but I think firearms from you time encourage that," Aramis noted as he came upon the little firing range. "Do you have formal training?"

It was a rather curious experience, this clear vision of a kinder and gentler world; the drive to strive for such goodness even more so. Such alien motivation for his own schemes, Buckingham could not help but dwell on it for a while. Yet in the end he chose to approach the questions that arose from it in the same fashion he was wont to approach any insights that caused his view of the world and his own person to waver: Not at all, not even a little bit, nope and thank you, goodbye.

Subsequently unencumbered by character development Buckingham leisurely approaches the target range on his elegant white mare, thinking to pass some time at practice with the latest of his fancies: Mounted shooting. Alas, the discipline requires a somewhat spacious venue, and the sound of gunfire nearby tells the duke that he will not have range to himself this time. He rides closer just the same, curious who might keep him him from his pastime of choice.

Dismounting nearby Buckingham watches for any sign of unease in his horse, but Godiva stands where she has been lead, as ever so often blissfully indifferent to the commotion nearby. Her temper has a calm that borders on dangerous obliviousness, but it renders her rather well-suited for any business near the noisy range (or the ominous forest, for that unrelated matter). Buckingham pats her neck proudly, and approaches the man presently slaughtering innocent hay bales.

Not recalling any immediate sense of familiarity from the view of his backside Buckingham decides to remain standing a few steps away, observing the man's stance and his success with the targets alike. With unlimited time it seems as good a temporary occupation as any, at least until the duke bores of it, or the other man chooses to acknowledge his presence, whichever may come first.

For his edification, Will does remember everything his angelic doppelgänger said to Evelyn. The purpose of retaining said memories has so far availed itself solely in appeal to Will's guilt, which makes it easy to disregard. It's a crowded field. Evelyn's patience in explaining a past "rumpus" or two does provide an appreciative bolster and perspective, coming from a seasoned veteran of all things wonderfully Wonderland.

Then there is his private unease, gone by without a hint since the smallest ambiguity seems to personally offend Evie. But Will wanted to front load the work ahead of him - them, but him for the most part, because coming to peace with losing his memories and being someone else that is and isn't him from time to time isn't an eventuality that he wants to be an eventuality.

"It isn't a reflection on you," he promises, soundproof earmuffs hanging from his neck since he caught her in the periphery. Or, her very tall rifle. Sometimes Will forgets that this is a woman who tomb dives for a living and has likely known the fortifying heft of firearms for a while.

He might even wager that under the circumstances, her body count is higher than his. Will wouldn't risk actively considering it yet. Will thumbs the safety on, letting Evelyn's presence be a pleasant infection on his thoughts, nodding to indicate her rifle.

"Does your caliber of issues need working out, too?" Or are you just happy to see me.

Like Blake, Will's opinion has been that the gun should be used as a last resort. Police are trained with this in mind, as the situations that they'd be unholstered in are ones that involve criminals, threatened loss of life. Ones where if Will didn't, he would and did take a stainless steel kitchen knife in the shoulder, shredding ligaments, but he had the high ground. It wasn't that Will didn't have it in him to pull the trigger, he knew and feared all too well.

Years later and badge shed, Minnesota said that firing isn't the problem.

This would be the second instance of Blake seeing a gun in Will's hands, and first hadn't exactly gone swimmingly. It's safe to aim at bales, and Will's head isn't rank with cravings.

"Trying to fix that, officer." Will relaxes his stance, one shoulder rolling while the magazine is released and replaced. The temptation to give over his standoffishness to sympathy for Blake's death brings Will to an indecisive crossroads he has to consider behind a neutral mask.

"I'm brushing up for my own piece of mind."

Somewhere along the line Will recognizes the sensation of being watched. The utter silence coming out of the forest serves as its own kind of sounding board for presence, even for the smallest creature.

Benign as it is.

"Haven't seen you for a while," Will says, his habit of talking to animals without expectation of response completely intact. The new magazine slides home, but Will's distracted by the cat's - was it blue before? Oh, the event's attack on everyone's color palette must have hidden this admittedly strange visual - seemingly inquiring meow. Last time, it was covered in puppies and none too thrilled about it. Will's got dog smell all over him, so here's raising a mental glass to whatever defense wounds he might be incurring in the next few minutes.

"What? You're not gun shy."

It's the sound of gunshots that draws her from her run to investigate, although she's figuring someone is making use of the range. Often she finds Clint here, but today it's someone else. Will Graham - she'd spoken to him briefly at the Resistance meeting, although it's their time as teenagers together that sticks more freshly in her memories.

She watches him in silence for several rounds, taking in his stance and the ease he's practicing with. Formal training, probably. Not military. Police, perhaps? It's likely, although he doesn't strike her as the cop type. Wouldn't have been what she'd pinpointed him as, but that's not really important here, is it?

After a while, she steps forward, letting her approach be heard so she doesn't startle him - never a wise thing to do with a man with a gun. Her hands are tucked in her pockets and she's casual and relaxed as she strolls towards him.

"You're favoring your one shoulder. Old injury?"

The presence of a large blue predator does tend to be a rather obvious one. As well as alarming. Even the dumbest animals have gone into hiding.

He does still smell like dog. There are plenty of other dog people in the mansion, as well as one cat person, but Will has got to be their leader or something. It's not just the smell, it's his demeanor as well. He's got that cool calm quiet of a leader-type as well.

She snorts at the question. Of course she's not gun shy. She approaches, tail up now that she's not in danger of getting accidentally shot at. She's really curious about that gun and stops near Will to peer up at it. Even the gun smells weird, like oil and exhaust from those old-fashioned spaceships you find on the more backwater planets.

Said human has the awareness of a train barreling through a tunnel, unfortunately. Shots pierce the air and crack against the wood, not quite absorbed in the unsettling wall ofnothing that is the forest, but between the soundproofed earmuffs the gunshots punctuate the pressured blood rush in his head.

But he has control and focus. He never fires in bursts over two, keeping to the bales' centers with little deviance, and it doesn't look like much. Will is still unimposing and disconcertingly human, prone to fear as ever as when he finally sees movement near the trees that can't be the wind disturbing the branches.

"Hello?" he asks a little too loudly, taking off the earmuffs while adrenaline flow from one end of the spectrum to the other, invulnerability to startle he does his best to rein in. "Can I help you?"

Hmm. He seems nervous, and a nervous human is quick with the blade. Or whatever it is that he's holding. She could just leave, and let him think he saw an animal disturbing the brush, but... Well, Panne is overconfident, and lacks a certain degree of self-preservation. At least she's smart enough to maintain her human form; Will probably wouldn't take well to a giant demon bunny barreling in on him out of nowhere.

She steps out of the forest, making herself visible, but still stands at a distance.

"Lower your weapon, man-spawn. I was only observing."

Every movement's worth watching, as far as Blake's concerned. Will knows how much can be gleaned about a person just from observation alone — lord knows he's used the very same tacit skill on Blake more than a few times, an impressive feat considering they haven't really shared all that much time together — so he shouldn't be all that disturbed to have John taking that option.

He repeats Will's words in his head, offering a gentle nod in acknowledgement. "Not 'cause you're expectin' to use that damn thing?" He feels it's prudent to ask; every deviation from the norm is worth a second glance. Add in his own distaste (less for the firearm and more for what its use might eventually suggest) and it becomes obvious that he'd much rather avoid the taste of gunpowder and the bite of recoil and the flood memories gained from target practice.

Before Will can answer, John lets out a careful breath and interrupts, "—Don't gotta answer that. Just... a bit on edge, that's all. Here's hopin' you don't gotta use it, that's what I shoulda said.

"That, and... sorry. For bein' an ass a coupla weeks back." Straight and to the point. He can have a lighter touch, but in this case, he doesn't feel it's necessary. Coincidentally, this is why he was better off when he didn't involve himself with people; things were considerably easier when he kept to himself.

Evelyn is not like her husband, who spent so much time in the military, who did the odd, mercenary-esque job with questionable employers, who has likely forgotten the number of lives he has taken. No one should feel obligated to play God, least of all Evelyn - the bringer of plagues in Egypt - still feeling the dull ache of guilt for reading from something she should not have read.

Rick had gently but firmly informed her that every fight comes down to a 'it's him or me' perspective, that the other guy wouldn't hesitate and neither should you. It was a hard lesson learned, but he understood that it was more difficult for Evelyn to be so aggressively ruthless unless her hand was forced.

To her credit, she does not falter when it comes to self-preservation, when family and friends are threatened. Wonderland's unpredictability can harden a person over time, it is fortunate she remains as steadfastly optimistic as possible despite the circumstances.

"I could use the practise," she says, shrugging with one shoulder. "And I thought you could use the company."

Happy to see you.

Hannibal Lecter knows who he is with a controlled clarity unrivaled. Long ago now he examined himself inside and out. There was only so much exploration of his own mentality that he could do before he understood it entirely and could then branch out, to spread like ink in everyone else's waters. Knowing ones self carries with it a sense of control that he cherishes; The holy grail for a control freak. To know one's self is to be in control, infinitely.

One would think, then, that Wonderland's machinations would get on his last nerve. It's hardly polite, after all, to present to someone in total control over his concept of self with the concept that they are multiple different people with endlessly genuine memories that never occurred and personality traits unaddressed. Yet to his credit his controlling nature is matched only by his adaptability: He can handle anything Wonderland throws at him with dignity, he's sure. One day, when the chance presents itself, the powers that be of Wonderland will join the ranks of Donald Sutcliffe and Dean Winchester, with the retribution of a man unwavering in his resolve. Until then, he must go with the flow so to speak and so he does. He adapts, he aborbs, he thinks.

And there is quite a lot to think about, given that recent string of events.

He remembers all of it of course, those false memories given to him and placed in his head without his permission as if they were real. He remembers the concept of that large cursed family, the mild humiliation of being a teenager once again with so little control over his own temper, and of course he remembers being among the ranks of Lucifer, the left hand of Death in all his glory. The rest he files away in his memory palace but that last event, it was worth considering. The consequences presented an opportunity.

It wasn't particularly hard to find Will, once Hannibal discovered that he hadn't been spending much time in his own room for the last few days. The sound of gunshots echoed through the grounds and reverberated in the air once he stepped foot outside. His footsteps announce him, light against the ground but present by nature of his shoes, but he remains silent. He watches, he thinks.

Will Graham, not too long ago, believed he could be saved, and the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Considering who's doing the approaching, Will can persuade himself to go either way without much guilt. Considering that the event they just got through suffering was either his or his good friend's fault, Will might even be closer to that decision than his hostile calm toward the demon might suggest.

"It's true, I could go after more dangerous animals," Will says, partly a callous invocation of both Dean Winchester and John Blake and part self-incrimination since he doesn't feel the need to attach an asterisk to every ambiguous statement he makes. It's gotten him into some trouble.

As far as first meetings in person go, it could be under more auspicious circumstances, but Will suspects that the inauspiciousness is the entire point. He takes the opportunity to holster the weapon and pace around to Crowley, arms tucked around himself. Shooting over conversation is a little like eating with your mouth open.

"To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?"

If he were a hunter, he has the wrong tool for the job. Depending on the prey, for one, and although there have been murders too often and recent, Will isn't that kind of manhunter.

But he does look up and soon after has the pleasant sensation of ice being dumped down his spine. Not his stag, no inky black coat and inexplicable feathers lining it, but the simple image of it is enough to give pause for deep discomfort. The markings around its eyes are unusual, approximated to the shape of glasses, cheers to nature and all her infinite variation making sure Will never finds a reason to rest easy.

Angling the gun away and toward the ground out of habit, Will breathes out slowly.

"Can't argue that you're the one trespassing. Sorry."

I thought the idea was not to drop any more bodies, actually.

[ Seeing as the hay is already reaped, it won't be overly fussed by a few (dozen) bullet holes.

Darcy isn't exactly unwelcome, but she shouldn't take the stiff set of his shoulders as anything but him getting a handle on the adrenaline jitters. Firing a gun has an impact on biology that doesn't discriminate based on veteran status.

But here, the safety it flicked back on. Safe to approach, Miss Lewis. ]

Did you come out to practice or learn?

"As it so happens," Will says, an evaluating eye cast over the stranger (mostly his attire, but Will is slowly getting accustomed to the breadth of time periods other Wonderland captives are from. Going so far as to take one of them to bed and make attire an irrelevant matter altogether). Will doesn't know that he should take criticism whose use of firearms necessitated being in close quarters that seriously, but it seems like he means well.

"Will Graham."

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[ open ] up bright and early for their daily races

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brb changing display name to dog high priest

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excellent

whoops really excited about fire emblem cr

omg you've played it! yesssss

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