daredevilkink | Prompt Post #4

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So, I'm a little rusty, but I love Karen and couldn't let this go unfilled.

***
Karen Page is not a New York native. She’s not a Yank, a city girl, a coast dweller.

No, Karen grew up with her brothers on a small cattle ranch in Montana, not far outside of Bozeman. And she grew up knowing how to shoot.

Her dad would take her and her little brothers hunting, sometimes, for turkey and waterfowl when she was younger, for deer and elk once she had grown up a bit. She always enjoyed it, it was inclusive, made her feel like “one of the boys.” And there was something beautiful about guns, about the smooth mechanics and the smell of powder and oil. Something wild about the recoil, thrilling when she downed something. And she was good at it.

Hunting was an important part of growing up in her house, it supplemented their diets, and their income. And from a young age she was taught: don’t ever waste a kill, don’t hunt for sport, and never point a gun at someone you don’t intend to hurt.

Her father taught her long arms. It was her mother who taught her how to shoot a handgun.

“All women should know how to fire a pistol. It’s an important skill to have, and in this world, you need to be able to defend yourself” she would say, greying red hair pulled away from her face, emphasizing the hard set of her mouth, the serious glint in her eyes. “Your father isn’t wild about this, but he knows its necessary. When everyone else has a gun and the police are nowhere in sight, you can’t afford not to know how to use them.”

And they spent the summer before freshman year shooting cans off of boulders and riding horses, and it was awesome. Her brother’s start calling her “Bullseye,” and their friends go red whenever she enters the room.

“God willing, you’ll never have to use this” her father says when he presses the CW9 into her hands on her 16th birthday. She smiles, kisses him on the cheek. That year, she also gets Taylor Swift’s debut album, and her first cell phone. She listens to the album endlessly, and texts her best friend late into the night.

She uses the Kahr, too, but only ever to practice when she gets the itch. Mostly, though, it stays at the bottom of her purse, safety on.

***

“Kaaaareeeen…”

“Michaeeeeelaaaa” Karen shoots back with a grin, rolling her eyes. She’s not entirely sure how she got roped into being the designated driver for prom, but it’s entirely unfair and she kind of wants a do over. “I’m trying to watch the road, stop distracting me.” She bats away her friend’s arms, without much effect. There’s giggling coming from the back seat, and, yeah, she’s the only one in this car that isn’t completely wasted. She checks the dashboard: 3:47am. Fantastic.

“So, who want’s to get dropped off first?”

Groans abound. “I can’t face my parents like this, K... they’re all asleep anyways? I think? So we can just…” Jordan shrugs and makes a vague gesture, but Karen’s pretty sure she got the gist of her meaning.

Rob starts to speak, pauses to spit Jordan’s hair out of his mouth, and starts again. “My folks are in Texas until Monday, Jorey. You can stay with me.” He’s smiling dopily as he says it, and Luke starts laughing from Jordan’s other side. Karen can’t help but join in, because yeah. That wasn’t smooth at all.

“Her dad might actually kill you for that, but sure, Bobby. I’ll drop you two at yours, and leave you to face the Wrath of the Tyler’s in the morning.”

Fifteen minutes later, Karen pulls into Rob’s drive and waits until her friends have made it into the house before leaving. She’s just started down the road when she hears a loud bang, followed by Jordan’s screams.

The rest of the night is a blur. Karen can recall shouting at Michaela to call 911 as she fumbles with the glove compartment, grabs her gun. She can remember running out of the car, up Rob’s drive. She remembers tripping on her dress and face-planting, and when the police take her statement hours later, the scrape on her jaw still has small rocks in it.

Mostly she remembers fear, and panic, and not being able to think.

That, and the sight of Rob’s blood soaking his carpet, and staining Jordan’s hands.

And how the man screamed when she shot him once, twice, three times. He drops his weapon, but Karen doesn’t, even if her hands are shaking, and her knees are weak. She keeps her gun trained on him as Luke(had he followed her?) darts forward to grab the intruder’s sawed-off.

She’s aware of the activity going on around her, but she doesn’t register it well enough to make a statement later. That’s alright, though, because her friends seemed a lot more sober now than they had ten minutes ago, and she figures that they can fill in the blanks. Jordan will have to, anyways, won’t she?

The police come with an ambulance, which takes Rob and the man to the hospital. When they arrive on the scene, Karen is still standing against the wall in a bloody prom dress, pointing her gun at a man who went unconscious ten minutes previously.

They take her statement, treat her for shock, and call her parents. They do the same for the others.

When Karen sees her parents entering the station, she doesn’t move. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t say anything when Mom and Dad rush over to her, crush her in an embrace. She’s silent the whole ride home, while her mother fights tears.

It’s not until she’s in the shower that the floodgates burst, and she cries, and cries, and cries, while the water runs cold.

***

Karen spends the summer riding horses, getting ready for college, and helping out on the ranch.

Apart from the singular hospital visit she pays Rob a week after what she’s started to call “The Incident” in her head, she avoids her friends. They don’t bother her about it; they’re avoiding her too.

The man doesn’t die, but he does get a sentence of 17 years in state prison. Karen refuses to testify, and if people judge her for it, they don’t show it.

She doesn’t touch a gun again, after that. When her father asks if she wants to go hunting with him and the boys, she refuses. Her mother knows better than to ask if she wants to practice shooting cans.

People still call her Bullseye, though. Just not to her face.

***

“So you’re from Montana?”

Karen smiles at her new– her first – college room mate.

“Yeah. Bozeman.”

Cynthia laughs a little. “That’s a great name for a town. I wish my city had a name like that, but San Diego doesn’t really give me much to work with.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Karen surveys the room. It’s a little cramped, but it’s not like she can be picky.

“So, have you ever shot a gun?”

Karen doesn’t freeze at the question, and her answering laugh isn’t the least bit forced. “No, why would I have?”

now on ao3 http://archiveofourown.org/works/4224528

Bullseye!Karen? Holy shit, that's an awesome idea.

This is so great, anon.

Thank you so much! It was fun to write
(See, this way she can't die. It's fridge protection)

OP here and i am screaming, thank you so much for this!! BULLSEYE KAREN

Aahhh, so glad you liked this OP! BULLSEYE KAREN WTF

Prompt Post #4

Fill: "The first time I shot a man"

Re: Fill: "The first time I shot a man"

Re: Fill: "The first time I shot a man"

Re: Fill: "The first time I shot a man"

Re: Fill: "The first time I shot a man"

Re: Fill: "The first time I shot a man"