The pistol kicked in Mac’s hand, sending a blast of pain up her injured arm. Her shoulder jerked, sending the shot wide. She clenched her teeth and set the weapon down. Someone grabbed her elbow, and she spun with a right hook to see her partner dodge the blow with room to spare. Mac whipped off her shooting ear muffs and threw them smack in the center of his chest.

“What the hell, Preacher?”

“Just checking your reflexes.” He tossed the muffs back and eyed her scarred arm. “Improvement?”

Mac grunted.

“Still doing your physical therapy?”

She grunted again glared.

“It takes time –”

“It’s been *three months*, and I still can’t control my weapon.” She pulled off her shooting goggles. “You know I won’t be passing a shooting test any time soon.”

“Mac –”

“I can’t hunt for kids if I can’t shoot, Preacher. We’re a rescue team, and I’m a danger to the victims.” She met his eyes. “They’re going to stick me behind a desk. You know I won’t survive it, and no one but you wants to work with me, anyway.”

“It’s your winning personality,” he grinned. “What are you gonna do? I can see retirement all over your face.”

“Open a bed and breakfast?”

“People expect you to smile when you run those.”

“So that’s out. Garbage collection?”


Mac shuddered. “Does anyone pay people to be grumpy old hermits?”

Preacher shouldered her bag. “I hear it’s a strictly volunteer gig.”

“Well, shit. There goes my future.”

Submitted for Thursday Threads, 289 – Weird, Wild, and Wicked.
Required Phrase: “I’m a danger.”

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