It's some kind of perverse game of Would You Rather, but Nate honestly can't pick between them. Marlowe's been chasing him since he was a fifteen year old kid who didn't know any better, and she didn't think twice about trying to kill him or Sully. But Rafe is the guy who ruined his life fifteen years ago, convinced him to leave his brother for dead. He knows that's just as much his own fault, but it's easier if he can pretend like it was Rafe's decision, otherwise the guilt would drown him.
And that was before the guy apparently tried to actually kill them. Nate's glad he doesn't remember any of that, because it would only piss him off more.
Nate watches while Sam fires off a couple of shots. He still shoots in that easy way like he was trained for it, never mind the fact that he was in prison for years. There's probably something to be said about that, the easy way both of them learned this kind of thing, as easy as they learned to pick a pocket. Some of it Sully taught them, some of it they worked out on their own, but Nate knows Sam's never seen Sully as the same kind of father figure as he has.
"Fair point," he agrees. They used to work well as a team together, he thinks. He wonders if it would be the same now, even with how much has changed between them. Hatchimals aside, he hasn't gotten into a fight with Sam there to back him up since he was twenty.
Nate eyes the target for a moment. They've probably put enough holes in the damn thing that he should go and retrieve it. Maybe it's a little odd for him, but he's not actually in the mood to keep score or track whose shots are whose. He's content enough to spend the afternoon with his brother. "We'd probably get arrested pretty quick for beating up an old lady," he points out. He imagines it would be hard to pass off to the cops that she's an evil cultist bitch intent on destroying the world.
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And that was before the guy apparently tried to actually kill them. Nate's glad he doesn't remember any of that, because it would only piss him off more.
Nate watches while Sam fires off a couple of shots. He still shoots in that easy way like he was trained for it, never mind the fact that he was in prison for years. There's probably something to be said about that, the easy way both of them learned this kind of thing, as easy as they learned to pick a pocket. Some of it Sully taught them, some of it they worked out on their own, but Nate knows Sam's never seen Sully as the same kind of father figure as he has.
"Fair point," he agrees. They used to work well as a team together, he thinks. He wonders if it would be the same now, even with how much has changed between them. Hatchimals aside, he hasn't gotten into a fight with Sam there to back him up since he was twenty.
Nate eyes the target for a moment. They've probably put enough holes in the damn thing that he should go and retrieve it. Maybe it's a little odd for him, but he's not actually in the mood to keep score or track whose shots are whose. He's content enough to spend the afternoon with his brother. "We'd probably get arrested pretty quick for beating up an old lady," he points out. He imagines it would be hard to pass off to the cops that she's an evil cultist bitch intent on destroying the world.