ten_fwd | First Entrance

It's hot this time of year out in Texas. Late summer, when the air turns so thick with moisture you can cut it with a butter knife. Kate's biding her time in Galveston, waiting for the hubbub to die down after her last big heist, but not even the ocean breezes coming off the coast can put a dent in the heat. That may be the greatest shock when she expects to set her boot down on weathered wood and gets the shiny floors of Ten Forward instead, sun gone and replaced with bright, cool light. She lifts her chin to see out from under the brim of her stetson (it used to be white, but dust and clay have turned it tawny), blinking hard at the sight she sees. She sets her hand to her hip, fingers brushing the rosewood grip of her Colt. This ain't the first time she's been pulled away from home — in fact, she's even used to the idea of strange rooms and odd future technology — but this ain't like any place she's been before. And just how did she get here?

She swallows down a yelp, taking stock of the room. People are dressed all strange, and outside the windows all she can see are stars. This ain't right. She's not gonna let herself panic, but this ain't right. Hell, she's done this once before, ended up somewhere she didn't plan on, so she looks around for people she might know.

"Tommy?" she calls, disappointed when she hears desperation in her voice. "Marian? Jim? John?"

She's working down her list of folk she trusts, folk who could take charge of the situation, folk she wouldn't leave home without. She's looking for answers, and a safe harbor.

"Tom?" she calls again, voice softer this time.

[ooc: Kissin' Kate Barlow is a former schoolteacher, about midway through her canon and a few years into being the meanest outlaw Texas has ever seen. At least, that's her reputation. She's as harmless as a pussycat so long as you don't threaten her, and searching for some answers. Kate's been in a game before, so she knows about things like airplanes and space travel, but she's pretty much your typical 19th century woman, and if you're confused about anything at all please contact me! I'm friendly, and happy to thread with anybody!]

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Jack has been poked and prodded and stung with something they said was a vaccine, though it didn't look like any needle he's ever seen, and he hasn't been able to smoke now in three. Goddamn. Days.

Something about contained atmospheric control, or some other horseshit, and Jack is in as foul a mood as he's ever been, staring moody at what the bartender insists is just like whiskey and what Jack has been too suspicious of to drink. His head is pounding and his fingers are twitching and he's out of smokes anyway, and there is just no goddamn way in hell this could get any worse, which is probably why the universe finally gives him a fucking break, in the form of a petite blonde who appeared out of nowhere and looks as confused to be here as he feels.

He lifts a hand to wave her down, mouth twisted in aggravation. "Holy hell, you gonna holler yourself hoarse? I gonna be that lucky?"

Edited 2014-05-24 23:29 (UTC)

Well. When she was hoping for a friendly face, she could've hoped for a friendlier face than his sour puss.

Still, she eases her hand off her sixshooter and lets out a little sigh of relieve, moving in on where he's sitting.

"M'sorry, am I disturbin' you?"

She don't sound the least bit sorry.

"Ain't you always?"

He gestures at her with his glass of...whatever the hell it is, relief of his own hidden deep under the downwards tug of his mouth. "I can't even come to another universe for some peace 'n quiet without you tailin after me?"

She scoffs.

"Don't flatter yourself, darlin'."

(However, there is an unmistakable twitch to her lips, that bright spark of humor in her blue eyes.)

"How do I know you haven't jus' roped me in here? I certainly wasn't lookin' t'be plucked outta Texas. Bet you jus' got bored."

He tugs at his hat brim, tosses back the amber-colored liquid in the tumbler he's been nursing, and makes a face. "If I coulda roped somebody in, how come you ain't that sweet little thing who won the barrel race in the last rodeo, huh?"

"'Cuz your aim's jus' as bad as I've always said."

Honestly, Jack. What else could it be?

She eyes that now-empty glass with a powerful longing, sidling up to the strange bar and giving it a long, hard look. She sets her elbow down cautiously, and when the whole thing doesn't give way she crosses her ankles.

"Where'd you get that?"

He lifts the empty tumbler, waggles it towards the bartender in both answer and request.

"They don't take money." Jack regards this quirk with deep suspicion. Maybe capitalism hasn't always worked out so well for him, but it's how things work, ain't it? "And I got no idea what this shit is supposed to be, but it ain't whiskey."

Not really, anyway.

"Well, that's a cryin' shame."

Kate could stand a drink right about now. She's got a creeping, crawling feeling going down her spine, and his words only get the natural response.

"What do they take?"

Suspicious as a mama goose guarding her babies.

"Fuck'f I know."

He's right there with you, Kate. Nice as it might be to not have to spend his hard-earned cash, there's something mighty wrong with any bar that's not trying to turn a profit.

He watches her over his own shoulder, studying that wary look on her face, the ready set to her shoulders. "Want somethin? May as well drink, it bein free."

Eloquent as always, she sees. With Jack Twist she always feels compelled to carry around a brick of soap and a little blackboard so he can recite lines.

I will not fornicate my language in public.
I will not fornicate my language in public.
I will not...

"Couldn't hurt."

She turns slowly, pressing her palms flat against the bar. She waves down the tender, points to Jack's empty tumbler, and holds up two fingers.

"Why're we here, Jack? What's goin' on?"

He gives her a sidelong look, shifts a little in his seat, mouth pulling unhappily at one corner.

"Wish I knew. Nobody seems t'have any kinda answers. But they ain't so bad, here, I guess."

His fingers tap on the bar, and he looks down at them, glances over at her, but if he's thinking about reaching out and putting a hand over hers, he doesn't do it. "Figure whatever brought us'll put us right back again, soon enough."

Concern plays a soft game of tennis on her features; a quiet wrinkle here, an unhappy crease there. She don't let too much of it show, not in some new saloon where she doesn't know the proprietor from Adam, but Jack's safe.

Relatively speaking.

All the same, she arches an eyebrow and keeps up the deviling, if for no other reason than because it feels normal.

"That's what you figure, is it? An' is that reckonin' based in any kinda logic, or is it just your gut talkin'?"

Aw, shit.

He hates seeing that uncertainty wander across her face. Kate's -- she's the one who always knows what to do, and how to do it. She takes charge and bosses him around like she was born to it, and maybe she was -- he's certain it's a trait common to teachers everywhere. It certainly was in the somewhat dusty memories of his long-ago, half-recalled school days.

It ain't much. Just a line shadowing itself between her brows, a slight tension at the corners of her mouth where she's not laughing like she normally might, with him. She's mocking, but it lacks the ease and comfort of Milliways, where she'd as soon swipe his hat and drink right out from under him as smile.

It makes him uncomfortable, so it's a good thing their drinks arrive, and he can swap out his empty tumbler for the fresh one, with a glance up and a nod of thanks before he turns back to her, blue eyes frank under the brim of that worn Resistol. Frank, and more openly concerned than hers, but then, Jack always has been a softer touch than he oughta be. "Allus has before. Maybe this ain't the door's doin', but you 'n me, we been picked up and set down in places we shouldn't be before, ain't we? There ain't nothin' sayin' it won't happen again."

Edited 2014-07-24 01:39 (UTC)

She's not expecting that look. It ain't much a common one around her, when he's got himself all bloated like a puffer fish and dishing out insults, trying to look sour through the gauze of laughter — or outright sour, when she's pulled one over on him. Soft lines and concern seem unnecessarily intimate, when they're too busy yanking each other's braids and teasing about who's the best rider.

The corner of her mouth tics, blue eyes dropping away from their search through his. She looks askance, running her thumb across the lip of her newly arrived drink. He's right, in his way. And what's more, she can tell he's trying to be reassuring. Least she can do is try to feel reassured.

She takes a deep breath, and nods.

"Ayup. You an' me have seen a lotta things. Just a couple'a dust devils skippin' around the wilds. Guess this is jus' another frontier."

She laughs softly, and throws back her drink. Pulling a face, she glances between Jack and the now-empty tumbler, and shakes her head.

"We're gonna hafta be sure they get some decent bourbon in here if they plan on keepin' us any length of time, though."

First Entrance

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