2021-12-29 - High Noon

Well, a western saloon wouldn't be worth a plug nickel if a Madame wasn't running a whore house out of it. Miss Kitty is perched on a stool at the end of the bar, her golden locks pinned up on her head in impressive sausage curls, and her decolletage on display in an ironic white dress with black beading and lace details. It comes up short to flare back off her hips, exposing fishnet stockings tucked into black boots. She has a cigarillo jammed in the corner of her mouth, because Miss Kitty is rough like that. She is the gatekeeper to the upstairs rooms. No cash, no pass, gents. All those bouncing bosoms come at a price.

It's the weirdest dream Vic has had in a long time, and she doesn't register that it has a capital D in front of it at first. "Barkeep! Gimme a whiskey!" she demands.

Alexander finds himself leaning against the bar, dressed in a long duster, a nicely patterned waistcoat complete with a pocket watch and chain, gun belt, and trousers. A broad-brimmed hat is set on the bar beside him, and he's cradling a glass of whiskey in one hand. A tarnished star saying SHERIFF is attached to the vest. The first thing Alexander does? He drops the glass, which hits the wood floor with a crash and makes a nice little whiskey bomb. "Shit." He looks around wildly. "The hell? Oh no."

Easton's hair is gelled back and his mustache curled up at the corners as his fingers tickle the ivory. Boy howdy is that a phrase Easton is going to hate when they wake up from this thing. He somehow moves his fingers agile-y across the keys playing that one old-timey song 'dunna-dun-dun-da-dun-duun' that all the player pianos have. The tip jar is basically empty and as it should be. He likewise has a cigar hanging out of his mouth. When Alexander drops the glass the music cuts out and Easton looks up suddenly made aware that he's in a Dream. "Aww fuck."

Tor wasn't asleep. He was passing from one room to the next, and so the Dream took him mid-stride, through the iconic swinging doors of the saloon. He's looking a little road-dusty, with a full beard (side note: apparently he can grow a full beard) and a leather jacket rimmed with fur. His rucksack is laden with tools, including panning equipment. He stops just inside, and is jostled by someone who comes up behind him. He looks around, sighs, then stomps forward to find a table to hoist off the overladen pack.

Well, Itzhak once accused him of having a gunslinger limp, so perhaps it's no surprise at all that Joe's present. He's at the poker table, dressed rather dandyishly in shades of black and white. No hat, and the wavy blond hair is slicked back in a way they've never seen him sport in the 21st century. The long face is pale, eyes sunken, face faintly sheened with sweat, as if he were ill. Not currently his turn, so he's glancing between the other players, idly walking a silver dollar back and forth across tattooed knuckles. His expression is reserved, almost disdainful, belied by the almost manic glitter in the blue eyes.

If the barkeep's not upstairs himself with one of the girls, well, he might actually sling you a drink if you ask real nice. Or if you don't.

The Mexican takes pride in his mustache, and his finger-coiffed black curls; and his ability to pour two bottles of whiskey at a time, and not spill a drop doing it. He's in a black silk waistcoat, charcoal grey button-up shirt and dark pants, with a little bowtie at his neck, and spurs on his boots. His sleeves are turned up to his elbows and buttoned into place. "Uno para la pequeña dama, y..." His dark eyes slide to the Madame, and he crooks her a smile. "Una para ti, querida." A wink as his tattooed fingers leave the glass, and the counter's given a swipe with his cloth as he pushes away.

And stops cold at the crash of glass. "The fuck did you just waste a glass of perfectly good whiskey?"

Dammit, Alexander. She could have been happy believing this was a normal dream. Vic startles at the dropped glass and glares at the "sheriff", recognizing her neighbor. "Ah shit." She then glances down at her heavily corseted waist and grunts. "How the fuck did they BREATHE in these things?" she croaks out. "No wonder they all fainted at the drop of a hat."

Ruiz gets a dirty look. "Wake up old man, we're Over There."

"It's not real whiskey," Alexander snaps back at Ruiz, even as his shoulders hunch and he bends down to scoop up the shards into his bare hands, quickly picking up the pieces and trying not to cut himself. He glances up and over to Vic...and then his gaze just stops on Vic. He clears his throat, and blushes a little before turning right back down to picking up the glass. "Eighteen...sixties? Maybe? Somewhere around there." A glance around at the various people, huffs as he recognizes some. "Gonna be a doozy," he hazards.

And then the whistle sounds, and the three men in black hats enter to find Alexander in that entirely unintimidating crouch. He stands, slowly, hands full of glass and smeared whiskey. "...sheriff?" Yep, he only now looks down to notice the star on his chest. "...oh." That's not real either. He knows its not real. And yet. Alexander stands up a little straighter, his shoulders squaring. "I think that 'causing a ruckus in a local establishment' is against the law...boys." It's hesitant. "I think I have to arrest you, now. Don't suppose you'll come along...quiet like?"

Tor has shed his heavy, bulky pack, but not before doing a bit of blind fumbling for a weapon. It's there underneath his heay coat, along with an impressive hunting knife. He walks up to the bar, looks at Ruiz, tries not to laugh, and then says, while barely keeping a straight face, "Whiskey? I guess?"

And then things are getting bad and ugly, as the three pardners walk through the door. That's when he takes in the rest of the room, noting familiar faces. "Here we go," he mutters under his breath. Just another day in Dreamland.

Joe's sigh is more than a hint theatrical, as he rises languidly from his seat. "Gentlemen, a moment," he tells his fellow players. "I simply can't play when there are fools babbling in my presence," His drawl is even sweeter and slower than usual, manner utterly at ease.

He steps out from behind the poker table, leaving that silver dollar spinning, wobbling its way down to stillness. The black cutaway coat he's wearing reveals the gleaming grips of a pair of pearl-handled Colts at his hips, as he saunters over to stand at Alexander's flank. Wordlessly ranging himself at the sheriff's side, before he favors the new arrivals with a bright, vulpine grin. Joe looks, God help him, like he's enjoying this whole thing way too much.

Ruiz opens his mouth, no doubt with a sally ready to fire back to either Vic or Alexander, when the trio of n'er do wells stroll on in. Apparently looking for the sherriff. He reflexively reaches for his badge, only to find that, of course, it isn't there. And even worse, Clayton's apparently the lawmaker in this town.

"Fuck," he informs Tor succinctly. Then, "What? You want a what?" Because Alexander gets to be a cop, and he, the worst people person on planet Earth, gets to be the bartender.

Keeping tabs on the men, and on the Georgian with his pearl-handled Colts, Ruiz briefly flicks his eyes away to check the shelves for where he'd stow a firearm, if he were a conscientious bar owner.

Oh Lord, they're actually wearing black hats. Vic snorts and tosses back the whiskey from the bartender as she slowly slides off the stool, careful not to catch any of the frilly ruffly bullshit of her dress on anything. She also slides a hand to her garter belt to feel for a weapon. Dammit, just a damned letter opener? Really? Stupid misogynistic movie 'history'. Fortunately, she doesn't need a gun to be armed. She still has her mind, and that is a particularly vicious thing.

She bends over the bar, giving Ruiz and Tor quite a show while muttering, "Not a word, you two," to grab a couple booze bottles for ammo.

Alexander snaps at Joseph as he stands closer, "Stay away from me, Cavanaugh." But he does have more pressing threats to deal with, at the moment, so he refocuses on the Craggin brothers. The shards of glass get dropped to the floor, shattering into even smaller shards, that would be terribly fun to pick up, if any of this were real. His expression is mostly...bemused. He has a gun at his hip, but he doesn't draw it. "...you boys aren't collectively sharp enough to cut your way out of a paper bag," he informs them. From the look on his face, it's not quite what he meant to say. "But I guess the only way out is through."

Easton gets his footing, just foot really, and steading himself against the piano. "Oh fer fucksake you're gonna do me dirty like this?!" He asks of the veil that will at all opportunities do him dirty. He closes his eyes and wishes really hard, okay not really, he reaches out with his physical sense. A small smile curls up his lips as he finds what he hoped for. He pops open the piano and pulls out a shotgun. "Sheriff, I believe I may be of assistance." Yes he loves Tombstone so he will be living his best life in this dream, even with the bullets flying and his loved ones in danger.

Tor isn't playing out a fantasy, but nor does he seem as dismayed as poor Alexander. When you're born and raised in Gray Harbor and had a mother who was in to new age spirituality, it takes quite a bit to phase you. "Drink," he says to Ruiz, but then just reaches over the bar to help himself to a glass. He knocks it back, coughs at the harsh taste, then moves behind a pillar to stay out of the way of the flying...well, it'll probably be more than bullets. He pulls out his pistol, but he's in no hurry to jump into the fray.

It's Alexander that gets that feral, sidelong grin from Joe for a moment. As if he very much enjoys the way he discomfits the younger man.

Only for an instant, though, before his hands are darting for one of his Colts. A long Colt Navy, the muzzle of it darkened with bluing. He may have two, but apparently he's one of those that fights a single-action revolver with his spare hand fanning the hammer. He only wings his target, but even that's enough to have him smiling. Struck in turn, but it seems to have lodged in the heavy leather of his waistcoat. Then he's seeking cover, too, behind the bar.

"Shut it, Cleatus!" Miss Kitty (Vic) shouts, "You're so stupid you can't tell a skunk from a housecat!" and then she winds up and chucks a bottle of whiskey at one of the man's cohorts. Of course, she's using her Physical Glimmer to do so, but for all intents and purposes, it just looks like the Madame has one hell of an arm on her. Unfortunately, this black hat bad guy seems to be resistant to her Telekinetic throw and it just misses, the bottle smashing against a wall behind him. "Shit." She winds up with another.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," Javier snorts at Vic, and leans away as he spies exactly what he was hoping for: what appears to be a Sharps model 1859. Perfectly polished cherry wood. Loaded. And now his.

He snags it, quickly checks the clip, and takes two steps back with the stock tucked in tight against his shoulder. And the second one of the men makes a move on his boyfriend, well. He finds himself a clean line of sight, and fires. Then reloads and sidesteps, preparing to have to take a second shot when his first only clips his target. One of them's shooting at him, too, but it whistles past and slams into a row of liquor bottles, bursting them open in a hail of splintered glass.

Alexander meant to raise a hand and zap the black hat in the lead. That was his intention. Instead? He draws that big-old six shooter at his hip, and fires off a shot from the hip like he's been doing it for years. No sharp-shooting, perhaps, but a solid shot, nonetheless. "Assistance would be good, Easton! I'm using a gun! Why am I using a gun?" He doesn't do the smart thing and jump behind the bar with the rest, but instead fires again.

Vic's second bottle of whiskey, because face it, that's what most of the bottles behind the bar contain, goes sailing at one of Cleatus' goons. This time, the bottle cracks him dead in the sternum with the force of a small rhino. With a flash of teeth as a bullet grazes her right arm, the enforcer-turned-saloon girl dives behind the bar with the others, because she doesn't even have the benefit of a leather waistcoat to protect her, and her boobs are a legendarily well-known target on both sides of the Veil WITHOUT being shoved damn near under her chin by a corset. Another bottle is grabbed to chuck at the roughneck who shot at her.

With a crack Easton gets a shot in on Cleatus but doesn't have anytime to celebrate. He feels the bullet ping off his suspenders and knock him back onto the bench. He stumbles and falls off the bench and rolls on the ground for a bit. After a few moments he manages to crawl behind the piano and pulls himself up to steady himself for the next shot.

Tor presses his back firmly to the post that serves as his cover. As he shifts, he hears the crinkle of paper. He looks up, examines a poster tacked up there, then mutters under his breath. "Hey...hey guys, might wanna save some bullets. I got a feeling this is just wave number one and these guys are just the NPCs before the boss battle." He nods to the poster above his head that shows a dead or a live poster for additional mean-looking Craggins.

These guys must be wearing iron stove lids under their clothes, because his shot doesn't really do any harm. Joe's whole face is alight, despite the frustration, but he's not so far gone that he doesn't hear what Tor says. He's already taken cover behind the bar, and now he's holstering the first Colt for the moment. Time to revert to magic - it's physical he's using now, trying to wing a bottle from behind the bar at the man attacking Ruiz.

Two shots, two hits, but the guy's still on his feet and that just won't do. He's also taken a shine to the Mexican, which does seem to suit him just fine. Javier smiles, slow, and looks him in the eye as he pulls the trigger this time. These motherfuckers need to get out of his damned bar. In body bags, if need be.

"I don't like guns!" Alexander shouts, even as he fires the gun again. It's a toe-to-toe squareoff with Cleatus, and this time both men are hit. He staggers back as a shot takes him high and wide in the chest, the small of his back hitting the bar. Even as he cries out with pain, he snarls, "And I'm no coward! If you want a fight, then we'll fight!" The gun fires again, and although Alexander crouches to make himself a smaller target, he doesn't retreat to cover.

"God, shit like this makes me want to burn down the whole fucking patriarchy," Vic snarls to Ruiz and Joe, as she tries to crouch in a manner that doesn't entirely cut off her oxygen supply in the heavily boned corset. Then she's popping up and whipping another bottle at the guy who shot at her, like a major league pitcher with anger issues. Yeah, the scream coming from outside isn't helping with that anger bit. CRASH! She whallops him in the head. She grabs a pair of other bottles and rounds the bar to head outside and see who needs saving.

Easton rests behind the piano checking to see how badly he's bleeding. Thankfully it's just a minor wound and he's not in any real danger. He hears a scream and looks up only to see a very busty blond. Bennie? Oh.. no. Nope those are not the right ta-tas. He looks again though just to be sure. Okay nope. Easton manages to remember what is going on, getting unsteadily to his feet and heading out after the others to the street. "I'm making one of you " thump "give me a piggy back" thump "ride next time I get a fuckin' wooden" thump "leg."

"So, outside is definitely some kinda trap or ambush, just saying," says Tor after he fires his weapon. He didn't get the killing blow, but hey, there was a hit. That's something, right? He emerges from cover cautiously and picks his way towards the exit, hand not holding his pistol going for the big intimidating hunting knife at his waist.

Ruiz plants a hand on the bartop, and swings over it with a thump of his boots on the other side as the men start to beat a retreat. "Malditos pendejos," he snarls as he cocks his rifle, and neatly blows a hole through one side of the guy's head before he can get a shot off on Joe.

Then he'll amble over to give Easton a hand up if he needs it, while keeping his eye on the door as they file on out.

"Jesus, this is some Westworld bullshit," opines Joe, sounding a little more like himself. But the sound of the scream has him come running, like he's counting on the invincibility every good Western grants its white hats....even if he isn't wearing a hat. He's got a last bottle from the bar, as if he's realized that'll make a better weapon than the Colts. Vaya con Dios, Senor Jack Daniels.

Alexander pushes himself off of the bar, his free hand coming up to touch his wound. He looks relieved when the three start to stagger away; not inclined to chase after them and finish the job...until he hears something. His whole body jerks. His eyes widen. "...Isabella?" And then the Sheriff is off, racing through the doors at top speed, his face twisting into an desperate expression. "ISABELLA!" He fires at the retreating black hats with no regard to his personal safety at all. He takes another hit to his arm, but that doesn't stop him from gunning Cleatus in the back. "DON'T YOU TOUCH HER," he screams as he fires several times into the man's chest and bursts into the sunlight.

The first idiot to catch Vic's eye is the goon on the porch of the General Store. He's close range with that pistol, and she flings a bourbon bottle in his direction with malice in her cold blue eyes. It smashes against his right arm even as she is spun around by a bullet grazing her leg. A-ha, the shooter on a roof is spotted and she snarls as she takes aim at him with her crazy bottle throwing skill.

Easton accepts the help from Ruiz with a grumble of something that /might/ be gratitude. He gets out to the street and tries his best to spot all of the possible attackers. He has a shotgun so he's going for the closest target, the goon with his head not quite covered by that barrel. At Alexander's call he looks out across the tracks and narrows his eyes. "Alexander! That's not .. " But he's not sure enough to wave the man off. And so he has to do his best to take out targets so that Alexander can find out if that is or is not their Izzy. "Go! Find out!" With that he grunts and moves off of Ruiz to take up a shooting position, plunking the nearest goon in the head but gets his own hit. He stumbles backwards and rolls again to get some cover and see how bad it is.

As Easton peels off to take on those in close range to them, Ruiz opts to refocus his efforts on the guy up on the church tower taking pot shots at him. He cocks his rifle, doing his best to ignore the mayhem with the girl on the tracks and Alexander's mental state. Which is a distraction he does not need right now.

Tor is actually a decent shot, in the Dream and in reality. He hasn't cottoned on that others are using their Glimmer in place of shooting, and since he's spent most of his time honing healing, he hasn't had a reason to try it for himself. So instead, he uses good ole fashioned hand eye coordination to nail one of the goons. He moves back, only to hear a bullet narrowly whizzing by his head. Then he drops to take cover behind a barrel just as there's a woman literally being tied to the train track. "Really? What's next, a guy twirling his moustache?" He checks the state of his bullets.

Well, running out there like a maniac - not so good a strategy. There's a flick of blood as Joe gets shot, and his own shot misses, as a result. He's grinning, still, though it's become something more like an animal baring its teeth. He doesn't hesitate to use his ability to hurl the bottle at the fool dumb enough to hurt his boyfriend.

Alexander fires at the man who has ISABELLA but the bullet doesn't seem to do anything; it must be the power of the moustache! And more, as he gets closer, Alexander skids to a halt. "...that's not Isabella." But in the next moment, he's striding forward again. "But let her go! Now!" The command is accompanied by another blast of the gun.

The guy on the roof takes a bottle to the head too, but it doesn't do much other than knock his aim off. The bullet meant for Vic whizzes by in a near miss and she smirks. Now she's out of bottles to throw. Good thing the rest of the guys are still armed.

Easton rests against the building but uses one the barrel from the dead goon to slam into one of the others who are still up. It shatters magnificently and takes the guy down, hard. He takes a deep breath and looks around making sure they are in the clear before ripping off the primitive prosthetic that is already hurting his stump. He throws it at one of the downed goons, "And fuck you too!"

"And the horse they road in on?" Tor asks as he indulges himself in a bit of cowboy frippery by blowing on the barrel of his smoking gun. If this were real life, he'd feel guilty for headshotting two people and probably end up with an existensial crisis. But this is pretend-land, and those men weren't real. "That's it, right? Just untie the lady from the train track and we're out of here? Not that I don't kind of dig the fur look." And the beard, which he scratches. He's still keeping an eye out though, because you never know.

Alexander shoots the villain in the back. Maybe he could get used to this whole 'gun' thing. Not that he will ever admit it. But at the moment, he is running still to the tracks, to try and help up the young woman, even though she isn't Isabella, before the train squishes her.

Ruiz used to be a sniper, until he took an arrow to the- actually, no. He's still a pretty damn good sniper, when he wants to be. He pops off his shot, and the guy's head's now sporting a new hole. Which, combined with Joe's shot, he's probably not going to live through. He lowers his rifle, and heads over to make sure the others are accounted for. And then, hopefully, to see about a way out of this fucked up Dream.

Joe's never helped kill anyone with a whiskey bottle before. But there's a first time for everyone, even if they're generally a lot more awesome than this. He sort of comes down out of the battle high, peering around like there might be someone else to shoot. Satisfied that there isn't, he's hurrying after Ruiz, ignoring his own wound in favor of fussing over Javier's.