20319/X-Men: Fistful of Crypto, Part 11010

X-Men: Fistful of Crypto, Part 11010
Date of Scene:	01 April 2025
Location:	Fool's Creek, Arizona
Synopsis:	The Stagecoach is Late. Good Day for a Hanging. Don't Use the Tub...
Cast of Characters:	Logan Howlett, Neena Thurman, Remy LeBeau, Monet St. Croix, Tabitha Smith, Longshot, Rogue, Jean Grey

---

Logan Howlett has posed:
Sunrise over Fool's Creek is the only time the ramshackle little town looks anything close to picturesque. The dusty rooftops don't look quite so dingy in the early light, and the town's muddy main thoroughfare hasn't started to give off steam yet from all the horse droppings that will soon be added and left to bake under the unforgiving Sun. The morning stagecoach hasn't yet arrived, and the drunks are filtering out of the Belle's Bustle and making their way to get the cheapest breakfast in town at Clem's Hardware + Hash. They'll need the calories for a long day working in mine shafts of varying levels of quality, in hopes that they can find a large enough nugget to repeat the process this evening.

At the sheriff's station, Deputy Bill arrives a few minutes late to relieve Deputy Joe, whose real name he prefers nobody to know. But any ire that Deputy Joe might have at being relieved a few minutes late is offset by the peace offering from Deputy Bill: a tin cup of coffee from Clem's. The jail cells are all full, from the look of it, and the sleeping prisoners don't have any interest in waking to converse with either Bill or Joe, who could reasonably be blamed for their incarcerations.

As the Sun continues to rise off in the distance behind Buzzard Hill, the town begins to come alive in fits and starts as shopkeepers attempt to set out wares or open their shutters. There aren't that many businesses in town, and most of them cater in some way to the mining efforts of the local drunks. In many ways, it's just like one of dozens of towns that have popped up in the past decade, as promises of quick riches have made their way back East to anyone willing to pick up a pick and shovel.

One might wonder exactly where the creek is, as there doesn't seem to be one nearby. What a foolish question.

The local newspaperman presses his last copy for today, letting the ink dry before placing it in the stack. Readership is up to nearly two dozen now, making the Fool's Creek Gazette a runaway success and the absolute authority on just what is going on back East, where people are so devoid of any practical sense. With any luck, they shan't bother us with any of their foolishness and big city immorality. Let them have their tea and poached eggs, the hash at Clem's is good enough for us.

With the last of the regulars gone from the Belle's Bustle, the work of getting ready for the next wave of degenerates can begin. The piano will be silent for a bit, and the absence of raucous tunes is a welcome respite for some of the hardest working women this side of the Rio Grande. A good time for one to catch up on one's rest, or on one's laudanum. But the light above the swinging doors is rapidly growing brighter, and a gentle breeze is starting to kick up dust, which someone will have to sweep. Things have been rough since the last cleaning lady got married to Clubfoot Dave.

And still the stagecoach is late. No need to worry, it's been late before.

Neena Thurman has posed:
The last of the regulars might be gone from Belle's Bustle, but one less familiar face yet remains. He's a man in his forties, with the eyes of someone who has been alive for centuries, and a scraggly beard and moustache (and general disposition) that implies a hard sort of life in the wilderness.  It's a hard sort of life that is often without the soft sorts of creature comforts that the Belle's Bustle provides -- one of which includes a hot, drawn bath, pleasant conversation with a pretty young thing, and a sponge.

And this was a simpler time, really.  Commodification and prostitution was still an almost genteel thing, lacquered up in politeness and decorum.  The conversation is, for all intents and purposes, polite.  And the hand that guides the sponge over a body is, for all intents and purposes, chaste.  

The young woman kneeling beside the bathtub is a striking thing. Lily white skin and blue eyes make for an attractive pairing, but contrast so intensely with inky black hair currently done up in a messy bun at the top of her head.  She's clad in a maroon dress with soft and subtle accents of emerald and gold.   It hangs off the shoulder and is corsetted in a way that accentuates a natural hourglass figure and, ah... well, some other sorts of soft creature comforts.

As the young woman passes the sponge over the older man's chest, a bit of grime scrubs away to reveal what looks to be an old -- but not too old -- gunshot wound. Her head tips delicately and her lips purse, but she says nothing. Electing, instead, to carry on the polite conversation.

"Oh, it weren't much hassle at all, Mister.  And I must admit to being a little bit fond of the labor.  My ma always said that there was joy to be found in creatin'. Whether that's hummin' a tune, or helping a flower take root 'n' grow," she says.

The man gives a low sort of chuckle and tips his head back.  One of his legs swings up to prop a dirty foot on the edge of the bath tub as he wiggles his toes.  "And that little thing in the lobby? One arrangin' the flowers on the table? She yours?"

The young woman's hand slows as she hesitates.  She laughs, and shakes her head, trying to politely move the subject along.

"Ah, the Mexican girl?  No... no, I'm afraid that story's a rather sad one. Her parents both died'a consumption last winter.  She too young to live on her own, but not too young to help out 'round these parts," the woman murmurs.

Polite conversation. Social decorum. Gentility.  You can couch it as many ways as you'd like, but at the end of the day, a spade is still a spade.  And this is a brothel.  Things like decorum and gentility are paper thin, and they can shift, and dissolve in the matter of a moment.

"Not too young to work, I reckon," he says, ignoring the young woman's nervous, dismissive laughter as he reaches to take her wrist and submerge her hand beneath the water.  And whatever's going on down there, well. We'll keep it PG-13, and simply indicate that it's eliciting a rather satisfied sigh from the rough-hewn man with the rough-hewn life.  A bit of soft creature comfort.

"Think I'll have her next. When I'm done with you," he says with a low chuckle, as he lets his eyes slip shut.  What he hears next is the shifting of fabric against skin, and a soft hum of what could be perceived as obedient compliance.   And then, he hears the young woman speak...

"Well, grab my legs, Mister... that /is/ a mighty big iron you've got," she says, with more of that nervous laughter.  And that's when he'll feel the cold press of a revolver barrel against the base of is jaw, angled up towards his brain.

        *** CLICK ***

"Would'ja like to see mine?"

ADELAIDE 'DOMINO' BROOKS
WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE
FOR THE CRIMES OF MURDER, EXTORTION,
ROBBERY, AND DESTRUCTION OF PROPERTY

Remy LeBeau has posed:
Festooned in the drifter regalia is the dusty seated hombre, Caesar Vallejo. With a dusty mane of dark brown hair curling down either side of his pasty white face. Round way of the black and red eyes hidden beneath the shadowy brim of prospectors hat pulled low upon his brow. Pair of overalls with one strap loose, on account of the clasp come broke, lays down the front of his previously white shirt now stained to the color of body sweat and grim to match the dark blue, patchy brown of his coveralls and dirty boots.

He does him a stumble out the doors of the food tent down ways of the Church and finds a chair on which he might park himself. Knife in hand with a hunk of wood what's got a half carved ducks head juttin' from one ends of it. The knife blade lays against grain and cuts upwards with a wrist flick, sending a long sliver flying off towards the schmuddy (that's shit-mud, on account of there aint no creek round here no how) street.

Stubbled jaw working at a wad of chewing tobacco long enough to draw up a mouth full of chaw spit he sends out towards the edge of the porch. Long brown thread of it dangling off his chin in the process. Mornin' being what it is, this aint a bad way, start one.

Monet St. Croix has posed:
The well dressed Monet St. Croix walks forwards wearing a gown that she -claims- is more expensive than everything in the bar. Which she treats in moderate contempt, despite her ability to afford said gown being entirely dependent upon the inhabitants of said bar. The girl would look around with her oh so constant superior air, watching around the place with her own little corner of it. Despite the hour, she seems to be as always completely perfect, waiting for those early to arrive so she can do her normal harranguing.

She sits with a cup of ginseng tea (imported from the Orient, or so she claims), flavored with just a small amount of brandy and honey. Her other hand holds up a book of Chaucer's poems. Currently making her way through Canterberry Tales as she goes to start the day. One might wonder if she even slept at all over the night. Or just waited in suspended animation like some sort of gargoyle.

Tabitha Smith has posed:
It's not so much that Tabitha was asleep and waking up, but more coming too. Sometimes it's as dangerous for the clientele, and sometimes it's dangerous for the girls.

Her customer had already left with the rest of the last rush so it gave the girl some time to at least get dressed. And a look in the mirror. It wasn't a pretty sight on what was a pretty girl. The swelling had kicked in on the left side and lots of red had started turning dark on freckled features.

One blue eye surrounded by burst capillaries. She always wanted plump lips but it was a bit much right now.

Worst thing was if she can't 'work', she'll have to work. Cleaning up after some of the others was not fun some times.

Now she just has to find the madame and let her know. The headache's were the worst part. Feels so noisy sometimes. And she had to try and remember what led to the latest beating. Something about burning, but she never used any of the heating liniments during the 'massage'.

Longshot has posed:
"Sheriff, you know it wasn't my fault, you know I didn't cheat last night!" The words are soft, hopeful, the figure leaning against the bars of the jailhouse watching the sentry change. Maybe with someone else to hear his pleas he'll be able to be on his way and start his day. His hair is long, blond, dressed in a button up that might have once been black. It is now faded and stained by dust and time, many years of washing and work has kept it from being thread-bare. The vest is equally dirty, but a little six pointed star has been stitched into the back with a steady hand. Leather chaps and boots are well-maintained, but scuffed from whatever fight landed him here last night.

"He threw the first punch and I'm going to defend myself! That's not a crime. But I promise, I didn't cheat, it's not my fault he's awful at poker. I'd never cheat! I promise on it or my name isn't Arthur Centino!" A thumb jerks back to the sleeping figure in the other cell, bruises visible on the other man's face, "How about we say it's good and I be on my way and he and I don't play any more? That's okay, right? He'll forgive me-you know he will! Once he's past the hangover anyway-"

A glance to the other prisoners will have Arthur stop, but hey-is that a copy of the Gazette? Arthur will reach through the bars, pulling the folded newspaper out of the jacket of a fellow inmate, flipping it open. "Awwww-They outta put more pictures in here. More'd sell! Shouldn't expect everyone to know how to read."

Rogue has posed:
The stage coach may be late, but a prisoner cart had arrived just a few minutes ago. It had pulled up past the court house, and taken up a position on the side of the building where the ropes were waiting. Hangman's Alley, as it is affectionately known by some. As the drivers of the wagon disembark, they are greeted by courthouse aides, who come to find which prisoner had been brought in for the upcoming public hanging. The men speak in rough tones, and gruff voices. "We got a doozey, for ya today." One of them said. "Brought in from capitol city, said her major offenses were tied to folk around these parts. So, her day is just about here, seems like." One said, swiping spit from his lips and thick mustache. He and his co-driver went to the back of the wagon, where they pulled its gate open, and ripped the cover off the top of the prisoner transport. A dirty blanket fell away, to reveal a cage with a cross set inside it, not the Jesus kind, but more the X-shaped kind of cross. Set upon it, was a woman in a torn dress of dusty black and green, with the dress slit up the side of her right leg, revealing bare muscled thigh all the way up to her hip. Her hands were tied and chained, and locked, and chained again to the upper arms of the X-cross, and her head hung low, with her dark hair gently waving in the new breeze that crossed over her form. Her white bangs fluttered about her face, as she appeared to be asleep, when the blanket came off of the prison transport wagon, and with a tired look, the green eyed young woman raised her head up, and squinted at the light striking over her face.

One of the courthouse aides whistled lowly. "Look at this one..." He said softly. "Heck, we oughta throw her over at the Belle's Bustle, let them find a place for her." He said, with a leering gaze on the prisoner's chest, barely contained in the tied-off fabric of her low-scooped dress's neckline.

"Yeah, you wouldn't wanna do that." One of the driver's said, as he motioned toward the woman with the stark white bangs, strewn across her face, but not hiding her deep green gaze. "This girly here? She's a livin' Witch. You go anywhere near that lovely skin, and you're gonna be deader than a chicken in a coyote den..."

"A witch?" The courthouse man asked, looking between the wagon driver, and the young woman practically spilling out of what was left of her black and green dress. "All that stuff is mumbo jumbo."

The driver smirked, even chuckled, as he uncapped a flask and raised it up to his lips for a sip. He passed it off to his co-driver, who leaned against the wagon, and glanced toward the woman on the X-cross. "Tell that to the trail'a dead horn-doggin men she's left in her wake... Nah, this little philly? She's gotta get that rope, and get it quick, before she claims someone else..."

Another man whistle softly, as he stepped up to stare at the girl on the cross. "Ain't that a shame..." He added, before he slapped the side of the wagon. "Well, lets get her down. this show's gotta get on the road sooner or later, right?"

On the wagon, arms and legs apart, with her dusty dress rippling in waves against her body, Rogue gently shifted her gaze from one man's face to the other, a sneer crossing her lips, as she breathed evenly, weary and beaten, unsure of where she even was, as her captors climbed up on to the wagon, and closed in around the cross she was heavily tied-off upon.

Logan Howlett has posed:
The smell of coffee produces a stir from one of the prison cells. The thin woolen blanket is cast off, and a very groggy sort of fellow puts his feet on the ground, revealing so many holes in his socks that nearly all of his toes are exposed. But this is not the sort of man to darn his own socks, judging by his bushy beard and his lumberjack's physique. Almost immediately, the man begins coughing, bits of phlegm gurgling in his throat as he attempts to hack up a lung, ultimately settling for hacking up a loogie, which he leans over to deposit in the nearby bucket that serves as both a chamber pot and a spittoon.

"Izzat my coffee? You boys treat me too well..."

Deputies Joe and Bill give each other a disgusted look, while The Prisoner in cell 2 keeps hacking and occasionally spitting out chunks. He seems to have plenty of chunks to spare.

It has all the makings of an ordinary morning at the Fool's Creek Sheriff's Station. But before they can let the prisoner know that he's definitely not entitled to any coffee, the door to the station swings open, and a youth appears. Fresh faced, with just a bit of peach fuzz above his lip, he seems to be a bit short of breath and long on news, given the excited way that he announces his the little tidbit that he couldn't wait to deliver in person.

"The Belladonna Gang is in town! They hitched their horses at the Belle's Bustle last night!"

Deputies Joe and Bill look powerfully worried at this development, for the Sheriff has not arrived yet. Must still be having his morning hash.

Out in the thoroughfare, all is still quiet. But it's true that there are more horses hitched in front of the Belle's Bustle than ordinarily on a Tuesday. But not all of the members of the Belladonna Gang are enjoying the soft creature comforts for which the establishment is primarily known. How they managed to pass their evenings is perhaps none of our business, but a solid quorum of them have begun assembling in the Back Room, where a friendly poker game is taking place.

Shame about the piano player, whose brains are decorating the wall behind him. But then, everyone here heard him call Bud a liar...

But liquor and cards will only entertain these hardened criminals for so long, and an idea is already beginning to spread amongst the most brazen. Particularly a short, hairy fellow who seems to have bought every article of black clothing from here to Deadwood, and is wearing them all simultaneously. Thick sideburns cover the sides of his face below a hat decorated in silver dollars all the way around the brim.

Canadian silver dollars.

"They've got one of ours ready to string up. What are we waiting for? Let's get that gutless sheriff, and show 'em that the Belladonna Gang isn't a bunch of goldarn pussy willows."

Just as the members of the Belladonna Gang are working themselves up into a mob over at the Belle's Bustle, the Sheriff finally arrives at his station! It's about time. Fool Creek's tax dollars go to pay his salary. But he is a world weary sort of man, and full of breakfast hash. And the street is so full of mud and horse shit.

"How many hours has Art been locked up, boys?"


Joe and Bill look at each other, and try to provide a rough estimate. The Sheriff takes that as answer enough.

"Go ahead and let him out. We're gonna need a hand if the Belladonna Gang's here looking for blood. Even though they ARE a bunch of goldarn pussy willows."

As the Sheriff unlock's Deputy Centino's cell, the crowd begins gathering outside for the hanging. It's a family-friendly event, with a timely moral. Don't be a witch, or you get strung up.

Neena Thurman has posed:
"Now just WHAT IN TARNATIO--"

        ** BLAM **

The smell of blood, brain, bone, and black powder. Something about it tickled the back of Adelaide 'Domino' Brook's skull. Like some far off memory, the kind you get when you smell something that reminds you of your childhood. As luck would have it, the sound of the revolver firing and the man screaming are muffled by a commotion coming from outside of the brothel. The man in the bath slumps over backwards and slowly sliiiiiides like a wet noodle down the slope of the tub, turning the water from a dirty brown to something a bit more rusty red.

Domino pats the top of his head where the bullet had exited with a couple wet slaps before standing up. The revolver makes a satisfying click as she twists out the chamber, removing the spent casing and sliding another round into its place. It seems like the sort of day she's going to need it. One last glance is spared for pitiless bastard in the tub, before she tucks the revolver back into the thigh holster and pulls her slitted skirt back to obscure it.

"Now why'd you have to go and say that about Little Miss Flora, Mister?" she wonders, sounding more inconvenienced than apologetic. "I just can't abide that sort of monstrous talk."

There's a moment or two as Domino considers her next moves. A pacing, back and forth, across the room before she moseys on over to where the man's clothes had been left. She picks a revolver from his own holster up by the barrel and walks it on over, tucking it into his right palm (that still is laying over the side of the tub) to make it look like he'd done himself in. Those ice blue eyes lid for a moment and, without a word, Domino exits the room and begins to head down the stairs. The process of which brings her past Tabitha's room and also past where Monet is sitting and... doing what she does. There's a moment that she debates telling the Madame about the incident, but... eh.

"Now just where has Miss Flora gone off to?" Domino wonders towards Monet, who may or may not have seen a small girl with tan skin and dark hair flitting about the space to clean and tidy a few moments ago.

"Here I am, Miss Brooks!" says Flora, emerging from the kitchen with a Virginia Bluebell in her palm. She carries it over towards Domino, but seems to mostly be coveting it for herself.

Domino says nothing, electing instead to bend over and scoop the child up into her arm and tuck her against her chest. The two are familiar -- with Flora staying with Domino ever since her mother and father passed away. The girl twirls her flower in her fingers and gives a toothy grin at Domino, quite proud of the little thing she'd picked for herself.

"Now isn't that a pretty flower? Blooms as blue as the Montana sky," Domino says to her, already carrying her out the front doors of the brothel while fussing over the precious little thing's dark brown hair.

"Eee-hewwww, Ms. Brooks! Why's your hand got all that blood on it?"

"...Don't you mind that, pequena flora. When'd you get so smart anyway?"

Domino exits the Belle's Bustle (ostensibly to distance herself from the Belladonna Gang, one of whom is making a sort of blood, bone, and body tea in the bathtub upstairs. She does this just in time to watch Rogue get unloaded in that strange, X-Shaped cross. There's a moment of what feels like recognition on Domino's expression, and then she covers Little Flora's eyes while heading down the wooden steps towards the main throughway.

"Ooooh, but I wanna watch the hangin'!" Flora protests.

Monet St. Croix has posed:
The sound of noise interrupting her early morning reading has Miss St. Croix rising. She goes to with a flourish snap her book shut, and goes to tuck it away. Going to rise up with one hand rearranging her skirts to allow mobility, the tall woman goes to walk towards the door to see what all the theatrics are over. When she glances out and sees the prisoner, her expression goes dark. Very, very dark for just a few moments as she breaks her cool over and moves to hiss.

She goes to turn her attention over to Tabitha and Domino and says quietly to them, "Get whatever girls are present and tell them to hide. Make sure that they're armed." A gang charging down the streets like a lynch mob from back east weren't going to play around nicely. Monet goes outside and stands in front of the bar, her heels clicking over on the sandy wooden entryway. She shifts, sliding her hand over to her hip, cocking a leg forwards arrogantly. Her skirt lifted up a bit. Her purse also slid higher up and over her shoulder. If there was going to be some sort of standoff between the gang and what passed for the local authorities..

Even as she keeps her attention back over to the woman over on the cross. There's some contemplation as she evaluates what exactly is going on. Presuming that Tabitha and Domino are not, in fact, going to listen to her instructions. Even as she presumes that Tabitha's hung over and that Domino has as many guns on her as the prospectors had lice.

Remy LeBeau has posed:
Beneath the brim of his prospectors hat, Caesar watches the prison wagon cross his seat with a slow draw of his red pupiled eyes. A twitch of brow hiking upwards at the dove lashed to cross in the cage as it passes, form of recognition flickering around in his brain that draws the whittlin' blade awkwardly upwards at an angle unintended. Low and deep. It slices through wood and severes the ducks head, sending it clattering to the floor near the jug sitting beside his right, dirty boot.

Them eyes squint with his head canting to the right, keeping the 'Witch' in his attentive gaze. Far more attentive it's been in some time, way of his reckoning, through a fever of booze deep enough to drown a fish. The clatter of wood on wooden stoop draws his attention, "Eh bien, n'est-ce pas un sacre probleme..." Definitely not Spanish.

Another tick of his head. Awkward memories in a conflict of what he 'members.

The knife twirls around his fingers, rolls across the back of his knuckles, and settles blade tip between his thumb and index knuckle.. like he's about to throw it. Save he don't. Instead he drops it straight down into the wood of the chair he's just vacated, along with his whittlin' wood, to meander his way over towards the coach delivering the lady to the gallows. "Some'ting bout dat one." Patting at his thighs as he joins the others, less about the spectacle of an early morning hanging than a creeping familiarity that's cutting directly through the fog that he is becoming increasingly aware of.

Red on black eyes scan other face, with his hand drawing down the curve of his stubbled jaw. "I know dat her, where ol Rem-... Remy? Who dat.." Again his head ticks, "I drink to much, C'est pour la verite.." Hat free of his head and he slaps it down on his thigh. "She aint no brujah... Diablo Blanc.." His brow furrows, looking around again. "Dis aint right, dis all wrong."

Tabitha Smith has posed:
One of the benefits of having been beaten unconscious, you don't really get woken up by things like gunfire downstairs. So once Tabitha makes her way downstairs to the floor of the saloon, she gets a bit more of a sight than she might would have liked.

The Piano player dead, he was a kindly guy to her at least. And with another gunshot going off, it makes the woman squeak and jump. Which is not quiet at all.

So much for hiding. There's a look over at Monet the Madame while occasionally the blonde cradles her head. Wishing she was drunk and passed out, it would probably be better than staring down a bunch of outlaws one of which she's pretty sure is the one that beat her senseless. If ever there was a time to hide it would be now. "Please don't look this way!" comes the wincing whispers from the girl in what is clearly wishful thinking.

Longshot has posed:
"Thank you sir! You know I'm good for it-I promise I won't, um win again? I'm off poker! No more cards! Gambling? No more of that either! I promise!" Arthur is tucking the Gazette back through the bars and out of the cell the moment the door is open, immediately turning to the desk and scooping up his gun belt and deputy badge from the drawer they were stowed in upon his arrest.

Punishment served, and back to work! Alls well in the world

Wow, having a job is the best! Purpose! Helping! Hat? Where is hat-He doesn't remember, must not matter!

Or not! Things are not well! Cart here, hanging to happen and a gang in town? The sound of all that has Deputy Centino snagging a rifle from the corner, hopping the desk and brushing past good friends Bill and Joe and out the door. Free hand waving at the Sheriff as he goes, "THANK YOU SIR YOU WON'T REGRET IT!"

The moment Arthur's boots hit the rickety front steps of the jailhouse, he's headed toward the gathering populace here for a show! That makes sense, all entertainment has death involved, bummer that, but that's just the way the world works. Rifle popped open, loaded, a big smile to the woman strung up, then the folks from the courthouse, "Hi Miss, sorry about the hangin-We gotta get movin before folks start shootin! Her gangs here, Director's stressed and raising the stakes helps! Um, Sorry! Sheriff! What'd I say?"

Arthur just stares at the nice gentleman from the courthouse, lines-what what his line? "Executioner is here!"

What's a line again? Doesn't matter!

Rogue has posed:
"Git back, ya hear! Now git!" The prison cart driver said to some of the town's young teenagers who'd come running up to see the woman on the X-cross. With wide eyes, and all manner of snickering comments, the kids were rushed off by a motion from the courthouse aides too. Up on the wagon, the beefy armed men were detaching the cross from its locks on the wagon proper, as townsfolk approached, eyes on the prisoner, with the words of 'witch' and 'whore' being passed around in whispers.

Rogue stirred upon the cross, her ankles and wrists double bound by chains, and ropes. They did not dare detach her from it, as they began lifting the cross up, and sweeping it over to the other men's hands who stood on the hangman's stage.

"Don't touch her!" One of the men shouted in a surly voice, as the group of five struggled to get the heavy wooden cross, and the woman upon it over to the stage, and off of the rickety old prison wagon.

"How we gonna hang her if we can't touch her?" One of the men on the stage questioned, as they fanagled the cross in to place toward the middle of the stage floor.

Just prop her up over the trap door. Put the rope 'round her throat, and we'll cut her loose when the time strikes the hour." One of the other men on the stage said, as they drug Rogue in to place, with so many gathering eyes set upon the woman in the dusty green and black dress.

With the cross properly placed, a man moved around behind Rogue, and wrapped the rope around his hand, as he walked up on to a stool behind her cross, coming up above her head, he began to test the hanging rope, before he lowered it down over her head, and let it fall over her throat.

Rogue's eyes were sweeping over the crowd, lazily moving from left to right, touching each face. Her green eyes stopped on the reds of the Cajun man, and as though she recognized him, she just stared with a drugged-up hazey look on her face.

"Hang the witch!" Someone shouted, and launched a tomatoe toward the woman, just as the noose was closed tightly around her neck!

Jean Grey has posed:
The stagecoach may be late...

...but late isn't never.

There's a rumbling of hooves, heard far off first, and then louder and louder, as it draws near, like a thunderstorm on the horizon. Then, finally the lightning (yes, that's backwards): an impressive full six-horse hitch, and behind it a truly elaborate, almost monstrous black coach, wheels cutting deeper into the already well-worn grooves on the dirt track into town. The vehicle gives away nothing of whoever is inside, what windows it has drawn with black curtains, so that only the coachman himself is visible, cracking on the reins."Woah there, woah!"

Stopping seems a battle all its own: The beasts at its head may as well be nightmares, not quite aflame, but spirited, coal-black stallions, hardly what one would normally prefer to safely guide a vehicle to its destination. They fight at the very idea of even slowing down, let alone stopping, although eventually, their spirits are brought to heel. The wheels throw up mud and grit as they pass, until finally, slowly, they grind to a halt.

The beasts still fight in place, throwing their heads, neighing and whinnying, as the coachman finally hops down. He pats the haunch of one of the unsteady, spirited beasts, and then walks back, toward the door of the coach.

Logan Howlett has posed:
"You're deputized too, Albert."

The lumberjack-looking man in Cell Number 2 finishes spitting up yet another chunk, and then looks up confused as the Sheriff gives him a nod. Apparently the prisoner's name was Albert, and he picks at the gap between two of the buttons of his union suit. It used to be red, when it was new, now it's more of a faded pink, except for the parts where it's brown.

"Aww... I don't WANNA be deputized, bub! You guys are terrible shots, and the Belladonna Gang don't believe in Jesus! They'll shoot us all right in the dick while you yahoos are tryin' to read 'em their rights."

The Sheriff looks undeterred though, opening up Albert's cell as soon as he's finished releasing the Deputy who may or may not have cheated last night. But probably did. There's no smoke without fire.

"Get your pants on, Albert. And you boys grab a bunch of guns. We're gonna make sure that witch gets hung good and proper. Not all... vigilante like. We'll say a prayer, pronounce her guilty, and THEN stretch her neck. And the Belladonna Gang can just... get over it."

As the rest of the members of Fool's Creek's law enforcement community (and Albert) step out of the jailhouse, they do there best to look mean and competent. But like poor Deputy Centino, they mostly look nervous. Except for Albert, who looks hungover, and smells like he shit his pants.

Over near the Belle's Bustle, another group seems to be gathering. Members of the Belladonna Gang are assembling, and each of them looks like an especially unsavory sort. One of them even has rope burns around her neck. Her name is Ruth, and she is not a fan of hanging. But then, that seems to be the general consensus of the Belladonna Gang at the moment. Liquored up as they are, there seems to be no fear of God in any of them. But we've already established that they don't believe in Jesus.

But up near the front of the Belladonna Gang, a short hairy man looks suspiciously like Albert! Aside from having shat his pants recently, that is. The guy who shot the piano player appears to be leading the charge to dispel any talk of the Belladonna Gang being a bunch of pussy willows, and is certainly dressed the part. The guns on his belt are unnecessarily ornate, with pearl handles in the shapes of skulls. He reaches for them, tapping the handles as he walks through the mud and horse shit, spurs jangling all the while.

"Hold up! You ain't hangin' this woman. Not unless you want to fight the Vancouver Kid!"

"AND RUTH!"

The Vancouver Kid sighs, but doesn't miss a beat.

"And Ruth."

As the stagecoach arrives, it cuts between the members of the Belladonna Gang and the ongoing hanging! Only now do the gang members wish they hadn't gotten so liquored up, and gotten on their horses first!

Monet St. Croix has posed:
As the Stagecoach pulls in, and what passes for law enforcement goes in to react.. The contrast is stark. Monet goes to just watch, looking over to the woman as observers scurry about. Her hand goes to slide over towards her hip, ready to pull out her own weapon as she gives her quick instructions to Tabitha and Domino, whether or not the girls are going to listen or not. She looks at the poor girl over on the cross, and haunting memories go to strike at her. For once, there is her sympathy. She goes to then take a step off the entryway to the bar, her fists clenched. She walks over towards them, as if to put herself over in the middle.

"And what, pray tell, has you inbred sods declaring this woman a witch? Have you all been inhaling opium again?" She would give a death glare over to those enforcing the hanging, then over to the woman on the cross. It is clear, exactly, where her sympathies lie over in the matter. Some things, no matter the crime, are far too barbaric.

"So stand -down- you lot before someone.." Right when she's completely interrupted over by.. What the Hell? It takes her mind a moment to identify where 'Vancouver' was, and then fail to grasp how someone from there could be here. They couldn't get the Two Gun Kid riding into town now, could they?

And that girl couldn't be older than seven or eight, wearing however many dozen petticoats over? She goes to look back and forth in trying to decipher what is going on. She can't have gotten some of the drugs she's -sure- some of the hicks from the Bar were on herself, could she, by pure osmosis?

Neena Thurman has posed:
Flora, the small child currently pressed to Domino's side, is wiggling her little self here and there so she can get a better look at this Witch woman who's about to be hung. It's with that sort of childlike wonderment and morbid curiosity that Flora regards Rogue, her little head cocked at an angle, and curly brown hair bouncing as Domino carries her down the street and away from the hanging. And the dead guy by the piano.

...And the dead Belladonna Gang member in the bathtub.

Look, there's a lot of stuff you should be keeping a child away from in the wild west. /Anyway/. Domino is hustling her way down the road as she passes Remy (aka Caesar) and his Prospectors Hat, mumbling something in French to himself. And it strikes Domino, then, that she shouldn't be able to understand French. And yet, here she is -- doing exactly that. She pauses in her stride and turns to look over her shoulder at the man. In this light, what looks to be a black eye around her right eye can be seen through her center-parted, inky black hair as it's caught delicately in the wind.

"...What did you just say?" she asks the man, which earns him a curious look from not only Domino, but the tiny young girl tucked up against her side like a little baby Koala bear. So precious!

"He said this isn't right. That it's all wrong, Ms. Brooks."

Remy LeBeau has posed:
Something was definitely off. It was slicing through the fog just enough to let the seeds of doubt plant roots and Remy couldn't shake off the feeling that he knew the woman that was about to get hung. 'Hang the witch' someone shouts off to his left and he turns to stare at the lady who voiced it. That'll start a mob, but somehow, through everything, he knew that he could handle it. Hell, he couldn't remember handling anything wasn't carved from a block of wood for going on a decade, but just in this instance, he knew without a shadow of doubt, that he could 'handle these people'.

It was calming... scary, but calming.

Until his red eyes meet the woman's staring green eyes. "Anna-Marie." He murmurs and shakes his head, never enough to let his eyes fall away from hers. "She aint no witch!" He shouts, starting to shove his way through the growing crowd. Deliberately drawing attention... deliberately making a scene. Someone'll come over to try and stop him, as he pushes people out of his way on a deliberate course directly towards the gallows. Not specifically 'with' the Belladonna Gang and the Vancouver Kid (and Ruth), but certainly with a very similar agenda.

That being the general discontent with the notion of stretching Rogue tonight.

Even if that's WHY god gave us necks.

On account of the lord loving a hanging.

Then there's Domino beside him and Remy cuts his odd colored eyes in her direction. A flash of recognition, even if he doesn't really know how. "Ce n'est pas bien, dis wrong.. you feel it, non? She.." He points, betwixt his index finger and middle is the ace of spades. Even he's not sure where it came from... or why it's suddenly glowing magenta.. ".. aint no fuckin' brujah.." Maybe he is?

The glow draws his eyes, slow turn to stare at it as he turns it over in his fingers. "Dios mio..." FINALLY some Spanish from Caesar Villajo.

Tabitha Smith has posed:
When Tabitha, moving about as sneakily as she can, there's a lot of fear visible on her features, that and some heavy bruising. But she's definitely scared as hell. So while she might have had Monet's instructions passed to her. She might currently be too frightened to actually do anything for herself right this moment.

"Is anyone going to help the girl? I mean witchcraft is all hooey and nonsense right? What dod she actually do to get her strung up?" she asks, whether anyone friendlier can hear her or not. Though she's definitely aiming her gaze more towards Monet and Domino as the more assertive of the women working in the Saloon.

There's some squinting, it's all really loud even when things seem quiet. So stressful, Tabitha's just radiating heat even if she doesn't realize.

Longshot has posed:
Arthur positions himself defensively, though the hanging is well in hand-he's here to defend the fine people who are tasked with upholding the law. No witches! That's just how it works! Not going to let down the Sheriff!

Fine man, Sheriff! And Good Friends Joe and Bill! And Albert who is bad at poker! And will surely forgive any slights against him and how much lighter his personal coin happens to be!5r
Best set of law enforcement a great town like Fool's Creek could possibly ask for! Truly!

Rifle set against shoulder, the deputy is up into the cart that has brought the prisoner, aiming above the assembled crowd to the oncoming gang members. "Nothing is wrong! This is what Justice looks like!"-THE STAGECOACH! What's up with that?

Not so sure about the tomatoes at the accused, that's kind of rough, but Arthur is here to protect Justice while it happens- "HEY NOW! If you're looking for a fight Kid, you've found it! This here woman is a witch and witches are hanged accountin on the woman being a witch!"

These lines are really bad, AND more people are upset about it? The descent from the crowd bring hesitation, words softer and directed to the men who've brought the witch, "What exactly did she do? Killin guys who touched her?? That's not the worst-"

But Arthur has a justice to protect and a town to law. Awe-gang members still approaching and crowd yelling for hanging and against hanging? Arthur isn't going to shoot first, but the rifle is lined up with that Vancouver Kid, finger on trigger, ready for the first sign of something more than words.

Rogue has posed:
With the crowd of townies gathering around the gallows, a courthouse aid stepped up on to the stage in a fairly nice suit, and spectacles over his eyes. He kicked aside the tomatoe that had hit Rogue in the stomach, and gave the young woman with the two-toned hair a once over, before he cleared his throat. At the heckles, cheers, and shouts from the crowd, the man looked out at the crowd. He pulled a leather journal from beneath his left arm, and opened it to the documents inside.

"Miss Anna-marie Darkholme, resident of Meridian, Mississippi. You have left a trail of death, and destruction in your path, since leaving your aunt's farm some ten years gone. You have been found guilty of the murder of at least twenty five men, and women, along with the death of numerous horses, cattle, and even a buffalo!" He called out over the sounds of all the growing ruckus around the stage. "It has been the order of the court, and Judge M. B. spyker, that you be sentenced to death by hanging at exactly---"

The court representitive was interrupted by what seemed to be an actual standoff brewing, and with it a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. He quickly swiped it away with a handkerchief, before he glanced at the faces of those shouting angry questions toward him, and the men presenting the woman for her sentencing. The representitive glanced toward the court house, where he saw the Judge himself peering back out through a window. An aged face, with a long beard of salt and pepper hue. He gave his court clerk a single nod, and it caused the clerk on the stage to release a heavy sigh.

the court clerk nodded toward the men posted up on the stool behind Rogue's cross. A series of gestures lead to a sudden motion of an arm, causing the trapdoor to drop open beneath the stage.

Rogue's eyes watched the crowd, and the man rushing through it with the red eyes. She could do nothing, as they had her clearly drugged up on God only k nows what. With her white bangs strewn across her face, she simply mouthed the word 'Remy.'

The men behind her cut the ropes, pulled the chains, and the Witch dropped! The violent pull of gravity tugged the woman from her cross, her weary body falling like a limp rag doll, causing the rope tied around her neck to grow tight as it reached its very stretching limit!

Jean Grey has posed:
The coachman is no less a sight than his vehicle, and defies the stereotypes of typical cowboys and horsemen who might normally work such a job. His garb is quite precise, well-tailored, a proper suit with slacks and jacket, and a bowler hat, rather than a brimmed one. Inside his coat, there's a flash of a red vest, and then the well-pressed white shirt beneath that, as well as the sign of a gunbelt. That's not unusual, even if the finery might be- coaches are prime targets for robberies, after all.

Probably not this one, though.

As he makes to open the doors on one side, the opposite opens on its own, the two halves of the door fully swinging open to reveal another man... and then another, and another after that. They're each garbed like the first. Almost exactly like the first, in fact, to the degree that the manner of dress starts to give the impression of a _uniform_ more than a style. (Or like they might all be variations on the same design? Shhh.) The last of them out reaches back inside, with both hands, to fetch a proper long gun, rather than just a belt-worn toy. He hands it back, and then reaches for the next...

These men all take positions around the coach, although their care, in the immediate, doesn't seem to be for the hanging, nor even for the impending gunfight in disagreement OVER the hanging, at least insofar as the participants are just shooting at each other. They're here for...

Another flash of red, but this time, it is is the overfly fluffy and elaborate frilled layers of a woman's gown skirts, with so much volume that they must exit the carriage before she does. The rest follows, revealing the kind of style more at home among the Gilded Age elites back on the East Coast than here on the frontier, more Victorian than not. Her hair, only a shade or two lighter than the blood-red of the gown, is done up so that only a bit shows, hanging in whispy rings at the nape of her neck or escaping beneath her fancy bonnet hat. She even opens a parasol.

"So is this it?"

"Yes ma'am."

"What's all this commotion, have we come at a bad time?"

"Seems there's to be a hanging, ma'am, on account of, erm, witchfcraft? Or a shoot out."

"How dreadful, such superstitious barbarism. Hardly how I would prefer to start things here. Tell them to cut it out."

"Ma'am?"

"Make them stop." She pauses, looking slightly petulant. "And if they don't, shoot the lot of them. I can't abide this sort of frontier nonsense...."

She flinches, as the woman drops with the rope around her neck, "...even if I have to burn the place down and start over..."

There's an eerie sort of precision to the way the men then all hoist or draw their weapons, in unison. "Attention everyone, please cease your activites. We are here to inform you of the purchase of the mining rights, and associated land access right of way, which includes this township. Until the proper settlement of this matter, the local constublary is to halt all activities and cede local law enforcement to the Pinkerton Agency, under contract of Miss J. E. Grey."

This is probably a little late to stop anything. But as the men behind cock and ready their guns, perhaps it's just... a legal formality before what inevitably comes next.

Logan Howlett has posed:
High Noon over Fool's Creek...

Tensions are high, for the Belladonna Gang is attempting to thwart a hanging, and the citizens of Fool's Creek do not have any streaming services. This puts a solid majority of them on the side of justice, or at least on the side of hanging, which is generally believed to be the same thing. But some of the less aggressive citizens are starting to realize that it might be in their best interest to watch the hanging from some far remove, or perhaps even to skip this particular hanging entirely. For the tempers appear to be getting the best of the heavily-armed people, and someone is speaking in multiple foreign languages, which is a sure sign of demonic possession.

At the threat from a lawfully-deputized member of the Fool's Creek Sheriff's Department, the Vancouver Kid snarls and says something about Mr. Centino's mother. Against all odds, apparently she's met this gentleman from Vancouver, and engaged in acts that are still considered criminal in this part of the country. Enthusiastically.

To punctuate his insult, the Vancouver Kid reaches for his guns, and his fat hairy hands proceed to carry out the slowest, most awkward attempt at a dual quick draw that has ever been witnessed by anyone this side of the Rio Grande, or on the other side. It turns out that carving the handles into giant skulls was not a wise tactical decision. But even if the pistols had normal grips, it looks like it would have taken the Vancouver Kid a good twenty seconds to get a shot off with either of them. As it is, he nearly drops both of the pistols before he gets his stubby fingers into the trigger wells.

Suffice it to say, he doesn't exactly get the drop on his target.

Meanwhile, across the street, the Sheriff looks all manner of peeved that some out of towners are attempting to interfere with HIS hanging. Especially after the lever has already been pulled. There's usually no takebacks at that point. But as he begins marching over to give the Pinkertons a piece of his ample mind, Albert lifts up his shotgun and fires it across the street at Ruth! Though she managed to avoid a hanging herself, it doesn't look like Ruth will survive this one. But she'll have several seconds to convert to Christianity before she bleeds out in the muck-covered street.

And then all hell breaks loose...

Except for those who don't believe in Jesus. For them, it just gets pretty chaotic.

Monet St. Croix has posed:
They're a bit too late. Monet has seen hangings before. They're horrid things. The woman may or may not have done the acts that she's charged with. Monet rather doubts, however, that this posse would have run all the way out here to Gold Prospecting territory with her to make a spectacle of it. There had to be another reason she was dragged all the way out here.

But unfortunately now it's a bit too late for things as a gunfight breaks out. There's the -snap- of the trapdoor falling, and likely the woman's neck right after it if she's lucky. If not.. Aspyxiation is a horrid way to die. And then the gunfight starts off right as the Pinkertons show up. This is getting better and better.

Monet snarls, and does what she can do. She yells over at 'her' girls with a hiss, "Get to cover!" It's too late for any sort of intervention, and they're well past high noon by the standards of town. She goes to immediately dive over behind the trough normally put out for the horses to drink from, sloppy with mud and water.

Longshot has posed:
Arthur's full attention is on the gang members, going red at the words directed at his mother. Absolutely unacceptable! He doesn't remember this part of the script, but it's uncalled for, hurtful, and surely incorrect!

Mrs. Centino is, without a doubt, a fine worldly woman who appreciates good entertainment, would like to see more pictures in local newspapers and would NOT be off frolicing with some no-gooder man from Vancouver! That's Canadia! She surely has Standards!

It would be nice if Arthur could remember anything about her-but the offense remains the same. The character profile clearly wasn't clear!

By the time, Vancouver Kid gets his weapon out, Arthur has already shot Vancouver Kid's hat off his head and spinning the fine silver dollared hat flying off into the mud behind him. Return fire has Longshot ducking down into the prisoner cart, second shot off and he's reloading.

Wait-what?

Local constabulary is to halt?

IS Arthur apart of the local constabulary? He thinks he is. That includes Law enforcement, right? He's part of that and now-Has he just lost his job?!

He just got this job! This is his favorite job he's ever had!

He is also still being shot at-Rifle reloaded, he's popping up again, firing off at Vancouver Kid-if this is his last day on the job, he's going to do it right!

Protecting Justice! Witch shall be hanged!

Remy LeBeau has posed:
The card twirls around Remy's fingers and settles down along the inside of his palm as he turns. It's not as flashy without his coat, not that he realizes that he has a coat, but he knows that he should have a coat, even if he's not sure why he knows that or even where said coat is. Suffice that the twirl isn't as flashy, it's more precise. Guiding even, as someone reaches out to grab him amidst all this chatter of 'she aint no witch' that stands in contention with 'she's a witch' what the mob is strongly suggesting.

Someone grabs hold of his shoulder and Remy tucks his shoulder down, slips beneath their arm to twist their fist in said shirt, and flicks his wrist outward to send the card whirling at an angle. It would take such accuracy to hit the rope. Somehow he knows that he 'can', even it's just in the back of his mind. Still, why be flashy when hitting the beam will do the job. It's not nearly as small a target, that big wooden strut around which the rope is secured. The card twists through the air, glowing in magenta fire, and connects with the wooden beam. The card hits and explodes in a blast of kinetic energy that splinters the gallow beam.

With another card already between the fingers of his other hand when finishing his twirl, this one sent at the cross itself, near Anna-Marie's right wrist. So she doesn't face plant on the ground. There's a lot of folk betwixt himself and her, so there wont be no heroic catching the lady. On account of the blacksmith having a fast hold to the front of his dirty shirt with a big fist. It's all about positioning, until it's not. It's the first rule of Professional Wrestling. Tuck your chin and take it. Because the big burly redheaded Irishman hoists the Cajun up and sends him flying, straight through the front window of the Apothecary, through the Apothecary cabinet, where upon he's rained with ginsing and lavender or whatever voodoo magic herbs the FDA doesn't exist yet to say aren't good for you.

Tabitha Smith has posed:
Now they're shooting. This is what's probably known in some circles as a 'Complete Disaster'. At least Tabitha isn't wetting herself. But then in a horse drawn town like this, she could probably get away with it with all the smells.

At least she has enough sense to dive behind cover.

In so far that a wooden barrel can be while she hunkers up into a ball. "Crap! Crap! Crap!" she yells. The girl leaning in against the old oak barrel. Stray bullets whizz about her while for some reason the top lid of the barrel pops up and off into the air.

"Monet, that's it, I'm leaving town if this don't get me killed. I'm sick and tired of all this damn death and dying! Ain't no discouraging me!" she complains very loudly while she ponders her chances of getting back inside the saloon.

Which might mean running past the outlaws being shot at way too close already for her liking.

Neena Thurman has posed:
There was a time that Abigail 'Domino' Brooks was a braver woman. When she would've unslung the iron on her thigh, chambered a round, and shot clean through the stretching rope that ties around the supposed Witch's throat. There was a time when she might've slung lead towards the Pinkertons... or the Belladonna gang... or anyone that looked at her cross-eyed or funny (which is most of those gathered). But when the gunshots begin to ring out, and she feels Flora tighten against her side, and hears the girl shriek when Ruth begins to bleed out on the muddy ground... well.

Abigail Brooks realizes she's no longer that woman, and that she's no longer brave.

"Come on, sugar," she hushes to the girl, keeping her close and stooping down low to begin her retreat away from the core of the scuffle and towards the periphery. As they run, a few gunshots pwing and pwang out -- a lot more close to comfort than Domino would care for. She sets herself down next to a rather conveniently placed barrel (there are always barrels in wild west towns!), it's Little Miss Flora that has the full weight of Domino's attention.

"Are you hurt?" Domino asks, fussing over Flora like a mother hen might, inspecting her for any dings, scrapes, bruises, or... y'know. Gunshot wounds. Much to her relief, she finds none, and makes sure that the small girl's head is low as more of those gunshots start to ring out. It's amidst sobbing, terrified tears, of course, ones that Domino wipes away with the pad of her thumb. Her eyes focus on the little smear of red she leaves behind as she does, and it's then that Domino becomes aware of the terrible pain in her chest. And the warm, sticky feeling that's pouring out of it.

Luck, it seems, saw the bullet pass through Domino than through the small thing she carries. A funny twist of serendipity.

"Oh shit," Domino says, as Flora shrieks in realization of what had happened.

"M-Miss Brooks! Miss Brooks!" she yells, and, as if guided by some sort of instinct, tries to press her two small hands against the exit wound that looks like it came out somewhere just below Domino's collarbone, nearer towards her sternum.

"Shhh shhh shhh, pequena," Domino says, and reaches up to cover those two little hands with her own.

"Need you to be brave for me. Can you do that? Can you be brave, Flora?"

There's a pause as the girl stares at Domino, wide-eyed. Her lips thin, and she swallows... and then she nods.

Rogue has posed:
With the town breaking out in to chaos, and the Pinkerton forces having been too late to stop it, the townsfolk began to largely flee from the gallows.

The Witch dropped fast, and hard, as the glowing cards were sent sizzling toward the cross beam that the rope was tied to. The cards detonated, blowing shards of wood in all direction, and causing the men on the stage to duck, cover, and flee for the quickest route off of the platform. Rogue, meanwhile, fell right through the trapdoor, and toward the pit built down beneath it. Sometimes ropes broke, and when they did, the pit was designed to capture the prisoner again, to keep them locked up beneath the stage itself, but with the rope cut free from its beam above, thanks to the timely thrown card from the strange French Mexican prospector, the Witch felt a surge of oxygen rush in to her lungs, and her eyes snapped open wide.

Gunfire, screams of fear, and people bleeding out on the sides of the street, were all enough to make this one of the most memorable days in the American west's ever lengthening history, but to top it all off?

The Witch suddenly floated up out of the trap door, her rope still around her neck, held across her forearms, and clutched in her hands. She stared at her captors with a look of pure death, hate, and rage, as they looked up to the woman with the two-toned hair that was flowing wildly around her shoulders.

"The Witch is free! Fuck everything, run for it!" One of the men shouted, as Rogue leaned forward, and began flying toward the two driver's who had driven the prisoner wagon here today. She had a score to settle, for a number of reasons...

Rogue was loose, and though she had some vague idea of who she was, and who Remy was, she was still lost in this mad world, and she had a personal score to settle...

The driver's of the wagon were suddenly wrapped up by the noose rope, and the Witch lifted both of them high up in to the air, leaving their hats to fall from their heads, their arms and legs to wave wildly, as the ground left their feet, and grew further, and further away beneath them!

"Witch!" One townie shouted. "The Witch is loose! Hell hath come for us!"

Jean Grey has posed:
No one on the Pinkerton side assums things are going to go peacefully at this point, and to them, that's just fine. In truth, it may all be a conveinet excuse more than it is a problem: they've been paid (and paid a lot) to secure their lady employers property, and as the woman herself has just admitted, the whole thing will probably go a great deal smoother with a 'clean slate.'

On the side of the coach where 'J. E.' exited, the man there is insistant to guide her back and out of harms way, while the more heavily armed fan out in formation, brandishing their long guns. One on each side of the street, using nearby building supports as cover, and one quickly scrambling atop the coach itself, to take an overwatch position. All seem eager to prove why this 'private security' company has grown so feared, fingers ready on the trigger. And yet, they don't fire first, or even second. No, they let the two sides shoot each other. After all, it's still a business: you don't spend money on ammunition you don't have to.

But inevitably, one of the sheriff's posse looks their way the 'wrong' way, and with a sudden crack of a rifle, falls over dead, a hole through his forehead.

It's at that point that the whole unit goes from 'wait amd see' to 'kill them all': they open fire in volley, following with another, and another, and another still: The guns are the side-loading, lever-action icons of the era: Henry 1860s? Wincester 1873s? 92s? What year is it, even? Who cares. Being high-paid private mercenaries on the rolls of banks and rail barons means you can get your hands on anything you need, short of a gattling gun.

...are we sure there isn't a gattling gun in that coach somewhere?

Regardless, the guns are fast to fire and re-chamber, accurate at long range, and use tube magazines that better than double the average six shooter. And the men behind them, no doubt ex-military, ex-lawmen, heck ex-criminals? They know their business, dropping extras like flies.

After a few of these volleys, the man atop the coach takes aim at the Sheriff himself, while Miss Grey's escort, with just his pistol, notices the heroic rescue underway. He aims at the ruffian aiding the so-called witch...

...only for the woman behind him to reach up and put her hand on his weapon. "No, let them be. Perhaps they're lovers. I find it romantic. She-"

Another shot rings out.

Logan Howlett has posed:
"GRAAAAARGH!"

As his hat goes flying away, the Vancouver Kid drops both of his guns into the mud and horse shit of Main Street, and clutches at his face with one of his hands. When his hand comes away, it reveals that about half of his face is missing. But though the flesh has been peeled away, there is metal plating beneath in the rough shape of his face, and an eye that glows red with an infernal light.

It doesn't get noticed immediately, as most of the citizens are either running away, or hiding behind the many barrels lining Main Street. But eventually, someone points to the man with the metal face, and screams that they hung the wrong witch.

The Vancouver Kid appears to be attempting to throw a temper tantrum, thrashing wildly and erratically. But his head keeps jerking to the left each time that he tries to throw a punch, and the growls in his throat are coming out distorted and broken.

Meanwhile his partner isn't fairing much better. Though she should have exploded in a spray of blood, Ruth does nothing of the sort. A shotgun blast to her midsection simply tears off clothing and skin, as one might expect. But instead of blood... more bits of mechanical horrors, hidden beneath some sort of armor plating.

It turns out the Belladonna Gang has a good reason for not believing in Jesus. Because they were created by man.

On the other side of the street, Albert has fired his second shotgun shell, and is now out of shotgun shells. The Sheriff in his wisdom did not feel that the town drunk should be given too many shells, and it becomes obvious to Albert that he was only here to round out the numbers, and perhaps draw the fire.

And draw the fire he does. Several bullets rip through his torso, courtesy of both the Belladonna Gang and the Pinkertons. Though he wouldn't be able to prove it in the Fool's Creek court of law, he's pretty sure that one of the hookers also shot him. But instead of revealing his gleaming mechanical chassis, bits of blood and gore come pouring out of Albert.

The smell of his own blood makes him angry.

The loud noises make him angry.

The multiple gunshot wounds to the torso make him angriest of all.

Lying on the ground, bleeding his own blood, in a union suit with a crusted-up backflap, Albert begins frothing at the mouth as he forgets his own name.

In the background, Deputy Bill holds the body of Deputy Joe to his chest, bewailing the fact that he never really told him how he felt about him, before realizing that the insides of Joe's head are all made of metal. Immediately he drops the corpse and scampers away as if he had just seen a mouse covered in spiders.

Somewhere in the distance, a seemingly disembodied voice can suddenly be heard. Nasal and whimsical, with only a hint of electronic distortion due to a pretty well-designed speaker system, the voice calls out from... the rooftops? The clouds? Somewhere up above, certainly.

"Nice! The kids are gonna LOVE this one! And now we don't really need the test subjects sooo... no more mutants! Begin the cleanup program!"

The townspeople all begin freezing, almost in unison, while a little girl watches her mother figure bleed out next to a barrel of salted fish.

Monet St. Croix has posed:
Monet.. Pauses. As if she's erupting over into stasis, flickering back and forth against reality. As her mindscape sputters and tries to reorient itself again. Fantasy. Reality. Remade. Remixed. Normalcy takes over as her persona washes over her once more. Shock and horror at having her mind -wiped- and rewritten turn to pure murderous rage.. That is immediately smoothed over. Even as she's barely holding back her fury to want to lash out and attack at whomever, whatever had done this. Her fists don't clench, instead she goes to hold herself over at ease.

She looks up, over in the direction of the loudspeakers, the disembodied voice, then over at the.. Vancouver Kid and his sidekick. That sort of look familiar in their own way - well, one of them looks like someone. The other looks like a porcelain doll with robotic guts bleeding out.

She forces herself to focus over on the thing that she knows is at least present. The rest of the team. Even as she goes to try and coordinate with the rest of them and goe sto speak calmly to the rest, her mind fuzzy as if unsure her powers would work or not.

"Status and orders?" HOpefully the included leveling the place. Whether it was Arcade or Mojo.

Remy LeBeau has posed:
Remy crashes through the cabinet, arms up to shield his vital face parts from the inevitable collision with glass vials, jars, and pots that are rushing up to greet him. He hits the case and folds up on the wooden deck, rained upon by leaves and flowers and other herbs and spices, thirty two of them maybe who knows, where he's covering his body and all his vital organs.

The big red headed blacksmith follows him inside, intent on finishing the pummelling what had been started earlier. The Cajun pops up and leaps over the counter with a palm laid across the top, sending a boot right into the big mans chest. It doesn't hurt him, because he's made of metal, but Remy doesn't know that yet. All he knows is that when he gets punched in the face by a big fist, that hurts a lot. Because robots are strong and made of metal.

They also eat old people's medicine, but that's besides the point.

The blacksmith grabs the scrawny Remy by the scruff of his shirt and hurls him... At least that was the plan, anyways. Only someone freezes the fake people so the robot man doesn't release his grip and sends Remy sailing BACK OUT into the street without his shirt.

Just a huge laceration on his chest where he flew through jagged, broken, glass. A couple of other scraps and a ton of bruises on the pale skinned MEXICAN CAJUN named Caesar Villajo.

Prospector.

    Wood whittler.

        Shirtless.

Who pops right back up, amidst a group of frozen pedestrians, "Je t'avais dit que ce n'etait pas bien! I TOLD YOU!" Is anyone even listening to him? He motions around, "I need a cold beverage and a bottle of bourbon.." Hand to his bleeding chest, "Probably stitches... where dat sawbones? I need a blue jay peckin' to clean my blood all dis dirt.. MEDIC!"

Longshot has posed:
SEE?! THIS IS WHY WITCHES ARE HUNG?!

MAYBE?!?! There is a lot of relief when she is saved, despite the terrifying flying.

Arthur Centino has lost the plot, he doesn't know what he's supposed to do other than not die, the vague sense that someone is going to yell at him for poor performance in the future is dismissed as not currently important.

The Vancouver Kid is apparently not dead and also not flesh? There is some relief in this-Killing people is Wrong.

The voice though, that at least makes sense. Production, see? This is how movies are made, this is how TV happens. He's still going to be yelled at. Probably will still be fed, but definitely going to be yelled at, bare minimum. As little as Arthur wants to be yelled at, it is a relief that robots are being used as extras instead of people.

Gosh, Arthur wished he could remember what was going on. For as little as he has expectations about things; this has been unpleasant. Also, Arthur Centino is the name of a really awful person. Why'd they make him do the awful roles?

The rifle is reloaded anyway, even if bullets have stopped flying, pistol pulled out-He sort of, definitely, doesn't like guns.

But-someone is saying something? Status as Orders? What does that mean? Doesn't sound like lines. Then again, all his lines have been bad, maybe the writers hate her too. Peering out at Monet, "Usually they say Cut-I think. You're going to get us in trouble."

OH GOOD! Caesar Villajo and Adelaide Brooks clearly understand their roles! "FOR JUSTICE! THE DAY IS WON!"

Neena Thurman has posed:
"I need... you to run," Domino whispers to Flora, the blood having made its way up from her esophagus and into her throat. She can taste its sticky heat. The coppery tang, mixed with the smell of... salted fish? Ugh. It couldn't have been whiskey, could it? But she swallows it down, intent on not letting Flora's last image of her be that of coughing up blood.

"To the garden cellar. You crawl into it, and you hide until this is..."

More gunshots ring out over head, and Domino reaches to grab Flora's head and pull her down towards her center of mass. A few bullets smack into the side of that barrel, but all they're awarded for in their purchase is a gush of stinky, salty fish. Ugh. Flora pops back up, her face smeared with a mixture of blood and tears. "M-Ms. Brooks... I can't leave you..." she mumbles, shaking her head as Domino shakes her head in turn.

"You can... just, wait for me there. I'll be right behind you," Domino says.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Flora takes a few steps back, grasps that Virginia Bluebell a little tighter in her palm, and turns to run, dress and bouncy-brown curls fluttering as she goes. If she hears the voice ahead, it's unclear to Domino, who only briefly turns her head to look up at the sky as they ring out. Like God, from Heaven up High. Is she delirious? Or are those angels up there, come to rapture her away.

Domino reaches to her right, parting the slit in her skirt to draw that revolver and point it up towards the sky. Heaven. God Himself, maybe.

    *** CLICK ***

        * BANG! *

    *** CLICK ***
            * BANG! *

    *** CLICK ***
            __thump__

ADELAIDE 'DOMINO' BROOKS
WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE
FOR THE CRIMES OF MURDER, EXTORTION,
ROBBERY, AND DESTRUCTION OF PROPERTY
STATUS: DECEASED

Tabitha Smith has posed:
If the simulation is ending for now, what is going to happen to the mutants. Right now there's a terrified blonde cowering behind a barrel that's caught way more bullets than should be safe, smoke billowing out the top of it like something exploded in the wooden confines.

There's probably a small part of the back of the girl's brain where the original occupant is probably wishing she could beat the hell out of the scared whore.

Sadly that doesn't exactly happen as it seems the universe is still against sex workers being safe as stray fire rips through the barrel, popping the metal bands which seemingly strike Tabitha in the chest and head, knocking her to the ground, bleeding rather messily.

Though the barrel exploding might be a bit bigger than what gunfire might be capable of. Funny thing about mutants...

Rogue has posed:
Rogue had hot-tied the two prison wagon drivers up, and was in the process of flying them through the middle of the street, when their flailing bodies whent stiff. She noticed, and watched the men turn to statues, which caused her to simply release the rope, and pull it from her neck. They fell fast, and hard, hitting the dusty road with a collective of thumps and bumps. The shadow of the Witch raced down the dusty road, and over the black stagecoach, followed by the sudden presence of two long legs standing atop it, her bare feet having planted themselves atop J. E.'s stagecoach's roof.

With her hair flowing to the right, caught in long waving motions by the breeze, Rogue stared up at the sky, and the voice that boomed from it.

She looked down at the motion of those still moving on the town's rapidly emptying roads.

Rogue crouched, her left leg covered completely by her dress, her right completely uncovered, with one hand on the stagecoatch roof between her feet.

She glared out at what movement was still there, a feral look of a woman waiting to strike stricken across her face...

She growled.

Jean Grey has posed:
The the brutal Pinkertons are ready to complete their slaughter, lining up shots on a number of prime targets after dealing with the riff-raff: on the sheriff, on the card-throwing would be hero (at least until he gets tackled out of frame), and finally, failing that, several of them on the 'witch' herself, as she truly begins to fly! At the same time, her employer is trying to stop some of this, having a change of heart, or just a flight of fancy, perhaps some echo of memory... who can say?

"I told you, leave her be!"

"Now now Miss Grey, there's no reason to get sentimental. A lady like you doesn't need to be worrying over this sort of nonsense, we'll take care of it all and make sure your property is well and secure. You won't have a thing to worry about. Fact, you'll be able to go back East soon enough. Now just sit tight amd we'll sort this out."

The readhead is ready to struggle with the man over the gun, at this point, yet... it turns out she doesn't need to. No heroics, no nothing. Because they all stop on their own. Like clockwork (heh, heh), their fingers hover on the triggers, ready to execute that last round of shots, and then... just stop.

This leaves her standing there, holding the man's arm near his pistol, confused and alarmed, just as there's a sudden sound nearby, as Rogue touches down atop the coach. Even the horses don't react at this point, although one is frozen quite dramatically, rearing up on its hind legs, spooked by all the gunfire.

From the ground, she looks up, blinking her eyes several times. "Why... is one of us always on the verge of dying in these things? I feel like we're getting typecast."

Logan Howlett has posed:
"Dammit! The cleanup mode was supposed to be way more epic. They're all just standing there."

There's the obnoxious voice again, coming from... definitely not the clouds. In fact, it's hard to pinpoint an exact direction, even for those who are typically very good at that sort of thing. From the looks of 'Albert', he doesn't really have anything of value to contribute to the search at this exact moment.

With so many of the robots destroyed, including the ones taken out in the Big Explosion, there weren't a whole bunch to contend with anyway. For those who are exceptionally good at counting though, it seems that a few 'robots' are missing from the final tally. A few who didn't freeze. And some who managed to run and hide.

Things aren't quite adding up. Especially to people who moments ago believed that snake oil could cure a whole host of ailments, from erectile dysfunction to hot flashes.

"Okay X-Men, apparently you're not all going to die this exact second. But your seconds are numbered, and the number is... low! And there's nothing that you can do about it, because none of you has the nards to try and meet me. Because you'd have to ride through... DEAD RIDER'S CANYON!"

The voice cuts out somewhere in the midst of its own laughter, leaving a bunch of confused mutants, malfunctioning robots, and salted fish.

But one among them knows exactly what to say. For now that his mouth is no longer frothing, Albert manages to stand up, seemingly recovered from having been shot so many times. He could probably use a beer though.

Looking around, recognition begins to flicker behind those eyes, the snarl on his face gradually melting away as he feels that he SHOULD know these people, even though some of them shot at him repeatedly, or ordered their Pinkertons to do it.

Maybe he's in a forgiving mood.

"Which wunna you hosers shat in my britches, eh?"

Looks like he's back in all the ways that matter most.

Rogue has posed:
Rogue was still growling, when Jean spoke up to her. Her green eyes shot down to the redhead in the fancy attire, and the Belle's face lightened up again. Her snarl faded, and her features returned to a more relaxed state. She stared at Jean for a lingering second, before the booming Godly voice announced itself further. When it said X-Men aloud, Rogue reacted. She tucked her shoulder, brought her body in to a roll, and rolled right over the roof of the stagecoach, and off of its side. She dropped down to the dirty ground upon bare feet, standing directly beside the fancy east coast business woman, and offered her a glance. "Time t'kill whoever is behind this..." She muttered, as she raised a hand up to run it through her wild mane of brown and white locks.

Her eyes scanned the chaos, hearing someone talking about shatting in their own pants, before she spied the shirtless Cajun Mexican, and she began walking in his direction.

Upon bare feet, the Mississippi Witch gingerly skipped over, dashed between, and swayed her body around, all of the little gross spots upon the western town's dusty line.

"I'll fight you right here!" Rogue shouted up at the sky, the burnt-edges of each of her words getting a little more crispy, as she raised the volume of her voice. "Come down here an' meet us like a man!" She cried out, while walking through the middle of the town, her dress barely still held on to her body by her curves, and the grace of whatever modesty Gods might actually be overseeing this little event in the heat of this desert climate.

"Come get it!" Rogue shouted, not even knowing what she was shouting at.

The Witch was loose, and she was a bit crazy yet still.

Tabitha Smith has posed:
Eventually, Tabby might find herself waking up somewhere else. Dragged off during the clean up. The pains and aches she earned during the shootout still fresh.

Even if she's not dead, there's still a sense of fear at the new location.

In the back of her brain, the Boomie one kicking and bashing on what might be messing with her brain.

That can't be a good sign.

Monet St. Croix has posed:
Monet St. Croix goes to quickly dart along to move to pickup Tabitha or anyone else that needs a 'lift' even as she goes to maneuver forwards to flank Rogue to help take the brunt of whatever sort of attack might be coming. Lovely, they're facing robots in a horrid western serial. That means that a giant steampunk mecha spider is going to be charging at them soon enough.

"Are you going to continue with this drivel of a monologue of this scenario or have you failed to prepare anything else beyond narration to accompany this vaudeville performance?" Her hands are clenched into fists, even as she hovers and tries to get an idea as to what they're up against now. The robots..

She presumes whatever weaponry there is here that it can hurt them. She goes to frown and tries to establish a mental link wtih the rest of the team. <<Ms. Grey, can you prevent him from doing something further to warp our perceptions?>> She didn't know -how- they had overlaid the scenario on the entire team as a sort of literal performance. How had they been so conditioned?

Remy LeBeau has posed:
Remy waves his hand in front of one of the animatrons faces. Someone he's pretty sure he knows, but in an abstract way. Like he dreamed knowing them, but doesn't really. Where you wake up and you're mad at your husband because he cheated on you in a dream.
Then there's the voice in the sky, that Rogue is scream at to come 'fight them'. "I don't think it work dat way, chere." He calls up to her, though he too looks towards the sky. Sans his prospector hat which got lost somewhere in the Apothacary scuffle. He waves a fist up at the artificial sun, "Next time maybe you make it black and white, den everyone be properly fooled by monochromatic color, non?" WIGGLE of his fist.

"I need a doctor. I'm bleeding for real over here." The not fist wiggling hand is covering a very big gash in his chest. "I could use some alcohol. Maybe some opiates. I settle for a bottle of motrin."

Longshot has posed:
The blonde man has no clue what is happening, nothing but confusion now.

X-men, battle, ride down a canyon-this is not normal behavior for Production. Or other cast members.

But wow, it's so nice that there are other cast members alive! That's so nice! That-Has that happened before? He's not sure. He's not sure what normal behavior is, but this? This isn't it.

And it's so nice! Rifle and pistol kept, a tentative approach of the stagecoach, he's not Arthur Centino, but he's not sure who he is.

It's probably not important and probably won't come up-So who he is will not be worried about right now. Rather, a nice place to stand in proximity of the other cast members willing to fight is located. These guys are awesome and who they are will also not be questioned. Instead, pistols and rifle will each be checked. Mild annoyance at having guns rather than knives, but it's better than nothing!

Whoever the nice people are, whoever he is, he is ready to fight the awful thing that put them all here.

Jean Grey has posed:
When Rogue's snarl fades, Jean smiles a bit more in an echo of the same expression. "Hi there. Welcome back, Miss Witch."

As they say, knowing's half the battle, and the parting veil of confusion leaves greater confidence in its wake. Sure, it's a weird, frustrating sort of scenario, but in the scope of X-Men history, far from the worst. Even if this isn't Mojoworld, well, they've BEEN to Mojoworld, so it's a familiar enough premise.

And then there's a voice, much less deific, much more... well, that.

Rogue takes off, fuming, but Jean doesn't immediately pursue her, instead taking a moment to regard what she's wearing. "Little fancier than what we wore for that Halloween." She shifts in place. "Underwear's even accurate." TMI! A second later, and she lifts off slightly herself, pursuing the Belle at some distance, or at least headed back down mainstreet.

When she gets the telepathic telephone ring-up, she glances over in the vague direction of the building where that whole side of the spectacle had been playing out. << I don't even know what happened in the first place, >> she admits, a little put-out by it. The transmission eventually goes wide, reaching whoever she can amidst the strange town scenery. << I don't sense any interference. For now, at least. Before we head off to the showdown in whatever canyon, let's meet up for a headcount, sitrep, and any kind of first aid. >>

Hovering down mainstreet, she stops to check on another familiar face, landing nearby, and giving him a slightly 'really?' look. "Or a bath." At least she doesn't put that in the group chat. She thumbs back over her shoulder. "Bet they've got a tub in there."

<< Rendezvous at the whorehouse. >>