first entrance

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

When the door opens, a shadow walks into the bar.

He lifts his head when he realizes that he's not where he was intending to be. The look that crosses his scarred face isn't a very pleased one, to say the least.

His clothes are an obvious indication of the time he's stepped in from (a dirty, bloodied Civil War uniform with Confederate insignia identifying him as a First Lieutenant of the Cavalry) and the twin holstered pistols on his gunbelt should tell people that he's not to be messed with.

Dark eyes survey the room from beneath the brim of his hat, and his grip on the (bloodstained?) burlap sack in his left hand tightens a fraction.

"Hrm."

This may be problematic.



Tinytag with a big scar: Jonah Hex

Comments

[not_his_pa]

William's just finished his shift and is heading to the fire with his book when he sees Hex and stares.

That uniform's hard to miss and he comes forward slowly with his hands in view, the man looks dangerous, "Sir, you need any help?"

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

Jonah turns his head when he's spoken to, narrowing his eyes slightly at the sight of the boy in familiar clothing.

He doesn't speak, still studying everything around him.

[not_his_pa]

As Jonah turns his head, William sees his scar and looks down quickly so he doesn't say anything stupid.

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

The unscarred corner of his mouth lifts in a hint of a smirk as the boy drops his head.

"This ain't McFarland's."

[not_his_pa]

"No, sir, called Milliways," He looks up and tips his hat.

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

"Milliways."

He looks towards the bar, then towards the door behind him. This...is still going to be problematic.

The bag is dripping.

[not_his_pa]

William's trying his best to not look too hard at that bag,

"There's a back door, sir, if somethin' need cleanin'."

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

"Cleanin' it would make it hard t'tell who it was."

[not_his_pa]

"Who it was, sir?" He goes pale as he eyes the bag again.

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

"Man's worth more dead than he was breathin'."

[scots_wolf]

There is a tall figure in a dark cloak idly watching him as he enters the bar.

All you can see from under the hood is a smirk apparently directed at the burlap sack.

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

Jonah notices the smirk, but he's more interested in the fact that this isn't the saloon he intended on walking into.

This...is going to be problematic.

But he'll deal after a drink; he heads for the counter.

[scots_wolf]

There is nobody behind the bar who would be serving drinks or answer questions.

The hooded man watches, as if observing an interesting specimen going through a test.

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

The burlap sack thuds with a wet sound against the counter.

He'll wait for a moment before getting annoyed at the lack of service; when that happens...

"All I want is a goddamn whiskey, is that too much to ask for?"

The glass pops up on the counter with the requested drink; Jonah glances at the bartop and narrows his eyes.

[scots_wolf]

"Magic," says the smirk from under the black hood.

[properpolice.livejournal.com]

Shaz, very honestly, didn't pay a lot of attention in class the days they went over American history and why one half of a very young country decided to fight the other half of a very young country. After all, there were so many instances of this happening in her own country that she had to learn about, learning about someone else's problem wasn't high on her list. It got about as much attention as the French Revolution, which she is fairly sure involved guillotines, lots of dead rich people, and some singing. And possibly a prison break.

She does, however, very much so understand guns, grim expressions, and blood. That would by why there's a very wide-eyed young lady in a police uniform with her tea and her files looking rather like she can't decide if she should run, try to arrest him, or just fall over.

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

Jonah is searching out each patron of the bar-that-is-not-McFarland's in turn, trying to figure out just what the hell is going on. This place feels different -- an odd sensation of being disconnected sends cold water running through his spine -- but he can't quite figure out why.

He's glaring, a little. When he makes eye contact with the young woman and her teacup, he pauses.

She's staring at him like he's about to eat her.

"I don't shoot ladies."



It's meant to be reassuring, at least.

[properpolice.livejournal.com]

That... really doesn't help.

At all, actually.

If anything, her eyes just opened just that little bit wider, and she got just a little bit paler.

Because now he's noticed her, and that can't be good, right? At this very moment she doesn't give a fig about women's rights and an equal working environment - she could use a few armed bastards from CID.

Or. You know. Anyone?

"Um."

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

He does look pretty threatening -- holding a bloodstained burlap sack that looks like it's got a large cannonball stuffed inside, the twin pistols holstered at his hip and the tomahawk slipped into a loop beside them -- not to mention the scar is a distraction in itself.

Hex steps out of the doorway when someone bustles through behind him.

Stepping closer to the woman and her teacup.

[properpolice.livejournal.com]

Shaz is actually really against this train of events. Personally, she believes that it should have ended with 'and no men with giant scars and guns and axes and bags that drip blood came into the bar, and Shaz was able to finish reading these files'. That would have worked well, for her.

She would lodge a protest... if she were the type to lodge protests.

As it is she stumbles to her feet (backwards, nearly tripping over the chair as she does so) and is clearly torn between running for her life and... well. Not.

Because she's the police. And part of CID (however small a part).

And they don't run.

(Actually, sometimes they do, but only when the Guv isn't around. Or if the other guy is going to do something stupid like blow himself up.)

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

Her stumbling catches his attention even more (he was already looking away from her, trying to find a familiar face in the crowd of absolute chaos that he's suddenly found himself deposited in) and he glances back at her.

He's used to this. The scar sends them running, and if it's not the scar, it's the cold stare in his eyes or the guns at his hips.

"Look," he says. "Really, I ain't gonna do nothin'."

He glances around the bar again.

"I'm just tryin' to figure out what the hell's goin' on."

[properpolice.livejournal.com]

Talking, actually, makes it easier to not run. Because he isn't actually screaming and ranting and threatening to do horrible things to babies, which puts him above some of the nutjobs that get brought in on Saturday nights after a football match.

"It is a pub." She offers, not sounding terribly brave but certainly earning bravery points for standing her ground. "At the end of the universe."

She's still not too sure about that last one, but the Guv and Chris and DI Drake all told her it was... so it must be. Even though she isn't quite clear on what that's supposed to mean.

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

He closes his eyes and covers them with a hand, rubbing at his eyelids. The motion tips his hat back just a bit, revealing a line of dirt and sweat that's baked onto his skin.

"A pub at the end of the universe," he repeats. "You sayin' we're...in space?"

He's got to be hallucinating.

[properpolice.livejournal.com]

She notices, because she really is quite good at noticing things, but she's not quite up to mentioning the possibility of a nice hot soak to someone who looks like an axe murderer. So, possibly wisely, she keeps her mouth shut on that topic.

"There are an awful lot of stars out that window, over there." She says instead, because if he doesn't like it, maybe he can take it out on the window, not on her.

[cutmyselfshavin.livejournal.com]

To his credit, Jonah does not lose his grip on the sack when the full assault of the Window strikes him (he feels the rush of death and rebirth slam into him like a thousand pounds of dynamite crushing his lungs and stealing all the air from the room) but it does take him a moment or two before he can find his voice again.

Slowly, he walks over to a nearby chair and drops into it.

The bag goes on the table with a dull, wet thud.

"That ain't natural," he mutters, head still down and eyes half-closed. He's trying to block it out, but it's very difficult to keep the screams quiet.