milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Sinthia can be found outside today, stance square as she faces down a paper target some yards away. She holds her pistol steady, breathing slow and regular, and she rarely misses what she's aiming at. Doesn't mean what she's aiming at is always the center of the bullseye, though; she's working on headshots at the moment.

The sound of a .45 caliber round being ejected forcefully from the barrel is hard to miss, though.

---

Later in the afternoon, she can be found inside the bar at a table, meticulously cleaning her pistol; she was silent while shooting, but now she's very softly humming to herself as she sweeps away powder residue and grease.

She looks almost comfortable as she works.

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At the range:

Even though he'd just been down into town earlier in the day (before his Door picked him up and brought him back to Milliways), there had still been more folks in the main room of the bar than he'd run into all day while in Willow Creek proper. Old habits still die hard; after a while and some conversations, he finds himself stepping outside to take a break from the noise.

The sound of a .45 is hard to miss, even if her model of firearm is likely much more modern than his.

While there's plenty of room, he doesn't approach the line outright; instead, he takes a seat on one of the nearby benches (well-within her field of vision) and shifts his gunbelt on his hip as he sits, watching her placement of rounds as he removes his own pistol from the holster and drops the cartridges from the barrel.

He's in no hurry, and there's no need to interrupt her practice session.

She sees him sit, and though his presence is marked she doesn't feel the need to say anything to draw attention to it. She just steadily works her way through the ammunition she'd brought out with her, and the paper target has many more holes punched through it by the time she's done.

Sinthia is, if nothing else, a very nearly expert marksman; her draw is clean, each motion spare and efficient, and her aim true. She re-centers quickly between every round.

"I like your revolver."

"Appreciate it." He nods politely. "I've had a chance to handle some of those like yours - more modern design. They're nice, too."

A glance and tip of his head downrange.

"So's your shooting."

It's honesty, nothing more behind it. Doc doesn't judge when it comes to the ability of a person when it comes to how well they can fire a weapon. Lord knows he's taught a few patrons here how to improve a bit themselves.

"Thank you," she replies lightly, polite and soft-voiced. If not for the proof that she's quite handy with the weapon she has, she'd seen almost fragile.

"I was trained very well to be very accurate," Sinthia says, as even-toned as she can, though the longer she's out of the conditioning, the more bitter that becomes. "Are you new here?"

"Not exactly." Doc shakes his head, focus primarily on their conversation, but he also reloads all six chambers of the Colt while he speaks. It's familiar (something he used to do when he and the boys were stuck waiting for what seemed like ages, holed up in some no-name canyon or rundown camp for the night, not sure when the hammer would drop and things would all go to hell) and more habit than anything.

"I used t'spend quite a bit of time here, but just until this mornin', I hadn't had a Door come my way for several years. Spoke to an old friend of mine, she reckoned it might have had t'do with the changin' of the season, Spring finally getting here, maybe things got lined up right for once."

She hums in assent, plainly not very used to needing to talk to keep a conversation going, but trying nonetheless; she isn't in-depth reading, only barely picking up surface thoughts, but they rarely tell her much here. Even so, she can't imagine coming back here after years to find (presumably) everything changed.

"Do you remember anyone from before? Or did this place change very much?"

"I didn't recognize a whole lot of folk when I walked in the door," he says. "There were a few familiar faces, but I imagine that it might be hard t'recognize me, after it's been such a spell in my world."

He motions with his free hand lightly towards the surroundings.

"Most stuff's in about the same place I recall, though t'be honest, I had to think a moment when I stepped outside on to the porch to gather my bearings and get straightened out."

Not to say that Milliways wasn't apt to change things on a moment's notice.

"Been some improvements. Range is nicer."

He hasn't checked to see if his room in the staff hallway is still as he left it. At this point, it would likely be a time capsule.

"I've been told I was here as a child, but I don't remember it. I don't remember very much from back then," she murmurs, distracted for a moment.

"This place looks so very different than anywhere I lived, or live now. It's always strange when I come here and things are so different." Both surroundings and people.

"I was told that I came here once before, older. A different version of myself...different timeline. I try not t'think 'bout that too much."

Different lifetime.

"It gets complicated. I honestly thought after it had been a couple of years on my side, that this place might not show back up at all."

Doc glances back towards the porch and the Back Door, as if to confirm that the Bar is in fact, still there.

"It's easier if you don't. I think," she says, finally emptying and holstering her firearm.

"There are people here that knew me as a child. They get very confused when we talk now, because...I'm very unlike the child they knew." Utterly, completely different people, more like. Even if she's trying to regain some of it, not much comes back.

"You aren't from a modern city, though, are you?"

"No, at least not modern as far as when most of the folk who end up here seem to come from," he replies. "I've got a place a ways out from Bozeman, little town called Willow Creek. Montana Territory...Earth. 1897."

Definitely not modern.

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