ten_fwd_ooc | TEST DRIVE #1

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test drives

TEST DRIVE #1 - Ten Forward

You know how you were standing there, back in your home world, just minding your own business?

Time to forget all about that.

Instead of doing whatever the heck you were just doing, you're standing in the middle of this very stylish, sedate barroom. Happily, you're not alone there - in fact you're surrounded by people who seem to be as confused as you are...and some of them look a little, well unusual

Now would be a great time to do....well, something. Ask some questions of the person nearest you, throw a fit, stage a coup....maybe do a little exploring? No matter what you do, you're going to be here for a very long time.

For others might call it the USS Enterprise, but for the foreseeable future, you'll be calling it home.

[OOC: this test drive's open until the next app period.]

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This dilemma is fast approaching, because as soon as she's within speaking distance, that's just what she does.

"Howdy. Kate Barlow."

She pauses, an unusual air of uncertainty hitching her movements. Generally speaking, she's spit and vinegar with a hellfire glint in her eye, but at this moment she's thrown just far enough off her game to debate whether she should offer him a handshake before she eventually does.

She's small, standing no taller than five-foot-one-inch, but her hands are strong and calloused, lips tucked into the shallowest frown, and she's giving off the distinct air of a woman you don't want to trifle with.

Damn.

There's a faint, resigned press of his lips together, and a twitch of his mustache, and he casts a fast glance at the offered hand. When he reaches to take it, it's for a quick, firm shake that allows him to drop it right away. "Miss."

It's good manners to introduce himself, ask after her, make some sort of...commentary on her...on her...hat, maybe? He tries to think of what Butch might say, comes up against a blank sandstone wall, like that time they got stuck in a box canyon and he just knew Butch got the path wrong, no matter what he said about shortcuts.

Besides, she's so tiny and neat-built, like a bird, she makes him feel even more out of place than ever. To cover his confusion, he glances up and around the room, stares down someone wearing a too-tight black and blue bodysuit until they look away. "You..."

There's a pause while he wracks his brain for what might be an appropriate question, wishes heartily Butch was here to do the figuring out for him, like he oughta be, lands a little haphazardly on: "This place got a name?"

Edited 2014-03-30 17:52 (UTC)

On any other occasion, she'd find some amusement in his stiff manner. If she felt kindly, she'd help him out and finish his question for him; if she felt mischievous (the more likely of the two), she'd smirk while he sweats it out. Sadly, both options are blotted out by an ink stain of shock.

"The U.S.S. somethin'-r-other. Enterprise? They say it's a ship that sails the heavens, rather'n the seas."

She nods, shorthand for the nice to meet you that isn't passing her lips, and glances back out a window. She laughs after a minute, quick and breathless.

"Sounds crazy, but I hafta admit that's just what it looks like."

HIs eyes keep darting from her to the room and back again, where they settle for a good long few seconds before they're off again; tracking the movement around them, watching the people who are watching them. The pistol slung low on his thigh is a welcome, friendly weight, but no one's making any sudden, stupid moves, or even paying much attention.

Apparently, this is something that happens all the --

He looks back at her, brow creasing. "Ship?"

He doesn't know a whole lot about ships, but he's pretty sure this isn't like any sailing the world he knows. His mouth opens to make the words heaven?, but before he can, he's caught by the sight of them.

Stars.

Millions of them. More than he can count. More than he can keep track of.

He wonders if he's dead. How the hell else would he find himself surrounded by stars, nowhere near anything he knows?

"That's what they say. Can't tell if we're movin'."

Kate's entertained the same thought her own self. Death. Heaven. How on earth she got here, when the last thing she remembers is the washcloth-heavy heat of Texas, and then there was something like a flash, and people all demanding to know where they were.

Her sharp eyes follow the slant of his, grazing the deep black sky, shifting quickly to some sort of fella walking by who's distinctly not human. She blinks, swallows hard, and looks back.

"Where you from, cowboy?"

She don't talk like a proper lady, but propriety went out the window several light-years ago.

Somebody must be putting one over on him, and it makes him mad.

He gives her a quick look, like it might be her, but Kate Barlow's still watching the room with the same wary uncertainty that keeps gnawing at the back of his neck, so she's probably innocent.

As much as anyone ever is.

He's still staring at the stars outside when he answers her, a little absent. "Wyoming."

Not where he was born, but she didn't ask that. It does send an unpleasant tingle down along his spine to think how very far from Hole-In-The-Wall he is, if she's right. If she's not putting one over on him.

Something in her relaxes. Not by much, but enough to ease her shoulders a titch and take her from that feet-planted offensive stance into something slightly more casual. It shows on her face, too. Confusion makes way for recognition — Wyoming, now that's familiar.

"East Texas," she offers.

She might even be smiling, a bare-bones upturning of the corners of her mouth.

"Can I ask how y'got here?"

East Texas, that's a place he knows. He knows nothing about ships or stars or whatever this is, that's so sleek and gently-lit, where no one seems to be playing cards and the girls are wearing the same strange skin-tight get-up as the fellas (he wants to stare at one, is made vaguely uncomfortable by the other, and ends up just looking back out the window again), but he knows East Texas, so that gets a nod, and as she relaxes, he does, too. A little.

He can't really answer her question, though; even crinkling his face up in thought doesn't really help all that much. There was a bar with rooms upstairs, and he'd planned to take the top one, with the best vantage point of the street, and he'd somehow walked in here, instead, but try as he might he can't figure the moment between old creaky wood under his boots and this tasteful carpet and tile. Was there a flash of light, or did the door just open here? "Not sure."

He half-turns again, to look around. "You?"

It takes some doing to keep her face from falling.

She shakes her head.

"I was outside, then — here. Some fella, I reckon a crewman, told me what I told you. Said t'sit tight, an' he'd find some answers. But there's a lotta confused folk."

Who knows what's going on, or when they'll find out? She's still pinching herself every couple of minutes, just to see if she might wake up.

"I was hopin' someone might know what happened t'me."

He peers at her, then looks away, uncomfortable in the knowledge that he probably ought to offer some kind of comfort. It's the sort of thing Etta might tell him is right, or Butch would do easy as breathing, but Butch is good with people, and Etta's a woman and generally better at these sorts of things, and Sundance is...

Best when left to his own devices.

He clears his throat, wishes he'd thought to refill his pouch of chaw. "Seems there oughta be somebody in charge."

To give them answers, or to direct this milling crowd of confused arrivals. He's seeing others who look like they don't belong, now that the first shock is over, but when one walks by, head entirely obscured by a darkly-tinted fishbowl, he looks back at Miss Barlow right quick.

The thing is, compared to the sun-dried cowpokes out in Texas, Sundance is practically cuddly. Sure, he's about as huggable as cacti, but Kate's used to reading silences and grunts in place of words. That's why Green Lake needed her touch, back during her schoolteacher days. Take the farmers and the ranch hands, try to civilize them a bit, teach them their letters, discuss poetry. She don't scare easy.

Never has.

"I'd reckon so."

She pauses, gears grinding away. She gives his gun a second look, then ponders the glint in his eyes.

"Maybe we should find them."

It doesn't fall off the tongue natural—we—but that's what they are for now. She don't know him and he don't know her, but they know Wyoming, and Texas, and that's better than anything this ship's got to offer so far. Besides, he looks like the resourceful type. Maybe even the type that'll come in handy in a shootout.

He runs his tongue along the outside of his teeth, under his cheek, and gives a short nod.

It's a little bit of a relief, her taking charge. Without Butch around, he always feels a little aimless, sort of wanders from place to place until there's a job, a plan, and it's probably better to stick together, even if he don't know her.

She's got a gun, and it seems she can keep a cool head, and both of those things are useful enough he doesn't particularly care if he knows who she is from Adam. He tips his chin in the general direction of that sleek bar, where people are milling, talking quiet and calm, sipping strange-colored drinks. Slants his eyes toward her, and waits for her to make her move.

Lucky for him, she's accustomed to taking charge. Even if this ain't home, and even if this stranger ain't part of her gang. When you're just cresting five feet and as pretty as a summer day, you gotta show the boys you mean business by taking no gentle tack.

She nods, bolstered by his readiness, and looks toward the bar. She'll forget the expanse of stars behind her for now, pretend she ain't miles away from home, and treat this like any ol' saloon she walks into out in Texas. Shoulders back and chin high, knees as steady as they dare to be, she marches on up to the counter.

"'Scuse us! Who's in charge here?"

The woman behind the bar holds up one finger. She's busy engaging another patron at the other end, who looks about as startled as Sundance did when he winked in.

He likes her, which is probably a stupid thing to do, considering, but he likes the way she pushes her shoulders back and her chin up and strides up to that bartop like she's planning on robbing it. Clearly, she's someone to be reckoned with, and that's the kind of quality Sundance can really appreciate in an acquaintance, feminine or not.

She's got more bluster and brass than Butch, but it takes all kinds, he knows that, so he just sidles up next to her and leans on the bar, allowing himself to sink into the background, a bit.

Seems she's got the talking covered, and that's kind of a relief. All he'd be able to do right now is flash the six-shooter at his side, and he's got this itching, nagging sensation of a feeling that wouldn't be the brightest idea he's ever had.

She's so small he can look right over her head at the woman tending the bar, leveling an unblinking pale blue gaze at her, while she glances back a little more curiously each time, as she pours some sort of drink and says something Sundance can't hear.

He probably shouldn't set his gun on the bar top, either. Too bad.

Kate's just the likable type. She's got a way with people, even the stubborn and reticent ones.

She glances up at Sundance, shrugging a shoulder. Her lips are pinched in annoyance, but she knows they ain't the only two people here. Folks need answers, and there ain't a whole lot of people doling them out.

Still, she wishes the woman would hurry up, and she can't help but feel a little thrill when she sees the flash of Sundance's iron.

"That won't be necessary," comes a voice.

Guinan stops before the two roughnecks, smile serene. There's something else to it, too — fondness. It's been some time since she last saw 19th century Earth.

Her vestments are teal, loose and flowing, and she's wearing a headpiece to match. Dark braids rest over her shoulders as she folds her hands on the bar.

"How can I help you?" she asks, eyes darting between them.

Sundance pauses with his hand cradling the butt of his six-shooter, and casts a suspicious glance up at the woman in front of him. She's smiling, which he don't trust, and she's wearing some kind of floaty, shapeless combinations of fabrics that look about as stylish to his eye as a potato sack.

He ain't picky or nothing, but when it comes to ladies' fashions, he likes 'em trim, and stylish, and neat, and simple. And good plain colors.

He sucks on his teeth, weighing his options, then shrugs it all off again, wary gaze loosening to something almost like disinterest, as he glances back casually over the room behind them. "Information."

She glances between them again, and inclines her head.

"You're on the USS Enterprise. It's a Galaxy-class starship, which appears to be stopped close to the Kavis Alpha sector, but I don't pretend any of that will mean a thing to you."

While she speaks, she lines up two empty glasses, and retrieves a bottle of whiskey.

"You're in space, on a starship with over one thousand other souls."

Nothing she's saying is making any kind of sense, so it's a good thing he recognizes the oaky scent of the whiskey and the amber color of the liquid.

"What's a starship?"

"It's not all that different from the kind of ship you'd be used to."

She smiles, pushing the glasses closer to both cowboys. She'll start them off with one finger, and go from there.

"It only sails through space instead of water. There are cabins, recreational areas, an engine room, even places where you can shop."

She pauses, passing a kind look between them.

"Let me guess, your next question is, 'But how did I get here?' "

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TEST DRIVE #1 - Ten Forward

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