July 29th, 2015


A secondary simulation within the matrix, Wednesday

Eliot found himself gripping a set of reigns as hard as he'd just been gripping a man's shirt. He was on horseback, at night, on a dirt road through the middle of a busy and haphazard looking old west town, surrounded by other people on horses.

"You were sayin'," an older man on the horse to his left said. "You were sayin' about this man's story."

Eliot twisted in the saddle, looking behind him. It didn't make any more sense that way. "What."

"I said you were sayin' about this man's story. About that white family getting hacked and scalped in the woods."

"I -- I really wasn't," Eliot said, looking back over at the man.

"You feelin' alright there, friend?" Another man, this one on foot by the door to what seemed to be a rather busy saloon, said. "You're not goin' to fucking pass out and die on us now when you're all just gettin' set to ride out and investigate this cocksucker's claims to an Indian attack."

"What," Eliot said again. He blinked and reached up to adjust the hat he only just realized he was wearing. "Indian attack. . . ."

The men on horseback nodded. "Just been reported," said the man on the horse to his right.

Eliot blinked a few more times, looking around, and adjusted his hat again.

"The fella's story on this don't hold water," the man on the horse to his right hissed, like a prompter at a grade school play.

Eliot stared at him. The man nodded.

"The, uh." Eliot cleared his throat. "The fella's story -- on this don't hold water."

The man on the horse to his right nodded. "No, it don't."

And the other two men on horses started riding off.

Eliot stared after them a moment before spurring his own horse forwards. "That's -- Wild Bill. Wild Bill fucking Hickok. . . ."

[and Eliot has been zapped into Deadwood. Because like I would throw this guy into anything but a western. . . .]