ikissdhimbck | OOM: Mineral City, 1888 -- That's why I hang my hat... -- for Rachel

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OOM: Mineral City, 1888 -- That's why I hang my hat... -- for Rachel

Kate doesn't try to draw attention to herself, but it's kind of hard to sneak through the bar leading a 15-hand pony. Beaut's not fond of hardwood, truth be told, but convenient doors to Texas aren't always to be found from the forest outside.

"Come along, sugar. Not far now an' there'll be dirt under your hooves again."

Beaut issues a dubious snort, sidestepping when a waitrat ventures a little too close. Kate swings around to steady her, arm brushing a piece of yellowed paper she's got tucked into her britches. She knocks it loose, and it flutters to the floor behind her.

"He ain't botherin' you. C'mon."

She moves a little faster. The quicker she gets Beaut outside, the better. Opening her door, she grins as Beaut's ears twitch forward in recognition, and lets her mosey out first.

"No, no. By all means, let me hold the door for you."

The two disappear.

But the yellowed map remains.

As does the door.

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Ask and ye shall receive.

It seems one of the cowpoke's two friends has decided to try his luck. Whether it's him sticking up for his pal or just his blind ego with the pretty young girl that has him reaching for her elbow, who's to know?

"I see y'had some words with my friend, li'l lady. Why don't you an' I — "

Rachel's jaw is tight within the first few words, realizing he's talking to her, calling her 'little lady.' "Listen, John Wayne-"

And then he actually puts a hand on her.

A year ago, her only choice of response would have been snap or morph. But that was before she met and started training with X.

It occurs to Rachel that Kate's going to be annoyed with her. Perhaps unfortunately, it occurs to her only after she's ripped his hand off her arm, slammed it on top of the bar, and held it there, fingers tight around his wrist.

"Do not. Touch me."

"Wh– Hey!"

His other arm crosses over, instinctively making a grab for her wrist.

The perfect opening for her free hand to snap forward, space between her thumb and forefinger slamming into his throat.

Do not touch me.

By this time there's an awful ruckus. The man's pals clamor to his side, shouting and hollering. Folk are looking at Rachel like she's just grown two heads.

Kate follows the sounds of chairs and boots shuffling over hardwood, stunned long enough by what she sees to allow the man she'd come to talk to an opening of his own. She tries to get up, and he snatches at her arm.

"The hell is this?"

"Does it look like I know?" she snaps, eager to get to Rachel.

Meanwhile, the fella in Rachel's grasp gurgles and grunts, perplexed by the predicament he finds himself in. It ain't right to strike a girl, but desperation is winning out. She can't be that strong, can she? So he yanks at her arm.

She's not unnaturally strong but she is a teenage girl who spends most of her time working out by herself, with gymnastics, with warriors.

He gets her arm off his throat and Rachel steps back, leans away, lets him go and reaches for her glass of root beer again, casual as you please.

"God Almighty!" croaks the man, wheeling back into his comrades.

They all stumble and stare, the man coughing, the others not sure just what in God's name they're supposed to do. Kind of like the bartender, whose hands are under the bar where that old Winchester lies, but he ain't sure where to go from here.

"I think you gals are a li'l too big for your britches, thinkin' you can come in here like 'at."

The good Mr. Black gives Kate a shake.

She glowers.

"Let go'a me."

"Or what?"

He's distracting her. She can't see Rachel, doesn't know what's happening behind her, and after their chat he just ain't all that important anymore. So she shows him what.

She socks him in the nose.

"I think you best git outta here!" says one of the cowpokes, sticking his finger in Rachel's face.

The bartender's hands drop under the bar in a move Rachel's seen many times before. Her eyes follow him, sharp, fingers curling tight around her glass of root beer.

There's a sharp sound and ruckus off to the side. Her eyes dart in that direction in time to see a man go down under Kate's fist.

Then there's a finger in front of her nose.

Well, then.

Rachel's eyes narrow as she turns, abandoning her mug to grab the wrist in front of her face and twist it hard around his back, wrenching the joint. Her other hand knocks off the cowpokes' hat so she can grab his hair - and introduce his forehead to the top of the bar.

After that first dull thud and the crack that follows, all hell breaks loose. Chairs topple, boots scrape in sawdust —

The other two men at Kate's table draw on her, which is fair enough seeing as how she's already drawn on them, a gun in each hand.

"You boys might wanna rethink this."

In the pause that follows, the sounds of the other men at the bar rushing in on Rachel can be heard. They holler and grunt, trying to get behind her so they can pin her arms to her sides.

Kate makes a mistake.

She checks to make sure she's okay.

In that split second, there's a whine, and she turns back just in time to see the chair that careens straight into her.

Kate went down.

Kate went down.

Kate went down.

Yup.

That means shit can follow.

Rachel goes down under the sudden huddle of men, grown men, rushing at her, grabbing hands and thrown elbows. She goes down, crouches even as a fist grabs her hair and a boot catches her thigh, grits her teeth at the knee in her ribs, and feels the barstool she's holding squeak in protest when she tightens her grip.

She barely feels the change, not anymore, not these days, not this shape.

But those men sure do notice when the girl they're beating on suddenly sprouts brown fur and claws that rip straight through that bar stool.

She slips her grip to the barrels as soon as she realizes she's not staying upright, knuckles white against steel. She can fall on her rear, even on her head, but she can not lose her guns.

The wind's knocked out of her. For a second or two she sees stars. Someone reaches under her armpits, but before he can haul her up she swings the butt of her gun around and catches him in the jaw.

She can hear the commotion by the bar, and staggers to her feet. Rachel needs help —

Oh. Or maybe she's doing just fine.

"What in hellblazes is that thing?"

She calmly holsters her Colt, and throws her body into a right hook that catches Thomas Black square in the chin.

She stands over his crumpled body.

"That thing is a lady, sir, an' my friend. You best mind your manners."

Rachel doesn't have to do much after that, really. The shape alone, once they realize what she is, is enough to get everyone to back up.

It helps that she decides to inform the bar of what she is but throwing herself up, rearing up onto her back legs, seven feet tall and little furry ears brushing the ceiling. If a few cowboys get thrown on her way up there, no bother.

And just in case anyone missed the memo, she follows it with a roar.

Yep.

That looks familiar.

A startled cowpoke at a nearby table, just as white as spit in a cotton field, draws his gun on the bear. Kate grabs the upturned chair at her feet, and throws it at him.

"No you don't!"

The man hits the floor, and Kate kicks his gun away. Others are pressing in, fists flying and knees knocking. Dumb, angry, and scared is a bad combination.

"Rachel! Y'might wanna think 'bout wrappin' it up!"

She could mean a number of things by that, but given the face she just sent into a wall she likely won't complain if Rachel takes a minute to scare the bejeezus out of the boys quivering at her ankles.

Oh, cool. Permission!

Rachel looks around, blinking with her near-sighted bear eyes, and reaches out to grab the first man to come close to her.

That it's Finger-In-My-Face himself, she really doesn't feel too bad about what comes next.

<Hey, Clint Eastwood. You like bowling?>

Whatever his answer is, he probably wasn't thinking she'd turn him into the ball. But his friends still go down like great pins.

<Strike!>

"WaaAAaAUUUaUUUUUGGH!"

Menfolk are raining everywhere.

In about a hundred years, this would make a great song.

"Sweet Jesus! Mr. Bear, please! I–I've got a family!"

That the man now speaking is the same fella who put his hands on Rachel makes the proclamation all the more unsavory.

It also makes him a damn good target.

Rachel lunges, claws catching in the front of his shirt, dragging him forward. Men scatter and leap out of the way, the bartender abandons his gun in favor of hiding under the whiskey bottles. The man with the family is pulled right up off his feet, into the air until he's face to face with Mr. Bear.

<A man with a family,> Rachel growls - out loud and in his mind both, <who hits on teenagers in a bar. Seems like I'd be doing them a favor, taking you out like trash.>

"H–h–how are you — ?"

He covers his ears, as if trying to keep the Devil from sliding in.

"Witchcraft! Demon!"

Someone catches Kate by the elbow, twisting her arm behind her. Gritting her teeth, she growls —

"You fellas jus' don't know how t'talk to a lady!"

— and flips the peckerwood the way X showed her how.

Witchcraft. Demon. Not too far off the mark, really.

A bear's shoulders aren't really made to shrug. Rachel bares her teeth instead. <Close enough.>

Kate's making some noise over on her end. Maybe she doesn't really need the help but Rachel imagines she won't mind if Creepy & Unsavory knocks over a few of her attackers.

<Am I allowed to knock this place down or is it to me to run?"

She hauls herself to her feet, a little unsteady, turning quick to throw a punch —

Only there's nobody there anymore.

She notices the huddle of men groaning on the floor.

"Thanks," she breathes, nodding at Rachel. "I'll give y'thirty seconds. If y'wanna take out a beam or two, be my guest."

She smiles, quick and sharp, and starts moving among the bodies with — is that a spring in her step?

Could be.

<...really?>

The bear sounds surprised - and more than a little pleased about it.

<Cool. Out in a sec.>

First she has to flush the bartender out. Silly man had tried to pick up a rifle earlier and come on, that's just insulting.

Mineral City isn't hurting for tourism. Kate's sure they'll fix it up in no time.

Bears are wild animals, after all. There's no controlling what they do.

When Rachel looms into view, the tender hollers and quavers, waving his hands in front of him.

"D–don't come any closer!"

He glances at that rifle, and foolishly makes a dive for it.

<Oh wow, you are just precious.>

Rachel informs him of this as her paw swipes down to cleave the barrel of the rifle in two.

<Seriously. Adorable. You really thought that was going to stop me? I'm a bear.>

He yelps, dropping the weapon. A puff of sawdust rises three inches off the floor.

"P–please! I mean you no harm! I'm just tryin' to run a business!"

<Word of advice? Run a business with a few more manners next time.>

The bear leans over the bar, bares her teeth and growls low.

<In case I'm being unclear, what I'm trying to say is: Get out while you still have time.>

The keep needs no formal invitation. There's only a second of terrified quaking before he realizes he's been given a real chance and scrabbles to his feet, flying for the door just as fast as his legs will bear him.

Kate's just finishing her sweep.

"Hurry up, Rachel!"

No doubt some of the escapees are hunting for reinforcements, and Kate would rather skedaddle before they all get back. She nods — go for it — and hurries for the door.

Grinning all the way.

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