“Not awesome,” Kane groans.

Once again, he’s in a strange location he can’t name, without his fox or explanation or any inkling how he arrived.

He pulls himself upright from the dirt with a grunt, patting down his chest and taking a perfunctory inventory of what he’s been allowed to take with him into this latest edition of bizarro world.

“Oh cool,” he says to himself, pleased. “At least the Powers That Be let me keep my clothes this time. Must have qualified for some kind of good boy upgrade.”

With a groan, he pushes himself to his feet, peering around at the unfamiliar surroundings with an idle rub at his lower back. The Powers That Be could have had the decency to drop him on a softer landing pad then firm red dirt.

As he wanders, he starts to take mental notes of not only what he can see, but what he can’t. There are no people here, fairies or otherwise. The sad excuse for a town is not only ancient, it’s abandoned. Only a handful of tumbleweeds watch his stumble through the dusty streets.

Except there’s something akin to eyes on his back, despite there being no indication of another soul for miles. It’s a parallel sensation to entering the Realm Between Realms, when all eyes glow immediately to his bright saturation, pulled to his vivacity like supernatural magnets.

But Kane can sense no death here. He squints into the sun, sniffing at the air and coming up with nothing but baked earth and the stale-sweet hint of dried vegetation. Maybe a hint of something metallic like sun-warmed metal? And the warm, luxurious undertone of leather.

Not a single whiff of grey. Not anywhere.

His job may not exist in this place. Is a Lieutenant of Death even necessary in a place without death? Is he a Schrodinger's Lieutenant here?

”Maybe a little awesome,” he considers.

Kane makes his way further into the forsaken town, realizing with thrill, that this isn’t just an old historic town. It’s an old historic western town. Complete with wooden porches and lumber mills and hitching posts and hand-painted signs and the complete works.

It’s a bona fide frontier land, a perfect movie set shot in every direction he spins. Kane guffaws, hands in his hair as he stares for a long minute in awe. He should probably be concerned about finding an escape route, needing to get back before long else the Realms fall into even more chaos then they’re currently at, but he also justifies that he’s long overdue for a vacation where he’s not trapped on evil beaches where the love of his life dies in his arms before he’s dosed with rape water.

Surely he can spare a look around.

He mozies into the deserted jail house, wrapping thoughtful knuckles along the iron cell bars and tracing patterns in the dust that’s long gathered on the deputy desks. When he’s filtered through enough old journals and logs to satisfy his curiosity, he ventures up a narrow spiral staircase to the loft above. The rooms are sparse but tidy, in a fastidious dutiful way that suggests this was a sheriff’s quarters.

He fiddles with the antique furnishings - twirling a coat rack before rummaging through a creaky old trunk and then blowing the fine layer of grit off a hanging oil lamp.

A sliver of light catches his eye, making him blink in double time as he ducks out of the pinprick. When he turns towards the source on the bed, his entire face lights with a gasp of joy.

There, laid across the hideous wool bed cloth, is a full set of cowboy duds. Every piece looking like a well-researched replica from a movie set, draped carefully in dressing order by it’s owner. Who apparently never got the opportunity to change.

“Awesome,” Kane breathes.

He picks up the silver belt buckle, turning it at opposing angles to watch the light bounce off it’s polished sheen. The leather belt it’s attached to is old, but well oiled, sliding under the pad of his thumb like butter. The full length duster is in similar condition - well used but well loved. Whoever had set out this outfit obviously favorited it, kept it in good repair for special occasions. This was no mending fences or tending cattle gear. This was the sheriff’s Sunday best and Kane is damn near giddy as he shrugs the vest on over his plaid.

It pulls a tad too tight across the wide breadth of his shoulders, tailored for a man with a bit less brawn and a few less inches, but it’s close enough that he’s bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet as he steps in front of the grubby floor-length mirror.

“Definitely fucking awesome.”

He quickly tugs on the rest of the garb, accessorizing to the brim with gun holster and neckerchief and gold star badge, not believing his luck when the genuine tooled leather boots are only half a size off in fit when he slips them on last. He does a 360 spin, winking roguishly at the reflection that grins back at him.

“I look good,” he admonishes proudly. With a final tug on the coat lapels, Kane snatches up the chocolate colored ten gallon hat from the bed and flips it nimbly onto his head. A final salute to the room and he’s off to explore the rest of town.

The saloon seems a good place to start.



He swaggers through the hinged half doors, taking in the abandoned tables and chairs strewn about in a slow sweep. Whatever this place is, it hasn’t seen a living patron in ages. But there’s sign of a forced exit, no frenzied upheaval of furniture or effects to suggest anybody left in a rush. It’s like a snapshot of time, a world that’s been encased in an untouchable bubble exactly the way it was left.

He freezes, back going ramrod straight and jaw dropping as he spots her near the bar.

“I’m dead,” he realizes, blinking dumbly at the vision before him. “Fuck, I’m actually dead. I’ve finally kicked it and somehow gone to Elysium.”

It’s the only possible explanation for this paradisaical heaven in which he’s been abruptly dropped. The only reason she alone would be his sole companion in this glorious fantasy world, standing in front of an old-time fully stocked saloon bar, looking every inch like she stepped straight out of one of his better wet dreams. He could even be convinced he prefers this look to the not-nearly-nude attire of the cursed island.

She is, in that get up, hands down, the most awesome thing he’s ever seen.

Fully investing in the part, he tugs the brim of his hat down a bit further, and bow-legged-saunters up to her, attempting a suave lopsided grin but failing miserably to hide the boyish delight upturning it far too much to be considered cool.

When he’s close enough to be considered a severe breach of personal space, he leans slowly in to brace his hands against the old patinated bar top, caging her in the span of his arms.

“Howdy, lil’ lady,” Kane drawls, lifting a hand to pet into the dark curls at the base of her ear. She smells like his Tovah, and that’s so incredibly awesome, his heart flutters stupidly against his better judgement. He takes another half step in, crowding her against the bar till she’s forced to lean back to maintain eye contact. “What’s a nice gal like you doin’ in a rough place like this?”