Chapter Text

Chapter 1. Crash in Time

220, 240…

“'¿Quién es? ¿Quién es?'” were his last words before he got shot by Sheriff Pat Garrett!” Jackie exclaimed, mimicking a gunshot noise with her mouth, "Kaboom."

“That is not what a gunshot sounds like,” you snickered.

300, 310. You counted the last bill, $330. That is how much that ugly necklace got you— not even enough to pay your rent. Family heirloom, my ass; your deadbeat father left you nothing of real value.

“Were you even listening to the whole story?! Isn’t that a tragic end?” Jackie looked at you with wide eyes, unable to believe you weren’t enthralled by the tale of a long-gone criminal. Honestly, you would have preferred it if she talked about the Kardashians or some other celebrity modern gossip. Always been a wild-west freak, so much so she's dragging you to a Wild West festival, costumes and all. Jackie in a stereotypical Wild West cowboy outfit—jeans, a white button shirt, a top hat, and a pink vest—while you sported a classic white button and a long pink skirt, matching Jackie’s vest for that cute couple look.

“Eyes on the road, please,” you nagged, gently holding her cheek to steer her attention back to driving. “He was a criminal, anyway. What ending could have been more fitting? Dying at the hands of a sheriff is better than succumbing to some disease. Billy the Kid dying of tuberculosis would be much lamer.”

“I don’t know; I honestly would rather him die of old age. He was our age when he died, barely lived.”

“Murderer sympathizer much? I swore he killed people.” You tucked the dollar bills in your wallet, hoping the festival entrance fee was not much more than $20.

“Just a product of his time and circumstances. Though I guess you can’t defend murder.”

“Oh, you definitely can, like how I’m going to defend myself in court after murdering you for forcing me to spend my precious Saturday going to some lame festival.” You joked, causing Jackie to push you slightly against the passenger car door.

“Hey! It’s going to be fun; I swear. It’s in Silver City, that’s where Billy lived for a while too.” You made a mouth-moving, mocking hand motion. Jackie glared at you, “I might just kill you.” You smiled and looked out at the side window, observing the orange view of New Mexico’s desert passing by. “I already wanted to kill you when you sold that beautiful necklace. If you had waited until my next paycheck, I would have bought it from you. That pawn dealer low-balled you.”

“Rent duty calls.” You shrugged. Beautiful wouldn’t be a word you would use to describe that crusty necklace—vines made of silver connected in a circular formation, leaving the center empty, as though something precious had once been nestled there but had fallen off. It felt incomplete and empty, and staring at it would make you feel that way too. Unsure if those feelings came from the necklace or were inherited from your alcoholic father. You wished he left a month's worth of rent instead. You kept that thing for too long anyway, good riddance, to both the necklace and your dad.

"Hey,” you turn to her, redirecting your attention, as she peered through the side window, curious about something that had captured her interest. A man on horseback, donned in attire mirroring your own. Standing on top of the hill, head following the car you are in.

“Must be a fellow festival-goer.” you speculated, squinting at the tall figure in the blue button-up, sporting the same style of hat as Jackie, and carrying a long rifle. Wait? A rifle? No guns were allowed at the festival, real or prop.

“What? What are you seeing?”

Your gaze reluctantly tore away from the peculiar sight to the main road, only to spot a truck hurtling directly towards you. The collision was imminent. Fast. Forceful. “Jac-“You began to scream, but it was too late.. Jackie’s old car stood no chance, careening into the New Mexico desert. Windows shattered, sending fragments of glass airborne— one grazing your cheek, leaving a thin line perilously close to your eye. Another inch, and it would have struck your right eye. Airbags deployed, and time seemed to move in slow motion. Bracing for the impending impact between your face and the airbags, you closed your eyes, but nothing followed.

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Voices. Horses? You opened your eyes, finding yourself on the desert ground, facing a wild-west-like town. A large sign adorned the arch-like entrance, proclaiming 'Silver City.' That was where you both were headed. You had made it to the festival, but what happened? Where’s Jackie? You scanned the surroundings beyond the town, only to be met with sand and dirt. No Jackie or her car is to be found. Was that car crash a dream? You winced as a stinging sensation that came from your cheek, instinctively prompting you to touch it with your fingers. Blood. Maybe it wasn’t a dream, but what exactly happened?

You pulled out your phone, no service, great. You stood up and swept the sand off your skirt, perhaps Jackie went inside the festival without you, unlike her but you were not sure where else to start besides entering the festival.

As you entered the town, the collective gaze of the locals bore into you, their enthusiasm for the Wild West Festival respectable. Every person you passed was meticulously dressed in attire reminiscent of a bygone era, wide-brimmed hats, fringed jackets, and worn leather boots that you would see in a high-school history book. As you walked through the dusty streets, people halted their activities, casting curious glances in your direction.  Insecurity swept over you, prompting a self-conscious hug of your arm. Was your outfit out of place? Once you find Jackie, you’re going to beat the crap out of her.

The structures that lined the dusty streets of Silver City bore an unmistakable resemblance to the Wild West era. The saloon, with its weathered wooden façade, proudly displayed swinging double doors that creaked on rusty hinges as patrons entered and exited. Next door stood the general store, its weather-beaten wooden planks hinting at years of sun and wind exposure. A wooden sidewalk led to the entrance, where a scattering of barrels showcased goods ranging from sacks of flour to spools of thread. Impressive budget for a small festival.

You stumbled upon a wooden structure, more like an open wooden frame than a traditional building. A weathered sign hung above the entrance, proclaiming it as the "Kathleen Eating House." Figuring it was a good spot to grab a drink and wait for Jackie, perhaps even find some Wi-Fi, you decided to venture inside.

Upon entering, immediate regret washed over you. The place was relatively small, with six other patrons scattered about, and the only presence resembling staff was a single waitress who appeared to be running the entire establishment. The woman, with brown hair, was frantically juggling orders, shuttling food to tables, and seemingly managing everything from cooking to dishwashing, she looked young, yet also old, as her eye circles drooped.

It was evident she was operating at maximum physical capacity. As you turned to exit, contemplating finding a less chaotic place, her voice reached out to you. “Good afternoon! Please sit anywhere, I’ll be with you in a moment.” She offered a weary smile before immersing herself back into the whirlwind of tasks. You reciprocated with an awkward smile and opted for a seat in the far corner, casting occasional glances at the bustling street outside. Hoping to spot Jackie and seize an excuse to leave.

As you continue to watch the crowd pass by you notice a tall man briskly approaching the establishment, clad in a blue collared shirt and brown suspenders, hat atop his head, and a revolver at his waist. Squinting for a better view, he seems familiar.

As he walked in, the waitress stopped with her busy tasks, “Hello love, how was your day?” She kissed him on the cheek, and as quick as the kiss was, she got back to her work much quicker.

“Been okay, Ma.” He smiled. “How can I help you?”

"Ah, can you take that girl’s order for me?” the woman gestured in your direction. The man, presumably her son, turned to you, making eye contact. In an attempt not to seem like an eavesdropper, your eyes quickly averted, feeling the sting of hot embarrassment in your ears.

He started walking up to your table, but you remained focused on the crowd outside, pretending not to notice him approaching in the corner of your eyes.

“What can I get you, ma'am?” he spoke out. You turned to look up at him, deliberately widening your eyes a little, attempting to convey surprise as if it was the first time you had noticed him.

“Oh, hello!” you squeaked, inwardly cringing at the slightly higher pitch of your voice. “Um, how much is a coffee?” you asked, hoping he did not catch the awkward tone.

“10 cents,” he replied, and you looked up at him. His gaze was strong, making it difficult to maintain eye contact, especially since he was undeniably cute—slim face, high nose, pink lips, and strong eyebrows. You need to ask for his number.

“Haha, late 1800s prices, huh? Man, I wish. Inflation is killing me,” you attempted a joke, your eyes darting across his face while avoiding direct eye contact, especially with those piercing blue eyes that seemed to be studying you.

The man looked at you puzzled, one eyebrow raised, not quite grasping your attempt at humor. God, you felt like a creepy old man attempting to pick up a waitress with their unfunny jokes. Usually, your game was better than this, this wasn’t a good start.

You awkwardly grinned, “Uh, how much is it actually?”

“10 cents.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He replied.

“That’s cheap!”

“Really?”

“Yes.” You replied.

You both stared at each other puzzled with each other, fuck this was awkward.

“Are you new to town?” He broke the silence, eyes studying your face.

New to town? You pondered if he meant the festival or the role. Either way, you decided to play along.

“Yes,” you replied, “never been here before.”

“Makes sense,” he nodded, giving a reassuring smile. Your heart skipped a beat. You found him cute, but he was much cuter when you saw his smile. Once you find Jackie, you promise yourself you will kiss her on the lips for convincing you to attend this festival causing you to meet this stunning man. “A coffee then?”

“Yes, please,” a giggle escaped before you could stop it, and you had to forcefully stifle more from bubbling up as you imagined telling Jackie about your meeting with this handsome man.

“Got it, I’ll make it for you,” he smiled and nodded before turning back to the open kitchen.

As he began prepping the drink, your mind raced, contemplating what to say upon his return and how to smoothly transition into asking for his number.

As your thoughts drifted through various scenarios, a conversation piqued your interest, drawing your attention to two men talking conveniently within earshot. An older man engaged in discussion with a middle-aged companion, both appearing visibly stressed.

“Did you hear? Matthew’s cows got stolen again,” the older man sighed.

“I heard he’s furious, hiring more cowboys to guard them. Honestly, if they stay away from my cows, they can steal Matthew’s for all they want. He has more money than all of us anyways.” The younger man replied.

"After increasing his security, do you think those bandits will risk going after him again? Who do you think they are going to go after next? Matthew can afford to lose three or four, but us? That would mean starving this winter."

"Our country is going to the shit hole, what’s the point of paying taxes when our government can’t even protect our property? Practice that aim, old man, you can only protect your cows yourself."

"It’s you who needs to practice. I have years of experience, bastard.” The old man playfully hit the younger one on the back of his head, eliciting a giggle from you. Cow theft? It was fascinating to witness participants of all age groups fully immersed in the role-playing experience and even making their own storylines. Perhaps you could make one for yourself—maybe a showgirl? Maybe not; you have no musical talents. Maybe an outlaw. That would be exciting—on the run from the law, the best gun-slinging bandit of the 1800s.

“Here you go ma’am,” you were surprised as the handsome man came back and gently placed the cup of black coffee on your table. “Eavesdropping?” He asked, hands on hips as he stared at the two men outside.

“Big cow theft problem in this town?” you laughed, wondering if the handsome man had made up a backstory for himself and what it would be. With the revolver by his hip, may be a sheriff who helps his mom’s restaurant on the side. Or maybe an undercover outlaw, on the run. You could be the Bonnie to his Clyde, running around causing mischief, until the end when your life of crime catches up to you both and you die as you have lived, in the middle of a heist, together. You just met this man, and you're already thinking of being a ride-or-die; you fall hard.

“Big everything problem here, like everywhere in the west.” The man wiped his nose with his thumb and gave another one of his dazzling smiles. “You’re not any trouble, right? Lord knows we have enough.”

You feel your ears getting hot, “depending on what you consider as being ‘trouble.’” You fluttered your eyelashes, time to act. “Do you like trouble?”

“People here usually don’t,” he replied still with his mischievous smile, as he placed his hand on the table and leaned towards your face. “I do though.”

“Then I’m definitely trouble,” you giggled as you playfully slapped his cheek away. “What’s your name handsome?”

He let out a small laugh and straightened himself up, “Henry Antrim, but everyone calls me Billy.”

“Oh, like the kid?” You joked.

Billy tilted his head to the side, confused about your joke, though keeping his smile on. “What kid?”

“Billy the kid,” you replied, seeing Billy's face still having no clue what you were talking about. No way someone at a Wild West festival doesn’t know who Billy the Kid is. “The outlaw?”

“There’s a kid outlaw?” He asked, he must be messing with you. You didn't find it funny; his acting is so good you questioned if you were stupid or crazy.

“Never mind,” you decided to move on from the topic; you have lost all interest in role-playing. “So Billy, can I have your number?” You try to continue with your plan to get his phone number, but Billy just looks at you perplexed, and after five seconds of silence that seems to last forever, you speak again. “Just drop the act for a minute. I don’t want to have to only be able to contact you through pigeons and letters.” You take out your phone and hand it to him. He takes a step back with his hands up in the air like you pointed a gun at him.

“What do you want?” He asked, seeming truly afraid. You look around, and all the patrons are looking at you now. The waitress had her hand on her mouth, visibly shaking.

“Please don’t hurt him,” she cried out.

“What?!” You reacted; everyone was freaking you out now. Do they have a strict no-breaking-role rule? “I want your number! It’s a phone, see?” Your voice shakes, scared at how fast the mood has turned sour. You tapped on the screen showing your wallpaper, a funny picture of a cat with its tongue out, to Billy. You hope he believes that the cat has no ill intent.

Billy relaxes and hesitantly takes a step closer, and then another. He takes the phone from your hand, examining it with an intricate twist, turn, and flip as if he had never encountered a phone before. His acting was remarkably convincing.

“What… what is this? A telephone?” He held it with one finger like it was something repulsive.

You snatched it back and slid it into your skirt pocket, “it’s an iPhone,” you raised your eyebrow. The impeccable acting and commitment to staying in character from everyone around you was causing your stomach to fill with dread.

His mouth formed an 'ah' shape, “an iPhone? Telephone? Amazing!” He gasped. The crowd laughed after seeing that Billy had calmed down and seeing there was no real threat.

“From this angle, I thought you were pointing a gun, sweetheart,” the waitress laughed and resumed with her tasks. The whole restaurant resumed like normal, but you couldn’t. You wanted to find Jackie now. Doesn’t even matter if you didn’t get his number.

“I’ve seen a telephone once from a well-off man I met, but it didn't look like yours. Who made it?” he asked, wide eyes and interested, but you don’t think it’s because he’s interested in getting your phone number.

“Steve Jobs,” you replied, feeling unnerved. Cute or not, maybe knowing one Wild-West freak was enough.

“Where can I find this ‘Steve Jobs?’” He asked, full of curiosity, eyes brightening up like he had never seen your outdated by at least three models iPhone, which was nothing technologically impressive.

It’s time to stop, you’ve had enough of this festival and decided not to entertain his roleplay anymore. You took out a dollar bill and placed it on the table, “I have to go.” As you ran out, leaving your untouched coffee on the table, his voice calling out for you to stop from behind.

You ran, not sure where to go, “Jackie?!” you screamed out, gaining more attention from everyone, but at this point, you didn’t care if you seemed weird. You just wanted to find your friend and leave. Strange faces, weird costumes, unknown locations, you just wanted to see someone or even something slightly familiar.

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“Fuck,” you turned into a dead end, facing the brick wall, the sound of the crowd’s muffled noises behind you. Unsure if it’s due to being in a less busy area or if it's because the sun is setting after wandering around town aimlessly like a mad person for hours. Your feet ached, your hair was messy, and your face and hands were covered in dirt and sand from the wind. You felt tears coming to your eyes, and wiped them away; you never really cried. Not even when your dad died – that man taught you that crying was meaningless anyway.

Crying wouldn’t help you find Jackie, crying wouldn’t find a signal on your phone, crying wouldn’t bring you home. But damn, you can’t stop; you haven’t been this scared in a long time. As the tears began dripping down, leaving wet stains on the sand beneath you, you looked up at the sky, trying to stop the tears by defying gravity. As you looked up at the orange skies, you tried to spot any airplanes or anything that could give you a sense of familiarity, something that proved to you that you were still in the 21st century.

While wandering around town, observing adults gossiping instead of working in a 9-5 office, horses munching on grass instead of cars at gas stations, and children playing with fake guns made of sticks instead of on their iPads, an impossible idea struck you. Maybe this wasn’t a festival; perhaps you were somehow transported into the actual Wild West. Impossible. But what else could explain this?

You wiped the remainder of your tears away, as well as any traces of that prosperous time-traveling idea. The festival was full of fully dedicated and good-acting Wild West enthusiasts, from young to old. You needed to leave and get your head straight; you were turning crazy by being around them. You just had to walk out and head straight to the freeway, look for a car, maybe hitchhike home, or borrow a phone to call someone to pick you up. Yes, that’s all you need to do. You were filled with sudden motivation until it hit you, and you looked at the sky again – the sun was almost gone. Should you, a lone young girl, be wandering the desert alone, looking for some random car to pick you up?

Before you could think of a plan to find a place to stay the night the sound of a footstep behind you caught you off guard. You quickly turn around to be met by two older men, one skinny with a pitiful attempt at a mustache, and another chubby man with a too messy and full beard that he should have shared with his partner. The realization of your predicament dawned on you: alone in a dimly lit alley, with two dubious-looking characters. Though you intended to ask their intentions, before a single syllable escaped, the larger man lunged at you.

“Mmfh-“You let out as the man pushed you against the brick wall, hands covering your mouth. The impact stung your back; fortunately, the wall bore the brunt first, sparing you from a potential concussion. If this was part of some ongoing roleplay, this had undeniably crossed the line. You are going to sue their asses once you are out of here,

“Why would a pretty girl like you be hanging around here?” The big man asked, his hot breath hitting your face, disgusting. You wondered about the answer to that question yourself; Jackie is never convincing you to go anywhere with her again. His hand grabs your waist, which causes you to scream from shock but only a muffled noise comes out. He pushes harder against your lip, causing you to wince from pain as your head gets more compressed against the brick wall. “Keep quiet now, I don’t want to hurt your pretty face.” He laughs, then sneers at his partner, “You’re just going to stand there? See if the bitch has any money.” Are they robbing you? What sort of role-playing scenario was this, you didn’t even consent?!

The skinny man hurriedly approached you, fumbling to reach into the pockets of your skirt, when an unexpected voice stopped him in his movement.

“Let her go,” you glanced over, a man stood, face hidden by the shadow, till he took a step closer, his handsome face bathed in moonlight, revealing to you…Billy! An involuntary shudder ran down your spine; it was oddly cringe-worthy as if lifted from a movie script.

“And why should I,” the big man released his grip, causing you to slump to the floor. He swaggered towards Billy, inflating his chest to appear more menacing. “It’s two against one!” he scoffed.

“Because,” Billy glanced at you, you might have imagined it, but it seemed his eyes wavered on you for a second. In a lightning-fast motion, he drew his gun from his hip, leveling it at the burly man—a move so swift it caught you off guard. “This one man,” Billy declared, “has a gun.”