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[shootsharp]

MASK OR MENACE, HEROPA; floating in a most peculiar way.

[ The mood of the street changes when it begins to rain with a cheerful summery patter that is nevertheless relentless enough to cause a stir. Umbrellas bloom and raise. Footsteps quicken, and the open-sky mall clears of people as they change their trajectory for cover.

Except for Teddy Flood.

It's been some minutes. Water gathers between the crevices of the bricked ground he stands on, boots fixed in place, and rain strikes off the wide brim of his hat, finding a path to run and coming down at a intermittent trickle down his back. The flare of his jacket only barely protects where his conspicuous revolver hangs at his hip, because he's making no effort to do so. He's making no effort at all, still as a statue. Not even breathing.

His blue eyes seem both blank and focused on some mysterious point in the air, raised up, roughly towards where the city skyline looms up into the patchwork clouds above. He is midstep, one hand raised, his expression relaxed into inscrutable.

Some pause to take in the sight of him, as if judging whether or not this is some kind of street performance. Someone's shoved a five dollar note into his breast pocket. Others snap pictures.

Teddy doesn't notice, watching the sky. ]

MASK OR MENACE, NETWORK; the stars look very different today.

excuse me i seem to have fallen
off the beaten trail you wouldn't
happen to know which direction
lies sweetwater would you

MASK OR MENACE, HEROPA; planet earth is blue and there's nothing i can do.

[ Metal-shod hooves click and plod on wooden planks as Teddy slowly steers his horse across the boardwalk. He cuts a distinct figure amongst the beach-going Floridians, boots dusty, hat unironic, good form in his saddle and an openly carried gun at his hip. The novelty drags some glances his way, and he tips a nod to those nearer without too much in the way of conviction.

Because he is distracted.

A subtle redistribution of his weight in the saddle is enough to stop his horse from his slow meander to a halt as Teddy looks out over glittering blue ocean. After a moment, he swings his way out of his saddle, touching down with the subtle thump of boots on plank, the jingle-jangle of horse tack. Keeping leather reins wrapped over his knuckles, he moves closer to where wooden railing bars off the drop onto the yellow sand that stretches off into the frothy waves. ]

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[shootsharp]

[ Maeve doesn't need magic words to summon Teddy back to life -- her voice is just enough, and he draws breath as if he hadn't ever stopped. But magic words give him a sense of continuity and purpose, pupils dilating, shrinking, finding focus. He sees a familiar face, and not for the first time in his life, or what counts as one, he decides to be chivalrous.

Or at least look the part.

His hand goes out to take her elbow, not roughly. ]

Here, [ he urges, his voice low between them both. He scans a look out at the onlookers, and gives the nearest huddle his shoulder, turning away and inserting himself between them and the madam. ] Best we move on, ma'am. Let's get you someplace warm.

[ He means safe, a sensible dose of distrust simmered in his voice. ]

[maevelous]

[ Maeve is pleased to know that it still works here. Wherever here is. She falls into step alongside Teddy, the sway and swagger of her hips so ingrained that she doesn't even notice she's doing it. With Teddy leading the way, Maeve's eyes veer around the streets with a hint of suspicion. Whatever is going on here is almost too much to process -- too much for words. She's not sure what to make of it.

As a car floats by, she can only stare after it in amazement. How much of this is Teddy taking in? How much is he processing? ]

Seems like we're both a long way from Sweetwater. What do you make of this all?

[ Maeve regards him with curiosity. ]

[shootsharp]

[ He finds himself looking for what's not there. The saloon that Ms Millay presides over would be, of course, ideal, but it's like she says -- they're a long way from Sweetwater. He can at least lead them under cover and out of the rain, and their reflections ghost by them as Teddy scans windowed store fronts.

How much is he taking in and how much he is processing is hard to gauge. Sky blue eyes have the same glassy quality of mirrors, more reflection than insight. ]

Well, [ he says, hesitant in assessment, thoughtful. ] I been a stranger plenty of times, in more towns than I could name. Bound to be one that's a stranger to me.

How did you come by this place?

[maevelous]

Through the porter.

[ The same as you, Maeve wants to say. But she has a suspicion that none of this will make any sense to him. Teddy is still living in a dream. Will this world help him to wake up? Or will Maeve have to help him with the task? ]

There were men. They gave me a folder. Called it my file. And then sent me on my way. I feel as though I am speaking nonsense. And yet I can see it all with such clarity. What is it you see?

[shootsharp]

[ As a host of Westworld, Maeve should be able to see it -- the familiar blankness that mention of the porter inspires while still maintaining the ruse of interest. But maybe there, when she mentions nonsense, there's a twinge of something, a struggle. Teddy's chin tucks in, the shadow of his hat falling over his face.

Concrete pavement passes under their feet. When he looks up, a young woman dressed strangely -- blue in her hair, earphones leaking music -- pushes past them both, and Teddy's gaze snags on her. ]

A place I ain't supposed to be, [ he says, a little like it took him some effort to reach that much of s conclusion, and with a glance her way, he adds, ] and I reckon that applies to you as well, if I may say so.

[ His foot steps are dogged without being fast, smoothly knifing his way through the bustle of the street as if most people around him are simply moving objects to be avoided. ]

I expect I encountered those same men, though I don't recall much of what was said. It didn't sound like anything to me.