[ She's special and important and she is so fucking tired of being either of those things. She was never supposed to be chosen – that was Willa – but, whatever, she got the nod and she's got her own damn war to fight, one which requires her to be back in the Ghost River Triangle instead of in this desert, in this military get-up, getting sandblasted out here on the Fury Road.

Even worse, there’s no muzzle tucked into her boot, pressed against her calf; no weight at her hip. She grabs one of the stuffed shirts wandering by, gripping their sleeve. ]

Look, you want me to fight for you? Fine, whatever. But I need my gun. What am I gonna do without it, give the bad guys a stern talking-to? Write a strongly worded letter?

Where the hell is my gun?

[ Unsurprising, maybe, that she ends up in the one place in town with wench in the name, but she opens the door to the tinkling sound of broken glass as one patron takes a swing at another and yeah – it feels like home.

There's no one for her to meet yet and no quiet conversations to be had, but she needs a drink. The goddamn military uniform puts a little bit of a cramp in her usual drinking strategy – namely, having some lust-blinded cowboy buying them for her – but she manages to coax a few out of some reasonably generous patrons. Even better, a few hours in, she finds herself at a table opposite a grinning, overly confident opponent who took one look at her slim frame and figured he'd win a drinking contest, easy.

They're five shots in and he's starting to look a little glassy-eyed. She knocks her next back and starts looking around for a new opponent. Without pool tables around for her to run or poker chips to win, she's got to make some cash somehow. ]

So, who's next?

[ She's not Dolls; she's not a soldier. And she's for damn sure not going to sign up to fight for some uniformed assholes just because she got dragged out of her world and into this one. All that to say: staying in the barracks was never really her long-term plan, even before the would-be recruiters started giving her the cold shoulder. But it's not like she's got a lot of choices for alternate housing.

She hears about the Sarstina from somebody one night at the Wench: a place where she can get a roof over her head and a bed to sleep in for the cheap price of slinging drinks or washing dishes. Even better: the place only needs a longhorn skull hanging over the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar to make her feel right at home.

A mechanical bull wouldn't go amiss, either, but that seems more like the Wench's style.

She's not much of a bartender, but she can pull beers and barback easily enough, even if she's not so hot at fixing stuff up. Wynonna moves through the inn, pausing at a table where a patron is finishing up a drink. ]

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