The Past Is The Present... Which Is The Past

Plisken lay passed out on top of the bar. Various disapproving looks were drawn at the sight of a lady drinking like a lout but Plisken had lived too long to care anymore. That was what was wrong with this era: everyone judged you. This era…
“Sonofabitch,” shouted Plisken as shot awake, his own thoughts an alarm clock in the dead of night. He jumped of the bar and onto the wooden floorboards, his boots making a heavy thump as he did so, rousing the attention of a couple of mice in the corner. He placed a hand on the bar and leaped over it, hiding behind the tall table and out of view of the rest of the room. The heavy latch of the front door creaked open and the door was slowly pushed inward, the cold air of the night blowing in and claiming the warmth of the room. From the dead of night climbed a tall man.
The man was about 6’ tall, dressed in a military greatcoat. He stepped over the threshold of the door, leaves and other natural debris billowing around his ankles. He wore black knee high boots and a pair of dark green trousers. A brown greatcoat was worn over a black waistcoat that was emblazoned with swirling brown patterns. A silver double watch chain hung from a button hole and trailed off into both pockets, a small crest hanging from a third length of chain. From under the cuff of his coat, a glinting metal was seen in place of a normal flesh colour. His face was old, weathered. It placed around the age of 50 but his single eye held more time than many could imagine. They eye was sunken deep into his scared and battered face, a little green emerald glinting from within a pool of shadow. Over his right eye, a pitch black eye patch was secured with a band that rounded his brown haired head. Heavy sideburns flanked his cheeks, stretching down his jaw line. To his hip, a brown leather holster was strapped; an old battered LeMat revolver sparkled in the candle light of the tavern- an impossible weapon.
The man was flanked by a dark skinned figure, a man clad in a blue leather duster. Glowing blue lines darted and wriggled over his body almost like a living tattoo. His wrists were decorated with blue cuffs, the right one carrying a small blade. His hair was a white shock against the black of the night, a small beard trailing from his chin and cornrows decorating his head. A black scarf held back the harsh wind from his neck. A large pistol was drawn and gripped in his right hand, a weapon far in advance of what should have been capable. In his free hand, a small psi scanner projected a bright green light onto its user’s face.
“Wait,” said the dark skinned man, holding out a hand to stop his companion from entering the tavern any further, “Our timelines coalesce here.”
“Of course they do,” sighed the other man, a plume of steam pouring from his mouth, “It would be too easy if they didn’t.”
“Come,” advised the dark skinned man, “It is better to not tempt fate, do not concur?”
The other man grunted and pulled the door closed.
Plisken sighed a sigh of relief -that had been close. But of course, he knew he had/was going to/and did succeed in staying out of the line of sight.
“I need something to calm my nerves,” he muttered to himself. He reached out and helped himself to one of the tankards that had been discarded on the bar. He glanced around to make sure no-one was looking and grabbed a bottle of wine from a rack, inspecting the label only to find there was no label. “Great – more cheap stuff.”
As he roughly poured out the deep red liquid into the dirty tankard, a voice from above spoke, “This is becoming a bit of a habit.” The voice wasn’t cruel but it certainly wasn’t approving.
“Miss. Jones, I thought you’d gone to bed,” replied Plisken as he raised the tankard to his pouty lips.
“I came to give you these,” she said, indicating to the pile of clothes that she carried in her arms.
Plisken glanced down and studied the garments that Cass carried. He pinched the corner of one and lifted it up, the fabric falling away to form a dress. “Fucking hilarious,” snapped Plisken, “This will be the second time in a month.”
“Second?” asked Cass- a cruel smile splitting her face.
“It’s a long and really dumb story,” Plisken said as he tried to suppress him memories of the AR game.
“Well, you’re going to have to wear them.”
Plisken grumbled as he roughly took the clothes off of Cass’ hands, tossing them onto the bar. He sighed and took another gulp of his wine, offering Cass a sip. She refused, shaking her head and raising her hand. Plisken placed the mug back on the bar and folded his arms. “Where am I meant to get changed? I highly doubt it would be appropriate to get changed with either sex.”
“There’s an outhouse in the yard outside…”
“Jesus Mary and Joseph,” muttered Plisken angrily as he took the bottle of wine and the dress out to the yard.
THE NEXT MORNING
A heavy and angry knock broke Plisken from his dream. The small out house felt like a coffin and he most certainly felt like death. His tired and bloodshot eyes scanned the bottle that he still had clutched in his hand. The foul sent of the wine told him that perhaps that hadn’t been the best choice of night time beverage.
The angry knock came again, the door shaking on its hinges.
“Aye, okay,” called Plisken as he fished around under his skirts for his rifle – he’d better hide it from the primitive inhabitants of the time. A loud crack broke the stillness of the air, followed by a bang. The door to the outhouse was ripped from its hinges and tossed aside, early morning sunlight pouring into the small confines of the cubical, Plisken’s post drunk eyes nearly blinded by the harsh rays. A man dressed in a cook’s outfit clutched what little door had been left behind in his hands. His jaw detached and opened wider than it should have been able to, revealing a slick black object within. The cook leaned in, trying to get close to Plisken’s face. But a quick movement resulted in the butt of his rifle striking the assailant, sending her to the ground. Plisken pulled back the bolt of his weapon, savouring the slow and mechanical action. A heavy squeeze shot the semi-plasma bullet out of the barrel, a wave of brain matter showering the garden. There was a shriek from the building and Plisken searched the windows for a target. Katrina was fending off a maid with her bare hands but a tall barman was creeping up behind her. Even in Plisken’s hangover he still managed to score a hit, sending skull and glass fragments down the corridor. Katrina struck the butt of her pistol over the maid’s head and turned to her rescuer. She gave a smile and a nod to Plisken. Plisken returned the gesture with a tip of an imaginary hat. The old man in a woman's body dashed over to the front door to help his friends.