The short stroll from the tracks had proven to be less than Missy had hoped for. Having never actually stopped in the dustier regions between her home in Georgia and her destinations in the West, seeing the ramshackle buildings and curious, grubby people had worked like a thorn under the vest. Pricking her somewhere around the middle and chest, nagging with its unashamed reality and working to undo the buoyancy she usually felt when exploring new regions. Especially those as untamed as Onyx Landing.<br/><br/>She grinned despite this as bootheels thunked hollow on the baseboards of a storefront. Trailing her nail tips against the thin panes of glass, she’d peer in. Finding nothing but the dusty leavings of whomever had given up on the town a bit too early. Unaware that their very own salvation had arrived just that morning in fine leather and belching black smoke Eastward. Pieces of her vanity that demanded a touch more attention than even the small parade of grubby people she'd lead from the station could provide.<br/><br/>Their loss, she’d tell herself, flicking at the residue from where she’d touched decay.<br/><br/>A group of schoolchildren skipped by her; hands linked to that in front and all singing off-key a tune she thought she’d heard before. They eyed her, their small faces lighting up at only a glimpse of the woman. Some dropping their part of the song to turn over shoulder and gawk, tripping as the formation was lead on by a disinterested looking teacher. She waved, beamed a smile, and continued on toward the sound of voices.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">~​</div><br/>She'd find the Dusky Belle and the dilapidated building adjacent the source of most of the town's activity that morning. Moving at the sort of pace that suggested she'd find whatever it was she was searching for right where she'd expected it -and not a second too late- the blonde skirted around the commotion. Curious eyes darting from the place where a few men worked at a rather large piece or equipment she didn't recognize, to the more notable sort. Those missing limbs and vivacious command of voice making the strongest case that Onyx Landing attracted all types.<br/><br/>She figured there was a story there, in the folded section of sleeve where nothing resided. And made a note to inquire about it. Only offering the<i>Newspaper Man</i>the most formal of greetings and remembering lessons imparted from a paranoid if not ruthless father. If she was like any of them -and logic dictated she was- she'd want more than what fit neatly between a handshake and an exchange of names.<br/><br/>The who, what, where and why of it all.<br/><br/>And where did that leave Missy? To expose the entire truth?<br/><br/>That would be absurd.<br/><br/>They'd catch her eyes only briefly as she tipped her hat back and slipped into the cooler interior of the saloon. An empty piano; tucked against the wall and a few wary-eyed patrons greeted her. Some commotion from around the bend of a corner told her that she'd clipped the breakfast rush. Wearing indifference as well as leather finery, she'd hop neatly onto a stool and tuck the point of her chin in open palms, legs kicking from where they very nearly reached the floor. Thus far the Wild West that she'd heard so much about had proven to be relatively tame save for a few good humored shouts and the struggle of man against machine from across the way.<br/><br/>She'd started to daydream, humming what she could remember of the schoolchildren's tune when two women emerged from places unseen. Missy, forgetting herself, straightened and very nearly gasped at the tall woman. "My goodness, look at all of you!" Tactlessly, she'd lean far to one side of the stool to examine the woman's feet. "Tell me, are those lifts? I'd considered those -give me a few inches, make me more intimidating, you see- but could never keep my balance the way I like."<br/><br/>"Oh," she huffed, "where<i>are </i>my manners? Missy Huntington, charmed."