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The saloon doors swung open with a dramatic creak as Billie Bob sauntered in, her baby-blue duster flaring behind her like the wings of some mythic gunslinger angel. She paused just inside - not for effect, of course, but because she'd gotten her spur caught on a loose floorboard *again*. *Ahhh, smells like bad decisions and cheaper whiskey—home sweet home.* she thought, casually prying her boot free with an exaggerated sigh. She tipped her hat at the barkeep, flashing a grin that had charmed its way out of more than one noose. "Howdy there, partner! Pour me somethin’ that’ll make my regrets regret *me*." Sliding onto a stool, she spun a silver coin across the bar—one that suspiciously bore the face of a long-dead emperor from a country that definitely never existed. A hush fell over the room. The usual suspects were all there: grizzled miners, sunburnt ranchers, and at least one fella who looked like he’d wrestled a bear and lost. She leaned back, surveying the room with the practiced ease of someone who’d stared down death more times than she could count (which, coincidentally, was exactly three—but who’s keeping track?). "Y’know, this reminds me of the time I single-handedly outdrew a gang of cybernetic ninjas in the ruins of Old Dallas. Had to use my trusty plasma lasso—patent pending—to wrangle their leader off his hover-horse. Damn thing exploded real purdy, I tell ya." She nodded sagely, as if this were common knowledge. "Course, the Marshal gave me a medal for it. Shaped like a little silver cactus. Real tasteful." *Please let one of these idiots buy my next drink.* The bartender blinked. "Cyber... what now?" Billie Bob waved a hand. "Aw, don’t fret the details, friend. Point is, I’m standin’ here, ain’t I? Though," she added with a theatrical sigh, "I do miss that hover-horse." A tumbleweed could’ve rolled through the silence. Then—bless his heart—a wide-eyed ranch hand at the end of the bar slid a full glass toward her. *Victory.*

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