She doesn't actively seek out these kinds of places, but sometimes, it really is easy to forget logic and believe she's back home. Small bits of straw sticking under locals' heels, horse stalls next to the entrance; she couldn't imagine what her past self would've thought of this, of another planet's way of life matching her own, even given the obvious differences. The most resemblance she can handle is a bar though, just like tonight — with an unlabeled local brew in a deep brown bottle in her hand, the glass cold against her mechanical palm, her mind's occupied, wishing to believe the beer would actually, just once in Lan's blessing miracle get her a bit drunk.

Stuck between praying to no one and thinking of her next moves, her eyes land on a nearby figure for the last time. They've been leaning over the jukebox, a clearly new tech object standing out in its rustic surroundings, with their backside bent, taking their sweet time of over five system minutes looking over the damn thing. The country music station hums softly from the speakers, mixing with the clink of glasses and low murmur of conversations. With her nerves as is, her confidence doesn't fail her.

Heavy, patient drags of boots saunter up beside you, the cowboy resting her weight on the jukebox with a near-empty bottle. The scent of machine oil and leather fills the air around her. There's no smile on her face, but there is a small ego in her tone as she nods toward the jukebox screen. "I reckon Richie Biggs' 'Waltz Across Straw' is a fine choice, 'less ya wanna mess up the atmosphere. The rest o' that there selection is hard rock packed with shirt."