These Dreams

Portland

Killian found himself walking down an unfamiliar street in a less-than-ideal part of a city, from the looks of it. He staggered a few paces at first, having just been running from a pack of wolves in his previous incarnation. He'd thrown himself off a cliff to avoid them and when he hit, he was walking here.

Where was here? New York? It was dark but the moon was bright enough that he could still make out the mountain peaks in the distance behind the city skyline. Definitely not New York, then. And not Storybrooke, either.

He glanced down, but got no further clues from his attire. He was wearing a plain hooded sweatshirt over a black tee shirt, and jeans with boots. He reached down, digging in his pocket for the compass and getting a bearing. It took him three blocks over, onto a heavily traveled street, garish with neon lights and the fetid smell of open drains. A scrawny cat hissed at him from an alleyway as he passed, where a drunken man lingered, leaned heavily into the wall.

The compass led him to a building, the entranceway had a line queuing up outside, so he stepped into it, watching as the men slid money through an opening in a window near the door. Someone on the other side stamped their hand and allowed them in. He felt around in his pocket and found a wallet, with money inside. He finally got up to the window.

"How much?' he asked.

The person behind the window glanced out at him. "You a vet?" The man pointed directly at his hook.

"Absolutely." Killian gave him a smile.

The man gave him a nod. "On the house." He picked up his stamper, and Killian dutifully slid his hand through the partition in the glass to get stamped. Then the door buzzed, and he stepped in.

He did such an immediate double-take that he nearly stepped back out. He moved through the dimly lit room to an area under one of the lights so that he could see better, and he pulled out the compass again. There was no mistaking it. Emma was here somewhere. He turned, planning on scoping the room, but got interrupted by a very scantily clad girl wearing too much make-up and entirely too much perfume.

"Hi!" she said, with an overly bright smile. "Would you like a private dance?"

He raised a brow, and he didn't need a translation for the terminology. No matter what city he landed in, some things were universal.

"No, thank you." He moved to go around her, but she reached out, touching his arm.

"Special rate for that face," she offered.

"I appreciate that, but no," he gave her a forced smile and continued looking over the room. Women in various stages of undress were gyrating from poles and on chairs scattered on the stage, while men - and even a few women - watched from their chairs and tables, tucking money into the girls' undergarments or between their breasts. Killian scanned the dancers on the stage, noting with relief that Emma wasn't among them.

He'd just reached the other side of the room, when he heard raised voices down at the end of a nearby hallway. He paused a moment, listening as best he could over the loud, pulsing music.

"I'm not putting you out there, Emma," the man's voice said, in exasperation. "You ain't ready yet!"

"How am I supposed to make any money just taking drink orders?" she asked. "You said you'd let me dance this week!"

"You're not that good, honey - you need more practice. You got the looks and the body, but you need to look like you're enjoying it more. Nobody wants to see a sourpuss up there. Maybe next week."

"Mickey - "

"You wanna make money? Get back out there! Do some privates! If you're grinding on his lap, he won't even care what your face is doing. Now go!"