As soon as I played the end of the campaign in RDR, in the midst of my tears, I had a nagging thought. I mean, before I entered the cutscene, I had dynamite in my inventory, so why couldn't Marston just chuck it out the window? And thus, this was born. Thanks for reading, review if you are moved to do so. :3 This story will probably only be a twoshot, just an FYI.


There was a lot running through John Marston's mind as he peered through the crack in the barn door. He was surrounded by men with guns, more importantly, men who knew how to use them. Every heartbeat and his family was getting further away, and he was stuck in a stare down with death.

For some reason he hadn't expected it. Through his travels he'd learned that all men were corrupt , all men had their secrets, yet he didn't expect the agents to try and kill him. He didn't register himself as a member of that gang anymore, hell, he'd bathed his name in the blood of his closest friends to clean that spot away.

Yet here he was, staring through a crack in the door on the land that was his own. In the barn he built. Surrounded by the tools he'd saved everything to buy. He would be killed on his own land. The thought made him grimace.

"Come on out Marston. We know you're in there." The voice was too city-like to be from any of the militiamen. It was one of the agents. He'd forgotten his name, but he often forgot names of those he did not care about. The voice sounded more bored than intimidating, but Marston did not move. He simply sighed, a silent sigh, but a sigh nonetheless. He was helpless, but he didn't feel it. Perhaps it was because in the past few years he'd felt helpless quite a lot. Or maybe it was the presence of death. Maybe this was the feeling old folk got as they took their last breath. It was a calmness that was almost disturbing, numbness to what was happening.

Then, his eyes came upon a smooth reddish cylinder and his heart lurched back into motion. A shape he'd come to associate with imminent destruction. He grunted, stepping from the door and quickly snatching up the dynamite. It was smooth and perfect in his rough palms, undoubtedly a creation made by God himself. He almost couldn't believe it. Why would a stick of dynamite be in the barn, the most flammable piece of his property? He chuckled, thinking it must have been Jack. The boy loved experimenting with all of his old weapons, a chip off the ol' block. He imagined his only son reading one of his stories about a brave man blowing up a train or sending the enemies flying. Jack was probably examining the stick yesterday, when he'd called him to go hunting. In order to keep it hidden, he probably dumped it in the barn. Or maybe God giftwrapped it and placed it there, either story was possible.

He pulled a match from his cigarette box, an unusual place for one, but he'd dropped the rest of them in his scramble for shelter. A matchbox wasn't the first thing on his mind when the sky was raining bullets. He struck it and the tiny orange glow sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had a chance, a single fighting chance.