i know you.
John isn't one for believing in that kind of thing, but that kind of thing is one for believing in him.
The wind tastes strange, walking up the crest of the hill. John senses the tangible shift, watches it evolve into a small mystery, all on its own. It contains a top hat and a suit that hasn't changed, still as black and as ruffled, since the first time he has seen the man.
"Ain't this a beautiful spot?" the mystery says, never turning around.
"Sure," John pauses, careful. He can be treading in a dangerous spot. "What are you doing here?"
"My accounts," the man takes a step, "I'm an accountant."
"Is that so?"
"In a way."
"What's your name?"
"You know…it's the darnedest thing," he says, finally looking, imploring, to John. "I can't remember."
John scowls. "Tell me your damn name and where I know you from."
"Well, I know you from Mexico," he draws out, "I know you from back out west…well, I know you from all over."
John shifts, his hand hovering close to the semi-automatic held inside his belt, eyes weary, and through clenched teeth he grits out, "Tell me your name, or I won't be responsible for my actions."
"Oh, but you will," the man says, knowingly tilting his head. "You will be responsible."
He starts to walk, hands interlace behind his back, and he takes a deep, satisfying breath through his nostrils. "This is a fine spot." His face is towards the blending line of yellow grass and the whiskey drunk sunset. It is, it seems, his farewell. "See you 'round, cowboy."
The man can feel John's frustration, the complete and utter confusion. John's itching fingers take control and points the gun to his back as he shouts, "Damn you!"
He does not flinch when he speaks. "Yes, many have."
Nor does he flinch when John hesitates the split second before rounding one – two – three bullets into his back. They do not bite into him, they do not ricochet backwards or forwards. The bullets are gone.
The man keeps walking, slowly, one foot in front of the other, down the hill, down from the fine spot and the beautiful view of the pasture. A man can almost see his whole world from the point, if one can find the stranger's footprints in the grass. But John isn't looking for them, and the man knows.
The three bullets manage to echo across the plains, multiplying the affect of the buffaloes stampeding, the sounds of the songbird's wings flapping. There is a possibility where nature, in all its diverse threads and divine outcomes, intertwine into one centerpiece. It is debatable to be described as a decision – it is even more so to call it redemption.
But the sound the man hears, over all of the life and the surrounding rhythms, is John's silence.
an; did this before finishing the game - fits after I finished, too, I guess. /shamelessly plagiarized dialogue.
INTERPRETATION FTW. hope you enjoyed it!~