Summary: Mia, being pursued by enemies, hides in a remote dive bar, where she finds help from an unexpected place. Not canon, and inspired/crossover by a certain cowboy video game.

red dead

Micah's Bar stood in the middle of nowhere, on the edge of a long empty road boarded by fields of grass and corn on either side. The long, low building was the single tallest structure in a twenty mile radius. Its parking lot was simply dirt, first come first serve. A Wednesday night, it appeared largely empty, with only a few trucks and motorcycles around. Bikers and world-weary travelers.

No one who would be able to help me.

The sun was beginning to set, a cool breeze rustling through endless fields of stalks. I ducked inside, trying not to look out of breath. Trying not to look like I'd come running from the nearest town and the carnage I'd left in my wake.

I had nothing on me except a backpack and some change. I just needed a payphone. Maybe bribe someone to let me use their cell or something. Anything, just so I could make contact.

Soft country music played from some unseen speakers, tinny and a little scratchy. The place smelled of stale beer, fries and peanut oil, and some type of bodily fluid I didn't want to think about. An old CRT television sat on a high shelf displayed a baseball game in progress. The bell jingled above the door when I entered, automatically turning heads in an otherwise lethargic setting. I counted less than ten people total, none of whom caught my eye and most of whom went back to whatever they were doing after giving me a quick look-see.

The bartender squinted at me, but I didn't approach. I'd spotted the phone booth almost immediately, and made a beeline. The bartender kept watching the door — maybe thinking I hadn't come alone, just gone in ahead of someone of legal drinking age and guardianship.

But no one did and I wasn't here to explain myself. I didn't have to show ID if I wasn't drinking. I picked up the phone first to check for tone, before putting in some quarters. I punched in the number I'd only been given less than twenty-four hours ago. Hopefully, it still worked.

On the other end, the phone rang and rang. I glanced over my shoulder, back to that same door. There was a side exit, but that's not what I was worried about right now. No cars pulled up outside. No one appeared to make my day worse.

In my ear, the voice message automation played, and I cursed under my breath. I waited for the beep, before muttering into the receiver. "Safe for now. Some dive bar in South Dakota, not sure where exactly. I'll make it to the rendezvous in twenty-four hours."

And then i hung up. No point in trying twice, especially if Dad's phone was already burned. Couldn't give anymore information than that. We'd already agreed on the meeting point, the length of time either of us should wait. There would be other places to meet afterwards, but the goal was always the same — keep going. Keep moving. Don't stop for anything. The safehouse in Montana awaited. I hoped I'd be able to find it on my own, if I had to.

Setting the phone back on the cradle, I looked around, wondering what I should do. My stomach grumbled at the scent of wonderfully greasy food, and my ribs still ached from the last fight. It wouldn't hurt to catch my breath. And there was a chance Dad might call back. A payphone could still receive calls, right? I wanted to wait, just to be absolutely sure.

Looking around, I tried to take stock of my surroundings. The bar was… well, a dive. Half the lights didn't work and the ones that did flickered every minute or so. A fly buzzed over an abandoned mug of beer. Straw stuck to the bottom of my boots as I decided on none of the crumb-covered tables and chose a bar seat, perpindicular to the main doorway. I rested my back against the wall behind me, backpack hugged to my stomach; the bartender gave me a look and I made a half-hearted order for some water. I was too anxious to feel thirsty, though my mouth was dry and I hadn't had a drink since this morning.

"You alright there?" a voice asked, and my gaze snapped to the man sitting closest to me, at the corner of the bar. He appeared to be a man in his late thirties or early forties, slight crows' feet around his eyes, dusty brown hair that matched his beard, hair long and beard short. A rough leather jacket showed years of wear and dust, possibly indicating his tenure as a motorcycle guy. But I saw no helmet, just an old scuffed up cowboy hat sitting on the bar next to his elbow.

I just stared at him. When I failed to respond, he took a sip of his beer. "Lookin' a little tense, is all. Sittin' like a squirrel on a cactus."

Though he didn't appear that old, his voice had a low, grumbling quality, his weathered eyes sharp, as if he'd seen more than most men his age.

"I'm fine," was all I managed to mumble, as the bartender slid a dirty glass of clean water towards me. I took it gratefully and downed it one go. The man across from me watched in silence, one eyebrow slowly rising. "Just waiting for someone."

That wasn't necessarily true. I had to keep moving. Dad wouldn't find me here, unless I missed the rendezvous, and if that came to pass, then I might not be here, either. It was a long lonely road, and a lot of flat land. Miles and miles of fields. Even if I stayed off main roadways, I'd still be easy to spot. One tall beanstalk girl in the middle of endless wheatgrass. Nowhere to hide.

"Here?" The man took a look around the bar, then back at me with an expression of supreme skepticism. I didn't have to ask to know how it looked to him. "No offense, miss, but I don't think this is the place for you."

"This is the only place in fifty miles that has a working phone," I pointed out to him, because we were, in fact, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. "I won't be here long anyways."

"Who's coming for you?"

So many ways to answer that question. It could be the men hunting us down. It could be the government. Could be my own family, wondering where the hell I was right now, worried out of my mind. Instead, I gave only the relevant answer. "My dad."

"Uh-huh," The man took another sip of his beer. "And how long you'll think he'll be?"

I bit my lip, throat drying again. I wanted more water. "I don't know."

"I see," The man nodded, looking down at the bar. He appeared to have no phone, not even a wristwatch. "Well, nothing settles the nerves - and passes the time - like a good meal. You can never go wrong with the burger and fries here, though I'm a personal fan of the bear stew."

"Bear stew?"I repeated, turning in my seat to look at the menu written on the chalkboard behind the bar. "Like, real bear?"

"Heh, no," The man snorted into his drink. "It's possom."

I threw him a look, then sat back down. Guess he had a point, eating couldn't hurt. Especially if it took Dad a few hours to reach me. Thankfully this place was open all night long. I warred with myself a little bit, not wanting to part with the limited cash I had, but after catching a whiff of boiling peanut oil from the swinging kitchen door, I realized I really needed those calories. Something delicious on my tongue.

The order was made and I tried to convince myself this wasn't a mistake. It was okay to take a break. To pause, catch my breath, eat something. Maybe even go to the bathroom, although I wasn't sure if the state of one here would make using the outdoors any less desirable. But I got my burger and I could eat in greasy, greasy peace.

The entire time, the man seemed to be watching me. Minding his business, nursing that beer, but I could feel his eyes. Anticipated the question minutes before he finally spoke up again.

"Now, miss, if you don't mind me asking," the man said, clearing his throat. "How did you get here? You didn't come in with a car."

"Oh," I glanced out over his shoulder, to one of the dirty windows. Indeed, it was obvious that none of the vehicles here were new, and the place was quiet enough that I supposed he would've noticed a new engine. "I took a bus."

"Right," The man furrowed his brow. "The bus. THe one that stops ten miles from here? Way back in town? That bus?"

I glanced away. "Yeah."

"You tellin' me you walked here?" The man didn't try to hide his skepticism, leaning back with raised eyebrows and a whistle. "Now I don't mean to cause no offense, but if your daddy made you come out all the way here to pick you up, he don't come out like a champion in my book. Is he a local?"

I shook my head. "We're, uh, we're roadtripping."

"Apart?" Again, the man seemed completely disbelieving.

I just shrugged my shoulders. Why did I have to explain myself to a random stranger? But as much as I had aroused suspicion, it seemed I had also brought up concern. Or something like it. The man looked at me for a long moment, measuring, thinking. Maybe he sensed the deception. Maybe he detected something more going on. I wasn't exactly a convincing liar. But was he going to call me out on it?

At length, he finally nodded. A pause. Then: "What's your name?"

"Mia."

"And how old are you, Mia?"

"Twenty."

"Sure you are," The man shook his head, a wry smirk.

I cut him a look, irritated. "How old are you?"

The man blinks at me, then busts out in laughter. "Oh, older than I look, that's for sure."

"Fifty?"

"Close," The man shook his head and took a swig of beer. "But no cigar. The name's Arthur, though. Arthur Morgan. In case you want to give your Daddy a name when you impart my compliments unto him."

"What makes you think I'll do that?"

"I dunno. Figured someone oughta at some point. Ain't a good man dragging their kid around like he's doing to you. I wouldn't put my own son through this."

That caught something in me. "How old's your son?"

"Hmm," Arthur swirled his beer glass a moment, studying me. "Few years younger than you, I think. Good kid. With his mom."

"Close to here?"

"Not really."

"You see him much?"

"Not as often as I should've."

An awkward response, I didn't know how to keep going, and it seemed Arthur didn't want to keep talking. Thankfully, it ends a conversation I didn't really want to have, and gives me a chance to finish my burger. Arthur only had his one drink, which I thought he would've finished by now. Finished and leave me alone. But I didn't know how bars work. Why people might linger over a single drink, watching it slowly drain away to the bottom of the glass.

I checked my watch, tried to estimate how long it would take me to cross those next thirty miles on foot. If I ran, I could make it just fine, but I was exhausted, even with this boost from my meal. I also wanted to wait until dark, where a tall figure in the grass would be less obvious to the naked eye.

It was still daylight outside, though getting darker. Maybe another hour or so until I could safely leave.

Just had to make it through that hour.

It seemed enough time for Arthur to finish his beer, finally, setting it down with an empty clink and pulling a few wrinkled dollars from his pocket. On the counter they looked so weathered, green aged into yellow, like they were a hundred years old. I wondered if that made them worth more or less than the number on the bill.

He got up with a shake, muttering about using the john. He shuffles off, and from him I heard the rattle of what sounded like spurs on his boots.

While he was gone, the windows rattled with the approach of another vehicle. Several vehicles. Glancing out, they immediately stood apart from the others in the lot — huge and black and shiny, absolutely out of place next to old junkers and motorcycles. I recognized it immediately, before anyone had even stepped out. By the time the front door chimed with their entrance, I was already hauling myself into the back, down the small hallway towards the bathrooms.

The bar wasn't crowded enough for me to hide among them. The mercenaries would spot me immediately. In my rush I banged into Arthur coming out of the men's bathroom, who made a noise of complaint. I barely had the chance to utter an apology before I was ducking into the woman's bathroom, trying to keep my cool.

I was dismayed to find there was no window for me to escape from. Shit.

How the hell was I going to get out now? There was no back exit, either, not that I saw. Maybe through the kitchen, but I'd have to pass back into the main room again to access those doors. Could I risk it? At this point, my only other option was to smash through the walls, or try my luck with the men's bathroom.

The woman's bathroom was dark and dank, but not too disgusting. Just dimly lit and smelling faintly of old perfume and rank water. When I heard footsteps coming, I bolted into the furthest stall and hopped onto the toilet, feet off the floor.

It was as I expected. Someone peeking into the bathrooms. I heard the door open, but not the quick rush of footsteps of a woman needing to use the toilet. But the slow, careful, quiet steps of someone slowly bending down to check beneath the stalls and then, one by one, checking all three doors.

As soon as they were done with the second stall, I moved. Dropped to the floor, rolled under the divider, and popped back up onto the second toilet, backpack and all, silent as the grave — just as they opened the third stall.

I heard a sound, a hiss of breath, both annoyance and possibly relief. They found nothing, saw nothing. The stall door in front of me was open and unlocked, but had swung closed again, hiding me for the brief second on their way out of the bathroom.

Then they paused. I saw them, her, the twitch of her ponytail, right as she turned her head.

And spotted me between the gap in the door.

I was faster.

The door wasn't supposed to open outward, but it did when I kicked it hard enough. It rocked backwards, snapped right off its hinges and smashed right into the woman's face. She recoiled with a shout, recovered just fast enough as I threw myself out the stall.

Standing between me and my exit, the woman was already pulling out a weapon. I didn't hesitate. We were close quarters — Don't bring a gun to a fist fight. The handgun wasn't even fully out of its holster before I was grabbing the barrel and smashing myself into her at the same time.

It fired in my hand, the slide burning across my palm; The gunshot rang in my ears, echoing off the tiled floor and tiny space. But the bullet went harmlessly into the floor.

My hand hurt, but it didn't hurt as much as the sink hurt her. The porcelain smashed into her back and broke. Water burst across the floor.

Her other fist came up to strike me across the face, once, twice, three times, before my temple finally slammed into the mirror. It shattered, glass piercing my skin in a blaze so sharp I almost went blind in my right eye for a moment. But only for a moment. The adrenaline came in fast and it came in strong.

The woman was shorter than me, but with a stocky build and face like a bulldog, she had the right look for the guys she was running with. Probably ex-military, seen combat and came out with a medal or two; maybe a cop or a fed for a time, but went to the private sector because it paid better. Paid her enough to work for someone like Brock Rumlow.

Enough that I didn't feel so bad about throwing her across the room.

The tiled wall cracked behind her, and I heard the satisfying crack of her head. She slid to the ground, but she wasn't out. The gun still in her hand. She raised it, and I turned my back just in time.

The bullet pinged off the canvas, burning a hole and flattering against the vibranium inside. She pulled the trigger again, but I hadn't stopped moving, closing the last few feet in less than a second. She wasted those bullets by the time my knee met her jaw.

The gun fell from her limp hand and clattered to the floor. I picked it up, but was disappointed to find she'd emptied her magazine on me. Damn. I threw it back down again.

The sounds of our tussle would've surely been heard. No one had rushed in, but it had only been a few moments. I decided not to wait, not to get caught in this rat trap of a bathroom.

Taking a second to steady my nerves, I took a deep breath. And walked out of that bathroom.

It was about as bad as I expected it to be.

No one was waiting for me in that little hallway. But the place wasn't empty. I rushed out and skidded to a stop at the sight of some new patrons — eight men and women of the tough and grizzled variety, all wearing non-descript black, short hair, combat boots, long jackets to hide weapons, sitting at tables or at the bar — all waiting. All looking at me.

Outside, I heard engines rumbling. They hadn't even turned off their engines. I also noticed that everyone else in the bar had completely vanished; their cars, too. Every civilian had smelled trouble and got the fuck outta there.

Probably for the best.

I stared at them. They stared at me.

They must have heard it, the fight in the bathroom. No way they didn't. But they hadn't come to their friend's aid. Didn't say or ask or go check to see if she was still alive.

That was the line of work Rumlow ran, apparently. Not that I was particularly surprised.

For a split second, no one moved. And since they were all sitting, I thought I had the advantage. I couldn't get to the front door in time, but the kitchen door was just to my right.

I ducked towards it, just as Rumlow's little army got to their feet. But just as I reached out to push the swinging doors, they swung outwards — and out stepped the one face I recognized. Fisher.

He had a nasty grin on his face, to match the nasty cut on his cheek that I'd given him, last time we met. I tried to back up but was too slow, practically skidding into him. Fisher caught me by the shoulders and lifted me off my feet. Threw me, and I crashed into one of the tables. It collapsed beneath me, splintered under the impact.

It knocked the breath from me, and I still couldn't quite believe that Fisher was completely human. He couldn't be, could he? He had to be enhanced somehow. But that was not something I could ask right now; nor did I think he was in a sharing mood.

"You shoulda kept running, little rabbit," Fisher sneered, taking slow measured steps towards me. At six foot seven, he was one of the largest men I'd ever seen, super soldier or otherwise. "You shoulda known we would've caught up eventually."

Panting, I scrambled to my feet — Fisher had thrown me away from the front entrance, towards the corner of the bar. All of these guys, surrounding me. I didn't think I had enough time to pull out my shield from my backpack. I only had enough time to pull the knife from my boot, a sight that had Fisher laughing.

"Oh, baby," he shook his head. "You know better than to bring a knife to a gunfight."

My throat dried to sandpaper, but nevertheless, I raised my knife, chest level, other hand closed to a fist. Fisher might not be fully human, but the rest of them undoubtedly were.

"What do you say, boys and girls," Fisher asked to the group at large, holding out his hands. "Should we go easy on her, take turns? No? I didn't think s—"

"Pardon," a tap on the shoulder, someone interrupted Fisher from behind. "Mind holdin' this for me?"

"What?" Fisher, taken aback, turned around, his hands automatically closing in to touch the hat placed against his chest. Looking down in complete bafflement, never seeing the punch that followed.

In a single blow, Arthur sent the larger man sprawling to the ground. The other mercenaries turned in shock. Even I had lowered my blade, completely taken aback, staring at him.

"Apologies for interrupting," Arthur said to the room, brushing off the front of his shirt. "But it seems this young lady doesn't have a chaperone. And that just won't do."

And with that, pandemonium reigned.

Fisher rose up with a roar, and like a war cry, it galvanized his men out of their shock, and into attacking. Arthur, in nothing more than his old leather jacket and, apparently, a lasso(?!) on his hip, met the challengers head-on. One straight up tackled him to the ground, and then the others were on me.

I didn't have time to worry about Arthur, not when a man was lunging for me. I saw the extending baton just before it struck, raising my empty arm to block and diving under with my right. My blade slashed against his chest, eliciting a shout of pain, before he threw a fist, a knee, another swing of the baton.

As I was absorbing the blows, he was quickly joined by two others, and before I knew it, my back was against the wall. Quite literally cornered.

One grabbed my right arm, the other grabbed my left, and the baton wielder was about to strike me across the face before I lifted my feet and slammed them into his chest, sending him flying backwards. The one to my left withdrew his own blade as the one on my right tried to pry my own blade from my hand.

They were, however, only human. And weighed very little. Maybe two hundred, three hundred pounds at the most? Only their own feet dragging against the ground prevented me from smashing them together as hard as I could.

They drop hard, like two sacks of potatoes, and I extricate myself from the corner just in time to watch Arthur breaking a pool cue across the back of another man, firing a revolver in the face of another. He had a gun? How did I miss that?

I should've run. Instead, I threw myself back into the fray. For whatever reason, Arthur came back for me, and I wasn't going to leave him behind in this mess.

A woman tried to bum rush Arthur from behind but I intercepted, grabbing her and throwing her into the pool table. Rotting wood and velvet cracked in half beneath her.

My knife went in her chest, and she didn't get back up.

"So," Arthur whirled around and fired another shot over my shoulder; the bullet struck a man behind the counter, just as he was pulling up with a shotgun; he fell back, and took out a shelf of liquor with him. "I don't suppose these fellers have anything to do with your daddy and this roadtrip of yours, huh?"

"You could say that," I grunted, throwing my knife at one man who'd run for the front doors; the blade sank into his back and he went down. I leapt over the broken pool table to retrieve it. "They're hired men."

"Not paid for their wits, I suppose," Arthur said, allowing two to crash into each other when he dodged, catching one across the face with the butt of his pistol.

Their numbers were already dwindling fast. Out of the nine, only one or two remained — including Fisher, who had taken cover behind the bar and had picked up the fallen shotgun. A fact I was not made aware of until the deer head behind me blew to smithereens.

The both of us hit the floor as Fisher yelled, "You should've stayed out of this, old man!"

"One ugly sonuvabitch, ain't he?" Arthur hunkered down behind a fallen jukebox, while I ducked behind a wooden support column. "Did you leave that mark on his face?" At my nod, he just cracked a smile, "An improvement, in my opinion."

In response, Fisher fired another shot and took out a chunk of the jukebox, sending glass and splinters flying. Looking around, I tried to think of a way to get to him. We couldn't make a break for either exit without exposing ourselves, and the entire bar was in range of that shotgun, enough that I wasn't sure even my shield could absorb the total breath of the blast. But I had no way to strike Fisher from here, no firearms. And Arthur only had his pistol. "I don't suppose you have armor piercing bullets, do you?"

"Do I look like an armory to you?" Arthur asked, wincing as another blast ate away another few inches of his cover. "Don't suppose you have any tricks in that bag of yours."

"Maybe one." I could throw my shield, of course. But that would also expose me, and I wasn't sure if it could even do real damage. Enough damage. I peeked beyond my cover, just long enough to get a view of the bar, and snapping back just as Fisher fired another shot. "And a really stupid idea."

"Stupid ideas are better than none right now. What have you got?"

Glancing around, I spotted a fallen bottle of liquor, not yet broken. It must have rolled from the bar, and miraculously missed any damage. "Can you distract him for a moment?"

Arthur gave me a skeptical look, but nodded, firing at the bar and ducking down again. In the time it took for Fisher to shoot back, I reached out from my cover, grabbed the bottle, and retreated back to safety again. Splinters exploded somewhere above my head. Close.

"You got a lighter on you?" I asked, as I quickly tore off a length of fabric from my already beat-up shirt. Arthur fumbled in his pockets, before sliding an ancient zippo lighter across the floor towards my feet. "Damn, how old is this thing?"

"Mind your business," Arthur grumbled, wincing as the jukebox took another blow. "I hope your plan is gonna be quick, because I don't think I have much time left."

"I got it, i got it," I spoke quickly, uncorking the bottle and stuffing my shirt in it, a knot to make sure it stayed. Lighter in hand, I made a face and asked, "One more distraction?"

Arthur looked at me, up and down, seeming to understand what I was about to do. Heaved a long sigh. "To hell with it."

With a shout, he popped out from the opposite end of the jukebox, calling out a rather colorful sequence of insults that instantly drew Fisher's attention. A series of gunshots ensued.

Without hesitating, I lit the cloth and rolled out of my cover, throwing that bottle as hard as I could. Fisher, shotgun planted on top of the counter, snapped his head around. Watched, in growing amusement, as my little cocktail missed by a mile over his head.

That smile quickly vanished when he realized what my real target was.

Above him remained the still very full, very lush collection of various alcohols and liquors. The Molotov cocktail, a beloved classic, smashed open across the top shelf, and rained fiery wet hell in a cascading, growing fireball, down across the bar, more bottles exploding on the way down.

The heat was surprisingly immense, a sudden flash that I could feel even from my position, watching in a mix of awe and horror as it all rained down upon Fisher, who let out one shriek before he was enveloped.

The fire caught quickly, spreading behind the bar and across it. The fire alarm went off, but there were no sprinklers — it was time to go.

Arthur heaved himself up, kicking through the debris to grab his hat and dust it off. Slipping it back on his head, he turned, giving a low whistle at the growing blaze. "Well, I gotta hand it to you, Miss Mia — that's one hell of a stupid idea."

"Thanks," I mumbled, before darting for the door. Finally, at last, I was outside. Free. The sky was officially dark now, and I was sure I could still make the rendezvous.

But as I passed the running trucks, left their by their unwise owners, I realized their windows were down. And they had an active radio transmission.

"Fisher — Fisher, respond! Sending back-up to your location —" a voice crackled from the headset on the dash. I was tempted to reach in and smash it, but what was the point? It was already too late.

"That don't sound too good," Arthur said, following me outside, frowning at the cars. "How many more of them are there?"

"Too many," I replied, all my hope drying up once more. "They'll probably be here soon."

"Well, we sure won't be." Arthur brushed right past me, towards the one remaining motorcycle in the lot. Like so much about him, it appeared old, a vintage machine still bright around the edges. Strangely, to me at least, the machine was painted an off-white color, with streaks of blue. Arthur saddled himself and then jerked his chin to the space behind him. "Hop on."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm sorry, I was under the impression you wanted to leave."

How could I say no? He was my only ticket out of here at this point, unless I wanted to hoof it on my own. "Can you get me to the pier out by Eagle Point? There's a boat there, I need to get on it before it leaves."

"The river, huh?" Arthur looked out west, then nodded. "Sure, I know the place. That's where you're meeting your old man?"

"Sort of," We'd meet past it, crossing the wide river where hopefully our trace would be lost. But of course, I wouldn't know until I got there. "But that's where I have to go."

"Then we better not waste anymore time."

I expected Arthur to whip out a helmet, but he didn't. I jumped on behind him, feeling weird about having to hold on, and letting go of that weirdness as soon as he kicked the bike into gear and gunned onto the road at frightening speed. If my arms were squeezing around his chest too hard, the man didn't complain.

The single headlamp lit the way, and somehow Arthur Morgan's hat never flew off despite the strong winds that whipped my own hair back and forth. The endless fields were even more indistinguishable in the dark. My fingers started to grow numb from the wind, but after the fight, it was cooling against my open wounds. A crescent moon shone down over the plains, a faint guiding light into the deepening darkness.

The trip was entirely silent aside from the rumbling of the motorcycle beneath us, the tires on the road. Not that many words could be spoken over the whistling wind. But it gave me time to clear my head. To think of the next step in the plan. To wonder why a single man would go so out of his way for some strange girl he didn't know.

The pier was utterly deserted when we arrived. Just the barge lit up at the end of the long stretch of dock, some cars already lined up on its top level. Nothing but the sound of water, and wind over the long fields of grass. Isolated. Alone.

"Well, here we are," Arthur grunted as he got off the bike, its springs squeaking with the load off. "Last stop. You sure you're gonna be alright?"

"Yes." I said, without hesitation. I'd always manage, some way or another. I glanced at the boat, then at him. "I don't suppose you'd want to come. I got you into this mess, after all."

"Hm," Arthur scratched his beard, making a face. "Tempting offer. But I do believe I make my own messes just fine, thank you."

"What about your family?" I asked, worried. If Rumlow caught wind of some Good Samaritan stepping in to help us, I didn't doubt that he'd go the extra mile to make them suffer. "The people that are after me? They'd go after you, too. Your family."

"They won't," Arthur replied, his tone short, quiet. "My family is dead."

"I — oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was a long time ago," Arthur only shook his head, taking his hat off as he leaned against a support beam on the pier. "Like I said, I'm an old man. I've seen my fair share of trouble. The kind you're in ain't something I haven't seen before."

I found that hard to believe, but in the end, what did I know? "You didn't have to help me."

"No, I suppose not," Arthur made a face, looking up at the night sky. "But I've lived a long life, and it probably would've gone a lot different if someone had done for me what I tried to do for you. I made a lot of bad decisions in my life. A lot of regrets. I'm here now because of them. That shouldn't have to happen to you, too. Keep yourself on the straight and narrow."

"Or what?" I asked, tilting my head, unsure. "End up like you? You don't seem so bad."

"Don't I?" Arthur chuckled, but it had no humor. "Maybe I'm not anymore. Maybe not as much as I was. But if you had known me then, I don't think you would've liked me much."

"You've already seen what I can do. What could you have done that's worse than that?"

"Oh, plenty, rest assured," Arthur Morgan replied, a kind of smile that said more than his words. "The Devil works hard, Mia. And he doesn't like to disappoint. Don't forget that."

I was about to open my mouth, but a light in the distance caught my eye. We both turned to look as a pair of headlights appeared on the road, coming closer, heading straight for the pier. Normally, not a cause for alarm. But then it was two headlights. Three. Four. All in close formation. ALl clearly belonging to the same big, ugly vehicles as Fisher's men.

"They're here," I said, stomach dropping. I was already moving towards the barge; the clock indicated it wouldn't be leaving for another ten minutes, and I wasn't sure if the incoming emergency could convince them to leave sooner. "C'mon, we gotta go!"

"You go on now," Arthur said, with a jerk of his head, getting up from his spot, but not following.

I skidded to a stop, turning. "What? You can't stay! They'll kill you!"

"I'm sure they'll try," Arthur nodded, but seemed unconcerned. Tapped his hat against his chest as the trucks came closer and closer. "You mind doing me a favor, Mia?"

"If it's not hauling your motorcycle onto the barge, then I don't wanna —" I started, but was interrupted when he pushed his hat into my hands.

"Hang onto this for me," Arthur said, and his eyes met mine. I was surprised by how blue they were. How old. How tired. "It's gotta lot of meaning, and I'd hate to lose it against those fellers."

"I — okay," I said, my voice small, unable to come up with an argument.

"Okay?" Arthur raised his brow, waiting for any backtalk. When there was none, he nodded. "Alright now. Go on, get."

"And Mia, one more thing," He called after me, and I paused at the gate, turning around to look at him. Arthur Morgan stood at the front of the pier, lasso in one hand, revolver in the other. He was looking at me over his shoulder, and his eyes appeared to glow in the darkness. "I hope your old man is proud of you. I know I would be."

I blinked, and smiled.

The screeching of tires on asphalt hit me like nails on a chalkboard, and all it took was a look from Arthur before I ran. There were no guards posted at the entrance of the barge, and I was easily able to hop the turnstiles and leap onto the boat itself.

I turned, heart pounding at the sight of Arthur standing there alone, as a line of trucks came to a stop in front of him. Just one man and his gun. It looked so much worse from here, the odds against him. "Arthur!"

"Oh, don't you worry about me now," He called back, as his skin started to burn away. And I watched, in dawning awe and horror, as fire sparked from his collar, his face disappearing in a sudden blaze — leaving behind only a burning skull, its sockets blazing. His hands turned to bone; his revolver to burning steel, and his lasso a rope of living fire.

"It's like I said, the Devil works hard. But I work harder." And with that, he turned away, and approached the unloading trucks.

I never got to see the faces of Rumlow's men when they first saw that skeletal specter that was one Arthur Morgan. I didn't see their shock, their terror — but I did hear their screams, as the barge shifted beneath my feet, and began drifting away along the river.

Watched as the pier grew further and further away. Watched as it lit up in flames and sulfur, lashing arcs of fire and a strange cackling on the wind.

Further, further still, until there was nothing but a small glow on the horizon. Arthur Morgan's hat still clutched to my chest.

Maybe someday, he'll come back for it.

Author's Note: So, obviously, not canon *but it might have been*. I had this little short story idea way back when Mia's runaway stint would go cross-country instead of cross-Atlantic. I'm also a big fan of the Red Dead Redemption series so uhhh yeah this was very self-indulgent and definitely not just me wondering what Arthur Morgan would be in the marvel universe.