Authors Note: If you are reading this is the rewritten version of Ch.1 I think it makes the story a little more interesting and will allow me to add more of an edge to Jack (No he will not be an edge lord). It may screw up the characterization of Jack in previous chapters but I'm confident I can write my way around that. I hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think about it in the reviews or PM me I'd love to talk about it.
I do not own RWBY and Red Dead Redemption they are owned by Rooster Teeth and Rockstar
Also because I used characters from and heavily referenced Blood Meridian I do not own Blood Meridian it is owned by Cormac McCarthy and his publisher.
Thank you to Wombag for beta-reading the first two chapters.
Jack galloped into the forsaken town of Armadillo, the swirling dust clouding his vision. His faithful companion, Fitz, was the only solace left from a life that could have been filled with tranquility.
It was his father who had aided him in capturing the ebony-coated American Standardbred, a bittersweet reminder of the horse he had lost during his reckless pursuit of a bear.
For two long, grueling years, Jack had donned the mantle of a bounty hunter, desperately trying to keep his family's ranch afloat. But his efforts proved to be in vain, as the merciless grip of the bank tightened around their beloved land.
As Jack ventured into the smoky, dimly illuminated saloon, the heavy stench of whiskey and stale tobacco assaulted his senses. The piano player, half-drunk and disheveled, pounded on the keys, his eyes scanning the room for a vacant spot at the bar. Jack found his refuge and settled onto a stool.
The bartender acknowledged him with a nod. "What'll it be, kid?" he grumbled.
"A whiskey, please. And keep 'em coming," Jack replied, reaching under his duster coat to his vest and setting a coin on the bar. The weight of past tribulations pressed down on him. He had just returned from avenging his family and killing former Government Agent Edgar Ross.
The bartender poured a shot and nodded, his voice filled with understanding. "You look like you've seen your fair share of trouble, son. What brings you to Armadillo?"
Jack downed the fiery liquid, relishing the searing sensation as it coursed down his throat. "Just returned from Mexico. Wrapping up some family business."
The bartender nodded knowingly. "Hmm, must've been quite the affair. Mexico ain't safe these days," he said, wiping the bar and serving other patrons their drinks.
"Rumor has it that both governments are contemplating closing the border on account of the rebels" he continued.
"Yeah, like that's ever stopped anyone," Jack retorted sarcastically.
The bartender chuckled. "Fair point," he muttered, his attention diverted.
Jack finished his drink and caught the bartender's eye once more. "Say, Mr., is there anything else to do in this godforsaken town besides drowning one's sorrows in whiskey?"
The bartender pointed towards a door at the back of the saloon. "We have regular card games back there, kid. Tonight, they're playing blackjack."
Jack navigated through the smoky haze towards the back room, where a group of men huddled around a table, their chips piled high.
The players included a man, Who had many notable facial tattoos, a weathered old cowboy, and Herbert Moon, the notorious and insufferable racist who owned the local general store. Jack couldn't help but wonder why Moon always referred to himself in the third person.
Taking a seat, Jack joined the game. The cards were dealt, and tension hung thick in the air. As Jack studied his hand, he calculated the odds of the other player's hands and the dealer's. After a few successful rounds, he couldn't ignore the murmurs accusing him of cheating.
Irritated, Jack locked eyes with the accuser. "Knowing probability ain't cheating, mister. It ain't my fault you're as dim as a candle and as dull as rusted iron," he said, a smirk playing on his lips.
The man snarled, his gnarled hand inching towards his holster. "I challenge you to a duel, boy. Let's see what your gun hand is made of."
Jack's smirk widened, his confidence in his quick-draw skills unwavering. "Be careful what you wish for, old man."
The crowd spilled out of the saloon, forming a makeshift arena on either side of the street. There was only one way this would end.
The air crackled with tension as the two men locked eyes, waiting for the signal to draw. Jack's fingers were itching near his revolver. He couldn't help but notice the sneer on his opponent's face. This wasn't just about pride or money anymore; it was a battle on a primal level.
A voice from the crowd started counting down from ten, and Jack's mind flooded with conflicting thoughts. He recalled his father's tales of redemption, but also the memories of the outlaws he was raised by. In that suspended moment, with his hand hovering over the gun, a chorus of voices echoed in Jack's head.
Boy, you know as well as I do this Aintn't worth killin' this poor fool over. Jack could've sworn he heard the gruff voice of Arthur Morgan. Arthur's voice continued to ring in Jack's head, Your mamma and daddy didn't raise you like this, I ain't sayin' you don't have a right to stand your ground, but this ain't it.
As the countdown was nearing half over a new voice cut in, one far more sinister. Hello son, I'm proud of you for avenging John as you've done. But this fool is trying to take what is rightfully yours, KILL HIM, Dutche's voice seethed with palpable venom.
As the countdown reached its climax, a surge of emotions coursed through Jack. The ghosts of his past tugged at his conscience, each representing a different path. Morality clashed with vengeance, leaving Jack feeling utterly lost. With a sudden jolt, he reached for his gun. Gunfire erupted all around him, a stark contrast to his internal struggle.
Jack's bullet found its mark, hitting the man's gun hand with precision. The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and gasps, while the echoes of Arthur's approval and Dutch's disappointment lingered in Jack's mind. As the man's weapon clattered to the ground the adrenaline began to fade.
"Consider yourself lucky," Jack said as he twirled his revolver back into its holster.
The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, people congratulating Jack on his victory. Among the jubilant crowd, a figure caught his eye.
One of the men he had played cards with, stepped forward, a sly grin dancing on his lips. "Impressive shootin' kid, names Toadvine by the way. You looking for work?".
Jack raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the man's proposition. "Depends on the job."
Toadvine leaned in, his voice low and confidential. "Me and a few boys have been contracted to take care of some rebel trouble for the Reyes regime down in Mexico."
Jack furrowed his brow, contemplating the offer. He didn't relish the idea of becoming a pawn for the government, but he had nothing left to lose, and money was money. "What's the catch?"
Toadvine chuckled, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Nothin' you can't handle, kid. Just some rebels causing a ruckus down south. The Federales want us to take care of the rebels so the government doesn't catch all the heat".
Toadvine continued "Besides good pay every man that signs on gets one of these" gesturing to the semi-automatic pistol on his belt.
It was a Browning Hi-power semi-automatic pistol. It was fed from thirteen round magazines. While Jack's Schofield revolvers were highly effective and held great sentimental value to him he had to admit getting one of those pistols just for signing on was tempting.
"I'll keep it in mind," Jack said, his mind swirling with conflicting thoughts of vengeance and wealth.
With a nod, Toadvine slipped a piece of paper into Jack's hand, revealing the location of their camp. "Meet us here if you decide to change your mind. We leave in a week. When you get there ask for Glanton or Judge Holden "
Jack tucked the paper into his pocket, his mind a tangled web of emotions and uncertainties. Revenge, money, obligation. It was a complex puzzle he couldn't resist.
As the days passed, Jack found himself unable to resist the allure of the offer. He knew he needed the money, a chance to reclaim the family ranch that had been snatched away by the merciless claws of the bank, the shame of which Jack had not yet squared himself with.
With a heavy sigh, Jack packed his belongings, mounted his loyal horse Fitz, and rode towards the designated rendezvous point.
A week later, a group of hardened bounty hunters assembled, a ragtag crew of weathered men, and a handful of Wapiti native scouts.
John Glanton was a commanding figure among the hardened bounty hunters, his tall frame and weathered features setting him apart. His face bore the marks of countless battles, a roadmap of scars and wrinkles etched deep by a life on the edge. His eyes, keen and penetrating, held a glint of authority.
A wild mane of dark hair framed his face, cascading untamed over his shoulders. A rugged beard covered his jaw, streaked with traces of gray that spoke to the passage of time.
His attire was practical and utilitarian, a leather duster worn and patched from years of wear. Beneath it, his clothes were a mix of rough fabrics, showing signs of wear and the trials of a life lived under the harsh sun and unforgiving elements.
The man standing behind him however gave off an Aura that left Jack wanting to run to the nearest monastery for cleansing. He was a giant of a man, fat too but the way he moved and carried himself told Jack he was as strong as an Ox, maybe stronger. He was ghostly pale and completely hairless, But it was his eyes that seared themselves into Jack's memory, twin abysses of darkness that held the secrets of unspeakable horrors. Those eyes, devoid of warmth or humanity, gleamed with an unnatural intensity, piercing through the air like daggers forged in malevolence.
The figure Jack presumed to be Glanton shattered his train of thought, his grating voice resonating in Jack's ears like the grinding of gravel.
"What's your business in my camp, boy?" he growled, his words laced with a dangerous edge.
Before Jack could respond, Toadvine interjected, a sly grin etched upon his face.
"Met him in town a few days back. Saw him shoot a man's gun right outta his hand. And he's got a mean hand at cards too. Figured he might just fit in with the company," Toadvine declared, his words dripping with mischief.
Glanton sized Jack up with a chilling gaze, his eyes dead and devoid of warmth.
"What's your name, boy?" he demanded, his voice a low rumble. Jack hesitated, his disdain for this motley crew growing by the second. He wasn't about to reveal his true identity.
"Jack Ma-Milton. Jack Milton," he replied, his voice tinged with a touch of defiance.
Glanton emitted a low, guttural hum as he turned to the man standing behind him.
"What say you, Judge?" he inquired, his tone carrying a weight of authority. The Judge, his eyes brimming with an unsettling fervor, regarded Jack intently.
"Let me ask you, dear boy, are you willing to kill people for money?" the judge questioned.
Not sure how he regarded the subject he responded impassively"People have done worse for less".
"Oh, I believe he'll do just fine," the Judge declared, his enthusiasm for the topic at hand bordering on the macabre.
The Judge turned his attention back to Jack, his words heavy with ancient wisdom.
"Those are words of truth, young man. Words that have echoed through the ages since the time of Cain and Abel," he mused, his voice sending a shiver down Jack's spine.
Jack could only offer a silent nod in response, a sinking feeling settling deep within his gut. The fact that Judge Holden approved of him was a harbinger of darker days to come.
"Toadvine, fetch this man a pistol and make ready to move," Glanton commanded, his tone brooking no argument.
"Beyond that border lies our tryst with a faction of them Mexican soldiers. They'll steer our course to the rebels' sanctuary, and there, the dance shall unfold," he added, his words carrying a sense of foreboding.
Toadvine swiftly complied, retrieving a Hi- powered pistol, and a cache of ammunition from a nearby trunk.
Now armed with his new arsenal, Jack took a moment to inspect the rest of his gear. Among his father's collection of firearms, he favored the semi-automatic shotgun and the slow yet powerful buffalo rifle, the latter equipped with a telescopic sight.
With a few deft strokes of oily rags, Jack ensured his weaponry was in optimal condition.
The company formed up, with Glanton and the Judge at the forefront. With a wave of Glanton's arm, the men commenced their ride towards the border.
Hours later, the band of bounty hunters arrived at the tumultuous lands of Mexico. In the distance, fires blazed from the Mexican Army's encampments, casting an ominous glow that served as a stark reminder of the chaos that awaited them.
Glanton rendezvoused with the commanding Captain, who informed him of a sizable rebel force holed up at an abandoned fortress known as Torquemada. The news only deepened the shadows that encased Jack's heart, for he knew that darkness awaited them all.
They'd make camp for the night and move out in the early morning. The group of bounty hunters made a fire and sat around it.
Glanton was still talking to the Mexican Captain as The fire crackled, casting eerie shadows on the rugged faces gathered around.
The Judge, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling light, held a newspaper in his hands. As the news of Edgar Ross's demise reached his eyes, a faint smile curled at the corners of his lips.
"A man of authority, felled," he mused, his voice eerily smooth.
Beside the campfire, A bounty hunter Jack had come to know as Tobin glanced up, his brows furrowed. "You know this Ross, Judge?"
The Judge's gaze remained fixed on the newspaper, his fingers tracing the inked words almost lovingly. "A puppeteer, he was. Guiding others towards their destiny, or their doom. We shared many of the same ideals."
Tobin's confusion deepened. "And you pleased about hearing of his death?"
The Judge tilted his head, his grin widening. "Death is a mere passage, Tobin. A continuation of the grand theater of violence. Ross's end is but another act, a scene in the play that stretches across time."
The Judge continued "Though like I said we shared the same outlook on life and humanity. Perhaps after this business is done I shall introduce myself to his killer in his honor" he finished with a frightening grin, his eyes seeming to cut through the darkness like light from a flame.
Jack's face began to pale as he excused himself to set down his bedding and turn in for the night, though sleep did not come easy.
The next day before the sun crested the horizon the company of bounty hunters and the detachment of Federales was up and moving to their objective.
As the company reached the valley before Torquemada they came under accurate rifle fire from rebel snipers hiding in the cliff. Jack and a few of the Federales sharpshooters had scoped rifles and made short work of the rebels.
The plan was for Glanton's company and a squad of soldiers to perform the main assault while the rest of the army acted as a blocking force.
Glanton's company fought their way up the hill, Jack and the others armed with rifles provided cover fire while Judge Holden and the natives cleared the outlying buildings of the settlement.
In close quarters, the Judge wielded a native tomahawk and a large bowie knife with brutal effect.
Jack ran the bolt of his rifle and found a new target, He exhaled and pressed the trigger sending a high-velocity round through the cranium of a rebel who was preparing a stick of dynamite.
The explosives he was holding detonated with a clap of thunder pulverizing his corpse and those still fighting around him and showering others in gore.
As the attack continued the Mexican army Captain ordered the rest of his troops to join the assault. As more troops flooded in the resolve of the rebels broke but alas their base was on a cliffside thus those who tried to escape either fell to their deaths or were cut down by bullets and blades.
As the dust settled and the echoes of battle faded away, any remaining rebels were mercilessly seized by the military, destined for a harrowing round of "interrogation." Glanton, seemingly completely unfazed by the violence approached the Captain once again. In exchange for their blood-soaked efforts, the company was rewarded with a generous sum of money each man getting a portion.
Jack couldn't help but marvel at the wealth he had acquired in just a matter of days, an amount that would have taken him months to accumulate back on the ranch.
Yet, amidst the gleaming coins, an unsettling feeling gnawed at his conscience. It was as if the very essence of what he had become, was tainted and dark. The realization struck him like a lightning bolt, leaving him questioning their twisted path.
Granted they may have only faced armed combatants, but with the judge's insatiable appetite for violence and the others' disturbing eagerness to follow his lead, Jack couldn't help but fear for what the future held in store.
A few days later Galnton and company had made their way to the town of Escelara where many of the men indulged in wine, women, and gambling.
Some of the men had been rather forceful in that regard. Which Jack found rather distasteful, there were many lines the young Marston would cross but not that one.
Though he drank, gambled, and hopelessly flirted with some of the local girls his ability to only speak broken Spanish only made his attempts funny to them.
Unfortunately, things would take an even more twisted turn.
The following day the Glanton gang as they were now called split up. Glanton and the majority of the company went out west with a detachment of the army to take a rebel stronghold in a fishing village. While Judge Holden, Tobin, Toadvine, and Jack would clear out a small walled village by the name of Tesoro Azul.
When Judge Holden and his group arrived at the village, the judge turned to his motley crew and said "Gentlemen when one is hunting vermin he must first stir them up and out" as he puffed a cigar.
The judge took out a crate of fire bottles and parceled them out to the men.
They spread out along the outside of the wall, lit the fire bottles, and tossed them over the wall. To Jack's horror and Tobin's chagrin, the screams of men, women, and children filled the air. The village was supposed to only have rebels, not regular people.
As the fires raged Toadvine had set a bundle of dynamite at the front gate of the walled village and lit the fuse. The dynamite unleashed its terrible roar turning the once proud defender of its residence into splinters.
Toadvine, Tobin, and The Judge went first through the gate shooting indiscriminately at anything that moved, followed by Jack. The four men fight their way through the village. While the rebels were gunned down the few survivors retreated deeper into the settlement and took refuge in the chapel.
With fear etched on his face, an aging man stumbled out of an Adobe shack, clutching onto an ancient revolver. Toadvine, wearing a grotesque smirk, swiftly drew a massive horse pistol from his belt. Just as the old man clumsily prepared to fire his weapon, Toadvine skillfully aimed his own and struck the hammer with a force reminiscent of striking a flint. The colossal pistol recoiled, leaving behind a quarter-sized hole in the man's head, unleashing a torrent of gray matter that spilled out from the back.
Tobin had taken a rifle bullet through his midsection and was lying against a low wall near the center of town breathing raggedly.
Jack knelt before him and attempted to bandage the wound and gave Tobin some medicine.
Toadvine standing over both of them scoffed at the attempts. "You know you're just wasting supplies, he'll die shortly anyway," he said half glaring at Jack with dead eyes.
Before Jack could retort, The Judge gave an order "Mr. Toadvine, Mr. Milton I believe a few miscreants are held up in the chapel, Mr. Milton and I will dispatch them. You Mr. Toadvine will patrol the grounds for any remaning.
The judge's eyes were fixed upon the crucifix, its presence illuminated by the inferno devouring the chapel. A disquieting grin crept across his face, accentuated by the flickering glow. Jack could have sworn he detected a faint whisper, barely audible amidst the chaos, as the judge uttered the words, "Home sweet, Home."
With an air of nonchalance befitting his own abode, Judge Holden swung open the doors of the church. Like specters emerging from the shadows, two rebels darted forth from the sanctuary's depths, only to meet their swift demise at the hands of Jack and the judge.
Undeterred, the pair ventured further into the sacred abode, inching closer to the sanctuary. A young woman, her voice trembling with desperation and her tears blending with Spanish pleas, emerged from the holy depths, brandishing a double-barreled shotgun.
Before Jack could attempt reason or disarmament, the judge seized control of the situation. With a single, forceful motion, he slapped the long gun from the woman's grasp, his arm displaying an otherworldly strength. The vicious backhand that followed sent her crashing to the unforgiving floor.
The judge pinned her to the ground and began to tear at her clothes, he turned his head slightly to look at Jack with that same hideous smile.
"Mr. Milton if you'd like a turn you'll have to wait till I'm done".
Jack sneered with contempt, his teeth grinding together in revulsion. He made a swift about-face, ready to leave, only to be confronted by the hauntingly lifelike crucifix adorning the chapel's interior. The savior of humanity fixed its gaze upon him, radiating disappointment and sorrow.
At that moment, as the girl's desperate scream pierced the air, the judge brazenly began to loosen his belt and trousers. It was the final straw for Jack. With a surge of primal fury, he pivoted on his heel, driving the heel of his boot and spurs into the temple of the bloated man, sending him sprawling to the ground.
In one seamless motion, Jack drew his Schofield revolver, its hammer cocked and ready. With a resounding blast, he squeezed the trigger, unleashing the devastating force of a forty-four at point-blank range, transforming the floor into a grotesque canvas splattered with the judge's putrid essence.
Jack turned sharply towards the girl, his duster coat cascading from his shoulders like a shadowy shield, enfolding her trembling form.
"Ma'am, I ain't claimin' to be no saint, but I sure as hell ain't cut from the same cloth as that devil," Jack murmured, his voice laced with a raw tenderness. "You got any kinfolk nearby, anyone I can fetch you to?"
To his astonishment, the girl mustered a few words in broken English. "Si, mi familia, they waitin' for me down at the docks, hopin' to flee this godforsaken land."
"Alright then," Jack began, his voice heavy with resolve, "I'm fixin' to" His words were abruptly drowned out by the piercing echo of another gunshot. "I'm fixin' to help you, darlin', but reckon I got some unfinished business to attend to first."
Jack rose to his full height, his body a coiled spring, and strode towards the door. With a gentle push, the door creaked open, revealing the lifeless body of Tobin, his skull shattered by a bullet's cruel kiss. Across the dusty street, Toadvine stood, the spent cartridge falling from his grasp like a discarded promise. A feral grin played upon his lips.
"Well, well, well, if it ain't Jack," Toadvine sneered, his eyes glinting with a predatory gleam. "It, just you?."
"Yeah," Jack replied, his voice a frigid gust of wind, his gaze a shard of ice piercing the heart of darkness. "Just me."
Toadvine's lips curled into a wicked smile as he strode toward the center of the street. "You know, Jack, it's almost high noon. Seems fitting we settle this like the old days, doesn't it?"
Jack planted his boots firmly on the sun-baked earth, his hand hovering above the grip of his revolver, a primal itch coursing through his veins.
As the seconds stretched into eternity, Jack felt an eerie sensation wash over him. A warmth enveloped his being, a sense of protection and purpose that defied reason.
The church bells chimed somber from the heavens toll a prelude, then Jack and Toadvine pulled their irons and like a thunderclap, a symphony of gunshots that shattered the stillness.