There Is No Promised Land for Us Lowlifes (Version 2)

by Slippy Jimmy

The following is the greatest Red Dead Redemption 2 fanfiction you'll ever read. What if by some vile twist of luck, it was Arthur who died in Rhodes instead of Sean? What arises is a grand drama from the eyes of those left in the gang. Who will rise to the occasion in the power vacuum Arthur left behind? Who will fall? How will their stories change? Who will live? Who will die?

20. Fatherhood

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.

Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.

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Part Twenty: John

12:30 PM, July 22nd, 1899

There are not many animals bereft of a heart. It is an essential organ.

It pumps blood (approximately seventy milligrams a beat) to the lungs across the pulmonary artery, which then sucks up all that oxygen and flows out to the rest of the body, guided by veins, arteries, and capillaries that act as railroad switches, dispersing the blood evenly throughout the body. Once those blood cells shoot their loads, they're ordered to return to homebase in the heart and like busy little bees, they double back and repeat the process all over again.

There are exceptions, of course, there almost always are when it comes to Mother Nature. Most were sea-dwellers, like starfish, jellyfish, or coral—animals that could be lacking such a network since they face a dearth of any blood vessels, internal organs, or blood at all.

There are exceptions, of course, because although he couldn't swim (and quite frankly, found the water to be unseemly and unhomely), John Marston knew he didn't have a heart.

That's what he told his drinking companion—a tall Indian fellow John had entitled Wet Locks on account of his short hair settling on his damp, tear-stained cheeks (bastard must've seen some bad things, he never stopped crying)—too.

"I-I's b-hic-born without a heart, I know it," he'd said on his ninth round. "In… hic… stead… I got-I got… no, I m-mean, what I mean's that I'm-I'm like one of them… uh… whatdoyacall'em?"

"I cut my hair, I pray to their god. What'll it take? When will they let me be?" Wet Locks whimpered, his voice coming out like mouse squeaks.

"Uuuuuh… hic… wait… a furnace! Thass what they is, thass what I is. A f-"—he accidentally slapped his bottle over, spilling foamy beer all over his soiled pants—"sssshit. Heh. True what th-they say: drink eno-hic-enough beer and you'll start p-pissin' it!"

"I fucked white women, and I hate white women…"

John gave a choppy wave to the barkeep, indicating his empty bottle. He gave a gander around the place; no sign of her, luckily. The saloon was nice; nothing too fancy, thank God. No marble bar, no gold (they weren't real gold, just painted gold, naturally) window frames, no white tiger's milk with a peach slice garnish. Just a few wooden tables, some poker games, neat decor of deer and bull skulls, and three shelves of simple, two-syllable maximum liquor. And a barber tucked away near the back entrance—John snorted wondering about the imagination that black man had. If it was John in his stead, he'd shave every customer; lie and say that's what they requested. If they weren't sober, they couldn't prove him wrong. "But… anyyywayyys, I'm a furnace, right?"

"... All flat tits and half-beards."

"Deep inside a' me, there's fire. No h-heart, just fire." He paused, motioning again for the barkeep to do his damn job. "That's w-why I got-hic-ta drink, why my dad-dy did too: gotta keep the flame alive, like cooooal to a boiler. He dead now, y'know… my daddy."

The barkeep finally peeled away from some guy in a raccoon hat and gave John a minute. "Yeah? 'Nother bottle?"

"Hic… Please."

The bottle was laid on the table with a satisfying thud. It was lake-green, like John, like his flame, that was. His father's was doubtlessly been sky-blue, matching the Scottish flag—his father had always been a patriot, regardless of the fact that he'd never set foot in that country. But no, John's was green, after the only thing his fire had ever burned for: money. That was all he ever chased, his whole life; he couldn't fathom the idea that some people were just born into a world where they had it—it happened, surely it must, but he couldn't ever get himself to picture it.

"An' ya want t'know how I knows I ain't got a heart…?" He leaned close to his friend, the bottle, not the Indian, "I don't… feel things. Not like I should." He felt the cool glass in his hand, soothing the burning fire that was inside him while fueling it—story of his life, I suppose: out of the frying pan and into the fire. "My-my wife had a gun…"—he imitated a gun with his finger—"pointed right at me, and she's cryin' and shakin'… hic… and I says-I says the boy ain't mine. Said I didn't believe her. I-I says she's a gaslighter, I did. Said… hic… she's a shrewd, conniving whore, whose plans got plans." He choked back a large gulp of booze, feeling the juniper-green blaze explode yellow-orange for a moment before simmering back down. "I m-mean, why did I do t-hic-that?"

Wet Locks remunerated him with silence; John turned to face him—he'd bore his soul out to this guy, usually that warranted something. But he was gone—John was alone again.

But not for long at all.

"Mmm… hey, honey…" The wilily sweet voice of her assaulted his ears as she swung her arms over his shoulders. The perfume was thick and nauseating, a shroud of repulsively titillating juice. John clutched his glass sharply now, feeling defenseless—like she'd caught him with his pants down and was giggling at his short boy-sized shaft. Her raven hair curtained down to his shoulders, and he felt her narrow stomach press against his blemished-with-sweat back. "Was waitin' all night for that baby of a man to leave… give us some privacy. He don't like white women.'' Her lips twisted into a red smile. "You never had that problem, did you?"

He was going to puke; the green fire in him seemed to stretch and fall like a rainbow, burning his stomach, making the remnants of the small dinner he'd eaten start to swell up.

He hadn't meant to do it; he really hadn't.

She had looked so much like Abigail, save her smile—Abigail's was rare, reserved for special moments only, but hers' was cheap, a cheerleader's. Similar lengthy black hair and pretty blue eyes—although they were much darker, more like navy. He'd been drunk, too, remember; all that firewater had caused his green flame to bulge so burly it encompassed his whole form, like he was a costume it was wearing or a puppet it was filling with a guiding hot hand. And the fire had changed its hue, too, subtly, but it had—to a romantic, lecherous pink, and it became impossible to resist its insinuations. It wasn't what he wanted, no, no, no, it was the green—er… pink flame. Furnaces didn't just hiss and scream for no reason, after all, there was logic to it somewhere if you looked hard enough. If it was too cold, you had to turn up the temperature… and if it was too hot, you had to find a way to… vent the heat.

And he'd been lonely…

"Y-your last n-n-n-name Roberts?" he had asked, as she'd led him up the stairs, holding his hand firmly.

"Why?"

"You… hic… just look like s-someone I know, I's wondering if she'd a sister I was un-unaware of."

"Do you want it to be?" she asked as they had reached the door.

He took his time in answering; oily sweat secreted from his rough skin as he licked his dry lips. "Yessss…"

They crossed the threshold into the bedroom, it was small: one dresser, one mirror, no bathroom, and just one narrow bed—that's all they'd need… She tossed her red stole in front of the dying orange candle, the thin cloth snuffed out most of the dim light, filtering the rest into a tight ruby-pink spotlight no bigger than a penny. The room matched his flame now: a passionate lavender. Although while his was livid and teeming, its was faint, dark. He could barely see her, and thank God for that—her details were diminished, and in that lighting, she just as well could've been Abigail. Hell, she was Abigail. God, he needed it to be Abigail.

That's what he whispered to himself innumerably as she contorted her pale legs to wrap around his, slowly shepherding him onto the cramped, dusty bed. She was saying things to him, lines certainly ("It's so big," "God, you're so good," etcetera), but he couldn't hear her over the steady buzzing in his ears. But that was good too, her voice was nothing like Abigail's—nothing like that sweet, lovely tune. You killed him… Why didn't you go fishing with him?

Then that moribund candle alighted the room a dark, bloody red. That pink spotlight became a scarlet eye, watching him as he entered her. She was on top, writhing with pleasure; her laugh was evil, eldritch. Not at all like Abigail's. Her happy rump pulsated atop his dead legs, her hands were around his throat and didn't stop her. The Red Eye opened wider and wider until the room was flooded with a deathly crimson glow; she didn't look anything like Abigail anymore—her hair was chained in a short blonde bun, her breasts shrunk so flat she looked like she had a man's chest. It wasn't Abigail, Jesus Christ, it wasn't Abigail!

And that Red Eye burned ever brighter, it was the sun-no, no the sun, fire. A brilliant ball of fire, oh… oh, God. The stole caught the candle's light, it was afire now too, then so was the dresser, and the dark walls, and the bed, and him, and her—and still she wouldn't stop laughing, as the scorching blaze maimed her face until a yellow pus gushed out her mouth and drenched onto his hairy chest.

And then the candle finally went out.

He fell asleep instantly in the dark. She was polite; only helped herself to what she was owed… plus an extra three dollars.

He stood by the bar, now, as she whispered in his ear. "That was fun last night, weren't it? We can do the same rate if ya want. I'm free right now."

"Go away," he murmured, slouching his head.

She shot her head away before bringing it back around. She asked again, more desperately this time. "Please. Hell, I'll do it for free. See that guy…" She pointed, expecting John to follow her finger to the person in question, yet not a muscle flinched. "Okay, um…" She tried to describe him to a careless John. "He's an ugly drunken dunderhead watching me right now, and no amount a' money in the world is worth that. I ain't a picky girl, but I got limits, and there's things I—"

"Go away!" He peeled her skinny arms off and drove her flailing into a nearby table, catching the interest of every respectable miscreant present thirty past noon.

"Sir," called the barkeep, inciting John to spin and face him, "I need to ask you—"

That was all he got out before John shattered his murky green bottle against the man's head, demoting him to the floor. They crowded him then, clouted him, all the other residents of the bar; they surrounded him as though he was giving out gold. He remembered seeing the image of a man's dead body as a boy—couldn't see anything except the ghostly white flesh in his face, the rest of his body was obscured by juddering ebony feathers. Crows had gotten to him, smothered every inch of him, feasting on his slick, meaty organs.

"F-uck you!" John wailed, to no one in particular. Or maybe all of them. Or maybe everyone.

He earned the fists of at least six men, burnishing his face and his chest. He was hurting something awful, worse than getting shot at Blackwater, worse than getting half his damn face mauled off by (literal) curly wolves. He felt another hard fist drive into his side; the tear that floated to his eye told him at least two ribs were cracked, maybe broken.

Doesn't matter, he thought as the horde funneled him in the direction of the batwing doors at the entrance, or in his case, exit. Let the crows go to town! There's one organ they can't peck! Let h—

He stopped, as he spotted a silver-headed man sunk deep in his chair; he suspected it was the same guy pointed out by… her. He was skinny as a twig, and he slouched in such a way that his spine seemed ready to poke out of his back. His eyes were glassy and distant; he hummed jumbled balderdash—wherever the hell he was, it wasn't here. He looked like hell. Matter of fact, he looked a lot like Hosea…

No, John disregarded as he was led out of the establishment and out of sight. Couldn't possibly.

The mud was cold and heavy when John smacked against it. He braced his eyes for the natural light of the sun, but thank God, there was none; the weather was overcast, the sky shrouded by a great gray canopy.

"C-c'mon!" He stammered as he stumbled to his feet, not at all scared of the vexed mob of eight people standing on the front steps of Smithfield's Saloon. "C'mon, ya wh-whoreso—" Not advisable.

It hit him as hard as a train in the cheekbone; the middle knuckles weren't pulled in all the way and stuck out like a shark's fin on the hand and they plunged into his left upper jaw, knocking out two of his premolars and lowering him back to the dirt. Right where I belong.

Mud was holed up in his ears, but he still made out their crackling snickers as he watched the tall trees of their legs storm away back to the saloon. Every breath whimpered out a lowly groan. It plopped onto his cheek then, a drop, but not a tear. The rains came, starting with a few cleverly displaced droplets before building to its crescendo in seconds; it came down so heavy and fast and narrowly dispersed, that the plippity-plop it made on the mud drowned out his bloodcurdling enraged scream.

John rolled his forearms, feeling the cold brown sludge splash onto them when the mud dangling on the back of his neck dripped down. He crawled to the alleyway between the saloon and the general store on its right, thumping his achy head against the lime-green wooden planks that made up the latter's walls. This sojournment did not provide him refuge, however, from the thick rain; it had been less than two minutes and his boot was satiated with mucky water.

Their words replayed themselves in his head like an endless echo:

Never shoulda taken you back in. Arthur knew it too. Never!

You… killed him.

If you say the boy ain't yours, what's the difference? You'll probably only run off again.

He clutched his; Christ how it hurt. His mind was murky and waterlogged with booze; his flame had plenty of fuel but wasn't much more than a weak smolder… It-it wanted to die.

Realization struck as thunder snapped out across the hopelessly cloudy sky. C-crack!

John's swollen mouth curved into a disjointed smile.

He wanted her to pull the trigger. Oh, he was so clever, he was such a crafty mastermind. Such a brilliant sleuth. I… don't… believe you. He wanted her to kill him then and there, even if part of him didn't know it; it was like there were two men inside of him: Jekyll and Hyde.

Just do one thing or another, not be two people at once, that's all I'm saying.

No problem, Arthur, John thought, slowly caressing his hand down his mud-strewn thigh to the dull Cattleman in his worn holster, touching it with such passion you'd think he was about to shoot a wank of it. Hell, I'll go one step further. How 'bout I be no people?

Thunder roared as he raised the gun aloft before positioning the rusted metal barrel by his ear. It was cold… as a corpse. C-craaaaaack! C-craaaaaaaack!

His smile wavered as reason started to penetrate the stubborn bulwarks of Dr. Hyde's mind. M-maybe I should think this? I'm really, really drunk.

C-craaaaaaaaaaaack!

He cocked the gun.

Fuck it, thought Jeykll.

C-CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!

And it hit him.

Not the bullet but an idea. An idea so simple, so obvious, he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before: Jack was alive. Damn what Dutch said, damn what they all said, damn what God said. Somewhere in the world, that little boy breathed, and John was going to find him. He was going to get it all back.

And amidst the clamor of boisterous thunder and pouring rain, the sound of a gun not going off could be heard only by two men.

---

6:45 PM, July 22nd, 1899

The ride had proved as onerous as unpleasant. At least the stormy clouds had subsided, allowing his sodden clothes to dry a little bit—though he was still drenched.

He'd sobered up a mite too, but not nearly enough to stray from his course…

He ventured past the foggy bayou, onto the sturdy bridge leading into Saint Denis. It was a fucking mess. He didn't know what just the hell had happened in his absence (though, of course, we do)—not about Guido's death, the gang war, or the boat job.

He did know the sounds of gunshots bounced across the city's tall buildings like it was trying to bulldoze any intruders from entering. Ba-bang! Ba-bang! It was working—four screaming equestrians burst from the other side like bats out of hell, converging and overshooting John, going the exact opposite way he was.

"Get the fuck outta here!" one of them bellowed to him. His arm had been blown off.

If John had been thinking, some pretty fascinating theories about the port town's current state might have infested his imagination; perhaps Guido saw Vladimir the Impaler as a role model and sought to crack down on his new subjects; perhaps the O'Driscolls got into a shootout with the gang and brought down half the town doing so; perhaps God sought to recreate his work of Sodom and Gomorrah. But, no, John was thinking of one thing and one thing only. His little mind had scarcely been so focused.

The crimson evening sun shone on him as the Red Eye had; he pulled down his hat to shield himself from its cruel gaze. He fared onward, fighting against his new Mustang (which he had named Married Women's Property Act—he was drunk and not thinking clearly) which so desperately whined to turn back before it was too late.

The roads were as filthy as ever—John figured the sanitation union was on strike. He never liked this place; and astonishingly, he enjoyed it even less now, despite the facades of civilization melting away to be usurped by things John was more akin to: the incessant ba-bangs of gunfire reverberating throughout Saint Denis, the chorus of screaming civilians who either scurried into their homes in a panic or darted away on horseback or foot, as distant as they could possibly manage. John kept his ears alive, catching the trajectory of the ba-bangs. They were from the middle of the city, probably down by the bank or police station—somewhere important.

If I avoid, I can't be destroyed. If I avoid, I can't be destroyed.

His green flame was simmering, surging high and falling low as he ambled his horse further and further down the street. He spotted the cemetery's unmistakable fence off in the distance as he galloped—the sight of it made his stomach tighten, choking the air out of his lungs.

This time, it'll be different. This time.

Ba-bang!

A vile notion took him and he wondered if Jack's death would be justice for that boy they killed there. That had been Micah's doing, sure, but John couldn't pretend he hadn't done the same at one time or another. Or that he hadn't done worse.

Ba-bang!

He steered Married Women's Property Act beyond the mayor's palace to the familiar

tall ten-foot bulwark that engirdled Bronte's estate, which had been previously finished with a thick iron gate in its center. Now it had been knocked over onto Bronte's front yard, like it trampled by a pack of wild beasts—I suppose that wasn't far off from the truth. Over a dozen men were watching vigilantly on the front porch, and the second he slowed, their guns were trained on him. John's green flame was bending away now like someone was blowing on it. Bending away, and he was tempted to follow it; ride on out of there before he got himself shot dead—boy probably wasn't even alive…

John unmounted right there in the middle of the street, not even bothering to hitch his horse. Itching fear was cutting its way through him as he took quick, intentional strides closer…

Ba-bang!

And closer…

Ba-bang!

Until he had arrived at the foot of the vacant gate, hands as high as a fluttering flag, and as noticeable too. Still, the shot rang out and he jerked back as the bullet hit the cement he stood on.

"Clear the fuck out! Next time I won't miss!" one of the Italians shouted, he was a big guy, tall and burly. With the way the other men reacted, it was clear he was the leader.

"I-I can't do that," John slurred—but he was fully sober this time around. "I-I need to see your boss."

"If my boss had a mile-long cock, I wouldn't let you near its head." He cocked his shotgun loudly, as a warning. "Last chance."

"Please!" John begged, inching closer across the primly trimmed grass—even after Bronte was dead they were still keeping his caretaker on the payroll. "Tell Guido to just let the boy go!"

"Guido…? The boy…?" The brute looked at a man to his side with a furry mustache, who muttered something in Italian. Then he started laughing. "The boy." The distance between the two men diminished as he walked closer to John, ten guns pointed right behind him. "The boy is dead."

"N-no…" His flame sputtered like a dying machine.

"Y-y-y-yes… And Guido's gone too. Now this place belongs to Settimo Abbandando." He said the last part with such loyal passion that the others behind joined in as well and began chanting his name. He and John were face-to-face now, he was even taller than he had looked from afar. John was far off from looking up skirts when he walked by, and even so, this man had a head up on him; if John wasn't glancing up, he'd be staring right at the greasy chesthair sticking out of the goliath's shirt. "There ain't nothing for you here no more, friend. Now, last chance…"—he christened this warning with a quick punch that sent John onto his back—"Get lost! Or you'll meet your boy sooner than you'd like!"

They laughed at this, the Italians did, all of them in those thick, unyielding accents that weaved into his ears as though they were microscopic needles. The back of his head was bleeding from the jagged concrete, and he could've sworn black blood had trickled down to his hands before he realized it was just his shadow. His nose was crooked and John was fairly confident it was broken. Their laughs kept on and John could feel his puke-green flame shrinking as his view of the bright stars in the murky (polluted) sky eclipsed to absolute darkness.

Can't stay awake… Can't… s-stayyy…

And then he died.

"You're right."

"Glad you see it that way," the bulky gangster said, turning back to his mates for a quip. They were still on the front porch, perched up a few inches higher than their leader, although, with his statue taken into account, they were about even."Wish my wife was so agreeable."

"Heh. I hear that…" John chuckled, stumbling to his feet. Blood dripped onto his neck and he flinched from the sudden warmth of it. "And you're right… I will meet my son sooner than you'd like. In fact, I'll see him now."

The big bigshot's face drooped down at that and his men snapped their guns fully back into position, double-checking the hammers were down—they were. "Ya deaf? He's dead as a doornail! Now piss off!" John was walking toward him now and he paced back with every step, keeping the distance consistent. "Last chance. Last chance. Leave or you'll be sorry."

"Too late," John replied as the streetlamp across the street exploded and the tip caught fire, fashioning it into a massive torch, one that shone so brightly it pushed the weak electric bulbs on Mr. Bronte's property away from John's face, casting it with shadows. Two houses over, enjoying a mansion amidst the chaos, a rat-faced street rat would later report the torch seemed to have an unearthly tint to it. Almost… green. "I'm already sorry. For your wife."

John fired his first shot when he was six years old—at a squirrel he wanted for stew. Daddy had been blinded in a barfight, so before he could form a sentence longer than four words, he was already the man of the house. By age eight he was the only man of the house. By age twelve he wasn't the man of any house at all. By age thirteen, Dutch was teaching him shotguns, a far cry from the peashooters he was used to—although he was still partial to peashooters, preferring a pistol or revolver to a boomstick any day. He pitied that old veteran down in Rhodes—he couldn't fathom not having his leg, he'd rather lose an arm (although most of us are probably the converse—especially when self-pleasuring is tossed into the mix). Speed trumped strength, he believed, and John had always been quick as a hare.

And even now, he was moving brisker than he'd ever moved before—I can't stress it enough, God he was fast, fast, fast!

There were thirteen men and John had six bullets in his bronze Cattleman revolver, and no sooner had he emptied it into their torsos that he sprang forward, stabbing their leader in the chest with his hunting knife and swiping the big man's Lancaster Repeater. He then unloaded six bullets into the remaining goons, however, the ratio was not arranged the way you think—use your imagination.

After kicking down the polished mahogany doors and walking past the blue and white Sicilian vases (they weren't any less tacky the second time), John ran into five more guards by the U-shaped staircase leading upstairs—two were on the stairway itself while the others stood at the bottom, inviting themselves to Mr. Bronte's cigar collection. But don't let that fool you: just because they were shedding handfuls of free Figurados didn't mean they didn't have the devil in them. They had their grips on their guns before the chubby cigarettes even hit the floor.

Not one of them pulled the trigger prior to dropping dead in their tracks.

More started running down the stairs to ward off the intruder but with a dive and a breakneck index finger, John had them plopping over each other as they rolled down the stairs—Jesus it was a sight!

Then he was dashing up to the second floor, passing that feminine sentinel sprouting from the railing that had reminded him so much of Abigail the last time he was here. Now, he knew that was ridiculous; the only thing she and that statue had in common was they didn't smile much.

"Shit! There he is!" came a voice from the top of the stairs, and John didn't even need to look to know what to do. He lunged forward as the bullet whizzed over him, shattering the stained glass wall behind him. In mid-air, he let loose a few rounds, nailing both of the men looming over the top of the stairs—he wasn't even thinking about his next move, he was just making it!

Finally, he climbed to the end of the sloped path and placed two decaying black boots onto the scarlet rug of the second story—golden rings sketched the carpet-like eyes. Like a million red eyes, staring up at him.

Let them stare.

More Italian lackeys (wait, if Guido's dead, shouldn't there be a war goin' on; how is there this much security?) poured out of the several brown doors that stretched across the long hall, shooting at John in an instant. And their bullets struck true and he collapsed to the Argus-eyed carpet, dead.

Sorry, poor attempt at humor. What really happened was John rushed the one closest to him, lining the fat man's chin with the barrel of his gun and blowing his head off. He then used the stout corpse as a shield, gunning down the rest of the assailants in quick succession. It was like an experienced dancer going through the Waltz. One, two, bang! One, two, bang! John then strolled over the body-layered hardwood floor to around the center of the hallway.

"Come on out!" He spun his head as he shouted, which caused his raven hair to whirl about his face, making sure every room would hear it equally. "Settimo, was it? I know you're here! Come out and we can talk. Wait for me to find you and only your head'll be buried! Imma count to twenty!" He swallowed the phlegm from his throat and bumped his chest with the front of his fist to keep it down. "Seventeen! Eighteen! Nineteen…!—"

"Wait!" came a squeaky-with-fear voice, followed by the slow creak of a door sliding open. As you might recall, Settimo was not a remarkably attractive man, and not much has changed. Fat yellow buck teeth protruded from his upper lip, his hair was greasy and wore the foreboding of a recession. His suit was five hundred dollars, a piece of black and white German finery. "I-I'm here. D-don't hurt me." One hand was hidden behind his back, the most obvious attempt at concealing a weapon John had ever seen, and Karen had once left a double-action revolver dangling in her belt, certain that if she made her cleavage more visible, no one would even notice—she was drinking a lot more back then, her reasoning was less sound (if at all).

Shockingly, Settimo whipped his hand to face John and by the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, there was a gun in it (can you believe it?). John shot it out of his grip without breaking eye contact.

"Where is the boy?"

"W-what boy?" Settimo tried vainly.

John marched closer in angry strides, keeping his repeater raised against the squirrelly-looking man's chest.

"Oh, oh, that boy," the capo rambled, stepping back the more John ambled closer until his back was flush against the beige wall. "Um… I can get him for you! I can! B-but, if I'm d-dead—"

"Where is he?!" John stabbed the barrel into Settimo's bony stomach.

"H-he-he's gone…" He smiled nervously, as though that alone redeemed the initial bad news.

"Then so are you." The gun cocked with a rhythmic click.

"G-gone to the Pinkertons, I m-mean!" His hyperventilating breath whistled against his oversized teeth. "We shipped him down at JD McKnight's warehouse by the docks at seven-thirty last night—that's where those fellas are! T-they assured us he'd be well looked after. Lotta their guys are fathers too. Look… we're gangsters, they're the law, we thought we were doin' right by the boy."

"Bullshit! What did they offer you?" He prodded the gun harder against his captive's stomach.

"Nothing! It-it wasn't my operation. Dirty business, it was." He saw that excuse wasn't winning any battles and changed tactics. "I swear on my mother's life, on my life, on the lives of my six children—"

"You ain't got any children, liar," John hissed. "I'm wondering: why you got all your men holed up in here when there's a war goin' on out there? Gang war I imagine, right? If Guido's dead?" He saw in Settimo's eyes he was onto something and continued. "I'm thinking it's cuz the Pinkerton's tipped you off 'bout their sitting on the bank. You scratch their back, they scratch yours, right?"

"Hang on, that's not—"

"They take out your rivals, and Settimo Abbandando is the new mafia don of Saint Denis, but only under the watchful and vindictive eye of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. I get anything wrong?"

"... I-it's a little more complicated than that, but… yeah. That's about the size of it." Settimo's mouth folded downward, but with the buck teeth, John couldn't take his solemness seriously—it was like trying to take a beaver's whining seriously. "I was so close too. So damn close." He closed his eyes, resigned, expecting John to finish it.

"Can-can you get Jack back?" he asked instead.

"Who?"

"The boy. Can you revoke the deal? Get him back here?"

"Oh. Oh, uh, yes. Yes, yes." He jolted back to life, his body posture and facial features rebounded back to their neutral stance, and his eyes were wide with alertness. "Absolutely. It'll just take a phone call…"—he noticed he selling too hard and toned it back—"but, of course, it'll take a few days and a lot of money. But yeah, I do believe I could—"

"You're lying." John shot him in the chest.

He considered kicking out Abbandando's buck teeth so the man could at least look like a person when he was dead and not some cartoon rabbit, but decided against it—it might give the coroner a good laugh.

The docks… John thought as he hurried towards the stairwell. The Pinkertons are so focused on what's goin' down at the bank, maybe it'll be empty? Fuck it. Makes no difference. I'm getting that boy back so hel—

A weighty obstruction derailed this train of thought when it collided with John, tackling him down to the landing. The back of John's head—which was already split from the concrete—smacked against the splintered stained glass left on the wall (the shards on the floor cut his hands when he pushed on them to stand).

John let out a pained howl as his green flame flickered with vengeful red hate; he dropped his gun at the top of the stairs at the point of impact, but that didn't matter. He turned to his blindsiding attacker, and his ire froze into perplexed horror.

"I'll send my wife your regards," the bulky gangster sneered, delivering a rock-hard punch to John's face. The knife was still wedged in his chest, just below his thicket of chest hair, but the blaze in his eyes sang a different song: one where he was young, mighty, and mad as hell. John grimaced passionately as he fingered the giant bump on his face that had swelled up in seconds—something in the meat of his cheek wiggled and he had no clue what it was.

Another blow to the stomach and he was rolling down the stairs again and plopping onto the exposed hardwood planks of the first floor. John scrambled to his feet just as the bulky gangster hit level ground—the dagger was carved a hair off from the manubrium, where the heart lies. Where it should have been pierced. He must not got one. Like me.

Still, the man wasn't unfazed. His breathing was rough and chaotic, akin to gagging; he kept spitting out puddles of blood. He did it all matter-of-factly too, like he was spitting out chewing tobacco.

Suddenly, John turned around and ran. Cowardly, sure, but to be perfectly fair to him, he had nothing to gain from this fight and time was slipping away. And to his credit, he made it pretty far. Yanked the front door open before he felt a violent tug on his hair that pulled him across into the lounge room where he first met Bronte. Not much had changed: the cozy, hundred-dollar, navy blue sofa Bronte had been sitting in when they'd met remained, as did the soothing white wallpaper, golden-framed portraits (mostly landscapes), and even the decorative fireplace, which had been refreshed with a massive yellow flame… oh… oh God. The thought slapped both men at about the same time, and John fought against the tight grip on his scalp as it led him closer and closer to the raging fire. Hot beads of sweat percolated from his leathery skin as his face was lowered and plunged into the fireplace—it was only his lucky hands finding the mantle shelf that prevented his head from igniting. John felt the tip of the inferno on his bent nose and knew it would be an agonizing way to die, maybe worse than drowning. He pushed helplessly on the mantle, but only seemed to move closer…

"I wasn't lying 'bout your boy," the bulky gangster snickered, shoving with all of his two hundred and sixty pounds. "He may be breathin' now, but he's as good as dead." he whispered the last part in John's ear: "I'll see to that tonight after I'm through with you."

John bellowed with fervent hate, his veins bulged with effort, but still, the flame stalked near. He took a chance, tearing one arm away atop the mantle, groping for something, anything. His hand met a lantern, and he swung it around by the handle against his foe's head, shattering the glass and spilling its oil over both their faces. And oh, the fire liked that, their greasy masks, and jumped out to kiss them. The bulky gangster released John as he screamed in pain, swatting his face to rid it of the lovesick flames; John had been lucky—covered his face in preparation and the burns were minimal. One blonde paramour was enough for him.

"You ain't gonna see to nothin' after tonight!" John screeched as he jabbed the charred Italian hard. "You ain't even gonna see the end of tonight!"

They locked horns like two bucks in a frenzy; John's punches were swift and ineffective, but present. His opponent's were devastating and unyielding: John dodged every one. The bulky gangster was far stronger, but John was faster. Speed trumps strength, he repeated as he landed another jab.

"I'll kill you!" the gangster barked, throwing another punch that John avoided before returning with one of his own. That cycle repeated for another thirty seconds or so until the sole Abbandando left in this house grew impatient, rushing to the fireplace and arming himself with the iron fire poker like it was Excalibur; with it, John's ducks and dips became less fluid, less comfortable. One hit and he'd be on the floor, and this mobster would be on top of him, and then the fire poker would be driven through his eye.

"Go to hell!" It was the most articulate thing John could think of currently. The hate that flowed between the two men was almost as hot as the yellow fire that had spread from the lantern oil onto the wallpaper and then dressed over the ceiling before a fiery speck of wood had broken off from it and fallen onto the navy-blue couch, setting that ablaze too. And unlike the fire John had seen during his passionate night of self-hating with the Valentine prostitute, this was real; whole damn room would be up in a matter of minutes.

The fire poker cut the air with a whoosh as it trimmed John's shirt. He rushed over to the fireplace, grabbing the tongs out of the shrunken metal coat rack that held the obsidian tools. The bulky gangster smiled gleefully and raised his own saber like they were about to engage in a Samurai battle. Of course, John was too smart for that—he hadn't played such trivial games since he was five, and he wasn't going to reawaken anything tonight. Instead, he stuck the tongs into the fire, pulling out a scorching cylindrical log and hurling it towards his enemy—it struck the bulky gangster square in the face. The sizzle of his burning skin couldn't block out his scream as he dropped his weapon and fell onto the navy blue couch; of course, it wasn't really navy blue anymore, more like blazing yellow. As he rose—screaming like a banshee, naturally—John wrapped the iron tongs around his shoulders and swung like hell—a swing that would make Roger Connor green with envy, knocking the bigshot to the floor.

"Uhhh… s-stop…" But it was too late, John was standing over him, crouching down, extending his hand… "M-my wife…"

"Will learn to love again." And he pried his hunting knife back from the gangster's chest and stabbed it deep into his left eye—an instantaneous death.

John wheezed, dreadfully out of breath, and rolled onto his back next to the slain mobster; his green flame was dying, his furnace was empty. He needed fuel or more accurately, a drink. Just one drink. He began pondering about where Bronte's liquor cabinet might be hiding, but of course, even beyond the grave, the mob boss of Saint Denis would die (again) before letting his good booze get raided by some Yankee. His mansion was kindling for the yellow fire that was growing, and it let fly a fiery wood plank from the ceiling, hoping it would fall on John.

"Shit!" he cried at the rectangle of fire as it descend upon him, barely able to roll out of the way in time (speed over strength and all that). He gave a final gaze back at the bulk gangster's countenance, and with the knife resting snugly in his left eye, John could only see one clearly, and it was blushing with blood. A red eye.

That sure got him moving, and seeing no escape through the thick yellow conflagration stockading the only exit, he closed his mouth to the noxious black air and did the only rational thing he could think of: dove out the window.

The fall wasn't far—it was ground level after all, but the glass had stung, a piece had bitten him hard in the forehead, and wouldn't let go until he yanked it off. He heard an explosion inside the house—shit, that must be the liquor cabinet!—and took off running, his ears were crying, damn near ready to salute and give an elegy, for the thirty thousand dollar property that was about that's value was about to plummet, alongside it, into ash.

He mounted Married Women's Property Act and rode off like greased lightning—to the docks.

Now, there were two ways to get there: one was like John, intelligent if a little slow, and the other was like Dutch, impulsive but practical (if you convinced yourself of it). Not breaking the tradition of blind obedience, John went with the ladder. So instead of taking the long route, looping around the town to avoid the havoc near the bank, John bolted straight down Frontier Street, the shorter path… past the bank.

Ba-bang! Ba-bang!

He inched closer, spurring his filly hard, urging her faster and faster, hoping to blast by whatever awaited him before their eyes even registered him. The sunshine-painted Bank of Lemoyne drifted into view, innocent as a baby—until John discerned the corpses littered around it, camouflaged against the dark gray roads. It was on the street corner, opposite the Saint Denis Courthouse, with the MacNeil Law Office Building, Saint Denis Times Tribune, and Hotel Grand on every other side of it. His mare galloped faster as he scanned the area—there should be so many of them; where are they?

Suddenly he realized as he arrived at the perpendicular point where the invisible line from the edge of the bank's property drew out to the street where John passed—if you can't control something, control your distance from it (another teaching of Dutch). He gazed over his shoulder and watched them in a panic: they were on the balcony of MacNeil's Law Office to the left, across the street from the bank's front entrance, where two dozen suits, funny hats, and guns stood, aloof and alert. John's view was trained on the Pinkertons, who held him perfectly locked into their sights but didn't fire. Must not recognize me. Must think I'm some ordinary Tom, Dick, or Harry.

He rode as rough as he could, trying to burn the proximity he shared with this ghastly place until he was tragically intercepted by Vincent Ricca (better known as Worn-Knuckles, the second of Angelo Bronte's capos) and his men shooting off a barrage of volleys from inside the courthouse. John winced as the bullets breathed against his neck and hair, then winced harshly upon hearing an ear-shrieking neeeeeeigh and smashing his head against the pavement.

Married Women's Property Act was dead, her hide was marred with gushing red stamps and her face had melted to a blank expression. More shots were fired, but not from the courthouse.

John felt slightly betrayed that the second direction of bullets stemmed from the Saint Denis Times Tribune. I read! I could be a goddamn customer!

Although, the time for jokes was admittedly untimely—everyone working in that building was dead, and John knew it. It had all clicked a spell ago: what should have occurred is one of the gangs beat the other in a play for the bank, taking all the cash (or bonds or Capitale or whatever else was its equivalent), and the other would have scoured the city looking for them before they'd bought all the loyalty in the city—whoever had that money had the war. Except, no one won the race, no one got the money first. They'd all gotten here at the same time, the Pinkertons, Worn-Knuckles crew, and Long Hair's; they'd occupied the nearest buildings to the bank, and were engaged in the biggest Mexican standoff John had ever seen. Christ, no wonder there're so many bodies about, the bastards have been shooting everything in sight for hours.

And he was in sight now, getting it from all sides except the Pinkertons, who had enough courtesy not to shoot an unarmed man minding his business (never mind the fact he was about to break into their warehouse and kill every last damn one of them).

It was a turkey shoot. The deathly orange flash of a hammer jolting up came from east, west, and north, alighting the street more than the few faint bulbs drifting out from the bank ever could. There was, however, nothing coming from southward, for there was nothing there but some stupidly desired establishment.

John could taste the putrid ashy scent of his green flame floating up his nose—didn't taste at all like whiskey, more like roasting flesh—as he charged toward the bank (oh God, the irony of John Marston rushing inside a bank for aid…), blasting the doors open and jumping underneath the large, barred windows. Those tiny jailed casements had been eviscerated to smithereens—after all, bars wouldn't keep a Carcano rifle out—and still, some remnants of a full happy glass panel lingered, shattering down the crevice in John's head, becoming acquainted with the stained glass shards that stuck there.

Eventually, the constant bangs ceased enough for John to raise his head and soak in his surrounding environment. John couldn't help but be impressed; he'd robbed many a bank in his day and liked to consider himself an expert in the tarnishment and destruction of them. So he knew this was talented work. The stone columns holding the ceiling above were chipped so gauntly from all the gunfire that it seemed any moment one of them (or all of them) would snap and bring the weight of a building down on them; the double-spiraled tiled white and black floors were grayed with ash and dust—that ash was thick and in the air too, and John found himself coughing like he had tuberculosis.

And all the corpses didn't exactly portend joyous thoughts. There were so many holes in them that all the blood had leaked out—most looked more like raisins than people. And not just customers, too, but gangsters. Pinkertons.

I ain't been the first one locked in here.

He heard a noise, low but present. It emanated from the octagon-shaped table in the center of the bank (the architect was a mousy little fellow who actually got erections from designing with so many angles). John gingerly traversed over, keeping his head not more than three feet off the ground to avoid getting it shot off by a sniper. He peeked over the countertop, which was flooded with blackened contracts and fountain pen halves. John saw a man there, a Pinkerton, huddled up in a ball. His back shuddered from the bawls he was delivering into his knees—it was a meek image. He had given up.

John whistled and the completely professional and uniformly saluted knight of civilization turned to address him, face soaked.

"Hey, partner," John introduced, "I'm here seeing about a loan."

This only promoted further whines out of the man, who returned to his original posture, like a turtle collapsing in on itself. Then John noticed the Pinketon's hands were practically sown into his bloodstained shirt as he tried to keep his insides inside—his pale face was a sign it wasn't working.

"Uh, sorry, bad joke," he said, over high-pitched whimpering. "What the hell happened here?"

"I a-ain't never seen so many men killin' each another be-bef-f-fore…"

"Can I…" he raised his head, trying to get a better look at the man's wounds. "... yeah… that's not good."

"I'm gonna be fine…"

"Did it go clean through?"

"I'm gonna be fine!"

"Okay!" John said, throwing his hands up to show he meant no harm. "Okay, I believe you. Then… what happened?"

"I w-was in the f-first wave. We tried to block 'em f-from the b-bank, but they-they—"

"So you…"—he glanced around the room again, at all the agent and mobster cadavers, a deduction forming—"Oh, I get it. They killed each other. You got shot. Then reinforcements fell back, leaving you trapped in here."

"They been shooting for hours…" the agent whimpered, covering his eyes with his hands, embracing the dark with joyous relief. "Bang. Bang. Bang, bang, bang, bang, BANG!"

Bang!

A bullet trimmed along John's face, tearing off a small chunk of his ear. He leapt over the countertop, landing next to La Llorona's little brother. He screamed with pain; he wasn't shot, but falling on his rear the way he had was curving his cracked ribs, bending them along the fissure.

"I'm-I'm gonna die…" More tears. God, where did he stash all of those things? His balls? Still, John felt an uncontrollable swell of pity for the boy, although he wasn't a boy—he was twenty years old at least, a man and a half.

"No, you ain't. What's your name, son?"

"Don't matter," he muttered defeatedly.

"I asked you your goddamn name!" John cried, punching him roughly in the chest.

"Ow! It's…it's Archer. Archer Fordham."

"Well, listen to me, Archie, ya hear? You are a handsome feller." And he was. High cheekbones that complemented his tan skin, a broad frame bolstered by his clean-cut black and white suit, and neatly arranged stubble lines on his good-looking jawline—wasn't much to dislike apart from the hideous blotch death was putting on him.

"Huh—?"

"You're gonna make a lotta girls happy in your life—off the top of my head, there's a girl in Valentine who'd love a guy like you. Don't wave my name around though, she'd probably charge extra, although I can't say I blame her. Anyway, my point is, lotta girls, there are. We gonna deprive 'em?"

"I—"

"Are we gonna deprive 'em?!"

"Uh… no?"

"No, indeed. Now c'mon…" He rose to his feet, holding his head under the counter so it wouldn't be shot off. He offered his hand. "Let's get us a move on."

"I can't…" Archer insisted, pulling away from John who tried to snatch him by the wrist. "I can't feel my legs." John grabbed Archer's Carbine repeater and slammed it against his shin, causing the Pink to release curses and shrieks aimed at the scarred man. "Jesus Christ—!"

"Ya feeling that, ya lazy sack of shit! God, you're worse than Uncle."

John yanked him to his feet by the lapels of his suit and hoisted Archer's blood-drenched left arm over his own shoulder—his shirt was black so there was no chance of it being blemished, not that John ever cared about his appearance.

He dragged Archer to the door, kicking the glass and ash up as he went.

"We're leavin' out the front doors," John instructed his zombie-like compatriot, "so we shouldn't be in range for the guys squattin' in the news office. But the ones in the courthouse, ones who killed my horse, we'll be sitting ducks to them."

"Oh God…"

"But, the good news is your pals are right across the street. If we move like we got ants in our shoes, we should make it."

"Fuckin' bastards." Archer spat. "Fuckin' bigwig Italians. And here I was thinking this damn cesspool would be better than New York."

John had to grab the door handle three times—his hand was so slick with sweat it kept slipping off. He could feel the blood pounding in his forehead and suddenly became acutely weary body. God, he was tired.

I can sleep when I'm dead. Which should be in roughly forty seconds.

He touched the tip of his broken nose and, realizing it was just dislocated, snapped it back into place. Time to go.

They exited with impressive haste, scattering across the concrete battlefield to their refuge on the other side. Bullets cracked by, slashing the earth beneath them; on more than one occasion, the hour-cold corpses below them were hit and puked out thick chunks of black flesh at the running men. John kept Archer on the right side of him, furthest away from the incoming onslaught of fire. Even so, he shouted in the guttural call of pain, and the looming desire to let go of the deadweight was an itch. He's bled out already the itch seemed to say. Let go, save yourself.

But John didn't. He soldiered on and on until finally, they crashed through the doors leading into MacNeil's Law Office—the cushy spiral-patterned maroon rug broke a lot of their fall. John looked up to see about what he expected: boring brown offices complete with beige lockers, which were fitted with enough paper to fill a library. Of course, there was the uninspired landscape artwork on the walls, which only served to remind him where he wanted to be, and the tight displacement of each desk, arranged so more people could work without requiring any more office space, making the place even more claustrophobic than it already was. If this is the future, suicide rates'll be fingering the clouds soon enough. The only part of this humdrum picture that didn't jive was the amount of Pinkertons loitering about; besides a tailor's establishment, you couldn't find this many bowler hats anywhere in the world. And they were all pointing guns at him.

"Please," John begged, "this man needs medical attention."

But they didn't stand down. Archer's hat had fallen off in their mad dash and without it, it was practically impossible to discern him from a gangster or outlaw.

"Wait!" came a Pinkerton, who rushed forward. "That's Fordham!"

The herd of mindless agents took him at his word and immediately lowered their guns, gossipping in indistinguishable whispers.

"Goddamn it," cried the Pinkerton, who had examined Fordham's wounds for a half-second—more than enough time to assess the damage. "Get a doctor!"

"Sir, all we got in the back is lawyers," came another Pinkerton, no different from the rest.

"Then get me a lawyer who can get me a doctor!"

A tetrad of bowler hats ran out the plain colorless back doors to find help.

"That was careless," John quipped, "a lawyer's fee for finding a doctor will be three times the doctor's fee for extracting the bullet."

The Pinkerton cracked a slight smile, turning to face John. "Heh. Can't say I—"

And John Marston found himself staring into the doggish, fiery eyes of Agent Ross.

"John Ma—"

That was as far as he got before John socked him and bolted out of the law office. Great. Just fuckin' great!

He heard the shots, coming from all around him now (Pinks knew who he was and weren't pulling their punches anymore). He ran through the narrow alleyway between the Hotel Grand and the bank–a dead end, naturally. His eyes darted hopelessly until he found a highly oxidized and shabby ladder—one that most surely would collapse under his weight and send him plummeting to his death.

He climbed as quickly as he could, losing his right boot in the process when one of the cheap metal steps gave out underneath his sole.

Atop the roof of the bank, he was mostly out of view from the Pinks and Italians in the courthouse but was especially visible to Long Hair's men stationed in the taller tribune building. He kept his head low as they fired at him, running to the edge of the bank as fast as he could. Speed trumps strength.

"I'm goin' back to my family!" he yelled to Long Hair's people across the street, knowing it was unlikely they'd hear him. "That's a goddamn fact!"—the end of the building approached at a regrettable speed—"You'll forgive me for speaking facts…"

And he lept…

"... to a newspaper offi-iiiiiii—!"

He rolled down the sloped roof of Snowberger's Coco and Candies, barely catching himself on a chimney pot before he shot down forty feet below.

He aimed thoughtfully and dropped directly down, his tippy toes landing on the balcony of an apartment complex married to the candy store. He scurried down the stairs and followed the yellow brick road of the alleyway (oh, dear heavens, that book hasn't been published yet; forget what you've heard, I've said too much), which led through a door-sized gate John shot open with his repeater into the trainyard.

The Saint Denis post office was loafing just on the other side of the checkered stone street. He kept his head down he quickly scuttled along for what seemed like ages—although he knew that was most likely the anxiety of being recognized. Even pardoning the years he'd spent as one of the meanest sons of bitches in the country, he imagined his sour scarred face was still very hot after quite literally robbing a train and using it s a battering ram against many of Saint Denis' finest on that bridge just four nights ago.

Yet, by the grace of God (if God showed grace to his kind) none of the late-night rovers noticed his similarity to the man on the wanted posters as he crossed the street onto the train tracks a few steps north of the post office—although to be fair, a gang war does tend to dissuade nocturnal activity.

Most people are probably home, John thought as he ran with the tracks leading to the docks, stinging his bare foot against the dead cold steel rails and prickly gravel stones, with their families…

He thought of Abigail then, her uncaring, lifeless eyes when she'd pulled the trigger…

You're a patsy, cowpoke.

He's always been your son.

The memory grabbed hold of him faster than he could stop it: it was a spot sprouting with pretty white roses. He was taking Abigail for a ride on Old Boy (God rest his soul), ambling slowly because she hadn't ridden many horses—could never have dreamed of affording one. She was so young, a few months past eighteen, maybe, and so, so beautiful. Her blue eyes weren't pale and exhausted like they were when she stared him down that fateful, awful night, but vivid and glistening, an endless blue sky that mirrored the one on high above them. And she was smiling that rare, dazzling smile, teeth as white as the field of roses that surrounded them. He spurred Old Boy sharply so he would race forward without warning, jerking Abigail off guard and forcing her to tighten her hold on him for balance. He savored that, her hands on his chest, her breath on his neck, the sweet words dripping off her pink lips.

Yet he said nothing. He couldn't say why but he'd said nothing.

Why did I say nothing? he pondered as he hied past the fancy boats docked in the large harbor and underneath the mint green train shed of the Saint Denis railroad station towards the export houses, first spotting the one belonging J Cooperlee's Bottling Company—the buildings all looked basically identical but for the labels pressed onto their front doors that indicated the differences. Whatever. It won't matter. After all, actions… actions speak louder than words.

Finally, after waving goodbye to more ugly warehouses belonging to Pacific Union and Wheeler Rawnson and Co., John met the diamond-shaped slab of tin brandishing (in a confuzzling print John had never seen before) the name of JD McKnight. It was connected to a large metal gate that barred entry to the dock where a gargantuan maroon warehouse idly sat, outlined with three smaller buildings—offices—and dozens of wooden crates, stretching all across the fenced-in property. A skybridge rammed into the middle of the building, connected it to the export house across the street, meaning deliveries could be deposited outwards twice as fast. John gazed through the gaps in the iron bars of the main gate, his eyes fully acclimated to the low lighting provided—the only streetlight was across the street and the moon had temporarily been shrouded by smoky clouds (possibly just a heavy wave of smog). He saw three men pacing around, plus emerging from the tiny outhouse-sized yellow office building at the estate's corner.

Heh, running into so many Pinks was a good thing, John realized as he eyed three crates resting aside the ten-foot tall gate. Means they only got a skeleton crew guarding Jack. Should be easy as can be.

He stacked the three boxes into a short, chubby "L" (or "J") and then he hurled over them, using them as a staircase to buy him enough height to scale the gate…

The four Pinks went down before his feet touched the ground.

He charged towards the beige door heralding entry to the warehouse and found it locked, although a robust kick to its center changed that.

The interior radiated an aura of organized chaos—hundreds of crates were stacked in piles according to a color-coded ticket plastered to each; two large platforms were rigged to rusty, jangled-up chains that acted as a pulley system, lifting cargo up to the second floor to be distributed through the skybridge to the export house; and there was a single flight of stairs at the end of the facility that looped in a narrow triple-spiral leading up to where Jack must be.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

John ducked behind a stack of wooden receptacles distinguished with a badge of green paper. He'd been in enough fights tonight to let his guard down.

Four shots, he detected. Shots were too strong to be a revolver so it's doubtful anyone is dual-wielding. That means four guys.

"Whoever the hell you are," one of them—someone especially pissed off—shouted, "you're fuckin' dead!"

"Listen up!" John announced, "I ain't here for you, I don't care 'bout the lot of ya, I just want the boy."

"What b—"

"I know you have him so don't play coy—it makes me irritable."

"Oooh. Irritable, you say," cooed the hotheaded agent. "Coy. Lookee here boys, we got Merriam-Webster here himself. Well, studious sir, I fear I cannot acquiesce to your demands. In fact, I must implore you to leave, or I'll eviscerate this boy you're so keen on takin'."

Then it cut through the air like a chapel bell: Jack's voice. He was crying and it was hoarse and heartbreaking, yet it was music for John.

He's alive. I was right. He's fuckin' alive!

"It's okay, Jack!" he called out. He was tempted to steal a glance up, to confirm the boy hadn't been hurt, but opted against it—to come all this way only to get taken out by a Pink's lucky shot as he peaked his head out would've been too much to bear. "John's here! John's comin'!"

"D-Daddy?" came a low whimper.

"Oh, he's your daddy, is he?" mocked the agent, "Well fret not, kiddo! Yessiree, Johnny's comin'! He's comin' right back in a big circle and walking the fuck outta here or else your fuckin' head is gonna go pop!"

"Wait!" John pleaded out, glancing through a bullet hole in the box and scanning the room. The stairs were at the back—he couldn't make it without him or Jack (or both) getting shot. Then his brown eyes fell to the platform in the middle of the room and the counterweight hoisted up at the ceiling. "Implore, you say?"

"I do," sneered the voice.

"Well, if you implore…"

John ran to the middle of the warehouse with all the haste he had, shooting the weary, haggard chains connected to the pulley system, causing the counterweight to plummet and the platform–with John on it—to rise like the phoenix.

He skyrocketed before anyone knew what had happened, and on the second floor, with all men in range, John shot every last one of them dead on sight. He hopped off the ricitty rig onto the gallery, following the quiet sobs to Jack.

The boy was exactly as John remembered, with golden-brown hair, gift-wrapped in an appropriately small blue overcoat, red scarf, and brown, patchy pants. Exactly as he remembered… except for the unmistakable mark of torment in his eyes, replacing his usual glimmer of childish innocence. His face was curved into a hideous frown and when he cried, it sounded like he was hyperventilating. He wasn't a revenant; he was real. He was here.

"Jack…" John whispered, unsure of what else to say.

He didn't look up, just kept sobbing, his little hands shaking with terror. His cheek was covered with blood from the man holding him hostage, and even when John spat on his hand and scrubbed roughly with his elbows (like Grimshaw always pestered him to do), it wouldn't come off.

"Jack…" he tried again, racking his brain, considering what he'd want a five-year-old version of himself to hear. "I-I got something for ya."

That got his attention, curiosity slashing through the sorrow and fear. "You d-do?"

"Yeah." John smiled, checking his pockets, grimacing when he realized he had absolutely nothing to give the boy. "It's… uh… back home. With… with your momma—"

"Momma?" His eyes emitted a remnant of his usual sanguineness.

"Yeah. Wanna come with me?"

"Yes. Yes. I want… I want to leave…" Jack shot one look back to the corner of the room, where John saw a mattress not much higher than a dozen sheets of paper, surrounded by two pencils and a pin—the Pinks' best imitation of toys.

Jack had spent days there… John thought, interrupted by the sound of the large barn doors downstairs splintering open.

"He's upstairs!" bellowed Edgar Ross, followed by the mob of a dozen bowler hats and dress ties.

"Shit!" John spat, grabbing Jack and racing across the gallery to the skybridge connecting them to the export house.

"Pop-pa… we're flying…" Jack gurgled as they raced across the glass hallway twenty feet off the ground, falling asleep, his body shutting down from all the delirium.

"Yeah, yeah. It's alright, it's alright. Here's what we'll do: we're gonna make it to the other side, then hop down, find a horse, and go home. We're so close." And they were—John had practically reached the other side when Pinkertons cut them off, popping out like they'd been waiting for him.

How many of these fucks are there?! John thought as he blasted two with his repeater, not an easy feat when holding a child in your left arm. He turned tail, dashing back the way he came, exiting out the mouth of the skybridge back to the warehouse, crushing John's flapjack-thin mattress with his booted right foot.

More agents were storming up the stairs now and before John could intercept them, the men on the first floor shot at him, blocking his path, keeping him pinned against the wall. His eyes ran around the building, desperate for something, anything; jumping out a window onto the dock below would either kill him or cripple him; the skybridge was filling up with more suits than he could possibly fight off; the stairs were completely stuffed with agents; the first floor was packed, jumping on the pulley and letting it take him down would only doom him. He was utterly, totally trapped. His green flame moaned and wheezed, anxiety causing the white fire at the tips to balloon out and consume the rest of it in scared palpitations.

I lied before. John fired the second shot he ever fired at a squirrel for stew. For the first he tried shooting a fish; his daddy loved trout. The trouble came when he aimed down at the murky, sludgy lake and the backlash of the hunting rifle caused the butt to bounce out of his hands and clout him right in the kisser, knocking him out. When he woke, he was in the dark, his eyes saw nothing but endless inky night for miles in every direction. He couldn't breathe, and not metaphorically—it was like two firm hands had clasped his tiny throat and squeezed with all their might. All feeling was overridden by the pain in his throat and chest as he kicked and thrashed desperately, hitting nothing but thick air, and little John was certain he was going to die.

When he splashed out from that lake, he was determined never to step foot in the water again—and he had more or less stuck to that pledge. Hell, he'd never even learned to swim.

So when John looked across the room and saw a window leading off the dock into the open sea, he knew there was nothing in this world that could persuade him to jump. Not a horde of Pinkertons coming from all sides, not a sweet little boy in his arms, not his scurrying feet as he raced along the molded wooden floors.

No, no, stop it! He ordered as the square glass panel lurked closer and closer. If you fall in there's no going out! You'll be lost, strangled in the dark!

And then he was falling, shard shards of the window buzzing around him like flies.

Falling down… down… down…

Splash!

The icy water hit like a slap as it filled John's agape mouth tasting like coal and shit (goddamn town can't even get the ocean right). His sight wasn't any better than a mole rat's down there; besides the bubbles stemming from his gagging mouth, he couldn't see anything except what he'd seen the first time: endless darkness. Jack was fighting him, either from alarm or the lack of air. He writhed and spasmed violently, but John held tight, pathetically paddling his hand until it found the algae-laden wooden post holding the dock up. The algae was so slick, so slippery he couldn't use it to pull himself up to the surface, but he could trace its identical brethren until his hand at last found something else, something he was actually able to grasp.

In one swift motion, he yanked Jack onto the red and white sailboat before pulling himself up. It was by far the most putrid ablution John had ever partook.

The pair gasped together on the single-decked boat, clothes sodden and saggy with water.

"I'm c-cold," Jack said, grinding his arms to his chest.

"Ju—"

John didn't finish that as he was too busy tackling the child; Pinkertons were running by along the dock searching for them—one even stopped to give the boats a gander. The boys were lucky their dark coats matched the navy-hued deck of the sloop they were on. The Pink paid them no mind.

"What's this boat named?" Jack asked in a low whisper.

"Don't know. Stay down and stay quiet." John answered.

Balancing a healthy dose of collywobbles and gracefulness, John stalked over to the ship's mast, slowly hoisting the sail up. God, I wish I'd paid attention to Pearson's damn stories now. First thing I'll do is apologize next time I see him.

Next came upheaving the large ivory anchor—it wasn't a large one (small boat after all) and it still took all he had. 'Speed trumps strength' is a credo with flaws.

After that was done, John moved his attention to the rope binding the ship's stern to the pier. The rope was tied in a knot so foreign to John that it might as well have been alien. He attempted to shove his wet fingers through the coils, but to no avail—even his slick digits couldn't infiltrate the taught rope.

"C'mon…"

He checked his pockets for his knife but recalled it was still planted inside the gangster's face. He considered his gun next, before remembering it was both too loud and gone—he dropped it in the lake when he jumped. So back he went to unsuccessfully fingering the knot, his annoyance growing into a panicked frustration as he heard the barking of the Pinkertons growing closer…

"C'mon…"

And closer…

"C'mon!"

He froze when the gun clicked. A Pink stood above him, the first woman Pink he'd seen yet. She had frizzy red hair, bright green eyes, and bore a vague resemblance to that woman in Valentine.

"Let's put those hands up, mister," she ordered, an obvious mark of satisfaction present in her smug smile—clearly an up-and-coming rookie, probably growing wet at the prospect of being the one to bring in John Marston single-handed. A medal at age twenty-two, think of that!

John sighed and seeing no other option, relented in this command. "I saved Agent Fordham a few minutes back. That buy me anything?"

"Who?"

John's sigh was even heavier. Until he looked down and saw Jack, crawling slowly to the boat's rear, grabbing the knot with his dainty, dexterous fingers and getting to work; she hadn't yet seen him.

She took out a whistle and got to blowing, announcing her collaring of this old boy to all her friends at the Pinkerton Detective Agency (of whom she probably knew as well as Fordham).

"Look," John stalled, glancing down at the boat's hatch next to him. Maybe a harpoon—no, no, this was a leisure ship. Okay, maybe a knife was in there. "I know I'm probably wasting my time, but you interested in a bribe?"

"Not in the slightest." She said it proudly.

"Great…" he drawled. Jack was almost done. "A moralist. My favorite."

A strong draft was settling in now, blowing John's hair out of his face and nearly knocking the bowler hat off the Pink's head.

"Don't fret, Mr. Marston—"

"You recognize me?"

"'Course. Who wouldn't recognize them scars?" She gave a little point with her repeater.

"Hmm."

"If it makes you feel better—it wasn't bad luck. You were finished either way. Tides are like hell tonight. If you did cut yourself loose, you were sailin' right for Tartarus itself…"

Oh. Great.

"... At least this way, your death'll be conclusive. Newspaper boys'll make a nice buck of'a you. Take comfort in that—"

"Actually, the Saint Denis newspaper office is more interested in matters concerning the bank as of now. Anyway, you seem like a nice girl—"

"Then you don't know me—"

"—so I'm gonna give you a chance to walk away with your life."

"Heh," she chortled, taking a step closer to the edge of the dock, keeping the gun locked onto his scarred face. "Who's got the gun?"

John couldn't help a smile. "Who's got the wind?"

With that, Jack finished with the knot, letting the rope go. The sails caught the wind and with nothing to hold it back, it shot off. The Pink tried for a few shots but John threw the boat's metal hatch open, using it as a shield while he scoured it for a weapon. Expecting a hatchet at best, John was ecstatic to find a gun—though it was more rotund and shorter than any he'd ever seen.

He let fly with it, going near blind from the blinding scarlet flash that followed it. It nailed the Pink in the face, provoking her to wild screams as she dived into the waters to halt the burning. Suffice it to say, John's first experience with a flare gun was a special one.

The rest was easy, the elements ferried their ship out into open waters faster than John could reach the rudder; their environs became that of which John was more accustomed to—wide open space; the awful stench of the city finally abandoned their nostrils in lue of the salty water and icy breeze.

Saint Denis vanished into a distant portrait—one John never intended to glimpse at ever again.

John ran to Jack, gripping him in a tight hug, stroking his hair abusively rough. "You were so great, Jack!"

'Are we going home now?" he asked, dizzy from John's violent display of affection.

"Yes! Yes, we are!" He moved back to the rudder, trying to steer the ship to the marshlands by Shady Belle—the night was like a penumbral abyss; John couldn't see anything except the folding black waves in front of him and the burning lights of Saint Denis behind him. "Jack, can you look for some candles or a lantern or something?"

"Sure. What are we gonna name the boat?" he asked, savoring the salty aroma and musical sound of the sails fluttering against the hefty gale.

"Huh?"

"All good boats need names. What should this one be?"

"I-I don't know Jack, you chose," John said indifferently, squinting ahead. "And hurry up with those candles. I can't see a thing."

"Sure. Hey, Pa, why—ooh, that's a big wave…"

"Hu—"

It bulldozed them like a train, sending Jack flying to the very back of the boat, almost falling off, and casting the vessel into the air before sending it descending back down to water level with a titanic crash.

"J-esh-ush!" John screamed, spitting out a puddle of water. "Jack! Grab me tight, no matter what don't you let go!" The boy snaked his hands around John's waist at a moment's notice and John bolstered this hold by wrapping one of his arms around the child as well.

Another one hit them at the stern, and the boat was smashed into a large clockwise circle. John's eyes were burned when he opened them to see they were now facing Saint Denis again, sailing right on back to where dozens of Pinks were surely waiting for them.

"No!" he yelled, tugging the rudder as hard as he could, trying to redirect them back on course. The blinding light of the city was screened over instantly when another pitch-black wave curved into sight, obscuring all else as it hit the boat straight on the bow. The impact shoved John forward onto the deck, staining the navy deck with his burgundy-shaded blood and causing him to let go of the rudder.

The waves continued battering them like ragdolls until Jack was sick and hurled along the red-blue floors of the ship. Then, the seas calmed enough for John to find his balance and race across the flooded deck to the rudder, desperately attempting to steer them the hell out of this nightmare. The next wave spun them as the second one did: a reverse rotation, one so rough it tosed John against the rudder with all his weight, snapping it in two.

"Fuc—!"

He couldn't finish his slander before another cheeky wave blasted him over the hull and into the shaky, vibrating, ebony lake. His green flame was dowsed to a weak smolder, barely flickering over the dark liquid that was drowning it; John was reminded of his inability to swim as he despairingly clung to the side of the ship.

The main sail swayed under the wind's breath and the boom underneath it went orbiting around the boat in no particular pattern or rhythm. John leapt up and grabbed hold of the boom as it went by, using it to pull himself back onto the boat.

"Jack!" he screamed, fearing the boy had been lost to the sea. He looked in every direction, seeing nothing but those shifting obsidian waves.

"Pa?" came a weak voice clasping the metal cleats on the boat's stern with all he had, his whole body pale with strain and from the cold. "G-get away…"

"I know, I'm trying," John said, taking the splintered rudder in his hands again, pushing everything he had against it to steer them clever of this hell. The waves mocked his efforts with noises as obstreperous and godly as thunder as they crashed against his ship's dying hull.

"Get away!"His visage bulged tomato-red and his muscles spasmed and begged for relief—John couldn't do anything but oblige them, collapsing onto his knees. The sea sniggered and he felt something in his last boot, either a minnow or an elver nibbling on his toe. John wanted to cry then, would've too, if his thoughts weren't interrupted.

"No… I think Getaway is what we should name the ship!"

"W-what?"

"Getaway. What do you think?"

"I-I think…" And then the tears did come, slow at first, then like greased lightning, each droplet trailing the next so closely you'd have looked at his face and thought he was sporting two waterfalls out of his brown orbs. "I love you, Jack. I think that's a fine name."

"Pa… are we gonna die?" The question was direct, as though it was rhetorical.

"No," John said with certainty. "Not one bit."

And then he was back on his feet, taking that rough, splintery rudder in his hands with so much pleasure you'd have thought it was his dick. With a devil's strength, he twists, steadying the sails to a sole angle, curving the boat's trajectory out of the storm that had ensnared them, leading them to the one point in the whole of Lannahechee River he knew there wouldn't be any strong tides and wicked preternatural waves: dry land.

They came at the coast with the speed of a hawk and grace of a simple-minded gorilla missing a leg and arm. John clenched his arms around Jack as the bow pierced the sandy shoreline, snapping the boat in two, with the back half forking from the top half like a path bifurcating at a crossroads.

Jack and John were sent flying, lucky to find soft sweet grass to break their fall as opposed to rock-hard concrete. Thank god, John celebrated, we ain't back in Saint Denis. He groaned, stretching up with Jack tucked safely in his arms; wherever they were, forest and vegetation surrounded them.

Must be west of Shady Belle near Catfish Jacksons. Only spot in Lemoyne you can dilly-daddle on the waterfront without stepping over gators or train tracks. Just to be safe, he double-checked. No, no gators or iron horses that he could spot.

"Jack?" John groaned, lightly giving the boy a shake.

He only grunted in response; his eyes flickered as he bounced back and forth between dreaming and waking—the fall had impregnated him with a flawless impression of his mother presently.

"I've got you, kid…" John wheezed as he stumbled to his feet, cradling the child in his arms. "We're almost there…"

He sauntered (although I suppose limp would be precise) into the deep dark jungle—he was pretty sure he'd berthed Getaway at the south of Lemoyne, which would make the only way to Shady Belle a straight shot east.

His left foot bled as he got on; sharp sticks slashed his naked ankle. John didn't have a penny to his name and no hospital in Saint Denis would take him now. He was well aware that if he didn't get home and soon, he was going to die from the infection.

The trees stretched high above, engorging to the eldritch clouds that consumed the sky. John saw his blood vanishing into the chunky soil as he trudged by and considered they were engorging off of him, his flesh and bones, Jack's too. The thought mirrored the mosquitoes that nicked him now, growing fat of his bodily juices. They ran past a misshapen oaktree, modeled similarly to John's father the last time he'd seen him—base crooked and off-center, arms inconsistently organized in zigzagging directions and freckled with burls (however for John's daddy those were rooted many in his face, where most of the bruising was).

He started running then, feeling the mood of the forest change to a mendacious sort. Jack's raspy breathing grew quiet, and John couldn't hear the child's heartbeat over his own random, unfocused huffs. His foot screamed for him to stop and rest a minute. To lean against the trees, sit down, take a load off, perhaps a short nap. Or a long one. Or a permanent one (it would at least keep the family trio in sync).

No! No! Just a little further. Don't give up. You're so close… he begged to himself. How many times had he said that tonight, he wondered. Not enough, he still didn't believe it.

The clouds shrouded the moon and without a lantern, he couldn't see a thing. Only the deformed shape of a tree that looked peculiarly like…

No. We passed that tree before.

His green flame began to shudder with panic as John desperately analyzed his bearings, failing to do so. The sky was clapped-out, he couldn't get a read on the position of the moon or the stars. Something cold touched his bare foot, and he jumped away, relieved to find it was only cobalt, smokish mist. That relief lasted eight seconds.

Because a flood of blue fog washed over him and he couldn't make out anything, not the trees nor trail; it was like being underwater (heh, John's greatest weakness). He gazed around in every direction, not sure which way was up anymore. The sound of gunfire made him jump and he instinctively ran the other way. Are they shooting at me? He kept swimming away, looking over his shoulder and seeing nothing but obscuring azure fumes.

Then he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the Pink pop out right in front of him. Jesus Christ, how can there be so many?! His face was dark and unreadable underneath the bowler hat, but the Cattleman revolver in his hands was as clear as day.

"Drop the boy!" he demanded, probably not wanting to shoot an innocent hostage.

He fired a warning shot that scared John so much he instantly threw the boy to the ground with a rough-sounding thud as he hurled his arms in the air.

The Pink walked closer, and even though John couldn't see his face, he knew he was smiling when he said: "I know you."

"No, you don't," John mumbled, filled with so much weariness and pain he couldn't think straight. Couldn't come up with anything near a competent explanation. "Just passing through with… a… boy. I'm-I'm returning him to his mother. Help a feller out, you know where—"

"I do know you," the Pink answered, moving closer, keeping his gun trained on John. "I've always known you, John."

He walked until his gun touched John's chest, frightening the green smolder right behind its shallow hull. John finally got a good look at his face—it was wrinkled and tired (but it wasn't a mirror), sporting a dull black beard streaked with white. He was marred with an ugly Glasgow smile and pale dead eyes. No, not dead, blind.

"Got a kiss for daddy?" John's father asked with a horrible grin.

T-this isn't real. He's dead! John shrieked in his mind. Not real, not real. He recalled that book Mary-Beth read, reciting it in his head like it would ward off the unholy spirits. 'You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of a potato. There's more of gravy than grave about you, whatever you are.'

"You replaced me, boy," his Not-Father said, tone mired with blazing hate. "Forsook me. Like you forsook that boy and gal of yours—twice."

John welded his eyes shut, ready to wake up. No. It's the infection. It's not real.

"I am ashamed of you! You ain't no son of mine! Your mother's just some conniving whore what wanted to make a patsy a' me!"

No! Don't listen! You're still drunk, none of this is happening…

Then the cold grip was snug on his throat, squeezing until his eyes shot open and he saw one blind, white orb had withered away like a snake shedding its skin, revealing a putrescent, purulent red eye!

The face molded, shifted into another. Hair sprouted from the pallid, naked face, curling into a familiar defined style.

"Never shoulda taken you back in!" Dutch screamed. "You always was an insubordinate little boy! I always knew it'd be you who'd betray me!"

"NO!"

John pried himself free of the tight grasp and grabbed hold of his Fathers' hand, trying to whittle the gun out of their hand. The red eye burned John's own, and even when he shut them he could see it in the dark. They jockeyed for it, shoving and yanking for the weapon until…

Bang!

The gun went off and that red eye faded into a brown one.

And a Pink's corpse hit the ground.

John fell right after the young man, not from a gunshot but from exhaustion. He'd seen too much, done too much. His gums hurt, his ribs hurt, the back of his head hurt, his foot hurt, his nose hurt, his eye hurt, and he could still taste the gross sewage water from that damn city. That strength he'd found at Bronte's manor was long gone. His green flame was extinguished, reduced to less than a flying, fleeting ember, his furnace was utterly depleted, completely empty. His eyelids grew heavy, and John found himself joining Jack in sleep…

"John!" came a booming voice; one John knew intimately well, but this was a good one. This brought a smile to his face. He eagerly turned and audibly gasped when he saw his ears weren't playing tricks on him.

He was here. Arthur Morgan was here, clad in his signature brown jacket, sky-blue shirt, and navy pants. His face hadn't changed one bit: strong and sullen. The color had returned to it as had a bushy beard that complimented the wide-ranging hues and shades of his green eyes that seemed to change every time he looked at them. He was even finished with his hat—must've gotten that back from Micah.

John thought back to all the time they'd spent together, the parties, the heists, the fights. God why had we fought so much? Don't matter. There's time to make all that up. Time and a half.

"Arthur! Thank God, we thought you was—"

"He's mine!" shouted Arthur, pointing at Jack with his eyes, and then, in slow motion, he began to reach for his gun.

"N-no…" John whispered, confused.

"He's mine!" bellowed another voice and John spiraled around to see Javier standing a few feet behind him, also reaching for his Schofield pistol one inch at a time.

"He's mine!" came Bill's voice from another side, fingers creeping towards his gun.

"He's mine!" Then Mac.

"He's mine!" Then Micah, complete with his famous smirk.

"NO! HE'S MINE!" John howled like a wolf. And that green flame exploded like a goddamn powder keg, combusting into a gorgeous display of jade fireworks that glowed with such heat that his furnace overloaded, igniting into even more fire until the raging blaze spread across his entire exoskeleton.

The blue fog passed over Arthur and he began to morph, transpose. His cheap black gambler's hat with two strands of unfastened brown rope making up the band vibrated so quickly it became a blur, and when that blur faded to a visible shape, it was a black and red bowler hat.

Then he was a Pink with a big nose, and John shot him. The rest changed to, or rather changed back into what they always were, Pinks, and he killed all of them with the five shots left in his cattleman—one a man.

He scooped up Jack and bolted off from whence the agents had come with the speed of a jackrabbit. His sight was sharper now and he could see the road leading back to Shady Belle, not that he needed it because his hearing had also been fueled by the emerald conflagration and he could pick up the gunshots coming from nearby.

"P-Pa?" Jack whispered, eyes fluttering.

"It's okay, son," he said, scrapping his head along the brittle but unavoidable branches that hung. "It's okay, I'm here. I'm here and I'm not goin' anywhere."

"Promise?"

"I promise, my boy. I promise."

John kept moving, finally spotting a clearing in the labyrinth of shrubbery and bursting free of it he arrived at a hill's crest and began descending, entering an enormous blue cloud of smoke. Squinting his eyes, he saw more bowler hats, but they might as well have been facing down Landon Ricketts. He couldn't miss, it was like every bullet was the Spear of Assal. His gun clicked empty and he dropped down and grabbed a repeater from one of the dead agents. He kept his advance going strong, blasting down more suits until he made out the silhouette of a tumbledown shack beginning to sneak through the fog. Shady Belle.

There was a horde of Pinkertons gathered near the house, some on horseback, but they were scattered and distracted, caught between the onslaught of John's fire and Sadie, Bill, and Dutch's volleys out from the shattered windows. John ducked behind a fallen white horse (it was large and bulky, nothing like Married Women's Property Act) reloading like hell, trying to keep pace with how fast he was posting bullets out to the sitting ducks; it was exactly like with the bank, fire coming in from all sides—a turkey shoot.

He heard the distinctive holier-than-thou voice of Agent Milton barking orders out but with all the bowler hats aimed just downward enough to obscure the weather, all he could do was randomly shoot their heads, hoping one of them would be that prick.

They started funneling inside the gap between the ramshackle mansion and the gazebo, fleeing from the gang, retreating back to Saint Denis—where they belong.

And then the Pinks were gone and Shady Belle belonged to the Dutch Van der Linde Gang again. The front doors crashed open and the gang (at least the ones well enough to stand) came out to meet John, welcoming him and Jack, planting kisses and hugs on the weary boy. They were talking a lot, John was pretty sure, but to be perfectly honest, he only made out about twenty percent of what was passed around.

"He's alive!" Mary-Beth screamed, jumpy with joy, although John wasn't sure who her statement was directed at.

"Wasn't the same without you, Mr. Marston," Strauss said, bowing his head slightly in thanks.

"Jesus, John, how did you do all that?" asked Bill.

"J-Jack," Sadie whispered, motioning to touch to boy on the head before jerking back, terrified.

"John!" boomed Dutch, clutching at his wounded shoulder while hopping down the stairs, trying to constrict them in a large hug before realizing his damaged arm wouldn't allow it, and instead opted to rest his head on John's shoulder, laughing like a hyena. "I knew you'd come back!"—he addressed everyone else with the next part—"I told you we wasn't done yet!"

"Where's Abigail?" John asked, shrugging Dutch off and marching forward—if he wasn't so hyperfixated, he would've seen the frustration in his leader's eyes when he'd done that. Didn't matter—he needed to see her, needed her to smile that rare, pretty smile.

"She's uh…" Dutch started, "well… let's let her rest. I want you—"

"She's upstairs!" Tilly instructed, beaming with happy brown eyes.

And John took off, cutting through the front door, past an aghast Grimshaw and Micah resting supine on the rotten wooden floors, onto the winding stairs, screaming his wife's name the whole way as he went up: "Abigail! Abigail! Abigail!"

He came to the first door off from the stairs, damn near breaking it off its hinges as he ripped it open, finding an empty room. Next, he ran ahead, repeating the motion—all while chanting her name, mind you—and the results. He turned around, bolting to the third room in the center of the hallway—the one Bill shot a bunch of holes in—trying to peer through the Judases in the wall to spot her early, to no avail.

He poured into the room, finding it decidedly inhabited.

"Mama…? Mama!"

And when the rosy pink color flushed back into her face as her mouth curved into a bright, big smile, John knew the truth: he did, in fact, have a heart.

---

END OF ACT I

---

Whew... sorry about the wait for that one. Hope the length justifies it. I do intend to get back on my schedule of 2-3 chapters a week, so I should have at least one more chapter for you guys before the week's out.

Did the more eagle-eyed viewers notice the mirroring I've started doing? We've got Lenny resisting the temptress figure in the name of love whereas John gives in because of love. We've also got John starting a fight in a saloon over a prostitute and hitting the barkeep in the face with a glass bottle as Micah did before. Then there's Jack getting sleepy like Abigail, etc.

There won't be a lot of major themes in this work, so I'm trying to use lots of mirroring. Keep an eye out!

Hope you liked the twist of Settimo being behind Jack's kidnapping after all. Sadie never had a chance from the start...

Anyone like the origin of "implore?"

Let me know if I had too many metaphors or other flowery jargon.

Sorry if this went too off the rails for some of you. I really wanted to do the full hero's journey story, complete with tones of archetypes like Meeting the Seductress, Atonement with the Father, Battling the Dragon (usually their greatest fear, in John's case, water), Apostasis, Magic Flight, and Crossing the Return Threshold. But yeah... might have gone too far with this one.

Leave a comment below if you liked it or have any constructive feedback.

Tune in next time, we're going to prison!