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.

Part Twelve: Pearson

11:59 PM, July 20th, 1899

Simon Pearson lay supine on his narrow bed inside Shady Belle. He held his bronze pocket watch tightly, watching the little hand strike twelve. The day was out. It was Monday, a new week. A new beginning. Hell, in a few months, it will be a new millennium. Yet of course Simon could only think about the past. His time in the Navy. God, how he missed it; the bite of salt in the air that made every rough meal go down easier, the moon that glowed ever brighter amidst the cloudless black sky like a diamond, and the gentle over and under of the waves swooning him to sleep—that was what he missed most: those tender loving ripples rocking him to sleep like a baby.

Sleep hadn't come easy since his banishment to dry land; everything was so still, so quiet. Like a tiger was just out of sight, smelling him, sizing him up, biding its time…

Simon leapt to his feet. I got to get something done, he decided. He tossed his shoes out the window and slowly fished around his dark green (although it was now faded to more of a tinted graphite) leather trunk for a second pair of socks and slipped them on his chubby feet. He silently opened the door, doing it over an increment of twenty seconds to ensure the creaks were diluted and too weak to wake anyone up. He hied down the stairs in a meager pitter-patter—the double layer of socks cushioned most of the noise. He opened the window by the empty room with the wooden table—Lenny had been offered this room to sleep under, but he'd vehemently opposed it (said something about not wanting to get choked in it twice, whatever the hell that meant).

Where the hell is he anyway? Simon pondered as he wedged his stout figure through the window frame. Been gone since this morning. He didn't run, did he? Nah… if you're gonna leave for good you take more than a fancy suit. Besides, it was Lenny.

Simon dropped down onto the night grass, thankful for the aridness of it; never get your feet wet if you can help it, he recalled. First rule they taught you. He wandered along the camp, passing by his chuckwagon, Strauss' prairie wagon, and that cart the Lemoyne Raiders left behind, the one with all the red crates. He was careful not to make to wake anyone up with his heavy steps—although the crickets chirped so boisterously, he didn't really think anyone would hear him—finding his shoes under his window at the back of the house. He took a gander forward, seeing all his friends sleeping outside like animals and felt a swell of shame. Why did I get the last room? Tilly had been roughed up pretty good, Bill was still in pain, Kieran seemed pretty spooked a while back. Why didn't I let any of them have it? He pushed those irksome thoughts away as best he could, trying to keep positive. He trotted further past Shady Belle to the dock that hung aside it. Charles had come back a few hours ago; his hunt had not proven prolific.

They were down to the rations now, they needed to stock up on supplies. Saint Denis was undoubtedly a risk now, but, shit, everywhere was a risk right about now. Rhodes, Valentine, Strawberry. They'd shot every one of them to hell and back. Sadie had volunteered to venture to Saint Denis come sunrise for a grocery run, she'd said there was something else there she wanted to do; she was very new to the gang and hadn't gotten caught up with all that nasty business John and Micah had pulled. Still, it was far from safe. Who knew how much Guido knew, how much anyone knew? And it wasn't exactly like Mrs. Adler was known for her aloof and reserved demeanor. He remembered when she'd been helping him with cooking; what a disaster that had been. Bitch threatened to cut me up like a pig! And now… now she might get shot up like a pig cuz I couldn't do my job. He boarded the tiny rowboat stationed at the drop-off of the dock—damned thing had probably been there for years, and it certainly looked the part. It screamed as he put his weight on it, threatening to split in twain. Simon ignored its whining pleas and pressed it off the docks with one of the chipped oars, pushing the boat into the middle of the swampy waters.

He trailed down the shoreline, looking for low ground and a lot of muck. It was tough to see in the dead of night and age had mostly Chicagoed his imperfect vision, but Simon made it out: a crawfish hole! He parked his boat by the tiny island among the marshy environs that surrounded it. Descending on his heavy feet, he approached the hole, it looked identical to a large ant hole. He remembered these from the Navy; always good eating—not enough to fix the famine the gang was quickly finding itself trapped in, but it would help, however little. He stuck his hand in the hole, down to his elbow, waiting patiently, until…

"Gotcha!" he celebrated, yanking a crawfish out and placing it in his satchel. See? he thought. You ain't just a doughbellied cook. You can help. He moved to another hole a few feet away, collecting another crawfish. Then another. And another. On the fifth hole, his boot got stuck in the mud and popped right off his foot with an arrogant splat! Simon groaned, vainly hopping on one leg until he reached his footwear, trying to aim his foot inside of it, missing horribly—his vision really wasn't what it used to be. He slipped, landing on his ass and sliding head-first into the murky cold waters.

"Goddammit!" he exclaimed, spitting the cloudy green water out of his mouth. His words echoed around the swamp. Godammit! Dammit! Damned! Simon became deathly aware of how alone he was… and of how he wasn't. Something else was here, just out of sight, smelling him, sizing him up, biding its time… and it wasn't a tiger. Pale horror hit him at once, bricks formed in his stomach, making him fifty pounds heavier, hell, a hundred.

Then he was running, back to the boat, back to Shady Belle. A shell cut into his bootless foot, but he didn't feel it; he kept going. The dainty little raft was so close. Five steps away… four… three… two…

And then he was screaming in agony. It hovered over him, eyes as yellow as the sun, scales green black as the bog's water, teeth red with blood—his blood. And those scarlet teeth curved into a wide grin as the jaws unclenched, greedy for another bite, mocking him in a hideous grumble: Die, Fatman, die! Die! Die! Die!

He fingered his belt for a gun, but there was none. And Simon Pearson gave a silent prayer.

Then came the piano, no, even better, the dinner bell of his voice:

"Get away, ya mangey lizard!" he called. Bright golden lantern light obscured his face, making him look like an angel—although Simon might have been thinking that for another reason.

"A-Arthur…?" Simon asked before the man loomed closer and lantern light shone off of his face enough to reveal his black skin, narrow face, and wrinkled features.

Then everything went dark.

2:53 AM, July 21st, 1899

Like always, he dreamt of the sea. Of her beauty, her magnitude, her furious tempests, and demanding winds, challenging her suitors to tussle with all they had—to become men in her presence. He dreamt of the sands on the beaches of California—soft as a pillow of goose feathers. In his warm summer beach dream, he saw it plain as a pikestaff: USS Barrington, his ship. He'd spent the best time of his life on that vessel, playing poker with the guys, sneaking the captain's poisonously delightful raspberry tarts—he needed to quit those, he really did—, dressing in that smart, handsome double-breasted blue coat with the white visored cap…

But something was wrong.

Barrington wasn't sailing to him on the beach, it was sailing away, leaving him with bags and papers. No! Simon tried to scream but nothing came out. No, don't leave me! He waved his hands, jumping up and down on the grainy earth, not wanting it, wanting the sea.

I ain't done! I ain't done!

"Well, I'll be a son of a gun!" A familiar voice called out, and Simon snapped awake from his slumber. "He ain't dead."

It was dark—not like his dream which had been luminous—where he was. He was lying on the second bed he'd been on in one night, this one far worse; it belabored his spine with the weak mattress and stony boards supporting it. He couldn't see much of the house he was in, but he knew he wasn't outside—he was flat on his back, he'd have spied brotherly Mr. North Star for sure. A few smoldering candles flickered in front of him, enough to see the triune of men before him. The first was his angel—not Michael, but surely a guardian angel at least. The second was another black man of about equal age, sporting a blind left eye—the skin from his eyelids draped liberally over most of it, leaving just a narrow slit of white in his eye; he was sucking on chewing tobacco, spitting out the flinders once they'd lost their edge. The final fellow didn't seem of the same stalk as the others—he appeared a gentleman, with his orange ascot, white coat with gray stripes, and his neat, short, Blackwater-style haircut.

"I'll be damned," One-eye said, signing his declaration with a spit of infirm tobacco. "Thought you was gator feed, boy!"

Simon groaned, bridging his hand to the thick bandage covering his thigh like a blanket; even through the sturdy material, he could make out the deep holes—the teeth marks. They arched over his meaty hamstring in the shape of a smile.

"Jesus!" he panicked, sitting up and hyperventilating.

"Easy, friend, easy," the gentleman said reassuringly. "It's Pearson, right?"

"Y-yeah?"

"My name is Alphonse Renaud. I'm a doctor."

"How do you know my name?"

"Oh," Renaud said shyly, looking down. "I, uh, hope you don't mind. This was just sitting here,"—he held up Simon's navy-blue journal (he'd picked the habit up from Arthur)—"and I like to read, and I'm curious as a cat by nature."

"Uh, yeah, not… not a problem," said Simon, trying to make peace with that fact. Hey, I guess a peek at your diary is worth getting saved from the Devil's jaws. Although I hope to sweet God he didn't read where I put a chiton on my pecker (that Haida mate was full of shit, they felt nothing like vaginas).

"You was lucky I'd brought my boat down to visit my brother. Elsewise, I think you'd be dead, friend," Guardian Angel said with a cordial grin. He introduced himself next, offering his hand, lighting his cigarette with the other against the candle's flame. "I'm Franklin, like the President. He actually showed up at my daddy's ranch—if you could even call it that—drunk as all could be. Pops named me in his likeness cuz he figured naming your boy after a former president who wanders into your barn stinking'a booze is a once-in-a-lifetime chance."

"I would agree," Simon said, meeting his hand in a shake.

"And this"—he pointed to the grimly cyclops—"is Thomas, like the other president. He might look mirthless, but don't let that intimidate you, he's actually a really nice guy. Just sad his fishermen keep getting gobbled up by that pale demon."

Thomas gave Franklin a one-eyed glare, clearly none too happy to be reminded.

"Well…" Simon began, "I don't even know how to thank all'a youse for what you've done. I got money! I mean… I don't have any on me, but—"

"Don't you even think about that," ordered Franklin. We men'a the swamp have gotta stick together! Besides, you have paid me. Let's… uh… lets us just say I've sinned a little generously of late, so you gonna buy me the Lord's good graces. That's worth a lot more to me than greenbacks, ain't that right Thomas?"

"Not at all."

"Money don't buy eyes nor a good character, Thomas," Franklin scolded, blowing a ring of smoke.

"Buys glass eyes. And makes one's personality more appealin' to folk," Thomas argued, spitting the last of his tobacco on the floor (Simon figured it must be his house, or else he just had horrible manners).

"Well, it don't buy heaven, do it?"

"Neither does cheatin' on your wife with a French whore."

"Oh, come on! I told you that in confidence. And you didn't see that cat. I mean Christ alive she was somethin'!"—he looked to Simon for reinforcements—"You ever heard a girl moan in French?"

"No. French eighty-gun ship killed my great-great-grandfather in the Quasi-War. Pearson's don't take them to bed anymore."

"Oh," said Franklin, as he tossed his cigarette onto the floor. "Well, let me say, she was…" He droned off as apprehension towards what he'd just done set in. "Oh, do forgive me, Thomas! So rude, just dropping my load wherever I rightly please, and, oh! Gosh, I guess we really should be gettin' you outta here Pearson. Thomas has gotta be gettin' to sleep!"

"I'm good enough to move," Simon said, shifting his thighs (wounded and otherwise) over the frame of the bed so he sat up in it.

"No, Franklin. Really, he can stay here for the night," Thomas encouraged. "As long as it's one night only."

"No, you've done more than enough, Thomas. Thank you. Jessie won't mind, she loves people—she's like a dog that way."

"But I—"

"Oh, wait!" Simon announced, realizing. "I gotta be gettin' back home!" He scurried onto his feet, slipping his remaining boot on—the other was gone, probably inside that damn gator's greasy guts. "Where's the nearest stagecoach?"

The three men erupted into laughter. "Where you think you are? Saint Denis? Blackwater? This is Lagras, boy!" Franklin wheezed out.

"Lagras?" Simon gasped. "I made it that far out?" He grabbed his satchel from off the floor and brought it up to dangle the strap around his shoulder, gagging from the smell—damn crayfish had exploded inside of it, their rank guts forming a soft paste that stuck to the bag when he shook it. "I appreciate"—he stopped to let out one more dry heave—"all your help. You men are goddamn saints. But I really gotta get going now. I promise I'll make things square later." He plodded towards the heap of driftwood that made up the door to the wee shack.

"W-wait," Renaud called, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You ain't even close to fully recovered. And it's the dead of night, friend." He showed Simon the time with his own bronze Navy-issued pocket watch—the hands gesturing toward a three and a zero. "Sorry, it popped out when I borrowed your journal. I couldn't resist." Simon grabbed it out of the doctor's hands—it was cold and smooth—and he slipped it into the satchel, instantly regretting it.

"C'mon man," Franklin started wearily, "We'll go to my house 'cross the street and catch us a little shut eye. Have you back by the afternoon."

"I-I-I can't do that," Simon stammered.

"C'mooon. I'm just as beat as you. A few—"

"I can't miss breakfast!"

"Wha?"

"They'll need me to prepare breakfast. Or… maybe not…"—he said the last part in a whisper—"But I gotta be there. In case they do. Need me, that is."

From Franklin's gut to his throat came a sound so guttural, so obstreperous Simon was convinced he was part-lion or part-cicada or part-Uncle-when-he-snored. It was one of the most notable sighs Franklin Deckard had ever released.

"We all got people like that," said he. "Guess there's nothin' to do but cut dirt. C'mon…"

He cracked the door ajar and motioned for Simon to follow him outside, which he fervidly did. He saw Lagras clearly now, even in the ebony veil of night. It was a patchwork of oxidized metal sheets making up the tops of the houses, waterlogged wood making up the roots, base, and finish of these small huts, and deep-seated soot-black mud adorning every building in a variety of places.

"Doctor," Franklin called out, and it was then Simon realized Renaud was right on his tail, alongside Thomas, "we're gonna be borrowing your wagon if ya don't mind."

"Yeah, no trouble. Heh, need me to point it out to ya?" They chuckled at the dry wit that went amiss on Simon. Until he saw the wagon and understood. It was the bitter rival of the concept of subtlety; black, red, and yellow with the august words of 'Dr. Renaud' branded to its side. Atop it sat a model of a tall mortar and pestle. Franklin passed it by, heading to the stables for Renaud's horse.

"Thank you, doctor," Simon said, figuring it might be his last chance, "I won't forget you. I promise I'll be back with the treasure of Hades for what you've done."

"Don't worry 'bout it," Renaud answered. "It's about even for what I got off ya from that book of yours,"—he offered the journal, which Simon zealously claimed—"Plus, I'm still in your debt by association."

"Association with who?"

Renaud's eyes fell then, and he said despairingly "Arthur Morgan."

"Y-you knew him," Simon asked, bewildered.

"Yeah. He helped me out a while back. Owe him a lot."

"He does that from time to time. Or he did… he's… he's—"

"I know." Renaud gave him a meek smile. "I read it in your book. Travesty. He seemed a good fella."

"He was."

Franklin came about then, attaching the black stallion to the carriage and taking a seat up top, taking hold of the reins. Simon followed suit in the shotgun.

"It was good to know ya, Mr. Pearson," said Renaud.

"Likewise, Mr. Renaud."

"Remember: if any of your friends are in need of medical assistance, I'll be right here for the time being."

"I'll keep that in mind. You be well."

"Likewise."

They rode off, leaving the well-dressed man standing like a bull in a china shop amongst the swampy bone orchard of a town. The moon had seemingly taken a night off: the scarce light coming off Franklin's lantern was all that lit their way south.

"It goes without saying," Simon began to his ever-stoic companion, "that you'll be well-compensated for all your efforts."

"Oh, no—"

"That's not up for discussion, friend."

"... Well, it would be impolite to argue with a sickly man," Franklin laughed, which ultimately warped into an unkempt yawn. "Can you keep talking? Gotta stay awake."

"Talking's the one thing I can do," Simon brazenly spoke until he decided there was only one thing he thought warranted discussion. "Ever been in the Navy?"

"Nah. Brother was," Franklin said, his expression going numb like he'd been hit with a hypodermic needle of morphine. "No place for a black man. No place at all."

"Oh…" Simon looked around, searching for a new conversation piece. "Hey, why doesn't that quaint town of yours have a stagecoach?"

"Heh, who the hell'd want to come?" Franklin asked. "Who in their right mind would pass by the pleasantries of Valentine, or Rhodes, or even Saint Denis and instead head up to Lagras?"

"Well, why do you stay?"

"It's home."

The wagon took a turn port-side, winding down the rudimentary, undeveloped roads, surrounded by towering trees caging them in from all sides like bars to a prison cell. They ambled on till they reached where the road met the lake, and tilted starboard—and Simon saw it. A small settlement, just across the lake, so dark he couldn't make much of it out, but he discerned it was spacious enough to house at least a dozen people, easy, and that it was completely abandoned.

"Hey, What's that place?" he asked, snoopy as a child.

"That?" chuckled Franklin. "That's Lakay. It's a landmark. A milestone. People used to live there, but not no more. Now the only folks that use it are the bold gadabouts and the occasional drunk."

"What happened there?" Simon inquired, never tearing his gaze from the series of dim ramshackle huts.

"Nothin'. Lagras is a pretty superstitious place—and not for no good reason," Franklin said, his voice growing dour. "But… there have been some… stories."

The wind slapped them with an icy chill then, shaking the trees, eliciting a sound out of them like Javier's maracas. Somewhere, a wolf howled with a bloodthirsty madness.

"They say, this ever-illusive all-knowing 'they', that a big family used to live up there in them houses. Big in both their hefty size and numerousness. It was one daddy, one mommy, and a whole heck of a lotta kids—twelve, boys all."—the rattling trees sounded more like snakes now—cobras, with their tails spinning and hissing—"The momma, she was the biggest of them all, like an elephant, tits bigger than your stomach—"

"How did 'they' know her tits were bigger than my stomach. 'They' never met me."

"They just say 'tits bigger than the stomach of the fattest guy you ever seen'."

"Thanks…"

"You're welcome. Anyway, big girl, right? Well, apparently, they got even more plump, so plump they couldn't walk more than a few steps. Lived off of fishing and never left Lakay. Then it happened." Snapping twigs echoed onto the road like the sound of snapping necks during a good lynching. Simon felt like he was back in that swamp; like he wasn't alone. "The lake ran dry of fish; they'd eaten every last damn one. But they were so damn big, they couldn't go into town, wouldn't have a ride anyway—they ate their mules. In their minds, they only had one choice: divulge in the flesh of the human kind."

"Jesus…"

"Yeah. They had a ballot come dinnertime; everyone's name was dropped in some clay bowl. Sweet Millard (named after the thirteenth president coincidently) was drafted and divided into thirteen pieces, 'cept the head which was apparently shrunken down and made into some voodoo trinket. But here's the rub: Millard was the runt of the litter. Come next breakfast, they was overcome with a wicked gluttony once again. Again, another boy—I think it was Gus. Now, Big Mamma was the hungriest of all them hippos, and she weren't satisfied with her viands. So, she rigged the poll, she pretended to only try and pick out one name, yet when the bowl of titles came her way, she picked up every name but hers. By rule, they all had to be eaten, so eat them she did, picking out the bone, savoring the clumpy fat. All of them, until she was finally full."

"Huh. What happened then?"

"Sources vary. Most believe she got so big her gut bust, and she shed her skin like a snake, til she was normal-sized. Then she just walked to town, pretty as a picture, her appetite slowly returning. Although I prefer the version where she swelled like a hot air balloon and floated off into the sun."

"Yeah, feels more believable," Simon concurred. "Is all that land just… up for grabs?"

"Oh come on… you can't want it," Franklin said, horror plainly stamped on his face.

"You said them stories weren't true."

"Yeah, but… still."

Simon dug his hands into his satchel, uttering a mousy groan as his fingers were coated with the putrid paste inside while he fingered for his journal. He wrote furiously, his chubby fingers shaking like a leaf. Lakay. This could be our new home.

"You are serious," came the amused, yet disgusted voice of Franklin.

"Why not? Free. And it's well hidden from the government, ain't it?"

"Oh… it's that kind of a gang you're running with. Yeah, I ain't heard of no two-piece suit government men comin' down to Lagras in my lifetime. Too damn yellow of the black folk, or the gator folk, or the—"

The arrow struck Franklin just aways from his left nipple, provoking a shrill scream of anguish that burned Simon's ears. He reached to grab the reins, trying to steer the wagon back on course, as more tiny spears whistled around him, covering the wagon until it looked like a porcupine.

"Night Fooooooooo—" Franklin couldn't finish that thought because Renaud's charcoal horse was shot, crying out a final, harrowing neeeeeeeigh before collapsing as the wagon drove over it, blasting the two passengers into the air where they flew as gracefully as rocks.

The breath left Simon's lungs as he pommeled face-first onto the tough, moist dirt and he felt like he was going to die. Of course, he didn't let that stop him. Because he heard; all around him. Click hissss click. Click hissss click. It was them, whatever the hell they were—goddamn demons. Simon gandered aimlessly about, searching for his friend. His ears were ringing but he still heard the click hissss click, along with the trampling of bare feet through puddles; they were getting closer. Simon claimed the dented, but still functional golden lantern from the elixir-strewn rubble Renaud's wagon left behind. He revolved around with the lamp like he was a lighthouse until it locked onto his target.

"Franklin!" he shouted, dashing over and drooping the stiff but breathing man's arm over his shoulder, moving behind the hunk of shapeless black, red, and yellow wood that used to be their wagon for cover just as another arrow whizzed by.

Click. Hissss. Click! One was rushing toward him now. He was black as night, yet his face was streaked with ashen paint; his pants were baggy—he'd probably lost a ton of weight; he wore no shirt and was so gaunt that even in the dark, Simon could see the outline every bone in his torso protruding out from his chest. And he was rushing toward him.

Like with the alligator, Simon prodded his belt, hoping a gun would sneak its way into there; it didn't. The thing's machete glistened under the sunny lantern's glow.

Bang! Seemed a gun had crept onto Franklin's belt, and he held it now as it leaked white steam. The monster went down. Simon helped his armed companion limp behind the wagon, and they crouched behind it, both of their minds racing, trying to come up with a way out. Click hiss click. They were still getting closer.

"I…" Franklin said, taking a big pause as he grunted in pain and licked his lips. "I think this arrow's just about finished me. I'll make some noise, distract 'em, and you run and don't look back. Least one of us gets out that way."

Simon gazed into his brown, slick-with-sweat face. Despite the pain, it was still warm, warm as a cookie. "That's a good plan…" he said, yanking the Schofield piece from Franklin. "I think I'll steal it. Run like hell until you get to Lagras."

"No!" Franklin protested. "You don't know these swamps like I do; you don't have a chance of outrunnin' 'em. I do."

"I do have a chance," Simon said calmly, "because of you. Thanks by the way—for savin' my life—I don't think I ever said it properly, did I?"

"Ya can't—"

"Mr. Pierce, you ain't been president since '57, so you can't tell me shit about what I can and can't do. Goodbye, Franklin."

Simon took a few paces out, screaming like a banshee, and fired his new Schofield like he was trying to imitate the 'shot heard round the world'.

"Come and get me you ugly freaks!"—Bang!—"I'm right here! Best eating you'll ever get!"—Bang! Bang!—"Haaaul on the booowline, homeward we are goooin'. Haul on the booowline', the booowlin' haaaul!"

Simon kept a-moving, adrenaline overwhelming the pain he still felt in his leg from that damn gator; he disappeared into the treeline, the clicks and hisses still on his tail, so loud they drowned out his singing. In a futile effort, he turned around and let off a few more shots, hoping to hit one of those freaks—of course, he missed by a mile. Arthur was the gunslinger. I'm the grubslinger.

He didn't cease his sprinting (or at least his best imitation of sprinting), not until the pillars of trees that had engirdled him fully dissipated, and he found himself completely in the open; an easy target.

His eyes on an axel, he saw a river in the distance and ran to it, desiring to lose them there. He tossed the lantern in the opposite direction, not wanting them to follow him anymore, wanting quite the converse. He made clumsy strides across the muddy terrain, until he reached his destination, diving into the waters—which were only waist-deep. The currents were strong, but not enough to sweep him off his feet like a kite in the wind. He tramped through the thick river, fighting to get to the other side; he was so close. And then he heard the whistling of arrows; a dozen of them at least. And that clicking and hissing, that damn clicking and hissing—they couldn't be human. They hit the water with quick, sharp splashes, peppering all around him. Semper Fortis. Just a little further. A litt—

The arrow hit him in the back, sending a shiver of subtle pain across his entire body. He was getting slower, weaker; the next one would kill him. A Navyman who dies in the water; death is a poet. But he didn't hear the sound of the heralds beckoning him to heaven (fingers crossed), instead being feted with an equally pleasing sound: the sound of gunfire on the opposite end of the river. Bang bang! Bang bang! The clicking and hissing quelled as the beasts either died or retreated to their hellish little pocket of the world. Well, well away from Simon.

He let out a sigh of relief, one so vehement it descended into a fit of coughs. He crawled onto dry land and rose to greet his saviors—God I hope they're doctors, this fuckin' arrow hurts. It was a row of half a dozen men or so, all on horseback, without his lantern and with the hindrance of his middle-aged eyes, he couldn't make out any other details until the rider in front—the leader he assumed—strolled over and dismounted from his gray filly.

"Thank you, fellers," Simon said, still panting. "I was dead and gone afore you showed up. Second time today and it's…"—he pulled his watch out of his satchel—"three twenty-four in the morning. Can you give me a ride to Rhodes? I gotta get this out—"

"Can it really be?" the figure interrupted, striking a match and bringing the crimson flame to his face.

And Simon Pearson saw the jagged, wicked face of Colm O'Driscoll. He hadn't changed one bit: yellow teeth, greasy gray-blonde hair, and a particularly sickening grin.

"Mr. Pearson, right? Let's talk."

What? You thought just because Kieran wasn't caught by O'Driscoll's that meant no one was gonna get caught. Come on...

Pearson's optional side quest was one I really liked in the game, so I'm glad I got to implement it here. RIP Jules, Arthur wasn't here to save him this time.

If anyone's got anything they'd like to see, make sure to get that in sooner rather than later before things are set in stone.

See you next time...