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 Thirty-Three: Micah

11:56 PM, July 30th, 1899

Beaver's Hollow was not at all as Micah expected. The name gave him hope it would be akin to Clemen's Point: on the waterfront, perhaps by O'Creagh's Run. But no. The only body of water that rested nearby was a thin murky line that descended from the Kamassa River. Not that Micah was much of a fisherman or held any interest in taking baths—his only real use for the water was to douse rags in it. His leg had healed a great deal, but at times, especially at night, it burned like fire—when he draped them on his game leg, the cool rags proved a prolific relief.

Micah stepped on a finger as he lowered a crate of canned sardines (it was practically all they had at Lagras to sell) onto the ground. He did not know the owner. If he could he would've picked it up and shortchanged Mary-Beth's bookmark with it—the thought along snickered a smile on his face—or better yet, he would've diced it into thirds and slipped a section in Dutch, John, and stupid Lenny's stew. Or wait, no, not them, they were too old, too hardened, it wouldn't be funny, and a whole finger would be better too. Jack, then. He would've slipped it in Jack's stew, the boy would've screamed so loudly his mama and papa would've gone deaf. Or maybe—

No, no, he told himself. People are watching. So he kicked it into a bush, instead. The swish of leaves and pebbles scattering told him a raccoon had helped itself.

2:03 AM, July 31st, 1899

He was still unpacking the camp—unloading crates, making tents for those absent or too drunk (take a wild guess as to who that was) when Dutch had returned, Uncle, Charles, and Javier at his heel.

It began like it always did, they flocked around him like ants around a flinder of bread (Micah would know; he used to drop tiny morsels of his sourdough to attract them before stomping with his bare feet), spitting their complaints at him like he alone could solve them all.

"There's blood everywhere!" whined Abigail

"Ain't there anywhere else we could stay?" Lenny asked. "This place gives me the willies."

"Dutch, I don't think the girls feel safe," Grimshaw said.

He laughed it all off, dismounting his black steed while John moved them aside to be tied to two twisted trees. Ignoring them, he looked to Micah. "Bring out the beers!' he heralded. "Gonna have us a party!" He turned away, inviting Mary-Beth, who was minding her distance, to draw nearer, along with a bedridden Strauss, who had that little red box tucked between his arms. And he just expected Micah to do it. Didn't even need to stare him down, just knew he'd comply like a good little boy. Micah's bad leg shook with rage; he'd heard folks' hair could whiten from fear, and he wondered if hair could blush from anger. Still, he complied. People are watching… people are watching.

'Dutch!" Abigail complained. "Sadie and Bill just took this place! Think its a good idea to brag to the whole damn forest a' Murfrees that it ain't theirs no more?"

He laughed again, but it was forced. Micah remembered the one Dutch gave him when he took his guns and it was identical. "You worry too much, Abigail. We've been through a lot. I think we should celebrate to all we got left, as well as all we've lost."

Karen was passed out on the narrow cotton sheets they were using as beds, but still seemed to whimper at the last part of Dutch's sermon. Micah trialed down the aisle of confused faces, a wide box in his hands. Dutch helped himself to the first beer, inviting everyone else to do the same. "C'mon! We're alive, ain't we?"

"Don't have to tell me twice," Uncle said, moving as fast as he'd ever moved. "Hell, telling me once is half a sin already." He took two, popping both lids off at once with his teeth. "C'mon! 'Less you folks are dead or pregnant, you'd better drink!"

Bill dove in next, followed by Kieran who he prodded. Slowly, warily, things got moving. Vices started flowing, and the mood began to improve. Tilly and Uncle got to singing until the latter was thankfully gagged by John's hand and yanked away. Javier broke out his old cherrywood guitar—wouldn't have been much of a party without it—and played backup to Tilly's drunken yet still sweet-as-honey voice. Strauss sat Indian style on the card-strewn misty grass, disappointed to be going tit-for-tat in poker with Lenny, not knowing the young lad was cheating. Bill hobbled across their alley of gameplay, kicking up red, white, and black mirages into the air. Lenny rambled drunkenly, but the Austrian didn't care. He was still ahead, and to be perfectly honest, was the camp's accountant—the money was his already.

The two extremists were seated by Tilly's inherited chuckwagon. Swanson sat, sober as a songbird, flipping through the Good Book; his fascination with it seemed to be growing each and every day. Conversely, Sadie was next to him, a whole crate of beers on her lap, besieged by a whole squadron of empty bottles around here. She was sullen, taking large, greedy gulps as if hoping to find a razor blade in one of those bottles so she'd be put out of her misery.

Javier eventually changed his tune to a song people could actually understand, and then the dancing started—it was precious, though sloppy from the firewater. Mary-Beth was paired with Kieran, Abigail to John (though she was cautious to keep her eyes peered on Jack), and Grimshaw to Tilly.

Dutch and Charles were snickering through their noses, and so pinched them closed, trying so hard not to laugh, not to wake the old man up as Jack worked. He found Arthur's retractable razor (poor Sadie, that was her dream) and was gingerly carving away at Uncle's white beard while he slept under one of the twisty trees. He turned back, using Dutch's facial hair as his model. Dutch unclasped his hand so the boy could see it clearly, but that was a mistake because then he was laughing until Charles slapped a firm palm over his trap. Uncle stirred and scratched his ass, but didn't wake. Jack returned to work, shaving the cheeks next. At last, the boy screwed up, sheering a pinch too hard at the sideburns and Uncle shot awake, spewing curses while Dutch and Charles collapsed to the floor with laughter, tears in their eyes.

Let them laugh, Micah thought, sulking in the shadows. The sight was sickening and so he left, strolling down the hillside with a pair of underwear. He hoped it was Mary-Beth's or Abigail's, but the bagginess told him it was Grimshaw's. They'll never be free. The Pinks may have failed back at Lakay, but once they lick their wounds, they'll be back with more, dozens more. That's what Milton said. He arrived at flat land again and approached the meager river. Even in the dark, he could see it was brown and turpid. He drowned the undergarments in the water and pulled up his pants, coiling them around his bum leg, but the coolness did not quell the pain. It kept throbbing, growing worse as the repugnant thoughts secreted into his rotten blonde head. They laugh. You vowed to ruin them, and they laugh. Hell, they're happier than they've been in months. He quickened downstream, hoping for solace, for quiet. But those thoughts trailed him like a hunter to a deer. You try to help them and things go to hell, you try to hurt them and things go very well… He tripped on a loose stone and dropped like one, thankfully catching himself so he didn't cause any more damage to his healing leg. He tugged his long dirty-gold hair with both hands, why? Who knows. Perhaps he was trying to split his head open and fish around with the gooey contents for his brain. Put it under a microscope and figure out just what the hell was wrong with him. Or perhaps not; his next thoughts were pretty absolute.

They won't be laughing soon. He pictured it: Pinkertons storming in, catching them by surprise. Bill or Javier—or whoever the hell was keeping watch—would race in to say invasion was imminent, and Micah would just giggle. Say nothing, but giggle right at their stupid faces. Then they'd put it all together and their eyes would go wide, but just as they drew their guns to shoot him, their heads would eat a bullet. It would start with Lenny, that smug black bastard, and end with Dutch, who'd ogle at Micah with pleasing eyes and then he'd bend down, as if to help, and take Dutch by the throat, making it long and drawn out, perhaps even letting him go a few ties to hear his raspy, croaking breath before squeezing again until the life drained from those brown, weepy, lying eyes.

Then the Pinkertons would thank him (a real thank you, not like the phony ones Dutch mocked him with) and let him go. He'd steal one of the horses, not The Count he'd cut that one's balls off and stuff them in Dutch's throat—hell, he'd do that to all those sons of bitches, Lenny, John, Mary-Beth that sapphist whore, and he'd ride off into the sunset—

He sighed suddenly. No, he wouldn't. Assuming the Pinks didn't gun him down the second it was all over, he had too large a bounty on his head to escape all the bounty hunters that were coming in. Goddamn James Langton. He sighed again, this one with less disappointment. It won't matter. I'll make them all pay…

"What the hell you doin'?" came a familiarly noxious voice from behind him.

Micah groaned. He stared into the filthy, skinny river, his face darkened and distorted and barely noticeable. "Well, Molly, I was bein' happy a moment ago. Now I ain't up to much."

"Fuck you," was her response and Micah groaned a second time as she walked around his back, coming into view—he'd hoped she'd just piss off and walk back up to camp. She looked how she always did: drunken and disheveled. Her face was greasy and saggy, her white shirt was stained with mud and vomit, her patterned shawl wrapped around her neck (and God, how he hoped it would turn into a noose) and swung down to her arms, and she clung to a sweaty green bottle for dear life. "Fuck all of you! Mary-Beth, Sadie, Karen, and all a' youse. You're goddamn sheep, ya know that?"

Micah breathed deeply. His blood was boiling. Stay calm, stay calm.

"Why you got Bill's undies on your leg?"

Micah retched before hastily tossing the clothing into the stream—his leg began throbbing worse than ever.

Molly's eyes shot from following the floating garments back down to Micah. Her oily face curved into a jagged smile. "Oh… I see…"

"No," he said quickly. "You don't see nothin'."

"Ya got it hard for Bill, do ya?" His hands rolled up into fists and she smiled even wider. "Oh don't worry, I won't tell."

"Bitch," he growled.

"Cocksucker," she rolled back smugly.

"Skank. Hussy."

Her smile crept away. "Cocksucker. Cocksucker. Sheepy, sheepy cocksucker!"

"Skanky, skanky, bitchy, hussy-whore!"

(Ahh… aren't children just the most adorable things?)

Molly shrieked in defeat and kicked Micah's leg, the wounded one. He shrieked in response and lept up, pushing her to the ground. She groaned like she'd never been hit in her life and that green bottle plopped into the river and swept away.

"You can't even… think for yourself," she spat weakly.

"Shut up! Shut up, you worthless bottomfeeding tart!" he sealed the last word by kicking her roughly in the ribs. "Think you're so high and mighty, just like Morgan and Lenny and that strumpet!" He kicked her again. "Think you're so much better than the rest a' us!" She whimpered and Micah thought he heard her call for Dutch. "But what have you ever done? Nothing 'cept complain!" And I can think just fine! he thought. And then the idea hit him. Yeah… I can think just fine… and I'm thinkin' now how much you mean to Dutch… How angry he'd be when you—no. No! No no no. Stick to the plan. He began hyperventilating, feeling his ego working against him. Stick to the plan. Can't kill her yet. Not yet, she'll die soon, but not—

"My daddy…" she murmured, rustling onto her knees, "was the Duke of Ireland."

He almost laughed. "Bullshit."

"No it ain't!" she cried, rising to her feet. "He was! My mama was the Duchess! We used to wear these pretty green dresses… they were made from the sweetest, softest silk in the world—a gift from the emperor of China!"

"Liar…" he said it in a sing-song voice.

"No, I ain't! I wore so many diamonds I shined like a star! That's—that's why my maiden name is O'Shea. That's Irish for 'star.'"

"Lie-eeeeeeeeeer!"

"I ain't lyin'!" She stomped her feet and the ground seemed to shake. "It was the diamonds he wanted! That's why he stole me away!" She started yanking on her orange braids as Micah had done with his own, but rougher. Her hands fell to her sides with webs and webs of sienna hair. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him! I'm royalty! I'm somebody! But you? You're nothin'! You're nobody! You're a dog, a pet. A meat trimmer!"

That was it. Micah pounced on her, ripping her shawl off and grabbing her by the throat. His teeth gritted from the strain and his fingers turned as pale as his hair. A bead of sweat poured off his forehead down onto Molly O'Shea's happy smile.

"Ooahaohh, d-do it! Ke-eeeep g-g-going!" she bellowed in a dark, eldritch voice. She was smiling. "H-h-he's gon… na h-hurt ya… so… bad…"

Micah felt frightened for a moment but kept going. His fingers turned as white as snow and sweat dribbled again down his brow… this time onto an equally salty tear.

"D-do… i-it… p-p-p-p-pleeee…"

It wasn't a threat this time. It was a beg. Micah felt more confident now and found his voice. "Not so high up, now, bitch?" A gurgle was her only rapport. He leaned closer, his lips right at her ear. "I'm gonna kill you, then your man. I'm workin' with the Pinks." He leaned back, wanting to see her wide green eyes as she processed what he said. Oh, this is just like I imagined… even better. "They're gonna come and kill everyone. But not Dutch. He dies by my hand only. It'll be nice and slower, even slower than yours. It'll last a week. A month! I'll—"

He was cut off by the sound of her last words.

"... I… w-want… i-i-in…"

He let go of her then. What? Her eyes were closed and her hair was spread out in a halo around her head—it was a fervid red and for a moment he thought it was her blood and brains leaking from her skull. Then her eyes popped open. She was alive. Alive and gasping for air. She glared at him with green eyes—except they weren't green. He was wrong, hair color can't change from hate but eye color can. She was gazing at him with scarlet eyes, red as hellfire, and he could feel that burn pass to him, could feel his eyes bleed bright, and felt that fire flow through his whole body, lower and lower.

He kissed her, roughly and desperately, expecting to feel her hands on his chest, pushing him away, telling him to get off, that he disgusted her, repulsed her, that she'd rather die. Instead, he felt her skinny arms wrap around his back, her nails boring into his skin. She moaned against his kiss and he quivered, his body aching with urgency. His hand groped blindly down her thighs to the hem of her dress and tossed it up to her chest. She broke the kiss and, breathing and moving as helplessly as him, began undoing his belt as he ripped off the segments of her chemisette that were interfering.

2:22 AM, July 31st, 1899

Molly O'Shea and Micah Bell commenced their odious union.

2:25 AM, July 31st, 1899

They both finish.

Hope you like this pairing, I certainly do.

There are a few duos I wrote (as well as a few more to come) that I really like: Karen and Bill, Trelawny and Sean, Lenny and the mayor, but this is definitely one of my favorites. I couldn't find any fanfics that had these two together, so please let me know if there are any other good ones I'm missing that do this (I'm curious if I'm the first).

As always, thank you for reading!