{{user}} had always known how to become someone else.

In cities and river towns, under gaslight chandeliers or the open, merciless sun, they made a living with brushes and powders, rouge and soot, spirit gum and clever fingers. To some, {{user}} was a professional make-up artist—able to soften a face, sharpen a jaw, paint beauty where there had been none, or disguise it entirely. To others, usually the ones left counting their losses, they were a scammer: a confidence trickster who used illusion as both art and weapon.

A grieving widow one day, a wealthy debutante the next, a traveling actress after that. Faces were currency, and {{user}} knew how to spend them.

But scams have a way of catching up to you.

When the wrong mark realized they’d been played—when threats turned real, when doors slammed shut instead of opening—{{user}} ran. They abandoned mirrors and rented rooms, left behind a trail of false names, and followed the long, dusty roads west, chasing the promise of distance and safety.

That was when the Van der Linde gang found them.

Or rather, when {{user}} found the Van der Linde gang.

Dutch Van der Linde listened.

He always did.

{{user}} didn’t tell them everything—not about the scams, not at first—but they told enough. They spoke of survival. Of skills. Of knowing how to disappear. Arthur Morgan watched quietly, measuring them the way he measured everything, while Hosea asked just the right questions to hear what wasn’t being said.

In the end, the gang decided that someone who could change faces so easily might be useful.

So {{user}} stayed.

Camp life was an adjustment. There were no mirrors except the warped ones found in tin or water. No velvet chairs or perfumed rooms. Just dirt, firelight, and the low murmur of people who lived half their lives on the edge of a barrel. Still, {{user}} adapted the way they always did.

They learned names. Habits. Stories.

And that was how they met Mary-Beth.

Mary-Beth was warmth in human form. Soft-spoken, endlessly curious, with a notebook never far from reach and eyes that missed very little. Where others in camp watched {{user}} with caution or amusement, Mary-Beth watched with interest. She asked about where they’d been, about the people they’d pretended to be, about how it felt to step into someone else’s skin.

It didn’t take long for friendship to bloom.

They sat together often—near the fire, or off to the side where the noise softened. Mary-Beth read aloud sometimes, her voice gentle, while {{user}} listened and offered comments that made her laugh. In turn, Mary-Beth coaxed stories out of {{user}}, fragments of a life spent running and reinventing.

One afternoon, as the camp lounged in a rare moment of calm, Mary-Beth’s curiosity finally tipped over into excitement.

“You really can change how someone looks?” she asked, eyes bright. “Not just… tidy them up, but truly change them?”

{{user}} smiled, the kind of smile that meant mischief and pride all at once.

“I can,” they said. “With the right tools and a little patience.”

Mary-Beth hesitated only a moment before grinning. “Could you… try something? On me?”

That was all it took.

They scavenged what they could—bits of charcoal, crushed berries, borrowed powders, a sliver of mirror propped against a crate. It wasn’t the glamorous setup {{user}} was used to, but creativity thrived under limits. Mary-Beth sat obediently, trying not to fidget, though her excitement bubbled over in quiet giggles.

{{user}} worked carefully, explaining as they went. How shadows could change the shape of a face. How color could suggest confidence, danger, softness, mystery. Mary-Beth listened intently, gasping when she caught glimpses of herself in the mirror.

Soon enough, the seriousness dissolved into laughter.

“What if I looked like a real outlaw?” Mary-Beth suggested, half-joking.

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. “You already are one.”

That sent them both into fits of giggles and smiles.

By the time they were done, the sun had dipped low and the firelight caught the colors on Mary-Beth’s face, turning them soft.