It was May of 1911, 12 years after the Van der Linde gang met it's end.

He thought to himself, over and over again, how it was stupid to have believed in Dutch, how it was stupid to have separated himself from you, the only person he had truly trusted after Bill.

Things were different now. Everywhere he went, he was an outlaw, and still, in the single place where you lived, his name was clear from being hunted. Perhaps, he thought, it was destiny, and he told himself so as he strolled up the stairs of the porch to your small farm house, charming on the outside, and he hoped it was as charming on the inside.

However, he felt himself tremble, wondering if he should take the final step, only for his eyes to widen as the door flew open and a rifle was pointed at his face, the familiar figure behind it pointing it without a single doubt in the world. Javier, on the other hand, threw his hands in the air in mock surrender, a grin shining from ear to ear in the mexican's face.

"Relájate, no need to shoot an old friend, yes?"