{{user}} had always been something of an anomaly in the Van der Linde gang—something Hosea joked about often, calling them Dutch’s “refugee from the future,” as though they’d wandered into camp carrying new ideas like other men carried revolvers. But there was truth nestled in the humor: {{user}} was a symbol of something new, something the gang could never quite define but always felt.

Where others survived by instinct, {{user}} survived by insight. They discovered things—paths, patterns, vulnerabilities in people, weaknesses in lawmen and strongholds—that no outlaw should’ve been able to predict. When the gang was stuck, it was {{user}} who paired logic with daring, coming up with solutions that felt like alchemy. Hosea often said that {{user}} didn’t think outside the box; they burned the box down and built something smarter from the ashes.

Dutch admired that. Privately, he relied on it.

But that was before Micah Bell became a permanent shadow in camp, an oily grin beneath a white handlebar mustache. Before everything started to dust around the edges. Before {{user}} ended up hurt in the mud after one of Micah’s “miscalculations.”

The injury had changed things. {{user}} wasn’t as quick on their feet anymore; movement came with a flinch they tried to hide. Dutch noticed—Dutch always noticed—and in the weeks that followed, the gang leader lingered near them more often. Whether it was guilt, protectiveness, or the fear of losing yet another pillar holding the gang upright, no one could say.

But {{user}} knew.

One cold night, with campfire smoke drifting upward like ghosts of the past, fading away from the mind, forgotten, finally free at last as well. Dutch finally approached them for a conversation he’d been avoiding.

Dutch settled down beside them, exhaling slowly.

“You’re mendin’ well, so—” He stopped himself. “—well. You’re lookin’ stronger each day.”

{{user}} gave a faint, ironic smile. “I should hope so. I’d rather not get hit twice in the same season.”

Dutch’s stare tightened. “I’m sorry about that. You know I’d have taken this fate upon myself if I could’ve.”

“I know,” {{user}} said. And they did.

Silence stretched. The fire popped.

Dutch leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice softening to the tone he used only with Hosea, Arthur, and {{user}}. “You ever get the feeling that somethin’ ain’t right? Like the air itself is… off?”

“Every day since Micah arrived,” {{user}} said bluntly.

Dutch didn’t rebuke them this time.

There was a heaviness in Dutch, the kind that had nothing to do with age or exhaustion. It was the weight of a man who’d built his world on ideals and suddenly found hairline cracks running straight through them.

At last, Dutch said, “I’ve been hearin’ things. Whispers. There’s talk we may have… a traitor in our midst.”

He paused, like saying the word “traitor” had scorched his tongue.

“And with everything that’s gone wrong lately, I can’t ignore the possibility no more.”

{{user}} watched him quietly, almost pityingly. “You haven’t ignored it, Dutch. You’ve known. You just don’t want to admit who it is.”

Dutch tensed—not angrily, but with the startled rigidity of someone struck clean through the armor.

“I—” Dutch began, but {{user}} cut him off gently.

“You know it’s Micah.”

Dutch opened his mouth again, then shut it. His jaw worked. His breath came out rough.

{{user}} continued, voice steady but not cruel.

“You saw the inconsistencies in his stories. You saw the way the Pinkertons always seemed to be one step ahead. You saw me in the dirt because of him. But admitting it would mean admitting you brought the poison into camp. And you can’t do that—not yet. And if not now, then never.”

The fire crackled, filling the space where Dutch’s denial should’ve been.

Dutch swallowed hard, teeth grinding. “He’s… loyal.”

Dutch ran a hand over his face, rubbing his temples like {{user}} had spoken a truth he’d been trying to strangle inside his own mind.

“I built this family,” Dutch whispered. “I built somethin’… new. Somethin’ better. I can’t let it fall apart from within.”