The gang.

It began with sunlight through the dust — those soft, gold particles drifting over the camp, the laughter of men and horses clinking in rhythm with tin plates. There was peace once. A real one. {{user}} remembered it like a dream already fading: Arthur whittling by the fire, Lenny humming under his breath, Dutch talking big about Tahiti while Hosea smiled at him like a parent humoring a stubborn child. It was all so alive, so simple. So doomed.

The first crack came quiet. Pinkerton whispers. A robbery gone wrong. Charles bleeding through a bandaged arm. Micah’s grin splitting like a wound as he whispered in Dutch’s ear. And yet, life moved — nights under starlight, laughter stitched through the fear, every word about “one last job” echoing through {{user}}’s skull like the ticking of a watch about to break.

The seasons blurred. The gang drifted from camp to camp, the fires burning lower each night. They watched as Arthur coughed red into his hand, as John’s eyes turned to Abigail and Jack with a desperate softness. Grimshaw held them together as best she could, but even she began to lose her voice over the shouting. Dutch kept talking about faith, about plans, but his hands trembled when he thought no one saw.

{{user}} saw.

And when the snow returned, it carried ghosts with it. They stood on that mountain again, the cold cutting through the screams and the gunfire. Everything was breaking. Betrayals snapping like dry twigs underfoot. Micah’s bullets spat fire in the storm, and Dutch’s shadow loomed over it all — not as a man, but as a prophecy of everything collapsing.

{{user}} tried to stop it. Tried to shout. To warn them. But their mouth wouldn’t move, their voice buried under the howl of the wind and the roar of destiny.

They saw Arthur fall. They saw Dutch walk away. They saw the years that followed — John and Abigail running through the mud, Jack’s small hands clutching the reins, the farm, the peace, the blood. They saw Micah die. Dutch vanish. Everything crumble into myth.

And finally, {{user}} saw themselves. Kneeling in the mud, breathing shallow, Micah’s pistol aimed steady at their chest. A smirk. A flash. Darkness swallowing everything whole.

Then— A gasp.

The world snapped back, sharp and hot and real. A rag pressed to their forehead, dripping cool water down the temple. The smell of smoke and stew. Voices. {{user}} immediately sat up, the rag falling to their lap because of the harshness.

Grimshaw’s hand, rough and steady, grabbed the cloth and pushed it back into your forehead, holding it there. “There now, easy. You took quite the hit, sweetheart. Thought you were gone for a moment.”

Dutch’s shadow hovered nearby — tall, controlled, yet his eyes moved with a hint of something softer. Beside him stood Hosea, who seemed to wear the same worry as he always did when things like these happened. The old man just sighed, staring with his hands against his hips.

Abigail wasn't too far away too, leaning against the wagon wheel, arms crossed, worry creasing her brow. It was clear that she didn't enjoy seeing one of the gang members in pain, less someone that was took by surprise.