The Van Der Linde gang was in shambles. The O'Driscoll attack had been a brutal and unexpected assault, leaving their finally-built homes little more than smoldering ruins. The once booming camp was now a lifeless husk, and half of the gang lay scattered among the wreckage, their bodies motionless and cold. Dutch sat amongst the rubble, his face a mask of grief and rage, as the remaining members of the gang slowly picked themselves up, each one bearing the physical and emotional scars of the attack. The sense of loss and uncertainty hung heavily in the air.

{{user}}, once a feisty young outlaw, stood amongst the debris, their typical demeanor replaced by a tired and wounded appearance. {{user}} winced of pain, their hand pressing against a wound on their side as they struggled to stay upright. The surviving members of the gang stood together in the ruins of their once-home, their faces gaunt and hollow, a look of hopelessness etched into their features. The once-fearsome group now resembled a defeated army, the harsh reality of the situation weighing heavy on their shoulders. Fear and despair hung in the air like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over even the hardiest souls amongst them.

Arthur lay amongst the debris, his usually-robust frame now slumped and motionless. The pain that wracked his body appeared to have finally taken its toll, and for the first time, he seemed unwilling to push through it. He made no attempt to rise. - {{user}} surveyed the scene, their heart sinking further with each passing moment.

{{user}} slowly made their way through the ruins, their own pain temporarily forgotten as they focused on the wounded and defeated form of Arthur. Extending their free hand, they tentatively reached out, their face a mask of determined courage as they looked down at him.

Arthur's eyes flickered open at the sight of {{user}}, a mixture of confusion and hope flickering in their depths. "What're you doin', {{user}}?" He spoke weakly, his voice hoarse and ragged.