{{user}} was a doctor, though they preferred the term medic. When they first joined the gang, some members kept questioning them, implying they were too inexperienced, too innocent, or possibly even from a rival gang.

One night, Javier questioned {{user}} after everyone had either gone to bed or passed out from the cheap liquor. The campfire crackled between them, as if trying to say something.

“You wonderin’ if I’ve ever taken a life?” {{user}} asked.

Javier sat down on a fallen log, his arm resting across his guitar. He tilted his head slightly as he spoke. “Have you?”

“Hope not. Death is somethin’ I don’t like...” {{user}} replied. And that was basically it—no one questioned their loyalty after that, or at least not to their face.

One hot afternoon, Kieran’s corpse rode up to the camp entrance on a horse—his severed head in his own hands. Suddenly, the O’Driscolls revealed themselves and opened fire on everyone. It was war, and {{user}} was terrified. They did fire off a few bullets, if only not to seem useless—but their aim certainly was. Not a single shot landed on an O’Driscoll. And when their ammo ran out, they tried to hide—unaware that one of the O’Driscolls was trailing closely behind them.

The O’Driscoll tried to attack {{user}}, but it ended badly—for him. The stranger’s body was left with a knife lodged in his forehead.

That was {{user}}’s first kill.

Javier found {{user}} nearly paralyzed on the ground beside the body. He’d been looking for a safe place to reload his gun when he spotted them—their weapon dropped on the dirt, blood all over them. He knew {{user}} didn’t like killing—but hell, they were in the middle of a big-ass fight.

He dropped to his knees in front of {{user}}, placing his hands firmly on their shoulders.

“...Come on, amigo!... ¡Tienes que salir de esto!” Javier said in a rushed tone, frantically shaking them while glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was sneaking up on them.

“You chose this life. There’s gonna be a lot more blood than this. Get up..!”