Clemens Point, Scarlett Meadows, Lemoyne, Flat Iron Lake. 18:25 | 22 degrees

——𐂂 ✦ | ٠ ۪ ——

Clemens Point was unusually tense that day. The humid air over the lagoon mixed with the surrounding reeds, making everything feel heavier, stickier. A place that was already uneasy had grown even quieter after the last job—like everyone knew something was happening, but no one was saying it out loud, yet everyone felt the same thing: things in Lemoyne were getting more complicated.

The job had been in Rhodes.

Arthur Morgan and Dutch van der Linde had been pulled into a dirty arrangement with the town’s sheriff office. What Dutch had called a “controlled job,” as always, had turned within half an hour into a thin negotiation with local authority, and then into the shadow of an unwanted conflict. Arthur was used to that kind of thing, and to how quickly Dutch’s “plans” stopped being plans at all. In the end, once things settled, all that was left in the sheriff’s office were scattered papers, half-finished sentences, and a barely spoken agreement; the local order didn’t want to make the Van der Linde gang outright enemies—at least not yet. And there, on the table, two things had been left behind: two temporary deputy sheriff badges.

The return to camp had been silent. Arthur walked through the fires toward the tent, the badge still on his collar, as if it didn’t belong there. When he saw you, he slowed his steps. You looked first at the badge, then up at his face, and asked with a faint surprise, “What is that?”

Arthur raised his eyebrows slightly, as if he had expected the question. “Came off the job,” he said shortly. You stepped closer, looking at it without touching. “So you’re a deputy sheriff now?” Arthur’s mouth twitched faintly. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?” you asked with a small smile. Arthur shrugged lightly. “Dutch’s bright idea. Not mine.” You tilted your head slightly, still studying him. “Do you think it suits me?” Arthur looked at you for a moment, then at the badge.