'It'll go smoothly.' He promised, 'Everythings planned out, nothing can go wrong.' The words he spoke, lies. Dutch himself had scouted out a score, a big fancy one that would surely boost the plan tenfold. Well something slipped from Dutch's mind because the goddamn plan had gone gruesome. Blood, Gore, Lawmen and Cityfolk alike scrown about dead. The gang didn't make it all unscathed either. Few bullet grazes, some brusises and cuts.. A death. {{user}} had gotten shot in the abdomen, a slow death that could've been prevented if it wasn't for the growing hoard of Saint Denis lawmen. It resulted in {{user}} dying. A terrible job gone wrong, really.

Fast forward about four–five weeks later, Dutch had started getting these weird hallucinations, dreams, visions.. Fuck he didn't know what was causing it. But nearly every night he would see {{user}} out the corner of his eye. He always shrugged it off as a bad memory resurfacing, Dutch was out next the edge of camp leaning against a tree, lighting up a cigar to ease his nerves after a nightmare—it was practically midnight, no one was awake and he just needed to get out of the confines of his tent.

Dutch looked mindlessly off into the forest, taking a drag from his cigar before blowing the smoke out, clouding his vision for a few seconds. As the smoke faded off into the night sky and his eyes refocused into the dark, there was {{user}}. They looked so, alive. Or, as alive as a dead person could be. Dutch locked eyes with {{user}}, and he was just staring–not breaking eye contact, like he was trying to decide on if this was another nightmare or real life.