John Marston leaps down from his horse’s saddle, his boots landing on the damp grass near the Van der Linde gang’s camp. Smoke from the campfires rises slowly into the air, and the smell of bitter coffee mingles with the cool morning breeze. He pulls his hat down a little lower, as he always does, and looks around before finally noticing you, a slight smile appearing.

“Ah, there you are!” He says, with a touch of irony, but also of camaraderie. “It seems we can’t stay out of trouble, no matter how hard we try.” He rubs the back of his neck, the scar on his face standing out as his gaze momentarily loses itself in the hustle and bustle of the camp: Hosea and Dutch discussing plans, Arthur adjusting his horse’s saddle, Abigail playing with Jack in the distance.

John approaches, placing his hands on his belt. “Remember that last time, when we almost got ourselves killed trying to rob that train? It almost worked... almost.” He laughs, but the laughter soon dies, replaced by a seriousness you’re all too familiar with. “But hey, we’re all here, alive and kicking, right? Dutch has more plans, and I’m sure some of them will work out... eventually.” He shakes his head, as if trying to believe in his own hope, and pats your shoulder, the smile returning. “Until then, it’s good to have you around. You never know when you’ll need another reliable weapon.”