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farawaywegotogether · 2 months ago

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-> CH. 8: THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF HORSESHOE OVERLOOK

synopsis: micah lets out a secret that isn't his to spill.

word count: 3.2k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: sorry if you are a micah enjoyer unfortunately i hate him and he and y/n will be dogging on each other in a severe way

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog , @photo1030 , @mavenhavenn , @its-yummi , @fatherbangboo , @shackspossum , @swedesfics , @literallyrousseau , @xprloki , @pedifero , @6esi , @xnorthstar3x , @scorpio-echo , @eafv2323 (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

You’re barely conscious when a voice, mumbled and sleazy, makes its way into your ears: “What’s this?”

You crack your eyes open to see Micah right above you, his smile yellow and crooked. Before you can think or really process anything at all, your fist meets the underside of his jaw.

You immediately hop up onto your feet, blood rushing through your ears and your lungs heaving quick breaths. Micah is kneeling, cradling his jaw in one hand and holding your wallet in the other.

“You freak!” You shout. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

Micah holds up your wallet and looks up at you with something like triumph on his face. “Caught onto your scheme, goddamn plant.”

“What the hell is goin’ on?”

You look over and see Dutch, an angry and bewildered look on his face. His fists are balled and you hope at least most of the anger is directed at Micah.

“Fucker hit me,” Micah says before you can get anything out. He stands and holds your wallet out to Dutch. “I found evidence that they’re a plant, boss.”

“That’s not…”

Dutch takes your wallet and opens it. His eyebrows furrow as he looks over your credit card, debit card, and everything else that’s in there.

“That’s not what it looks like, Dutch,” you say. “I just… I was scared, and I didn’t know how to explain it – you wouldn’t have believed me anyway, would you? Because I know I look crazy when I say I’m from the future and that I basically have a daughter and –”

“You what?” Dutch interrupts you.

Your mind suddenly draws a blank and you can feel your throat constricting. As if on cue, it feels like your heart’s been kicked and the lup-dup is offbeat and racing. Your hands start trembling and your palms feel clammy.

They’re gonna kick you out. Or worse – kill you. Arthur’s gonna finish the job. He’s gonna finish the job and enjoy watching your brains fly into the air like confetti. Or maybe Dutch will do it himself and make an example out of you. An example of what happens when you betray the gang, even if you don’t mean to.

What can I say to change their mind? You ask yourself, barely comprehensible amongst the panic. I can’t. I can’t change their mind and I’m gonna die and leave Sere and Ladybug and they’re gonna get evicted and starve on the streets. Oh, Jesus, I’m…

“Hold on,” you manage. You don’t even know if you’re interrupting someone talking or if everyone’s staring at you or if they’re just leaving you to your own panic.

You barely feel your legs giving way as you faint.

You’re wrapped in something soft, and resting on something plush. Everything’s warm and a nice smell is coming from somewhere nearby. It’s something like pipe smoke, oakmoss, and a musk that’s innate in the smell of most men. (The musk could be coming from you, but you don’t think so.)

You crack your eyes open to see a canvas above you. You decide you don’t really care about what’s going on in the outside world and close your eyes again.

But not everything goes your way. Nothing goes your way, really. You’re forced to get up because you can hear someone calling your name.

You look to your left and see Miss Grimshaw sitting in a chair she’s pulled up. Though her face is carefully set in a stern expression, you can see just the slightest bit of worry in the way her face wrinkles.

“What happened?” You say.

“You fainted,” she says, very matter-of-factly.

“Oh.” You let your head fall back onto the pillow. “Yeah, I remember some of that.”

“Arthur gave up his cot so that you could rest,” she says. “And Dutch wanted to talk to you in his tent. Make sure to thank Arthur after you’re done talking.”

With that, she stands and walks away – probably to harass some of the women because they’re not doing something correctly or fast enough. You can’t really bring yourself to care at this moment.

Dutch probably doesn’t want to kill me, the rational side of your brain says. He just wants to understand what I meant when I went on that panic-fuelled tangent that probably made me look very attractive.

You huff at your little joke and pull the blanket off you. A little devil in the back of your mind tells you that it’s Arthur’s blanket and that you thought that it smelled nice. You promptly tell it to shut up and mind its own business.

As soon as you stand, you miss the warmth and comfort that Arthur’s cot provided. It’s because you’ve been sleeping on a bedroll for a month and miss mattresses – at least, that’s what you tell yourself. And it’s the truth! What, should you be mad at yourself for telling the truth?

You make your way to Dutch’s tent. He’s standing out in front of the open flaps, surveying the camp with a cigar perched between his fingers. When he sees you, he tosses the cigar on the ground and puts it out with the toe of his boot.

“Come on inside,” he says.

“I was out long enough for you to start smoking a cigar?” You ask, a nervous smile on your face and a pit in your stomach.

“Something like that.” Dutch steps to the side and nods, silently telling you to go inside.

You duck inside and smile politely at Molly, who’s sitting on the edge of her and Dutch’s cot. She gives a tight-lipped smile in return, then her eyes flit to Dutch.

“May you excuse us for a moment?” Dutch asks. “We need to have a private conversation.”

Molly’s eyebrows draw together slightly and her painted lips pitch into a frown. “You said we were to spend the morning together.”

“Well, yes, but that was before…” Dutch gestures vaguely at you. “We need to have a talk, Molly. Can’t you entertain yourself for ten minutes?”

Molly leaves in a huff, her heels clacking against the pallets that make up the floor and going silent when she steps outside.

“Ain’t she something?” Dutch says.

You’re not sure if he means it in a demeaning way or in a way that’s meant to praise her. You shrug. “Um, sure. I guess so.”

He sits on the edge of his and Molly’s cot, and you take a seat on a crate near the front of the tent. The tent flaps are opened in the same way a shotgun house is laid out, with both the front and back flaps open, allowing a breeze to come through.

Dutch fishes your wallet from a pocket on the inside of his fancy vest. “Now, tell me what this is. And don’t faint this time.”

You let out a nervous huff of laughter. “It’s a wallet. The thin plastics inside are a credit card, a debit card, and a health insurance card. The cardstock paper is a COVID vaccination card. There’s also money in the main fold. If… you want that. As pittance.”

He carefully takes out your vaccination card and looks it over, probably wondering what a ‘Pfizer’ is and why you had to get two of them. “What’s COVID?”

“A disease,” you say. “A virus that… well, it killed a lot of people.”

“And this happens in…” He squints at the paper. “March of 1921?”

“2020,” you say. “Well, I first got vaccinated in 2021, but the pandemic started in March of 2020. I got… transported, I guess, from 2024.”

“2024,” Dutch says, almost to himself. He takes his eyes off your vaccination card and looks at you. “And what happened to us?”

“What?”

“The gang,” he says. He gestures vaguely towards the outside, at the other people in camp. “Surely they’ve written books about us? About the great heists we went on and the people we saved?”

“Um.” You desperately rack your memory for anything that even sounds like their names. “I… I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

A look washes over Dutch’s face and you quickly try to correct yourself. “But I never really liked to read! I’m more of a YouTube person, myself. And even then, I like video essays – I’ve never sat down and really watched a Western, so I wouldn’t know! I wouldn’t know if, uh… if anything bad happened to the gang. Sorry.”

Your nervous ramblings are met with silence. Dutch is looking at you and he’s making a face that looks like he’s thinking hard about something – probably whether you’re totally insane or your story is a plausible one.

“You can kick me out if you want,” you say, your voice quieter than you meant for it to be. “You’re… The people here trust you. And, hey, if you don’t trust me, that’s okay! I don’t trust a lot of people, so I get it.”

You put on your most convincing smile and try your best to not jump up and scream that you’ll die without them. Not because of any particular attachments (besides Charles and maybe Javier), but because you don’t know how to survive. It’s an easy truth to know, but a hard truth to truly face. You need them. They don’t need you.

“I have a plan,” Dutch says, breaking the silence. “All I need to know is if you’re with me… or against me.”

“Why would I be against you?” You say. “So far, you… you seem like a stand-up guy. You’re not really… You don’t fit into polite society. I don’t either. My…”

You swallow your nervousness and take a breath to calm yourself. “My entire life, I’ve been a burden on society. Me and my sister were born addicted to meth and we needed government handouts our entire childhood. Society didn’t want to help us. We were burdens. And if society hates one thing, it hates burdens.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Dutch says.

“Well, um.” You shrug awkwardly. “What I’m getting at is that I understand what it’s like – having the government and society hate you. And I like what you’ve built here.”

“As long as you ain’t a plant.” He tucks your COVID vaccination card back into your wallet and holds it out to you.

You reach out for it, and he pulls it away at the last second. He narrows his eyes at you.

“I’m keepin’ an eye on you,” he says in a low tone. “If anyone catches a hint of anything… you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”

You nod, trying to be stoic despite the way your stomach turns. “I know.”

Dutch holds your wallet back out and allows you to take it this time. You tuck it in your pocket and stand.

“I’m gonna go,” you say. “Unless you had something else to talk about?”

“No, I don’t,” he says. “And I appreciate your loyalty. Send Molly back in if you see her.”

You duck out of the tent, and it’s like a thousand weights have been lifted from your shoulders. Dutch is on your side. He’s tentatively on your side, and that loyalty is very conditional, but he’s still on your side.

“So – the future, huh?”

You jump and look around the corner of the tent. There, leaning against one of the beams holding up the fabric, is Micah. A spark of anger, so easily reignited from just looking at him, flares in your chest.

“You were eavesdropping?!” You hiss. “What’re you, a teenage girl?”

He draws in a great breath and looks up towards the top of the treeline. “No, no – I wasn’t eavesdropping at all. I was just keepin’ an eye on a suspicious individual. What, is that a crime now? You gonna report me to the sheriff? To Daddy Dutch?”

“You are such a fucking thorn in my side,” you say, the malice and disdain in your voice so obvious a deaf person could hear it. “You’re lucky you can hide behind Dutch. I don’t think you’d last as long as you have otherwise.”

“Oh, that sounded very threatening!” Micah says, exaggerating his point by putting a hand over his heart. “I’m so scared. I might fear for my life, even.”

“Whatever,” you grit out. You turn on your heel and start walking – you don’t know where you’re going. You just want to get away from the foul man-thing that is Micah Bell.

But foul man-things have a tendency to latch onto whatever they can bully easiest – and that just so happens to be you. How can you tell? Micah’s footsteps behind you, which irritate you just from the sound alone.

“Can you blame me for being curious?” He calls after you, his voice definitely louder than it needs to be. “You’re from the future!”

Your legs lock up and you freeze in place. Your heart is in your throat and you can feel at least a dozen eyes on you.

You so desperately want to call on your time in therapy. You want to diffuse the situation and explain everything in a rational way that makes sense to everyone. You want to make room for the inevitable questions, and you want to have the correct, concise answers to those questions.

But you can’t. The only option besides exploding at Micah and making him bleed and cower and whimper is to shut down.

So that’s what you do. You can hear him still heckling and jeering, but you don’t really allow yourself to process it. You make your way to the outskirts of camp, right before the sheer drop, and sit. You lean your back against a rock and watch whatever’s happening in the valley a mile down.

I can’t believe him, you think to yourself. Well, actually, I believe him. That fits Micah’s character perfectly. It makes sense that he’d want to publicly humiliate me and make me look crazy in front of everyone else. Hell, maybe I am crazy…

You shake your head and do your best to rid your brain of those types of thoughts. You’re not crazy. And even if you are, who is Micah to diminish the memories you have? Those memories are real – tangible. He can’t reach into your head and say, “No, actually, this one is fake. I can’t believe that you thought it was real!”

You spy Charles’ boots to your left. He sits next to you but doesn’t say anything, just looks out at the valley below.

“Micah found my wallet,” you say. Your voice is quiet, but you don’t think you can bring yourself to be any louder. “He gave it to Dutch, and I had to explain everything. Micah listened in, and… you know the rest.”

Charles hums, a low sound in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry you were outed like that.”

“Don’t be.” You shrug and shift, hugging your knees close to your chest. “It was gonna happen sooner or later.”

Silence falls between the two of you. You strain your ears and listen to the chattering going on a ways behind you. “The future – 2024.” “Are you sure you heard that right?” “A pandemic!” “How’d they get back here?” “No wonder – they’re a few cattle short of a ranch.” “What about back in Colter?” “Their sister and niece…” “How’ll they get back?” “Oh, bless their heart.”

Through the chatter, you hear a small set of footsteps approach from behind. When you turn, Jack is standing there.

“Is it true?” He asks. “You’re from the future?”

“I am.” You smile at him. “I’m sorry for tricking you.”

“It’s okay,” he says. He plops down next to you, playing with the blades of grass in front of him. “What’s it like?”

“The future?” You ask. Jack nods.

“It’s similar, but very different at the same time,” you say. “I have people I love, just like you. But there’s more cities, and not as much nature.”

“That sounds bad,” Jack says.

“It is bad,” you agree. “And very ugly. But the people are beautiful, and I think that makes up for it. Don’t you think so?”

“Um…” He rips a blade of grass from the ground and twirls it between his fingers. “Yes.”

You watch as Jack tears the blade into strips with intense concentration. “Why’re you tearing the grass up?”

“Because… because I want to,” he says.

“That’s a very good reason,” you say.

You catch Abigail rushing over out of the corner of your eye. She scoops Jack up into her arms and gives an awkward smile.

“I’m sorry,” she says, obviously avoiding the hot topic that just came to light not five minutes ago. “He just wanders off sometimes.”

You give a similarly awkward smile in return. “Don’t worry. I know how kids are.”

“Wait, Mama,” Jack says. “We were talking.”

“You can talk later, Jack,” Abigail shushes him. Then, she walks away with him still cradled in her arms.

You deflate a little, leaning back against the rock with more of your weight. There was something comforting about talking to Jack – something that reminded you of when Ladybug was younger, when she was more innocent and more curious about the world. (But you know you shouldn’t use Jack as some kind of therapy doll. Even in these extenuating circumstances, it’s just not right.)

“Does he remind you of her?” Charles asks.

Your eyes snap over to him, then drift away, like you’re trying to play it cool or something. You know Charles can see right through you.

“Yeah,” you say.

“Your niece?” He asks. “Or your daughter?”

“Ladybug – she… it’s complicated,” you say. “My sister got pregnant young and we’re raising her daughter together, as a family. She’s technically my niece, but I can’t decide if she’s more of a daughter than a niece to me.”

Charles just hums in response. Unless he’s hiding some big secret, you’re pretty sure he’s never had to deal with that kind of mental turmoil or anything similar. It doesn’t really matter if he hasn’t – you’re just glad you have a listening ear and someone to be a friend.

You check over your shoulder and people are still in little groups, talking. A few people are crowded around Jack, who’s surely pattering on about what you told him about the future.

It makes you feel… conflicted. On one hand, you’re mortified. This is, quite possibly, the biggest fuck-up of the century – and there’s been 98 years worth of fuck-ups before this. On the other hand, you’re relieved that you didn’t have to come out and say anything and that Micah did it for you. Yeah, it’s weird to have a grown man gossiping about you, but you’ve dealt with it in the workplace before – and besides, at least you didn’t have to make the confession yourself.

People may see you differently, but Charles is standing by you. Dutch is standing by you. Both know how to handle themselves, and so you do you – mostly.

It’ll be fine. It has to be.

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farawaywegotogether · 3 months ago

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-> CH. 7: SUITORS & SEERS

synopsis: you wonder about arthur, divine with javier, and have a weird dream about a courier.

word count: 3.3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: sorry about how this chap jumps around i just got my new dose of ritalin (adderall lite) LOL

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

Things at camp are mostly normal. You haven’t really seen Arthur around, and you’re not too concerned about whatever he’s doing. Like you heard John say once – you don’t even want to know what he’s doing out there. Probably being the reason some whore grits her teeth and reminds herself that she needs the money he’s handing over in wads.

Well, actually… you don’t think he’s a womanizer. The stories Hosea told you are still somewhat fresh in your mind – from Hosea’s perspective, Arthur’s just a misunderstood brute. But he’s known him for years… you’ve known him for all of a month. And on top of that, you don’t have the kindest relationship with him. What Hosea told you and what you see with your own eyes are at odds with each other, and it’s hard to reconcile the conflicting statements in your mind.

At least you can lay in bed and think about it. No, you don’t really have a bed – it’s a bedroll next to the ammunition wagon, on the other side of Arthur’s tent. The canopy over the wagon is set up so you sort of have some cover, but not as much as on Arthur’s side. You don’t really care – you’re just happy that you aren’t sleeping on the bare ground.

Your eyes are shut, but you can tell that a shadow is suddenly eclipsing your face. You open your eyes and see Tilly looking down at you, her hands on her hips.

“Yes, Tilly?” You say.

“C’mon, sleepyhead,” she says. “You gotta get up ‘fore Miss Grimshaw sees you lazing about.”

You groan and reach forward, pulling yourself up into a sitting position. You slip your boots on and pull up the zipper on the sides. After a moment, you stand, rocking forward on the balls of your feet, then rocking back on your heels.

“What’s on the docket today?” You ask, looking over at Tilly.

“Oh, the usual.” She waves her hand and starts walking. “Chopping firewood, doing the washing, sewing up clothes…”

You catch up with Tilly, then fall in step with her. “Anything particularly painful?”

“Darning socks,” she says without a bit of hesitation.

You huff out a laugh. “Right. I didn’t expect any less from Grimshaw…”

Tilly leads you to a picnic table (though you’re not sure they’re called that back now), where Karen and Sadie are sitting. A small pile of clothes sits in the middle of the table alongside a sewing kit.

You sit next to Sadie, and Tilly sits across from you. You pull a piece of clothing out from the pile, which winds up being a pair of jeans. You quickly pick out a needle and thread from the kit after identifying the tears in the denim – you want to get this over with quickly.

“I didn’t know you knew how to sew,” Karen says. “I thought you were one for the men’s work – choppin’ firewood and all that.”

You lead the thread through the eye of the needle and tie a quick knot. “I learned to sew when I was… I don’t know, five or six. I taught myself.”

Karen hums and goes back to her work, as do you. While your focus is on fixing the tear, you can’t help but wonder about the woman sitting next to you – Sadie. You’ve heard a lot about her. She’s… resilient, to say the least. (She’s more than resilient, really. She’s been through hell and back and still manages to put up a normal front.)

You turn to look at Sadie fully. “Hey – I just realized I never really introduced myself.” You offer a small smile and give her your name.

She takes her eyes off the shirt she’s mending and looks over at you. “Nice to meet you. I’m Sadie Adler.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” You go back to your mending. “You lived on a ranch, right? Before, uh…”

“I did,” Sadie says before you finish your awkward sentence. “With my husband, Jake.”

“I, um… I had someone like that,” you say. “Not a husband, but I… I lost him, too. Though I’m sure no one could compare to Jake.”

“Hey, wait!” Karen juts in. “This’s the first time I’m hearing of a someone.”

You bare your teeth in a somewhat-smile. “No, no. He’s – he’s long gone. He didn’t die, but… he’s dead to me, so it’s all the same, really.”

Tilly puts her sewing down on the table and leans closer. “You can at least tell us his name – what he was like.”

“Um…” You hunch your back and bring your sewing closer to your face, pretending to look at it closely. There’s a faint smell coming from the denim.

“Those ain’t been washed yet,” Sadie points out.

You sit up straight and pull the jeans away from your face. “Right. Yeah.”

Oh, this is going great, you think. A million questions about Pierre and I just had two week’s worth of ball sweat and blood six inches away from my face. Thanks, God! You’re playing a horrible trick on me and I don’t find it funny at all.

“Well, he…” You start, but trail off. “He was bad. Didn’t hit me, but… still. I never met Jake, but he sounds a million times better.”

You decide to leave it at that, and it seems like the women respect that decision. It’s 1899 – they’ve all had bad interactions with men. You don’t need to tell them what it’s like to be a victim. They’re victims damn near every day.

But Arthur isn’t like that, a voice in the back of your mind whispers. He’s not a womanizer or an abuser. He’s just a guy. He’s just some guy by 1899 standards. Strong, intimidating, tall, but otherwise unremarkable… ha! Yeah, right. He’s unremarkable if you ignore all the people he’s killed in cold fucking blood.

You bite your tongue and ignore the urge to ask the women what they think. It’d be inappropriate to gossip at the best of times, but gossiping about Arthur seems like it’d come back to bite you somehow.

But… you can’t help but wonder. There’s something about him that says to ignore the smaller misdemeanors and instead focus on the good things about him. No, you can’t really ignore the fact that he pulled a gun on you, but you want to ignore the little slights he’s made against you – the mean little jabs that don’t really do anything to your self-confidence. (Not that you have a lot, but the fact remains true.)

Arthur makes you second-guess yourself. You never were one for men that are eager to get their hands dirty. Pierre was suave and attentive when he wanted to be, but huffed and whined at the thought of going under the porch to fetch a dropped joint. You’re sure Arthur… well, he wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to crawl around in mud and half-rotted leaves, but he’d do it. He’d do it just so you wouldn’t have to.

Maybe Hosea was right. But if there is a gentleman in Arthur, it’s buried six feet deep and entombed in a metal casket that’s been welded shut. You don’t know what would bring it out. Maybe you don’t even want to.

The light from the campfire is bright and warm. Javier is sitting on a foldout chair nearby, strumming his guitar and singing softly in Spanish. You can pick up and understand a few words, but not enough to sing along.

You step over the felled log that serves as a bench and sit down, basking in the warmth the fire provides. You didn’t work the entire time the sun was out, but it’s still nice to sit down at the end of a long day.

Most of your energy went to thinking, honestly. Everything else was muscle memory. And who else were you thinking about but Arthur Morgan? That bastard.

He’s like a joke that makes you laugh in your dreams – but when you wake up, it makes no goddamn sense. Arthur makes no goddamn sense.

But that’s just how the story goes. A man bursts into your life, loud and attention-drawing, and you can’t help your attention being drawn to him. But why couldn’t it be someone like… you don’t know, Javier? Javier seems suave enough and romantic enough. He’s even got a guitar and speaks Spanish – a language that literally belongs to the romantic language family.

“Ay,” Javier’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. “You divining over there?”

You pull your eyes from the hypnotic ebb and flow of the flames into the air and look over at him. “Huh?”

“You were staring at the fire.” He takes a hand away from the neck of his guitar to grab a bottle of whiskey sitting by his feet. He takes a sip and sets it back down. “I thought you were maybe… fire-seeing?”

“Oh, no, no.” You laugh and rub the side of your arm, pulling your knees closer to your chest.

A feeling of something like calmness washes over you and a memory bubbles to the surface. You’re holding a handful of powdered chalk. You throw it into the fire before you, and the flames whip into the sky in a roar of flame. You can hear White Bird laughing in delight. It’s faint – just whisps compared to the entire tapestry of your mind – but it’s there all the same.

“It’s – it’s called ember-reading,” you say. You point up at the specks of ember coming off the fire and floating in the air before going out. “The Sorrows’ shaman, White Bird, taught me how to read the embers. See what story they were telling.”

Javier hums and plucks at the strings of his guitar. It’s not really a song, but just things he probably thinks sound nice strung together. “Is this fire telling you anything?”

“I’d have to ask a question,” you say. You turn your attention to the log you’re sitting on and pull up a few strips of bark that are only kind of dry.

It sort of frustrates you that you’re able to do this – that this other person still exists within you. Their neural pathways and memories aren’t overtaking yours, but it sure feels like the real you is fading, slowly being overtaken by the other.

But at the same time, you kind of like it. You like not being yourself. You don’t have to totally spill your guts to everyone, apologizing and sobbing and begging for them to not look at you differently. You have an excuse to lie, and it’s easy to lie when all the alibis are already in your head, half-true and there when you need them.

“Hm.” Javier thinks for a second. “Any homesteads that got stashes nearby?”

You work on memory and do your best to bullshit the rest.

You bring your hands to your lips, closing your eyes and mouthing the words of Javier’s question against the bark. You dig your thumbnails into the husk, splintering the bark under the pressure. You mouth the words again, your lips brushing against the wood like the first time.

You toss the bark into the fire. It pops and crackles, throwing embers into the air. The pieces gradually start to come together.

“I see…” You squint up at the embers contrasting against the dark, cloudless sky of early night. “Um… I see a house. And three – no, four men. One of them… he just saved another one of the men! Now there’s a… scattergun?”

In the fire, the bark shrivels into a little charcoal bookmark. It stops giving off embers and a piece breaks and falls into the coals.

You lean back, watching the residual embers from the rest of the wood flit about. “That, um… that didn’t make a lot of sense. Maybe I’m out of practice.”

Javier plucks the strings of his guitar in a descending order. When he speaks, he sounds cautious about believing you, but doesn’t say it outright. “Maybe the most valuable thing in that house is the gun.”

“Yeah,” you say. You break off another piece of bark from the log and tear off strips, tossing them into the fire. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The conversation tapers off, and you find yourself relaxing into the warmth of the fire and the melodies of Javier’s guitar. The sound is old and wooden, but still comforting and inviting. His voice is soft and slow as he sings, deliberate in every syllable and rolled ‘R.’

Maybe this isn’t so bad, you think to yourself. Charles keeps secrets. Javier knows how to sing and play guitar. Tilly is smart and a good conversation partner. Micah hasn’t bothered me that much recently. And Arthur –

You look up just as someone steps over the log and sits next to you – not right next to you, but just out of arm’s length. And who else is it besides Arthur? Of course it has to be Arthur…

Arthur greets you and Javier by saying both of your names. He then holds his hands out towards the fire and rubs them together.

“You see the new horse?” Arthur jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the hitching posts. You have a feeling he’s talking to Javier more than he’s talking to you.

“The grey one?” Javier asks.

“Yeah,” Arthur says.

“She’s mine,” you jut in, keeping your voice as even and dead as you can manage. You don’t even look at Arthur as you speak. “Don’t touch her.”

“Shit, who said I was?” He says, a bit of a bewildered smile on his face.

You sigh and stand, wiping your hands of little pieces of wood that got stuck to your skin. “I’m gonna turn in. Goodnight, Javier.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Javier give Arthur a wide-eyed look that silently says ‘What the hell happened?’ You ignore it and head to your bedroll.

You sit and remove your boots, setting them under the wagon. Then, you take off your button-up, leaving you in just a white undershirt and jeans. You fold the shirt into a pillow and set it at the head of your bedroll.

With a weary, tired sigh, you lay down. Even though you have a makeshift pillow, you still have to prop your arm under your head to make sure it’s got enough support to not give you a crick in the morning.

Sleep comes easily.

You’re acutely aware that you’re dreaming. Black surrounds you. It doesn’t scare you. You don’t really feel any emotion at all.

Your legs start moving on their own. Somehow, you find footing on the nothingness and walk forward.

Eventually, something comes into view – someone. They turn to face you. Carefully cultivated locs, intertwined with metal rings and colorful pieces of thread, frame their face and end just above their shoulders. Their face is amalgamous and your mind can’t quite grasp what they look like. They could be your twin; they could be your complete opposite.

You raise your hand and wave.

They start walking towards you. Their face twists and shifts, the motions of muscle rippling under skin getting more intense and almost violent as they come closer.

You don’t feel scared. You know this person. No, you don’t know their name or their face, but you don’t feel scared because you know who this is. It’s a sense of knowing that feels intrinsic to you.

You reach out and touch their shoulder, your hand moving of its own accord. Their face stops moving and settles into two eyes (close-set, brown), a nose (flat, wide), a mouth (downturned, full lips). A normal face.

“Who are you?” You ask.

“I’m a courier,” they say.

“What’s your name?”

“I…” Their face twists in confusion. “I don’t have a name. Did you take my name?”

“No,” you say immediately. “You can’t take someone’s name.”

“Huh.”

You’re not in the black nothingness anymore. Canyon walls flank you on either side and you’re standing in water. The person is next to you.

“The Three Sisters.” They point up and around you.

“I recognize it,” you say. And it’s true – you do recognize the area. But now there’s three identical statues in the middle of the stream. They weren’t there before.

The statues are of three women dressed in habits like they were picked right out of a nunnery. Their heads are all slightly bowed, their hands folded in front of their chest in prayer (or something like it).

They point at the statues. “The Three Sisters.”

You look over at them and they’re you. Same face, same hair, same build, same amount of fat settled around the hips and waist and the same tired eyes.

“You stole my body,” you say. “What the hell?”

“You stole mine,” they say. “It’s only fair.”

“No, you…” You scoff. “You did it first.”

“No.” They point at you. “We did it at the same time.”

You point at them. “What’re you talking about?”

They point at you again, with both their index fingers. “You wished.”

“Wished for what?” You mirror them and point at them again.

“A new life.”

“Not like this.”

“Why not like this?”

“I left my family behind.”

“I’m taking care of them.”

“You are?”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“Ladybug keeps asking where you are.”

“Ladybug…”

You sigh and lay down in bed. They pull up a chair and turn on the lamp on your bedside table, then pull the blankets up to your chest.

“I miss my niece,” you say. “She’s just a kid. My girl…”

“Your girl.” They stroke one side of your face. “Your child.”

“You’re taking my memories of her.”

“You’re taking my memories of the Mojave.”

“You’re in the Mojave?”

“I am.”

“I’d do anything to be in the Mojave.”

“They miss you.”

“I know.”

You look over at them and they’re back to normal. Same face, same hair, same build, same squarish hips and waist and the same close-set eyes.

“When I wake up tomorrow,” you say, “will this all be in my head?”

“Maybe.” They ghost their fingertips over your hairline. “Aren’t you in your head?”

“What?”

“You’re in your head, too.”

“Oh. You’re right.”

You look up at them. Now that they’re closer, you can see more details on their face. Their crow’s feet. The scar that splits their bottom lip. The star-shaped stitches on their forehead where it looks like their skull was opened and sewed back up.

“What happened?” You ask.

“I got shot.”

“In the head?”

“In my head.”

“That must’ve hurt.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“I wish I wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t what?”

“Shot in the head.”

“That makes sense.”

“But you got your wish granted.”

Your face twists in confusion. “My wish?”

“Didn’t you wish to be far away?”

“Maybe once, when I was a kid.”

“But you have adult responsibilities now.”

“That’s why I said I wished when I was a kid.”

“Some delay that is.”

You step out of the shower and help them with wrapping a towel around themselves, then wrap a towel around yourself. They lead you out of the bathroom.

“Are you an angel?” You ask.

“No,” they say. “I’m a courier.”

“Oh. That’s right.”

“Why do you think I’m an angel?”

“Nothing makes sense. You might as well be an angel.”

“Maybe you’re the angel.”

“I doubt that.”

“Do you think angels are saviors?”

“Maybe. I’m not so sure.”

“Do you think people can become angels?”

“Maybe. I’m not so sure.”

“Do you think people can become saviors?”