#at least the tree farm is nearly up and running if I can't ever touch the surface again

[ghostlyalbacore]

This Pangolin has been locked in eternal struggle with the coral web spewing mountain titan that's been plaguing my fort for the past bit. Multiple mercenaries and wandering adventurers and assorted migrants have died to this titan, inflicting the laundry list of wounds seen. But this fucking Pangolin? She keeps getting webbed, stunned, knocked into a wall, grabbed ungrabbed and only comes out bruised???? I've managed to set up an airlock (that I'm considering setting up a bridge atomizer in or luring the forgotten beast in to harvest webs from) to easily detain the thing but I don't think it's ever going to wander off.

[splat-dragon]

I find myself somewhere I—I never thought I'd be What do I do now? So much has changed ~Nothing I've Ever Known, Bryan Adams

For one of the first times since she’d woken up in West Elizabeth, it wasn’t raised voices that woke her, but soft voices and hoofbeats. It was hot, but not nearly so hot as she’d grown used to, and so she allowed herself to enjoy it, blinking slowly awake. She yawned, tongue unfurling in that way of a dog’s, before licking her lips, finding them dry and rank of morning breath—oh, but she missed toothpaste!

The voices that continued to speak outside were familiar, so she didn’t hurry as she stood, stretching luxuriously, bones and joints popping in a way that had her sighing—she’d been so stiff, it felt so nice!—before bracing her paws and shaking herself off, working out the last of the kinks in her joints. While the shack was more comfortable than the dirt, it wasn’t too nice on her bones.

“What were you thinkin’?” an old man’s voice grunted suddenly, and her ears had perked up as she’d raised her head to see a familiar freeloader standing in the doorway looking back over his shoulder, clearly not having seen her or, at least if he had, not paying her a lick of thought.

“I don’t know… she said she wanted it!” and she couldn’t help but to snort. Even when she’d been playing the game, however-long-ago, before she’d gone back to a Chapter Two save to roam because there was nothing to do in the epilogue and she missed the gang, she’d thought that had been damn stupid. Abigail had admitted that she hadn’t seen a picture, that she had only read about it in the newspaper (well, had someone else read it to her, but potato potahto), John could have easily gone and found another ranch, one she would have loved even more, one that wasn’t a shack in the middle of a field of dying grass, one that wasn’t near cougar and puma spawns, and wasn’t a stone’s throw away from a forest filled with Skinners, cougars, and grizzly bears. It would be more expensive, sure, but in the long run the cost would be far less, and even when she’d been playing as John and Jack was little more than a handful of pixels the thought of him near that cougar spawn made her anxious.

Then again, if he had bought any other ranch, the epilogue would be a hell of a lot shorter than it already was, but still.

“She ever seen it?” ‘Exactly!’ she thought, nodding her head. She’d never been one to hate Uncle like a lot of players did, never one to hit the antagonize button, preferred to just ignore him if anything—he was lazy, for the most part useless, but in the end he gave his life for the Marstons and so she couldn’t hate him. But here she agreed with him wholeheartedly. “What are we gonna farm here? Rocks?” and that brought a snicker from her chest, and she wondered idly what it sounded like—clearly they couldn’t understand her, else she’d probably have ended up shot, being a talking dog and all, though considering the strange things that John had seen maybe not, but those men from before surely would have set her brains to leaking out on the dirt. Trotting forward, she stuck her head out the open doorway, momentarily blinded by the harsh sunlight, only to find she hadn’t been missing much as she made out Uncle’s broad form, ass pointed her way, stooping down to pick up a stone.

“We?” John echoed, and for the first time she recognized the resignation in his voice.

“You don’t have a hope here, without a wise hand at the tiller.” she tilted her head as she looked between the two, realizing for the first time that she had no clue what a tiller was. Whatever it was, though, Uncle was useless at it, whatever it was, considering he was useless at everything except for the very end of the first game. Around the ranch he did nothing, from what she could recall, and only caused trouble in town. But she liked him because, in the end, he cared for the Marstons, willing to give up his life for them if he had to.

She took no small amount of amusement out of watching them argue, jaw hanging open in a dog’s grin, the drunkard of an old man simply saying ‘no’ as the young gunslinger tried to force him to leave. John was younger, much more dangerous, and could have hauled him off the property, so watching Uncle no-sell him was hysterical.

Living with them, she supposed, wouldn’t be so bad.

“So, you think I’m an idiot?” John grunted, glaring at Uncle as though he’d thrown horse-shit at him, not just a rock.

Yes.’

She ducked out of Uncle’s way as he walked into the shack, half expecting a blow, but he only raised a bushy eyebrow and laughed, “No… I know you’re an idiot!” moving to sprawl out on the floor and grab one of the half-empty bottles of whiskey the dead men had left lying around. She wrinkled her nose, trying not to think about what might be floating around in it, cigarette butts and dead flies and ants and other bugs, and who knew what else besides.

How in all hell had Uncle survived to be so old?

She retched as she saw something float down the neck of the bottle and into Uncle’s mouth, and hurried out of the shack before she could see anything else, stopping to look for John. He was scowling as he gathered up Rachel and Nell the… she was pretty sure IV, leading them by the reins to the tree she’d spent the last few days tied to, and just the sight of it had her fur standing on end, and though she knew he wasn't like them, and that they could pull their reins free from the low branch he was tying them to, it put a sour taste in her mouth.

Not caring to go anywhere near the tree, she waited for him to approach the shack before trotting up to him, wagging her tail and offering a friendly “whuff!”, finding it much deeper than she’d expected, although then again she hadn’t exactly been expecting anything.

John looked at her in surprise, eyebrows raised, and asked “So you stayed, huh girl?” and she lolled out her tongue, dropping on her haunches and thump-thump-thumping her tail on the ground to try and make sure that she came off as friendly—considering that John was a tall man, and she came eye-to-hip on him, she knew she was a big dog, and a big dog with a deep bark was an intimidating dog, and she’d survived days of starvation, dehydration, and near heatstroke, and didn’t care to be shot dead the next day by the man who’d saved her, thank you very much. Slowly, ready to jerk back if she tried to bite, he reached out, and she couldn’t help but to sigh as he scratched under her chin, oh, oh!, but that felt good! Her tail wagged violently enough to throw up puffs of dust and, as he dug his fingers in deeper, her butt began to move with it. That, that, was pure pleasure.

But, of course, all good things have to come to an end. And it was her own stomach that put an end to this one, rumbling so loudly that even John, with his weak human ears, could hear it. He snorted a laugh, withdrawing his hand, and she absolutely did not lean forward, seeking the touch, no sir, asking “Ya hungry, girl? Bet they didn’t feed ya much, did they?” And, okay, she really was. She hadn’t eaten since waking up in… Red Dead Redemption? The Epilogue? West Elizabeth? Whatever you want to call it, she hadn’t eaten since waking up in it, and now that she wasn’t so distracted by the heat and her own thirst, her empty stomach was screaming at her, was all she could think about.

A strange sound pulled her from her musings, flopped-over ears perking up as she watched John dig through his satchel—he could pull anything out of it or, at least, she thought so. Was this world following the game’s logic? Could he somehow fit fifteen squirrel carcasses inside it with plenty of room for other things? Or did it follow real-life logic?

If she didn’t find out from him, she’d have to test that, because the curiosity was killing her.

And then, joy of joys!, he pulled out a handful of dried meat. Her eyes locked on it as she began to drool, tongue lolling out and saliva dripping to the ground as though she were some common street cur, a whine spilling from her throat without her meaning it to. He chuckled, unwrapping the rags that held them together, and tossed it to the ground at my paws, throwing up a cloud of dust. Very, very slowly she looked up at him, glaring as though he had done so just to hurt her, though really she couldn’t blame him. Even though she’d been nothing but well behaved, she’d been half out of her mind most of the time he’d known her, so how was he to know that she wasn’t bad tempered? And, besides, feeding a stray dog can be dangerous; you never knew if they were food aggressive, and in a time without rabies shots being bitten by a stray could be fatal.

So, sighing, and still looking at John as though he’d betrayed her, she took the dried meat in her mouth and beginning to chew, finding it surprisingly hard— seeing as most of her teeth were different from what she was used to, and made for sheared, not chewing, at that. The meat was tough, dry, tasteless and filthy but she was so hungry that, at that moment, it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.

“If you’re gonna stay,” John said suddenly, and she gulped down the last few bites of the mystery meat (maybe venison? She’d never had it before, so she couldn’t say, but the meat had so little taste she wouldn’t be able to say what it was even if she had, “then I suppose you’re gonna need a name.”

‘Oh,’ she thought, licking her lips to try and get the sand off of her muzzle, plopping down on her haunches and looking up at him. Well, she couldn’t exactly tell him her name, could she? If she tried to write her name in the dirt then who knew what would happen? Sure, he was John, but even he would know that a dog shouldn’t be able to write!

...at least, she really hoped so.

Besides, knowing Uncle, he’d probably try to earn money by putting on shows of the ‘Amazing Writing Dog’ or something like that. No thank you.

Well, she sighed, bringing a hindpaw up to scratch behind her ear, she hoped he picked a good name for her or, if she was lucky, he’d manage to stumble across her real name. Probably not, her luck didn’t tend to run that way. As most could probably guess, considering she’d been turned into a dog, sent into a video game, and damn well nearly killed.

Although, considering he’d named his horse ‘Rachel’, she didn’t have high hopes for a good name.

He tried a handful of names - Brownie, which she refused to even acknowledge, Floppy, which was just insulting, Pepper, which she actually liked but surely he could do better? Wait, what was she thinking- Greenie? Wow, and she’d thought Brownie was bad. John sighed, running his fingers through his greasy hair, “Jesus, I’ve never met such a picky animal before!” ‘Well, get used to it!’ “Abigail named Jack, and Old Bob as old as dirt and a Bob through and through.” she looked up at him, and blinked slowly in a manner more befitting a cat than a dog. Still not impressed, John. Old Bob had had a mostly human name, Rachel had a human name, try a human name on her other than Pepper! Please? At least one? Cain had had a human name, it wasn’t like he’d never known a dog with a human’s name. And, she remembered, Rufus had a human-ish name too, so why was he so averse to giving her one, too?

Aw, hell, she remembered then that Jack-or was it Abigail?- had named Rufus.

‘Please, God, why me?’

He looked, suddenly, deep in thought, and she wondered what he’d come up with this time. Fluffy, maybe? Was she fluffy? Seeing herself in the puddle was only a vague memory, hazy and faint considering she’d only been half-conscious, so she needed to find somewhere to get a good look at herself.

When he spoke, it was under his breath, “What was the name of that woman in Jack’s book?” and she tilted her head in aroused curiosity—which book? In the game (at least, in the epilogue) she’d only ever seen him reading about King Arthur, but of course he’d have read plenty others off-screen, so all she could do was look at him like, well, a curious dog. “Gin… Guinev-Guinevere?”  The rather extravagant name was rough on his tongue, stuttered and awkward, a five-dollar word in a fifty-cent mouth, but it was a name she liked , much better than Brownie, Greenie, Floppy or even Pepper, and she feared what other names he might come up with, so she perked her ears and showed her interest, looking at him intently. She could live with that name, quite happily in fact. It was extravagant, far more-so than the one she’d had in her other life.

“Of course that’s the one you like,” he sighed, the surprised expression on his face turning resigned, “who comes up with those names, anyways?” 

“Not you, clearly!” and he better use that name, she refused to answer to anything else he came up with. “Fine, Guin… shit, you’re gonna need a nickname, that’s a hell of a mouthful. Ginny, I’ll call ya Ginny.”

Ginny, she could live with that.