Arthur Morgan:
He was the embodiment of the Old West, still wild and fierce. As Dutch Van der Linde's right hand man, he helped found the family that shared and were inspired by Dutch's ideals and dreams for the great American future. However, as he lay on the cliffside wheezing and coughing, he knew now that his surrogate father was nothing more than the unattainable American Dream. Staring back up at those changed eyes, he wheezed out in a labored sigh "John made it," Dutch stepped closer, listening to his so-called friend's final few words. "He's the only one. The rest of us..."
Gasping once again, he struggled to breathe, let alone continue with his final desperate act to save Dutch from the poison words Micah inflicted upon him. "But, I've tried. In the end... I did." he coughed out a chuckle.
Meanwhile, Micah tried to plead with Dutch, telling him "We can make it!" And that "We have the Gold!" But it fell on deaf ears. Dutch walked away, leaving Micah to fend for himself.
Chuckling out a last breath, Arthur used the last of his energy to prop himself up, and faced the rising sun. Barely noticeable in its silhouette, he saw the deer that plagued his dreams. With that, the legend of Arthur Morgan, the legendary Gunslinger, ended... Or did it?
Arthur was now in a meadow, alongside the buck. The air was thick and hazy, just like the countryside he knew in his early days, before the gang. Before Dutch...
He knew he couldn't pass this opportunity, so he hid nearby and fetched his journal out of his pocket and began sketching. "WE DON'T HAVE TIME, ARTHUR!" A gravelly voice boomed in the woods, scaring off the buck before Arthur had a chance to finish his drawing. Suddenly, the scene shifted to dimly lit cobblestone streets, police whistles going off in the distance and approaching faster.
"What in the?" He recalled this place. It was Saint Denis. Once again, he saw the buck, this time fleeing rapidly away from the city and towards Annesburg. A bullet whizzed past his ear. It looks like the law was catching up. Following close behind the deer, Arthur sprinted as fast as he can, the police still hot on his tail.
Once he lost sight of them, the gunslinger leaned against a tree to catch his breath. "Jesus, that was a close one." Wiping his brow of sweat, he looked around to get his bearings. "Wait a minute... This is Beaver Hollow!" Arthur glanced around; It seemed everything was still there. All the wagons were still up, food was warming over the campfire, even his bed and belongings were where it needed to be.
Sauntering over to the table near his bed and wagon, Arthur picked up his bandolier and pistol, storing any spare ammo in his bag. Tightening his gunbelt, he stopped one more time to admire the picture of his younger self and his darling Mary. "I'm gonna miss ya, Mary." He smiled solemnly, gently petting the small frame it was housed in.
Suddenly the deer appeared again, this time nudging his hand with its muzzle. "Hey there, little guy." He chuckled, scratching it behind the ear. "Not so shy now, are we?" It nudged harder, trying to get him to follow it. "Alright, you got my attention! Lead the way."
Calmly, they walked through the camp of memories, letting him revisit the voices and stories the gang shared with him. Eventually, they stopped before Dutch's tent just outside the cave where the gang's money was buried. "I JUST NEED MORE MONEY. I HAVE A PLAN, ARTHUR!" The ground shook from the thundering voice, yet the deer alongside him didn't flee this time. It just nudged his hand to open the tent.
Swallowing his heart, Arthur peeled back the flaps of the tent and was suddenly tackled by Micah. "What's the matter, Black Lung? You don't look so good! HAHAHAHAHA!" He cackled maniacally, putting an iron grip around Arthur's throat. Gasping and struggling, he kicked and moaned, doing everything in his power to get that traitorous rat off him. "Let-*coughs* Let me go, Micah! There ain't nothing left!" However, he never listened. Suddenly, a navy blue wave hit the phantom Micah, sending him sprawling to the ground.
"We heard your call, little one. In one swift moment, this nightmare will be over..." A mysterious voice rang out, its serene tone drowning out the threats and memories of his past.
With bloodshot eyes, Arthur's vision began to fade, slowly fading to darkness...
Arthur woke up with a start. Catching his breath, the outlaw looked around. Am I in... A forest? "B-but I thought I-" Without warning, he began coughing uncontrollably, though luckily no spats of blood came out yet. "Damn this TB! Well, if I didn't die, then I will soon." Grunting, he tried to get up on both feet only to stumble back down again. "Must be more out of it than I thought..." Throating out another cough, he sat back down, not nociting his eye level was drastically lower. "On second thought, maybe I should just sit back down. Don't even know where I'm at, anyhow." Suddenly, he heard voices. Quickly, he tried to scramble behind the nearest tree only to stumble and fall, his illness coming at him fast.
"What was that?! I swear if that's you again Scootaloo, I'm gonna bust your flank so hard you'll think it's another planet!" He could make out the young voice say. Well, least I know I'm in familiar territory. he thought. Still unsure if he should call for the little girl's help, he tried to stay as quiet as possible.
Unfortunately, his Tuberculosis had other ideas. Wheezing, he tried to hold in the coughing fit coming on, but it was too much. Wheezing and hacking, he grunted out a "help!" Before passing out. The last thing he saw before his vision fade to black was a blur of a small filly, no older than a few years. "Nice...*coughs* Horsey..."