#also none of this in any way excuses dutch’s actions

[piddgeon]

thinking about Dutch and wanting to sob and cry. of course he went off the rails the way he did. he lost his entire family within the span of a few weeks with Hosea being shot and killed, Arthur visibly deteriorating from TB, and John (in his eyes) betraying him. in his eyes he had already lost or was in the process of losing everything that ever mattered to him. I think trying so hard to cling to the gang and preserve them (even if it ended up driving them apart even faster) was his attempt to keep some sense of control and stability and make it seem like his life wasn’t changing so drastically.

[annasinterests]

going out, she's getting into something

|| main masterlist ||

a/n: here's my contribution for the season, witches! i had SO much fun writing this piece and i hope to get out more for this month! i definitely didn't think it'd be this long but i absolutely loved where it went. also ten points if you could tell when the tone shifted because i started listening to mitski LOL

the dividers are by @saradika — be sure to check them out! 🤍

word count: 10.4k

pairings: arthur morgan x f!reader

warnings & tags: minors dni, halloween time!!! tried to be historically accurate but then again this is fiction y'all, readers having the time of her life honestly, pining, cursing, mentions of alcohol, perhaps some errors??, and some wholesome moments here n there :) — please tell me if i missed anything!

“I already told you girls, the answer is no.”

She didn’t look up from her washing basin as she gave a firm response, her voice tinged with fatigue from the relentless persistence on this matter.

Miss Grimshaw– the unyielding matriarch of the gang– always looking out for the best interest of the camp, even if it meant extinguishing your hopes of a joyous venture beyond its confines.

Normally, you’d accept the answer and move on. But this time, that wasn’t the case. No, you’d been going at it all this week, employing every conceivable tactic to sway her decision– most of which involved volunteering for additional chores atop your designated ones already– because today wasn’t just any other day.

It was Halloween.

And you were damned if you weren’t going out to celebrate it in all its glory.

“Ms. Grimshaw, please,” you continued to beg, “I won’t ask for a thing more!”

The ceaseless scrubbing paused, her hands moving to wipe across her skirt before pressing them against her forehead, muttering words only audible to herself. You stood before her eagerly, hands folded neatly over your apron, shoulders squared– striving to project an aura of innocence that might influence her.

She shook her head as her hands fell hard on her lap, huffing out a frustrated sigh. “Go ask Dutch. If he says it's fine, then you girls can go.”

The elation you felt at her response made you want to dart away before she could have second thoughts, yet your feet remained in the same spot of the muddy grass your heels slowly sunk into. She eyed you as she stood up, your presence a mystery even though she’d already granted your request.

Even though she kept you all on a tight leash, her actions were rooted in sound judgment.

The whole reason there was any stability at camp at all was because of her, no matter how long or short you stayed in some places. She possessed an innate sense of what needed to be done, always placing the welfare of the camp, and more particularly, her girls, at the forefront, even if she had a funny way of showing it sometimes.

“Won’t you come out, too?” Maybe it was naive of you to ask, given she almost never step foot outside camp unless absolutely necessary.

Her hardened stare softened for a moment, peering behind you at camp momentarily as if she really were contemplating it. Her gaze returned to you, her eyebrows drawn together with the faintest curl on her lips.

“What happened to not asking for another thing?”

With a small smile and nod, you excused yourself and set out to find Dutch.

Much to your surprise, he wasn’t in his tent, and a lack of an answer of his whereabouts from Ms. O’Shea didn’t help. Nor did one from Javier out on the post claiming that he hadn’t seen him ride in or out today. And through your thorough search around camp, none revealed a trace of the man you eagerly sought.

On your way back to his tent for a second try, you recognized a figure donning a signature white shirt and black vest standing at the far end of camp, where the view was best of Horseshoe Overlook.

Your smile grew wider with each step to approach him, only calling his name when you were within a few feet.

“Dutch! Can I-”

While your voice caught his attention, it had also gotten the man who stood just nearby him, concealed by the trees until now. You came to an abrupt stop, flickering your widening gaze between the men, feeling hot embarrassment creep onto your cheeks.

It’d been Arthur.

He’d only looked over his shoulder to you, still facing the canyon with his thumbs tucked into his gun belt. The brim of his hat rested just above his eyes as he appraised you, running his eyes up and down your figure.

“I’m sorry..” Your hands instinctively folded against your stomach, “I didn’t realize you were..”

A low chuckle rumbled from Dutch’s chest as he approached you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Nonsense, Miss. Arthur and I were just enjoying the view. Why don’t you join us?”

Your gaze shifted from Dutch’s to Arthur’s, who maintained his position with his chin tucked over his shoulder. He gave no indication as to whether or not your presence affected him, and a slight unease settled in as he was usually quick with a polite comment or sarcastic remark, but he did neither and continued to look at you.

Returning your attention to Dutch, you found him patiently waiting for your response– one hand lingering on your shoulder while the other was outstretched in an invitation to join them at the plateau.

Your lips curled up into a small smile as you walked forward, Dutch appearing to your right and Arthur to his.

The view was nothing short of breathtaking. Below and in the distance, dense forests and mountain ranges stretched for miles, a white veil of mist shrouded at the peaks, and the Dakota River flowed through the canyon, its waters reflecting the brilliant blue of the sky.

What made the scene even more enchanting was the weather– the sun shining bright with barely any clouds to obstruct its rays, its warmth a delight on your skin. The air was crisp in a way that each breath rejuvenated your lungs, a cool and fresh quality trademarked by the fall season.

“What do you think, Miss?” He asked without averting his gaze.

You turned to him, stealing another glance before you, “Pretty as a picture, Dutch.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he softly echoed your sentiment. “Indeed it is.”

For a moment, your eyes fell to Arthur. Like Dutch, he made no move to look away, fully immersed and reveling in the simple pleasures of the moment. His hat still lowered over his eyes, shielding sunlight from those bright blues that could be the sweetest or most intimidating sight. His facial scruff was perfectly tailored for the season– substantial yet manageable, complementing his rugged appearance.

Even in his relaxed stance, you could see his clothing fighting to fit around his muscles, especially in the shoulders and arms. The cuffs of his sleeves clung snugly to his forearms, the contours of his strength evident in raised veins and muscular definition. His thumbs remained tucked into his belt, his large hands lazily curling over it, an embodiment of quiet strength and presence.

A flurry of thoughts swirled in your head– the loudest among them an undeniable realization of just how incredibly attractive this man was.

And how this definitely wasn’t the first time you were thinking this.

You hadn’t realized that you were looking right at him while your thoughts were running wild, and immense embarrassment hit you like a freight train when your eyesight focused on him staring right back at you.

To compound your mortification, your initial reaction was to smile– a smile that aimed to conceal the fact that you had been thoroughly checking him out. You tried to maintain some air of sweetness and innocence, but you knew he could see right through it.

It faltered when he broke contact and looked down, his hat serving as a convenient shield to hide his face entirely. You squeezed your eyes shut and bit your lip, cursing your own lack of composure. It was painfully obvious. You’d gone ahead and made a fool of yourself in front of the man.

Dutch’s voice interrupted your thoughts and commanded you to pull your attention back.

“Camp’s in mighty fine shape thanks to the help of you women here,” he remarked, finally looking at you. “Your contributions are always valued.”

You smoothed out your skirt, a chuckle leaving your lips. “Wouldn’t be as good as it is without Miss Grimshaw. That woman is the glue that keeps us together, I swear by it.”

“That she is.” He agreed, “But with all the effort you ladies put in, I ought to say that you girls deserve a little time to yourselves. Not in camp, that is.”

Your jaw slacked and eyes sparkled with excitement. Barely able to contain the thrill that coursed through your body, your hands began to gesture emphatically as you started up.

“Actually, that’s why I was looking for you!” A grin spread on his face as he took notice of your demeanor, “The girls and I have been dying to go out!”

You caught Arthur lift his head to you, but continued on.

“We would love to go out to town,” you reached out and grazed his arm as he listened, “pleeease, Dutch. Just for tonight?”

He nodded, that reassuring hand finding your shoulder again. “Of course, how could I say no to that?”

You beamed at him, buzzing with even more excitement.

“Where would you ladies like to go? Valentine? Perhaps even Strawberry?”

You bit down on your lip again in a futile attempt to suppress the wicked smile that grew on your face, sheepishly shrugging your shoulders. “Saint Denis?”

“Saint Denis?” Arthur interjected before anyone could speak, stepping in front of Dutch and briefly glancing at you, “Dutch, that’s–”

“Quite alright if that’s where they want to go,” Dutch smoothly derailed his refute, “Arthur.”

But Arthur, being the obstinate man he was, didn’t heed the cue. He furrowed his brows and tilted his head, “That's far, Dutch. Too far.”

Dutch fell silent for a moment, drawing a hand to his hip and shifting his weight to one foot. You wanted to say something to counter Arthur’s point, but you knew his standing with Dutch, so contradicting him could jeopardize your argument, especially after Dutch had already expressed his approval.

“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing we’ll all be going to Saint Denis tonight.”

Dutch’s ability to orchestrate a plan that convinced everyone to head down to Saint Denis was a mystery to you, but the best part was that you had absolutely no responsibility in their efforts to move camp for a night.

Because the only thing you had to focus on was having fun.

After Dutch’s final say, Arthur grumbled, shook his head, and retreated back into camp. It likely didn’t improve his mood when you broke the news to the girls and you all erupted in joyful shouts and jumped around, clinging to one another out of pure delight.

Or when you all approached Lenny and Javier in front of him to ask if they’d take you to town and they agreed without putting up the slightest fight.

Or when you couldn’t resist teasing him by suggesting that he wear his best costume for the evening ahead, earning you a glare that you couldn’t help but smirk at.

You hadn’t even had the chance to get out a proper goodbye to the boys as Tilly grabbed your hand and practically dragged you off the wagon to emerge yourselves in the scene of the town, disappearing into the crowds on the paved streets and dodging the ever flowing trams.

Jack O'Lanterns adorned nearly everywhere you turned, perched atop picket fences that lined the slums to the mansion district. Hay bales, while adding to the festive atmosphere, served as a dual purpose as both sustenance for horses and a playground for children to climb upon– an amusing sight that elicited giggles from you.

Karen had led you all into the markets where several vendors hunkered down for the long night ahead, selling various treats and services from harvest foods, to jewelry, to fortune tellings. They all beckoned and invited you over with their expert sales tactics, and usually you would be able to just ignore them, but given today, you gave in to a woman at a jewelry stand.

You and the girls encircled her table and ogled at all the shiny pieces before you, your hands hovering over a splendid array of rings, earrings, and necklaces. With the utmost care, you picked up a ring to examine it further, capturing the saleswoman's attention.

“Oh, that’s gorgeous.” Mary-Beth leaned in to admire it with you, “I’ve never seen somethin’ quite like that before.”

She was absolutely right; it was one of the finest pieces you’d ever seen, far surpassing what you’d observed other women wear. It was a tri-colored gold ring– a dainty gold rose in the middle, flanked by a pink and green leaf to each side, all set against a band crafted with a delicate weaving pattern.

“Would you like to try it on?” The woman offered with a kind smile. “See how it fits?”

You slipped it on your ring finger with ease, gently turning your wrist to admire it from different angles. It hugged against your skin like it was meant to be.

But when you looked down at the price tag, you quickly changed your mind.

“This is a very lovely piece,” you took it off and placed it back on the table, earning a raised brow from Karen, “but it’s more than what I can offer.”

The woman simply nodded at your honesty. You were well aware that most items in these markets were overpriced, with prices inflated to maximize profit, but you felt that this one was truly worth it’s value. With a polite smile, you stepped away from the table and began to walk off with the girls, your heart feeling a little heavy but knowing it wasn’t the end of the world.

But a gentle hand on your elbow caught your attention, pulling you away from the group– the woman.

She took your hand and cupped hers over it, feeling a small object fall into it. Silently, she observed as her hand revealed what she’d given you.

The ring.

Your mouth formed a small ‘o’ shape and your eyes widened, quickly covering it with your other hand.

“Ma’am, I can’t possibly– I don’t have enough–” Her hand on your arm again made you quiet.

“You could’ve easily stolen it from me, but you told the truth and walked away.” Her smile was warm as she plucked the ring from your hand and slipped it on your finger. “Not many people do that here in Saint Denis.”

You looked at her sympathetically, holding her hands in your own, “How can I repay you?”

She grinned and leaned in to whisper, “Come back if you wind up stealing from anyone else.”

You muffled your laughter with a hand over your mouth, giving her a knowing look as she playfully shooed you off with a wink.

You were certainly going to pay her another visit.

Rejoining the girls, you discreetly but excitedly displayed your new possession, allowing each of them to take a turn at holding it up to their faces for a closer look, their voices filled with admiration for its beauty.

Moving out of the markets, you came across the park of Saint Denis. A massive tent had been pitched across the field with people busy setting it up for the evening’s events, clearly designed to cater to a younger crowd. Beneath it were several rows of seats arranged in front of a stage that featured a couple of large basins evenly spaced apart– instantly recognizing it for apple-bobbing. Taking notice of the flairs of red gingham about the area, it made you smile with the detail put into celebrating the day.

The girls had been chattering excitedly about something you hadn’t been fully tuned into, but you snapped back to attention when Karen seized your hand and urged you to run.

Spinning around, Mary-Beth and Tilly were a few paces ahead to your right while Sadie came bolting closer from your left, a wicked grin spread on her face as she pointed towards the other two girls.

“Jump on that trolley!”

Without a second thought, you began weaving in and out of the crowd, your knees kicking your skirt up with each leap. Laughter escaped from you as you heard the startled cries of townsfolk being pushed aside in your hasty getaway, though you really had no idea why you were running at all.

You grabbed Tilly’s hand and hauled yourself up as Mary-Beth did with Karen, whipping around and sticking your hand out for Sadie who was too far away for your liking. Your heart was pounding as the men behind her were catching up, your smile from the adrenaline dropping and turning into panic.

Glancing back, you saw the trolley was due to turn a corner, inevitably too quick for Sadie to keep up with. Your panic escalated until you spotted a way to effectively cut off her pursuers– a tall stack of hay bales just waiting to be tipped over.

Swiftly, you sat on the rail and leaned back with the three girls holding your legs and waist, giving you the ultimate leverage.

“Sadie!” You shouted. “Cut the corner when I say!”

A thumbs up from her was good enough for you. You quickly alternated your gaze between her and the approaching corner, slowly leaning back and stretching out your arm until you couldn’t anymore, your adrenaline pulsing through your entire body now.

With one last look, you yelled your cue, and at the last moment threading your fingers through a band of twine and yanking with all your might.

Slowly, then all of once, they came tumbling down like you intended, fellow townspeople causing an even bigger commotion– or distraction, for your case. The men had no choice but to stop, tripping over the bales and crashing into other people, your plan executed perfectly except for one crucial detail– Sadie.

Frantically, you scanned the crowd, gripping the rail so hard that you were sure to put a dent in it. Shit– Had they got to her after the cut?

Before you could conjure a series of worst-case scenarios, she came sprinting from your right and jumped on to the trolley with ease, all of you ushering inside and taking a seat to catch your breaths.

“I keep tellin’ ya' to trade that skirt for pants, girl.” Sadie smacked your knee, “With quick thinkin’ like that, it’s a waste you don’t get out more.”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head. The thrill of doing jobs got you antsy, seeing it was something that you could seriously enjoy once in a while, but being a caretaker was what you were at heart. You liked providing stability in a different way.

“What in the hell was all that about?” Karen asked before you could while fanning herself with her hand, “You’re supposed to save the mischief for later, ya’ know.”

Sadie smirked and raised her hands defensively, “I may have miscalculated some things, but–” she dug into her pockets and revealed two handfuls of money, jewelry, and pocket watches. “I think it was worth it.”

You sighed back into your seat as Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen hovered over to get a better look, “I say we take that and go straight to a saloon.”

Sadie shot you an incredulous look, “I just worked my tail off for this, and you wanna spend it already?”

“No–” You dragged a hand over your face and huffed out a laugh, “For bets, idiot. Take more from their pockets, but the fair way.”

She contemplated for a moment. “I ain’t very good at table games.”

“I am!” Karen perked up.

You shot a sly look at Sadie, the dots connecting immediately. And just as you found your new activity for the next couple hours, the trolley slowed to a stop, and you all quickly hopped out the back and right into Doyle’s Tavern.

Hours in, Sadie was racking up more cash and treasures than all five of you could even carry.

It’d been more packed than when you first entered, the festive spirit flourishing through the establishment. On top of all the autumnal decorations already in place, skeletons dangled behind the bar and burning candles littered about to give the right impression of mischievous yet inviting. Round tables were busy with patrons, some full of drinks, others invested in rounds of poker or dominoes– like your own. And when you weren’t glued to a game, you were at the bar flirting your way for a free drink or charming men just to get close enough to discreetly pilfer valuables from their person.

Now, you sauntered over to Karen’s side after taking a brief stroll and glance at Sadie’s hand from the opposite side of the table. While you weren’t intimately familiar with poker, you knew what constituted the best possible hand, and it just so happened that your dear friend held that in her fingers without even knowing it.

You could see the men at the table underestimating her, their smug smiles stemming from her being the lone woman and their belief that they held the winning hand.

But none of them came close to a royal flush.

Nudging Karen, you whispered your observation, a smirk appearing on her face instantly. She shot Sadie a wink– the cue to let them have it– and watched the scene unfold as she splayed her cards across the table.

Their smug smiles dropped to open-mouthed astonishment and disapproving grumbles, slamming their hands down on the table and begrudgingly pushing their bets towards her. She kept her head down in a noble act, but it was really to hide the shit-eating grin on her face as the table cleared and her opponents drudged to the bar for another much needed drink after losing their fourth consecutive round.

Sadie joined you at the side as you all began to leave with the earnings. “God, why don’t we do this more often?” She mused while placing a chunk of wealth into your hands, “Better than the guys doin’ busted-up, ass-backwards jobs if ya’ ask me.”

Mary-Beth spun around and walked backwards as she received her cut, “Well we would if Miss Grimshaw wasn’t such a damn witch.”

“Mhm,” Karen agreed over her shoulder, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw her ridin’ a broom tonight.”

Amid their hearty laughter, you quietly chuckled. You knew that despite her being a hell-bound handler, she loved you girls more than anything.

“Y’all are terrible,” you playfully chided while poking them in the back, “both of you!”

The sun had set as you entered the streets of Saint Denis again, now lit up by streetlights, candles, and Jack O’Lanterns. Your eyes twinkled at the sights, the town completely transforming for the night life. Children roamed the sidewalks in noisy groups, no doubt ready to wreak havoc and fully embody the spirit of mischief. Townsfolk flooded in front of every tavern, saloon, and vicinity that promised alcohol, money, and a good time.

But what really caught your eye was the other women– more precisely, their attire.

Left and right you spotted the most beautiful Victorian dresses you’d laid eyes upon– rich in color and carefully designed with the best materials money could buy– and as well as soft and colorful medieval gowns that fluttered and flowed in the gentle breeze. You couldn’t help but stare in awe of their beauty and how well-fitting they were for the evening.

Sadie saw your hands curl around your money as your eyes flitted around and a sly smile curled the corner of her mouth. “Ya’ know, there’s a boutique just around the corner.”

You shrugged at the idea, but she insisted. “Don’t give me none of that– Go on, go get yourself somethin’ pretty,” she bumped you with her elbow, “I know you wanna.”

You bit your lip as a smile crept on your face, glancing down at your hands and back to her while slowly backing away.

“Give me five minutes.”

It was a lie.

Five turned more into twenty with trying on several different dresses before finding the one.

Initially, you tried on the first dress you saw in the window of the shop, a gorgeous navy dress with an integrated corset between the flared skirt and puffy sleeves. However, the bustle was more than you bargained for, and you certainly didn’t fancy the look of having a shelf on your backside. The mirror in the fitting room let you know that the ‘regal’ look was something you weren’t interested in.

The second was a significant improvement from the first. It leaned toward a more gothic style, featuring a mix of black and red satin, as if the red were a robe draped over the black gown, yet both were stitched together seamlessly. Strings criss-crossed over the bust and torso, giving it a unique backward corset appearance, and the sleeves were long and chinched near the elbows. It even came with a hood adorned with black lace trim– a distinctive feature compared to most gowns you had seen. You loved how it looked and felt, but there was a persistent voice in your head that told you it looked too cultish, especially with the hood. In the end, your conscience had guided you out of the fitting room and onto the next.

Picking through the collections had consumed more time than you had anticipated, and your impatience grew as you felt your precious night slipping away.

Nothing was catching your eye and you just wanted something.

You looked out the window to all the bodies strolling through the streets– laughing, smiling, talking– while you were wasting time away finding a silly dress to wear.

The sound of the bell above the door ringing brought you back as a couple customers entered the store, a trio of young women in animated conversation about accessories and making a bee-line for the displays. But as you eyed them, your gaze shifted to just the right of them, falling on exactly what you were looking for.

There it was– a long, crimson floor-length skirt cinched at the seam under the bust, paired with a striking black blouse. But this wasn’t just any black blouse. No, it had balloon sleeves with exaggerated cuffs adorned with buttons that matched the body, and a stunning combination of lace and mesh on the collar that extended gracefully from shoulder to shoulder.

Not wasting another second, you swiped it and practically flew in and out of the changing room, taking a look in the mirror afterwards and absolutely falling in love with how it looked on you. It was comfortable and conventional with a dash of sexy– a match made in heaven! You slid a wad of cash across the counter to the gentleman in exchange for a paper bag for your other clothes and were quickly out the door.

Clutching the bag, you navigated the labyrinthine alleyways and main roads of Saint Denis in search of your girls, thinking just when you found them, it was just another bunch that looked similar from afar. Head on a swivel, you did your best to avoid getting distracted by the lively celebrations around you, despite your strong desire to join in.

So set on your mission, you didn’t even think to look both ways before nearly stepping in front of an oncoming trolley– being saved by a large hards on your arm and waist.

“Oh!–” You palm flew over your chest as you gasped, “I– Thank you! I didn’t even see where I was going!”

“Quite some timing there,” the figure chuckled, “we just got here.”

We?

Looking up, you were met with Charles looking down at you with a kind smile, putting you at ease. In the not-so-far distance, you saw Dutch, Jack, and Kieran hitching their horses and making their way over to you.

“I see you girls have been busy!” Dutch declared as he grandly gestured to your new clothes. “Having fun I hope?”

You nodded politely. Fun and causing trouble, but who were you to spill about that?

A satisfied grin crossed his face, “We’re off to meet the others at Mayor Lemieux. Care to join us, Miss?”

Reuniting with the rest of the gang? Say less.

Before you could answer, you remembered the bag in your hand and looked down at it, your thoughts not lost on the men around you. Not that your old clothes were worth much in a town like Saint Denis, but they were still yours.

“You three go on, we’ll meet you there.” Charles insisted to Dutch, then turned to you as they walked away. “You can leave your stuff with me, it’ll be safe.”

You smiled as he just knew what to do, the protective side of the men you always appreciated. A short walk over to the stables, where he insisted on keeping his horse rather than in the open, and stowing your things later, you were back on track to the mansion district– after some jokes about all the wealth you’d been carrying, of course, and keeping a couple pieces on you for when you saw your market friend.

You marveled at the increasing crowd in the town– kids’ laughter echoed through the streets that mingled with the roars and singing reverberating from every saloon, and occasionally, there were startled shrieks of terror caused by juveniles of the night. You made comments about the atmosphere and were very careful to stay out of the way of the ongoing trolleys, a small inside joke brewing between you both.

In Charles, you felt a strong sense of safety and trust. He was one of the few men you believed to be genuinely good, his only flaw being part of a criminal gang, but even that could be justified with loyalty. He was kind and respectful, not just towards women, but towards everyone. He was someone to have on your side, always.

“So, is everyone really out here?” You inquired, “I didn’t think that Dutch could really rally everyone up to come into town.”

“For the most part,” Charles shrugged, “a couple of them wanted to stay and watch camp. Said they weren’t too big on celebrating.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who decided to hang back?”

Charles chuckled and glanced at you, teasing, “What’s got you so curious? Expecting somebody?"

Your cheeks burned at his question. You hadn’t been thinking of him until this very moment.

“Maybe I was praying for a miracle that Micah didn’t come.”

He laughed louder this time, “Well, it was answered.”

You cracked a smile at your banter, but now your mind was totally elsewhere and remained that way well into the district, the buzzing of your thoughts stopping at the front entrance of Mayor Lemieux’s estate.

Before you was a huge mansion, white with pillars supporting the sprawling balcony that extended to each side of the house and a wide staircase that led up to an opulent wrap-around porch. From the outside alone, you could tell that every inch of this property was occupied between the amount of people and staff.

Charles led the way into the estate, making sure you didn’t lose him along the way as you looked about. You thought the exterior was grand enough already, but the interior proved to be much more. The flooring in each room varied, from carpet, to tile, to wood– all extravagant. As soon as you stepped inside, a staircase greeted you and split off into two more on each side for the second level, all lined with a rich red and gold carpet. The walls were lined with exquisite light fixtures and portraits of people you couldn’t even begin to name, and an enormous chandelier hung over the center of the entrance, adding to the luxurious ambiance.

Making your way to the back, you grabbed a drink and some hors d’oeuvres off a tray from a nearby server, nursing the drink and nibbling on the food a little bit at a time. As if you thought the place couldn’t be anymore rich, the gazebo and water fountain in the backyard told you otherwise. It was also now that you noticed that the estate had been on the water which reinforced its extravagance. Every single detail had been thought out to make this place the go-to spot for the people of Saint Denis between the assortment of food and beverages, games, decorations– everything.

Your favorite part, though? Finding your people again.

The girls cheered as you locked eyes at the same time, flocking to you and immediately forcing you to spin to show off your attire for the evening. Charles rejoined Dutch, Jack, and Kieran again as they watched you five with amused expressions.

“Next time, we’re comin’ with,” Sadie raised her glass to yours, “five minutes my ass.”

You sheepishly smiled at her and clinked your glass against hers while looking around, “Where’s everyone else? Charles said-”

“There she is!”

Your voice froze as you heard the familiar sound of a particular woman, turning around to meet them.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d show up.”

Your face dropped.

“Miss Grimshaw?”

She took complete pleasure in your utter surprise, sporting a smirk as she sipped from a glass of dark liquid. You approached her, gesturing to say something, but words eluded you, earning a chuckle from her. She savored her drink and waited patiently, her smug expression unyielding until you finally found your voice.

“I didn’t think you wanted to-”

“Celebrate the Day of the Dead? I don’t.” You raised your eyebrows at her bluntness. She took a few steps towards you, “But it beats bein’ in that camp for once. And free drinks ain’t so bad either”

There’s the Susan Grimshaw you knew.

You were quiet as she surveyed your attire, ruffling your sleeve from awkward creases and smoothing it afterwards. Her gaze drew up to your face, looking everywhere but your eyes, making sure all your hairs were in place and that you didn’t just walk straight out of a barn. She placed her fingers under your chin and tilted up to her.

“Don’t be dumb. Don’t be stupid. And don’t go diggin’ up graves. Ya’ hear me?”

You smirked. “No promises.”

She rolled her eyes as her hand dropped, smacking you on the shoulder. “Lord, y’all are the reason I have all these grays.”

She winked at you as she moved on from your conversation, and when you turned back to your friends, they had vanished.

Again.

You let out a suppressed laugh at the circumstances. Of course– if you weren’t glued to their hip, you were bound to lose them. And with as many people there were, finding them again wouldn’t be easy. So, you chose not to.

Swiping another drink from a passing server, you wandered about the property and drank while you observed the various scenes that played out. Suited men overindulging in beers and politics, staff lingering in the corner and gossiping in hushed tones, and young women trying to appear more desirable by loosening buttons or letting a sleeve slip off their shoulders.

The further into the night, the more increasingly bold and uninhibited people became, embracing the wicked and mischievous aspects of the holiday. You noticed it more as you went about the district, slipping in and out without attracting much attention– a level of anonymity you found strangely enjoyable.

The only interruptions were the occasional sightings of familiar faces when you were least expecting them– like Lenny and Kieran on the corner of a saloon, or Karen and Sean talking it up on the staircase of another mansion. Despite their lack of acknowledgement, you still grinned towards them and continued your exploration.

As you came across one of the last estates, you’d barely stepped foot on the property before hearing your name shouted out, causing you to jump.

“Over here, Miss!”

Realizing it to be Dutch beckoning you over, you relaxed and crossed the yard to join at his side, accompanied by a few unfamiliar men. You graciously made their acquaintance and accepted a drink offered by Dutch.

“Gentlemen, this here is one of Van Der Linde’s finest.” He bowed to you, eliciting a shy chuckle out of you, “Truly, she’s one of a kind.”

“You don’t have to tell us twice,” the man to your left winked in your direction. He extended his hand to you, “It’s a shame we haven’t met earlier.”

He was conventionally attractive; kept hair, clean shaven, chiseled features, well dressed. His accent you couldn’t particularly place but found it interesting nonetheless– carrying a definitive air of sophistication.

Taking his hand, he brought it up to his face and kissed the top of it– an act that normally would be acceptable, but you got an icky feeling from him. You bowed your head only to be polite, finding words unnecessary.

“What do you say, dear, let me take you for a drink and have the privilege of getting to know all about Van Der Linde’s finest?”

The bold request had you raising your eyebrows and an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You flushed with embarrassment, was this really happening right now, especially in front of Dutch? It felt so wrong. You didn’t realize how long you’d been silent until another voice interjected.

“She ain’t interested.”

Your eyes widened and back straightened at the deep drawl.

Arthur.

His imposing presence settled beside you, taking the opportunity to steal a glance at him while he was focused on the gentleman before you. It turned into a double-take once you realized what he was wearing.

His hands held his trusty gun belt over a pair of dark pants– jeans, maybe, but it was hard to discern in the dim light. He swapped his typical suspenders for a ragged dark brown leather belt, a unique change yet fitting one. And his shirt– God, his shirt– a white and red gingham button-up that he filled out perfectly with cuffed sleeves. Now that was different, and probably not his preferred style deep down, but you loved it. Even his hat was different, trading his father’s for a much fancier one with a wide front dip and roll, as well as the band featuring brass rifle bullets.

You couldn’t help but gawk. He looked so damn good, and also the only one out of the gang that actually dressed up for the occasion.

“Last I checked, I was speaking to the lady.” The gentleman puffed his chest a bit, elegantly gesturing to you.

Arthur chuckled lowly, his demeanor remaining cool, “Yeah, well, last I checked the lady wasn’t talkin’ back.”

The gentleman, clearly insulted, narrowed his eyes on Arthur as his fingers pinched the stem of his wine glass– the difference between their behaviors clear as day. During their small exchange, you kept your eyes on your hands that held a drink, though you weren’t interested in it much at the moment.

“It’s clear you’ve made her uncomfortable with your poor manners,” the irony of his words made the faintest smile curl on your lips.

Arthur laughed louder, turning to you and draping a hand behind your back while the other settled on his belt still, “Miss, have I made you uncomfortable with my poor manners?”

You met his gaze with a knowing look, biting your lip to fend off the smile that was deepening at him fucking with the man. You knew the answer, and so did Arthur, and you got a kick out of his way of making him look like a fool.

“What poor manners?” You raised your drink to your lips to further conceal your amusement while maintaining eye contact with Arthur, a smirk appearing on his face.

“See? She just ain’t wanna talk to you.” Arthur’s hand pressed against your back, directing you to move, while he tipped his head and gestured a farewell, “Now, you gentlemen have a fine night.”

As you walked further away you could hear bits and pieces of Dutch attempting to soothe the situation, which, to you, sounded like a lot of ass-kissing to salvage whatever relations he had built with those men before suffering a blow from Arthur.

Speaking of him– your skin was warm where his hand touched and guided you, steady as he maneuvered you both through the crowds. It was reminiscent of the feeling you’d had with Charles earlier, but with Arthur, it was different– more intense. Even from behind, you could sense his frame towering over you, feeling a warmth in your cheeks just at the thought of his broadness alone. He mumbled a series of ‘excuse us’ and ‘watch out’ as you moved along into the backyard, the scene nearly the same compared to Mayor Lemieux’s, of course the obvious difference was the actual yard itself.

It was only when you were nearly at the back that his hand dropped from you as he rested against a pillar, his eyes carefully scanning through the sea of people before returning to you.

“M’sorry about that,” his sincerity was evident. “Dutch’s been with ‘em all night, and I ain’t got a very good feeling about it.”

You appreciated his apology though it wasn’t really necessary. His intent was clear, and you admired him for it.

“Well, I’d say you’re my knight in shining armor, but it’s looking more like..” Your eyes danced around his attire again with a hint of a smile.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he shook his head and put his bottle to his lips, giving you a fine sight to see. “S’your fault I’m wearin this get-up, by the way.”

He pointed at you while leaning back, shifting his weight to one foot with the other crossed in front of it. His arms crossed against his chest in a way made his arms look ridiculously big, and you couldn’t help but wonder how this man didn’t have women lining up for him around the block.

“Oh, you say it like it’s a bad thing,” you retorted, taking a sip from your glass before gesturing to yourself. “And you’re not the only one, see?”

With a graceful twirl, you spun around, allowing your skirt to flare for a flashy effect. Arthur couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched you.

“Are you supposed to be somethin’, or?” There was a genuine curiosity in his tone that had you raising your brows, which caused him to stutter. “I-I mean, don’t get me wrong! It looks, you look–”

A laugh from you calmed his nerves, “I’m not, I just wanted to be festive, is all.”

He nodded and shifted his weight to the other foot, casting his gaze towards the crowd again. An awkward silence filled the space for a moment.

“What about you? What’s your get-up?” You grinned as he rolled his eyes at his word choice for costume. “And don’t say a cowboy.”

He fell quiet.

“An outlaw?”

Your laughter mingled in the air with Arthur’s, seeing a dash of red spread across his cheeks. It was exactly the kind of answer you had expected.

As it died down, his attention returned to the yard, and you couldn’t help but look at him. With his rugged looks, quick wit, and heart of gold, it was hard not to feel something for him. And for how much you were having a good time in the short duration you were with him, you couldn’t believe he ever protested coming out here.

Your heart fluttered for him. He could’ve been anywhere else right now, either at camp or drinking and getting into trouble, but yet he stayed with you, and it didn’t look like he was leaving your side anytime soon.

“Arthur–”

“We gotta move–”

The sudden urgency in his voice caught you off-guard. He stood from the pillar and a protective hand was on your back again, preparing to lead you away once more. Both of your gazes were fixed on several unfriendly-looking staff members who were combing through people with lanterns– grabbing them by the shoulder, holding the light to their face, then carelessly throwing them aside when they weren’t the face they were looking for.

Just your luck.

Quickly, Arthur guided you down the steps and to the right to what you assumed was a storage house. You kept an eye out while he found a way in, though your panic rose as they kept sweeping the yard and moving closer.

“Arthur, any day now would be gr–”

He pulled your arm into darkness and swung the door shut, immediately blocking it with an object that was too dark for you to see. The space was much smaller than you imagined and quite stuffy, the music and conversation muffled to your ears now.

Your heart hammered in your chest, surely this wasn’t because of a bruise to the ego? But then again, these rich folk seemed sensitive. You joined Arthur at the small window, just peeking around the curtain to watch the unwelcomed company grow closer, “Some staff this place has.”

“This place belongs to Angelo Bronté. And that ain’t staff.”

You scoffed, “Who?”

“Somebody we ain't need to piss off.”

You faced him, “And let me guess, you pissed him off somehow?”

As he turned to you, you became acutely aware of the lack of distance between you both. Just the slight inch forward and–

No– now was not the time to lust over him, even if your body was giving you all the telltale signs, especially the fire that burned in your core. But it didn’t help when he smirked at you for an answer, the dim illumination of half his face making him look criminally more attractive. You groaned at the overall situation– grappling with your desires and figuring how it wouldn’t be a true Van Der Linde outing if someone didn’t cause trouble.

Your fingers curled around the curtain as you watched them gather near where you’d been standing no more than ten minutes ago. Glancing back, you noticed another window that would lead just over the wall– your escape.

“Hey, there’s a–”

“Where'd you get that?”

You knitted your brows in confusion at him, letting a beat pass before seeing where his eyes had been glued to– your hand on the curtain.

The ring.

The dim light from outside still made it twinkle in the darkness of the room, catching his attention. You glanced at it before redirecting your gaze to the henchmen that had now come down the stairs and searched the opposite side of the patio behind some barrels. It was only a matter of time before they came looking where you were.

“Someone gave it to me, but listen–”

“Who gave it to you? His voice was insistent as he stared at you intently.

You stared back dumbfounded. Between wanting to have him right in this storage house and your pursuers less than twenty yards away, you couldn’t comprehend he was pestering you about this right now.

Letting out a huff, you blindly reached around for anything to give you a boost, finding your footing and hoisting upwards to reach the higher window. With one arm supporting yourself, the other made work with the pane, pushing it up little by little. It proved to be more difficult than you expected from its old age and scarce use. Your heart raced when you heard the twisting of the door knob and voices from the outside congregating around it.

Shit.

With a final push, you opened it all the way, whispering urgently, “C’mon!”

Arthur followed swiftly after you, his plunge to the ground a bit more graceful than yours, but certain he wasn’t looking anyway. Just as hit feet hit the ground, you heard the door bust open from inside, followed by several heavy footsteps and angry voices.

He grabbed your hand and pulled you to the right to run down the street, bumping into townsfolk along the way and hearing their unpleasant words go in one ear and out the other. But they weren’t the only ones disgruntled– so were more henchmen that were right after you. How many people did this guy have?

Your muttered profanity let Arthur know that trouble was on your tail, tightening his grip on your hand and looking for any way out.

An intersection was coming up as you ran further into Saint Denis, which meant more people, more places to hide, and more–

“Trolley!”

You pointed at it as it was approaching too quickly for your liking, hoping Arthur would see and redirect your route. But instead, he tugged for you to run faster.

“We’re not gonna–”

“Just trust me!”

Your eyes darted from the street ahead to the trolley, panic at an all time high as you were essentially running to your certain death.

You squinted as the bright lights blinded you, your legs pumping as fast as they could, and your shriek swallowed by the horn of the machine– you accepted your fate as an oversized bug smeared across its windshield.

You felt your body jerked to the side and slam against concrete. You were disoriented, your senses in chaos. This was it. The afterlife already– dark, cold, and full of..

Ragged breathing?

“Goddamn...” Arthur’s voice reached your ears.

You shot your eyes open at Arthur’s rasp, your heart painfully thumping in your chest and lungs aching with every breath. You heaved and peered around the corner to see Bronté’s men grouped in the street looking for a sign of either of you, but their efforts yielded nothing. WIth an angered look of defeat, they turned back towards the estate, and you let out a deep sigh of relief.

When you turned back, Arthur stood close to you, his gaze drawn to the men then falling to you after.

“You,” you poked at his chest, “are absolutely insane. Never make me do that again!”

“Remember,” his hand reached up for yours, “I’m an outlaw, not a liar.”

You shared a soft laugh, captivated by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled and the soothing timbre of his voice. Your gaze shifted down to your conjoined hands, appreciating the gentle way he held yours despite his larger and rougher ones. His skin was warm against yours, and although you expected fireworks, it was more like a softness, surrendering to its familiarity despite never having experienced it before.

Lightly, his thumb grazed your palm and stopped at the band around your finger, gently turning your hand over so that the design was visible. He examined it closely, tracing the delicate details with his thumb.

“A woman in the market here gave it to me... Told her I couldn’t afford it, but she wanted me to keep it– insisted on it.”

He continued to look at it, taking in all the tiny details as best as he could in the dark alley. A faint smile appeared on his lips as his thumb ran over it, “Sounds like it was meant to be.”

His choice of words resonated with you, reaffirming the same feeling you’d had when you first tried it on.

A chuckle and grin from you caused him to tilt his head with a playful expression, slightly leaning closer to you, “What?”

You glanced at the ring and back to him, briefly holding your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment. Your gaze flickered from his eyes, down to his lips, and back up again.

“You believe in fate, Arthur Morgan?”

His smile faded and eyes slightly widened, but your soft gaze remained steady on him. Your hands left his and traveled to his shoulders, carefully smoothing out any wrinkles. His breathing quickened, especially after the sudden touch. He stared deep into your eyes, searching for any sign that would tell him it was all in his head, but it wasn’t. You knew what you were asking.

He lowered his head for a moment, his expression softening under your touch and drawing closer to you. When he met your eyes again, a fleeting look of sadness crossed his face as his hands found themselves under your elbows.

Being involved with someone like him came with hardships for both sides– a lifestyle that one had to keep and the other suffered because of it. It wasn’t fair, eternally caught in moral dilemmas and forever denied the chance to settle down. There wasn’t the luxury to cherry-pick from life’s offerings, to have it all. This was his life, and he carried the weight of it heavily.

“I don’t believe in a lot of things,”

But you didn’t care. You had embraced a life similar to his, akin to that of the Van Der Linde gang. If you hadn’t, would you all have winded up together anyway?

You understood the unconventional life you all led, far from the standard, civilized existence that others pursued. But it worked for you, and you had each other to rely on, and that’s what truly mattered. You saw beyond the surface, beyond the cold outlaw label that clung to him, a man with flaws and virtues. Maybe he lost his temper too quickly at times or wielded a sharp tongue, but beneath it all, there was love, kindness, and a sense of honor that ran deep within him.

The world may have painted him as the Devil incarnate, but you knew him differently. He was a good man, capable of both selfless kindness and quiet introspection. In your heart, you held this belief, and nothing could change that.

Life had conspired to bring you together. And in that union, there was fate.

“But I have my exceptions.”

He pressed his lips gently against yours, his arms snaking behind and around as yours curled over his shoulders.

It was slow and sweet just like how you imagined he would be– taking his time to know your body and touch. His hands spread along your back and held you protectively, your bodies melting into one another. The breaks between were short, too focused on the fact this was happening to pay attention to anything else but each other. Your hand moved to his cheek and ran your thumb along his beard, earning a hum of pleasure from the small act and had you smiling against his lips.

When you finally broke, you rested foreheads together, pushing up his hat slightly in the process. Even in a dark alley, you could still make out his bright blue eyes and a deep shade of red gracing his skin. You couldn’t even begin to conceal your toothy grin, nor could he.

“I have my exceptions, too.”

His hand reached up and curled around yours, “Hope I’m the only one, then.”

You pecked his lips before stepping back and lacing your fingers with his, gently tugging to walk, “I’ll think about it.”

He rolled his eyes at your wink but still grinned, happily following you around wherever you dragged him to. Slipping between alleys, you merged yourselves with the lively nightlife again– the same sights you saw during the day looked even better now.

As you strolled through the town hand-in-hand, a sense of domesticity settled upon you. Tonight, you weren’t part of a highly wanted gang, you were just another pair in the streets of Saint Denis– clinging to his arm, catching snippets of entertainment through saloon doors, and getting the other’s attention when something of interest was spotted.

One of the things you enjoyed most was Arthur’s reactions to when kids jumped out to scare you both, a prank played on anyone who dared to walk the particular stretch of the street. The younger the prankster, the more dramatic Arthur’s responses became. He would place a hand over his heart and tightly cling to you with feigned disbelief, saying things like “Haven’t been scared like that in years!” or, “Never even saw ‘em comin!” before saying some words of encouragement that fueled the next scare.

Teenage boys who attempted the same stunt received a more wary reception from Arthur, recognizing their motives often stemmed from a desire to appear cool in front of friends or impress girls, and that their pranks were much more juvenile. In most cases, his glare and sheer size alone were enough to send them fleeing, but those who dared to persist were subjected to his quick tongue and left them retreating like chastened dogs with their tails between their legs. Your laughter always followed the encounter, adding to the lingering sting of Arthur’s verbal reprimand.

Eventually, your route had led you near the markets again, and you eagerly pulled Arthur along to find your favorite stand. He chuckled and followed your lead as you navigated through the crowd, your excitement palpable.

“Oh please tell me you stole him!” Came a familiar voice around the corner.

You smiled at the sight of her and approached, seeing that her table had been decently cleared, a sign of a good night for profits.

Arthur politely tipped his head towards her with a shy smile, “Afraid it’s the other way around, ma’am.”

You felt a warmth on your cheeks at his answer and gently squeezed his hand before letting it go to dig out your promises tucked expertly within your clothing. “But I do come bearing gifts!”

Her playful frown turned up into genuine surprise at your reveal of assorted jewelry and trinkets– indeed impressed with your take as it was more than she anticipated. Carefully, she examined each one before placing them with her own wares for sale, whispering a praise about the item while doing so. As she spoke, her eyes flitted about her table, her gestures revealing a hint of embarrassment.

“I apologize that I don’t have more to offer, dear,” her eyebrows furrowed apologetically, “but please, do take whatever you like.”

You glanced over the table, hesitating as you hovered a hand over an item before retracting it, shaking your head slowly. The woman and Arthur exchanged puzzled glances, the woman’s expression now tinged with concern.

“It doesn’t have to be tonight, I’ll be here–”

“It’s quite alright,” you replied sweetly, though the confusion was still apparent in her expression. “I just wanted to repay you.”

She layered her hands over her chest in gratitude, and you felt the act of pure kindness from one human to another to be worth more than any dollar bill or piece of gold.

You also knew that besides the girls, each member that was out had surely pickpocketed or gambled their way into getting a cut for themselves and camp.

Her eyes peered over to Arthur for a moment, his posture straightening when she pointed a motherly finger at him. “Don’t let this one go, you hear?”

You giggled at her demand, and another wave of red kissing his cheeks only added to your amusement as he tipped his head at her once again.

Slowly, you exchanged goodbyes as Arthur placed a hand on your lower back and subtly scooched you along– only for it to be an excuse to slip a wad of cash towards the woman without you noticing. Her hands were quick to replace the cash in his hands for something small and delicate into his, darting her eyes between your turned figure and him before shooting a wink. Without looking, Arthur knew exactly what she gave him, and placed it right in his pocket before giving you his full attention as you continued through the strip.

A warm smile graced your lips as Arthur’s arm wrapped around your waist and he planted a gentle kiss on your head, feeling a tiny swarm of butterflies in your chest. His attention made you feel important with the way he had to touch you, like he needed everyone to see you on his arm, proud to have you by his side.

As the night wore on, you couldn’t suppress the heaviness of your eyelids. You tried to hide your yawns that wouldn’t stop coming after the initial one, but Arthur noticed after the second one. After exploring nearly all the sights of Saint Denis, with the exception of the mansion district, of which you had wisely avoided for the rest of the evening, he convinced you to rest at a hotel for the night. You protested at first, but another yawn and knowing look from him persuaded you to give in.

He’d slipped the clerk a little more than the average room cost, wanting you to have the best possible after such a physically taxing day. The clerk, more than willing to oblige, had graciously handed over the keys.

While the lofty bed and opulent room details were certainly appealing, you immediately took to the private balcony that gave the perfect view over the town, allowing you to continue enjoying the night from the comfort of your room. Your skirt fluttered in the breeze, mirroring the movement of the curtains as you leaned against the iron railing. A soft, ambient glow illuminated your figure, creating a picturesque scene that Arthur couldn’t help but admire– a sight he would undoubtedly sketch later.

He joined at your side, his presence reassuring as he brushed against your shoulder. You continued to gaze down at the bustling town below, the sounds of murmured conversation and laughter from the open buildings– mostly taverns and saloons– filling the night air. You rested your head against Arthur’s shoulder, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you.

“I know I acted like I didn’t wanna come out here tonight,” he mentioned as he looked down at you, meeting your gaze that reaffirmed his statement that pulled a smile from him. “But I’m glad I did.”

Adjusting to face him properly, he snaked his arm around you as he did the same, drawing you closer to him with a soft, affectionate look. You brushed noses as you settled in his space, your lips mere centimeters from his.

“I’m glad you did too.”

Your lips locked in a passionate embrace, and the cheers and woos from below had reached your ears, causing both of you to break into smiles at the unexpected audience. But he paid no heed to the commotion as he pulled you in for more, his hands finding your face to deepen your connection.

In a brief moment of separation, you took the opportunity to give him a suggestive smirk and nod to the room that told him everything he needed to know– quickly peppering kisses along your jaw and neck before swiftly sweeping you off your feet and right into bed.

If tonight proved one thing, it was that you needed to get out of camp more often.

Especially with Arthur.

[0ldwest]

there’s a lot to be said about dutch and his downward spiral into an abyss of blinding paranoia, so i wanna preface this post by saying that none of his actions are meant to be excused here but because his character is so widely interpreted, i just wanna put in my two cents, as applicable to my portrayal.

first of all, i think it’s important to keep in mind that at the start of the game, the gang is already tangled in a web of trouble, with dutch forced to kill an innocent woman during their latest heist. this means that, when the player encounters him, he’s already burdened with fear that the law might catch them, as well as probable guilt over killing a bystander   ((  he does relentlessly advocate a no-killing attitude  )),   not to mention the deaths of some of his friends during said heist. taking these factors into account, most of dutch’s core personality (read: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐋 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐂𝐇) is by that time already only hinted at through lines of dialogues.   he is the man who raised arthur, and even if the player decides to play a low honor version of the game, it will inevitably end in arthur redeeming himself for his actions and wrongdoings. MEANING THE VALUES DUTCH TAUGHT ARTHUR WERE FUNDAMENTALLY GOOD, despite the outlaw ways that he helped develop.

van der l1nde gang members are the living embodiments of dutch’s teachings and education. and in that regard, hosea, arthur and john, who have ridden with him the longest, are the best outlook we can base ourselves on to judge his character. we are talking about three people with wildly different personalities, who all spent decades of their lives with dutch, who have come to know him inside and out, and who have made the the personal decision to stay with him. this applies to any member of the gang.   because beyond being the man who rescued john from hanging, who saved tilly from years of abuse, who took javier in despite the language barrier and happily assisted in his learning english, beyond being the man who took in minorities and women regardless of their background, gave to the poor and donated money the gang stole to orphanages, he is the man who gave them all a second chance. in that day and age, it truly meant something.

DUTCH IS DRIVEN BY LOVE. he is motivated by love. twisted as they are by manipulation and paranoia by the end of the game, his actions can all be traced back to his will to protect the members of his gang. and because he loves them, he is also prone to forgive them.   which notably also applies to the worst people in the gang in terms of personality such as bill, whom dutch is often seen reprimanding for his comments, or micah, to whom dutch gave the same chance he gave everyone else when they first joined the gang, BECAUSE HE SAW IN HIM THE POSSIBILITY FOR SOMETHING BETTER, room for him to grow and become a better person.

because he’s been depicted a manipulative sociopath, i also wanna point out that he never forces any member to stay. SOME OF THEM ACTUALLY LEAVE THE GANG, LEAVE THE CAMP. it hurts him, of course, he cares for them more than anything   ((  always all comes down to LOVE  )),   but he lets john --his son, the one he watched grow from a very young age-- leave, he lets hosea --the man who stood by his side for so many years and whom he always sought for advice-- leave. he missed them incredibly, but they eventually come back, which stands as another sign of the emotional and personal gratification that they find, not only in the gang, but in its leader as well. beyond the sense of loyalty, it’s a proof of the respect and admiration they hold for him.   [[   ARTHUR   M0RGAN   TO   BROTHER   D0RKINS   :

and when they come back, he welcomes them home. i think it’s important to mirror his behavior with another gang that the game makes a point of presenting as the complete opposite of the van der l1nde gang, perhaps to insist on dutch’s status as leader, regardless of his downfall, i give you, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎'𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒. unlike colm who takes no interest in the members of his gang   ((  up to the point where he ignores their names  )),   dutch strongly encourages the expression of individuality as well as creativity, a quality that, again, takes even more meaning in those days.

all this to say that, for all his misguided decisions, his general decline and crippling paranoia, he never intended to and was never actively trying to use anyone in the gang, never took advantage of anyone   ((  if that had been his goal, he’d have picked up random folk here and there and hired guns and outlaws to better discard them once their job was done  )).   HE COULD HAVE, AT ANY TIME, LEFT WITH THE MONEY of which only he knew the hiding place, BUT HE NEVER DOES. his actions were never self-centered like that. and deep down, surely, he hoped things would get better. that he’d find a way to sort their problems out, that things would go on being the way they used to be.

there’s a lot of indecision in dutch after hosea’s death, and micah saw the opportunity and took it. there’s a greater sense of fear, too. fear because the law is hot on their trail, because the entire gang   ((  including --and especially-- arthur, who relentlessly complaints, questions, doubts  ))   is leaning on him, relying on him, COUNTING ON HIM TO HAVE A SOLUTION FOR EVERYTHING, but he doesn’t. not anymore. and the pressure is definitely causing him to doubt himself, believing any lie micah whispers in his ear to twist his perception.   he doesn’t have a plan, anymore, because he’s noticed that every decision he’s made, lately, has led to the death of a member of his family. some people he’s known nearly all his life.   and his refusal to go rescue john from sisika is purely justified by fear that he’d further endanger the entire gang if he did. they’re already wanted in so many states.

this could go on for much longer but i’m gonna conclude with mount hagen, where, in the end, dutch saves john and sadie, shoots micah, leaves the blackwater money behind for the marstons. abigail, jack. it’s probably easy for him to imagine uncle is with them, too. in the end, he never actively hurt any member of the gang by his own hands except for micah.   and by the very end, he chooses to sacrifice himself to avoid the burden of guilt to john. because john is like him, the child he’s proudly watched grow into a valorous, loyal father who’ll sooner avenge his fallen brother than surrender to defeat, traits he fondly recognizes as his own, for the very last time.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

How about a future! tord/ red leader x reader where the reader is basically the motherfucking doom slayer/ doomguy and heads out to the red army base with nothing but their own fists and some shotgun bullets and ends up almost killing most of the red army soldiers and when they finally come across tord/ red leader he's honestly surprised that reader was in his base and single handedly demolished his army and tord being tord thinking he can take them down all by himself goes for it however reader basically the doom slayer aka their unstoppable and bodies him and tears tords robot arm in the process and when reader is done beating his ask up they ask him this...

"Why did you betray my friends?"

"Why did you betray me?"

And tord gives them the answer but it's also a pathetic ass one because he honestly didn't know what to say. And reader just leaves with the final line being "I can't believe i used to be in love with you" and tords be cryin because that realization crushed him.

I've never seen any Doomslayer gameplay so sry if I get anything wrong gjshgs

.............

As a massacre ensued outside of his chambers, Tord sighed in annoyance. He wasn't scared. Only annoyed.

"Those guys had one job: protect Red Leader at all costs. And they go and screw it up..just great." He sneered to himself, while Paul and Patryck stood by the entrance with their weapons ready.

Neither of them wanted to risk their lives, knowing the intruder was probably going to take theirs in a heartbeat. But what choice did they have?

Every day their life was on the line. They were used to that feeling.

Yet not knowing what kind of enemy was making their fellow soldiers scream bloody murder made them..a bit uneasy. Not to mention this person reportedly destroyed all of the base's tanks with a single punch.

How could they defend themselves with this knowledge?

What would happen if they failed?

"If..a-anything should happen," Paul began as he glanced back at his leader. "It's been an honor serving you, Tor-"

"Until you take your last breath, you will address me as Red Leader only. Got it?"

The Dutch man froze in terror, though Patryk answered in his steed with a simple "yes, Red Leader". But before he could turn to chastise his comrade, something slammed against the door, leaving a massive dent.

They both stiffened and aimed their weapons, while Tord watched from his desk warily.

'Who could it be?' He pondered, trying to narrow down the list of possible intruders. 'Not Edd..he's too obsessed with that worthless cola crap. Not Tom..he's stupid, but not that stupid to attack my base all alone. And certainly not Matt..he can't even handle a little blood on his coat.'

The door was being attacked more forcefully, as though the intruder was punching it. And eventually it broke down completely, causing Paul and Patryk to immediately shoot with vicious war cries, not caring who it was.

But suddenly Paul yelled in pain as a bullet struck his shin, sending him collapsing to the ground. "Paul!" Patryk rushed to his side, helping him up.

"Jeez..Tord still kept you guys around, huh?"

When the dust cleared, the Red Leader finally recognized that voice and face:

It was you, clad in an armored suit.

"[Y/n]? Ahaha...long time no see!" He laughed, opening his arms up as you stepped fully into the room. "My, that's quite a suit you have there. Where'd you find something like that?"

"Up your ass." You sneered, before glancing at his two bodyguards. "Out. Now." Aiming your shotgun as a warning seemed highly effective, as the pair scrambled to their feet and left you and Tord alone.

"Whatever, they were both cowards anyways." He scoffed.

"Cowards who were smart enough to leave. Now.." You turned back to him. "We have some things to talk about."

"Oh? Is that why you killed my men and smashed my tanks? Those were expensive, you know.."

"Well they wouldn't let me just walk in-"

All of the sudden, Tord's robot arm shot out a laser beam from the palm, which you dodged as it struck the nearby wall. You scowled at him. "Tord, stop it. I'm not here to kill you."

"You're no fun, [y/n]. I wanna see what you got!" He grinned wickedly. "Besides, if all you wanted was talk..then you should've asked me out on a date instead!"

Something about his last statement made your heart ache inside, but that only fueled your rage as you lunged at him. He was foolish enough to think he could beat you on his own, becoming swiftly outmatched in a matter of seconds.

You rammed him into the wall with your full body. In retaliation he tried shooting another laser at you, only for you to grab his robot arm and manifest a bladed weapon, slashing it clean off like an amputation.

He yelled in pain and shock, falling to his knees the moment you backed off. Sparks and wires trickled from the shoulder joint as he gripped it, gritting his teeth.

"Now do you wanna talk?" You coldly asked, still holding the arm. Deep down, it hurt you to do this to someone you once befriended, someone you once....cared deeply for.

But his own damn pride had to get in the way.

How many times has that gotten him hurt?

"I-I'd rather...." He then hesitated, seeing the slightly disappointed look in your eyes, before he finally gave in. "Ugh, fine. We'll talk."

"After all these years, I never got to ask you..." You knelt down to get closer to him. "Why did you betray our friends? Why did you betray me?"

".....pfft..is that what this is all about? What I did to your little neighborhood oh so long ago?" Tord shook his head. "You know, the whole "world domination" shtick was only a stupid thing I made up on the spot. I honestly just wanted my robot back."

"So..that's all that mattered to you, huh? Just a robot? You didn't even care about the fact you destroyed Edd's home. It was all just storage space for your stupid tech, wasn't it?"

"Oh I..." Now you were backing him into a corner, forcing him to confront his own feelings about how he truly felt that day.

"We used to look for treasure, fight zombies, hang out at the arcade..what ever happened to that? What ever happened to...us, Tord?" The more you spoke, the more hopeless you sounded as Tord only stared back at you blankly.

"..you all forgot about me. That's what happened."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, that's..what it is." He clenched his remaining fist. "When I left, none of you bothered to check on me. A simple "hey Tord, old pal, how's the Red Army going for you?" would've been fine. You could've called, texted...hell even sent a pigeon my way! But no. All I got was silence, as if I was never there."

Then he glanced up at you with a malicious grin. "So I wanted to make sure none of you forgot about me...even if you hated me after the fact. And I see that's worked quite well."

"....bullshit."

"Eh?" He raised an eyebrow, perplexed.

"Maybe the others haven't tried, but I did. I tried my best to contact you..but you never responded. So I find that pathetic excuse hard to believe."

He felt his heart sink into his stomach. But in all honesty..he just didn't know what to say to you. He couldn't come up with any other reason for his actions.

You sighed, seeing that you've officially stunned him into silence. Even though you weren't satisfied with his answer, you could tell his expression held deep regret and...even sadness as he realized you never did betray him.

And there was only one reason why you bothered to reach out to him at all.

"Seems like..we're done here. I don't wanna kill you, but I don't want you talking to me until you grow up and throw aside your goddamn ego."

"[Y/n], I..I just-" Tord flinched as you tossed the robot arm near him, though he made no move to pick it up, only staring at you in shock.

You just picked up your shotgun, looking down at him with a slight frown. "I can't believe I used to be in love with you."

With that, you swiftly turned around, not wanting to see his expression as you left the room. You knew that he needed time to think things through.

Only when you were gone did the crushing realization finally hit Tord. Those words you spoke were true, and drove a knife deep into his heart, twisting its very core.

He could feel his throat tighten as hot tears welled up in his eyes. Not just from the pain of losing his arm, but from a far worse kind of pain.

The pain of knowing that he truly did love you..only to betray you in the end.

Curling up against the wall, tears streamed down his cheeks as quiet sobs echoed through the empty, battle-torn room.

There was no one else to blame but himself for this.

[uponrightful]

It is so hard for me to choose just one! Just one part of a fic you wrote when there is so much to love.... But I will sent you this quote from your latest chapter to Coriolis: "You are doing it on purpose… devious little thing. I should be all over you for pulling a stunt like this and getting away with it for so long. Too bad I’m the only one falling for your tricks pretty girl." So please share all kinds of information/thoughts etcetera you had while writing this chapter.

Commentary Track for "Coriolis Effect"

Hi doll 🤍 I can't wait for you to hear allll about jealous!Crosshair

***

The theme for the start of this chapter is "show, don't tell".

From the start, I knew Duchess was going to show the Batch just how well trained she is. For starters, Duchess is very unwilling to talk about Phantom Squad. (And that will be covered in chapter 14 😅... So until then, I have to pick my words carefully.) She's afraid they're going to think bad of her if they know the whole story, and although that isn't true, it's a really harsh point to explain over a drink during a mission. I gave Duchess and Echo's conversation sitting at the table a double meaning; Not only are they being vague to keep cover, but Duchess is able to use that as an excuse to give them background on her without getting into specifics she's too uncomfortable to mention outright.

Now for Crosshair, I really struggled. Not going to lie. It's almost impossible to refrain from making Cross out to be a total fucking creep. 😂 He's just so overprotective -for good reasons normally- and it can come off really slimy if I don't get the tone right. As I said before, Crosshair is best experienced in-person. And although we can't do that... I try my best to get his character across clearly, but keep as much of his intimate feelings unlimited. After all, no one is perfect, and I don't think Crosshair getting angry when Dutch is in danger is something he should be punished for. That's what any normal person would do.

To keep up with the "show, don't tell" theme, Crosshair giving her his shirt before he leave for the mission is a huge action that I'm not sure many people caught. Or if you did, I couldn't hear your thoughts.

We all know by now that Crosshair is almost always painfully awkward with words. His default is sarcasm and brashness. That doesn't bode well when you're trying to feel out the complexity of emotions, and how to explain them to someone you love. That's hard for anyone. But for Crosshair that's extra difficult because he thinks that makes him weak. That if someone sees that in him, it's going to get used against him, and it will hurt someone like Duchess or his brothers.

Even though Dutch doesn't see him the entire time he's on the ship, it's clear he's watching her all the time. Not out of hate or anger, but just simply keeping check on her like he always does. That's habit at this point. But knowing that she's out of clean clothes? That is new to Crosshair, but it comes naturally to act instead of speak. (To be honest with you, I thought about having a spicy scene here... But it felt super forced, and that's because Crosshair wouldn't do it. Not that he can't barge in and have some jealousy sex, but it wasn't the right time, and that wasn't his headspace.) In leaving his shirt, that's kinda his apology for acting like he did. I know, I know, terrible way of saying "hey you did a good job and I didn't tell you when I should have." BUT. What can you expect from a man who bullies as a form of flirting? Exactly, nothing.

Now for what you all hate me for... THE SHITTY PART.

THIS HAD TO HAPPEN. No other way around it, it had to. There were a million ideas worse than Crosshair getting his shit kicked in. (I thought of an explosion gone wrong, thermite melting his armor, and a bunch of other shit that you actually would have killed me for. Those examples are actually pretty mild. I didn't want to put you through the same thing Wolffe did during O-66. It isn't that deep.) Nevertheless, this is the first time Duchess gets to experience Crosshair being the one who's unwillingly vulnerable. It's scary -for many reasons- and there are a lot of things going on that she can't process. (I can't say too much because a lot is happening in chapter 14.)

What I would like to mention is Echo and Dutch's scene in the storage bay. I know it's short, but I packed a lot in there. Remember how Echo said Crosshair wouldn't stop talking about her? You'll find out exactly what our resident ram'ser was saying soon!

Also, this is Echo and Dutch's big turning point. Not only is Echo extending a comfort by calling her vodka (like the Phantoms) but he's expressing what Crosshair can't. That might be a little cheating to speak for Cross, but Echo knows him well enough to be truthful. Not to mention Dutch is freaking the fuck out, and there needs to be some substantial support. Because none of the Batch are going to give her that in a way that is relatable. Remember: Echo knows what it's like to lose brothers. This moment is terrifying for both of them because it's a hallmark of how easy death can come.

The two of them are facing this fear with each other because they're the only two who get it. And that's really important considering Echo doesn't have to do it. He could ignore Dutch and take care of Crosshair like everyone else. But instead, he sees that pain and panic and addresses it in a way that he feels will ease that response he recognizes in Duchess. I consider this a turn in their relationship, and from here on out, things with Echo and Dutch are going to be different. (Don't worry. I don't vibe with PolyAm stuff, so it's strictly platonic.) But you'll see just how close Duchess and Echo get after that moment in the storage room.

The key moment here being how Duchess isn't willing to let anyone near her or Crosshair, save for Echo.

[morston-trash]

Dirty Boy

Morston because it is adorable and I like the fanfiction. Fight me.

-----------------------------------------------------

Arthur is 19, John is 18. (Not accurate to the game but that’s what fanfiction is about sometimes.) The most that happens is kissing making out.

Arthur Morgan, one of the younger members of Dutch VanDerLinde's small group of outcasts. He had been 13 or 14 when Dutch and Hosea found him, none of them could remember exactly how old he was. He looked up to them, more so Hosea, as his fathers. Hosea was the one who mainly raised him, Dutch was the one who put him to work, utilizing him for what he was best at. Charming, robbing, showing some muscle. No one dared to cross the large young man. He was young, but he was also one of their best guns. His shots rarely missed their target, taking the lives of countless enemies. He was a playful boy, not yet cynical of the world. He did as he was told, not thinking about whether it was the right or wrong thing to do. 

John Marston, the favorite. The golden boy. He was undeniably Dutch's favorite amongst the boys. John was resourceful, scrappy, not to mention lucky. Arthur was almost always around to get him out of any trouble he could cause. John was practically Arthur's shadow. He never left his side. They were always sitting beside one another, eating together, even sharing a tent. They were inseparable. Their father figures were proud of them, getting along so well. It was as if they were born brothers, not brothers under Dutch. But, unbeknownst to the older men, they viewed themselves as more than brothers and more like that of lovers. 

"John! Let's go!" Arthur yelled harshly. 

"I'm comin', I'm comin'!" John yelled back. 

"Boys, boys! Go down to the river to cool down instead," Hosea mitigated in an attempt to get the boys' attention. 

They had been planning to go hunting, but they had been fighting all day, over who knows what. Maybe it wasn't wise to send them alone. But they needed to work this out. They had a job today, a big one. There was going to be a coach traveling through the area, filled with a local oil tycoons daughters. They were sure to have lots of money for the small group in gems, gold or silver, and wealth. But it would be no small task, they were sure to be overlooked by plenty of guns. 

The pair made their way towards their horses. John was riding a young Bay Mustang. It was his first mount, he had been a gift from Arthur. He didn't know where he had gotten him, but he was a fine animal. Arthur didn't tell John, but he had picked the mustang for him fresh from the corrals. It reminded him of the smaller boy. Hard-headed, fearless almost to the point of stupidity, compact but strong. He had saved all of his money from every job they worked for months to buy the young stallion for him. He was a birthday present for the younger boy, even though they didn't know the actual date. 

 Arthur was on an older mare, a Blue Roan Nakota. Hosea had picked her for Arthur as a surprise. Before the mare, he had been riding one of the Drafts that they used to pull the wagon. It was inconvenient for everyone involved, so he had stolen her from a homestead they had stolen from. She was a little old, but she still had a few good years left in her. Under Arthur's care, she would be just fine. 

The boys mounted their horses, deciding to go without their saddles. They were just going to be down the hill. It would be okay to leave them this once. Just to be safe, Arthur grabbed his pistol. The dirty blonde-headed boy tucked it into the holster that rests on his belt. You could never be too careful. He didn't want to risk the pair getting caught up in something with no way to get out of it.

They made their way down to the small stream that was just down the hill from their temporary home. They kept a fair distance between their horses, trying to keep away from one another. It was a quick ride. Once they had arrived, the boys dismounted. They tied their horses to the sparse trees that hid the bank from view. When they had their horses secured, they came together. Arthur grabbed John's hand, John responded by squeezing his hand gently.

"Do ya think they know?" the small teenager asked. 

"Nah, don't worry so much" the older responded, shaking his free hand in the air as if to clear it of the subject. 

Their "fight" had been an excuse for Hosea to send them off together. He wouldn't have thought twice about the boys going off on their own anyway, but they just wanted to be sure. They never got much time alone. A little time to "make up" was just what they needed. Some time to themselves, able to be open about what they were.

Arthur pulled his lover into his arms, resting his chin on his shoulder. He let out a grunt of happiness. He was a brute by nature, but he could enjoy the little things. John rested his head against the slightly older boy. He loved these moments. He wished they could last forever sometimes. But given their lifestyle choices, they knew it wasn't possible. These fleeting moments would have to suffice. That would be okay, they still had each other. Suddenly Arthur's nose screwed up.

"Whew Marston, you smell like horse shit," he exclaimed. 

"I was shoveling some before we left," the raven-headed boy laughed. 

"Go get in that river boy, you need a bath" the dirty blonde haired teen commanded.

"Hell no, it's cold in there," John argued.

"Alright then," Arthur said in a defeated tone. 

John smirked, having won. But he felt himself being lifted from the ground. He looked confusedly at his boyfriend, noticing the mischievous look in his eyes. He wouldn't. But that look in his eyes said otherwise. He was really going to do it. The scrappy young man struggled against the more muscular boy. 

"Hey! Let me go!" he shrieked.

"Nope, bath time dirty boy" Arthur laughed, running towards the river with his partner in his arms. 

The blue-green eyed young man launched his lover into the river. He stayed near the bank, knowing that John couldn't swim. He was ready to jump in at a moment's notice if he needed to. He watched as John's head bobbed up out of the water, an expression filled with that of shock and anger on his face. He stood in the frigid waters, plotting his next move. Arthur could only laugh at the smaller male. 

"What a sorry sight you make" he chuckled. 

"C'mere Pretty Boy," his voice dripped with venom as he started taking steps towards the bank. 

"Pretty boy? You're kiddin' me.." he shook his head with a snort. 

Before he had even lifted his head, he felt cold arms wrap around his neck. The arms pulled him down into the freezing river. He forced himself up, his body stiffened from the sudden cold. He shot a look at his lover, who was laughing in retaliation. He advanced towards the other boy, getting in his face. He reached for the younger man's shirt, pulling him against his chest. 

"What's so funny?"

"You, Pretty Boy" John smiled, sensing Arthur's growing irritation. 

"Oh shut up"

Arthur forced his lips against the other teenager. John melted into the kiss, pressing himself against the taller male. The older of the pair released his junior's shit and instead wrapped his arms around his waist. He licked John's bottom lip, asking for entrance. He happily obliged, parting his lips enough for Arthur to slip his tongue into his mouth. The older boy took advantage of his eagerness by sliding his tongue into the younger's mouth. He explored every little part as if this as the first time. His actions earned a soft moan from the other boy. Arthur tore away from the kiss with a smirk on his face. John stood there, breathing heavily, wordless. The smaller boy's face tinted with a deep blush. 

"Good boy," Arthur whispered into his ear huskily. 

Those words earned a shiver from the younger male. Sure he was cold. But those words brought a certain excitement to him. One that he had yet to experience. Once again, Arthur picked him up. Carrying him in full bridal style, they returned to the bank. 

The taller of the pair sat down on the grass beside the river, putting the smaller of them between his legs. He held him tightly. He laid his chin down to rest on his shoulder once more. It was peaceful out. Sunny, tranquil, no one but the pair to be seen. It was almost nice enough to take a nap. But they would need to head back soon. He didn't want to. But if they didn't, Hosea was sure to come in search of the boys.

"Say, Marston, how's about we go fishin'?" Arthur suggested.

"Sure" he replied. 

Hosea looked around the camp. The boys weren't back yet. They should have been back by now. He was a worrywart sometimes, but he meant well. With the boys having been fighting earlier, he wanted to make sure they hadn't killed each other yet. He made his way over to his horse, a Silver Dapple American Paint stallion. He mounted up.

"I'll be back! I'm gonna go check on our boys," Hosea yelled to Dutch as he rode out of camp.

He began his descent down the small hill that they were temporarily living on. He rode slowly, in no real rush. He just wanted to take a peek in on the boys to make sure they were getting along. They hadn't been gone very long. Maybe an hour. Even as he had ridden slowly, he arrived in minutes. 

The older man dismounted his stallion. He tied his horse to the same trees in which the boys had tied theirs. He peeked out from the tree, scanning the area for the boys. He spotted them in the river. Arthur was gripping John's shirt tightly, getting in his face. He was about to step out of his cover before he noticed their lips crashing together. He was confused, but nevertheless, a smile graced his face. His boys were getting on just fine. 

He stood there, keeping an eye on them. He watched as they pulled away from one another and Arthur lifted the smaller boy into his arms. The older boy carried them both to the bank before sitting down and gently setting the other boy down between his legs, wrapping himself around the smaller. Hosea was satisfied to know that they were okay. More than okay actually, but he didn't want to stick around much longer. 

The older man untied his mount before remounting. He quietly rode away and back into camp. He went unnoticed until Dutch poked his head out of his tent. 

"How are they?" Dutch asked. 

"Fine, our boys are doing just fine," Hosea replied, in an amused mood. 

"What has tickled your fancy, Old Friend?" Dutch bemused.

"Oh, I'm just having one of my good days, Dutch," He chuckled. 

"We didn't catch much. 2 small perch an' a crappy" Arthur reflected. 

"It's better 'an nothin'," John remarked.  

"Sure," Arthur responded, sounding more like 'shore' due to his deep accent. 

"We should get back to camp 'fore they come lookin' for us," John worried. 

"Yeah, let's git up there" the older agreed. 

The pair returned to their tied mounts, untying them from the trunks of the small trees. Arthur held the pitiful string of fish, carrying it. The pair mounted their steeds before riding back in the direction of the camp. The fish flopped against the older boy's leg, but he ignored it. 

"We brought fish!" He yelled out. 

"Good job boys. Did you enjoy your little swimming session?" Hosea teased. 

John turned beet red, looking away. Arthur realized that Hosea had seen them. He couldn't think of much to say. He had never been in this situation before. He just looked towards the older man. 

"Are ya' gonna tell Dutch?" Arthur asked, not even trying to lie about what had happened. 

"Nah, your secret's safe with me," Hosea responded after a second. 

"Thank ya," Arthur said gratefully. 

Hosea waved them away, shooing them from that spot. He had a huge grin on his face. He was glad that they had each other, they would be fine if anything happened to either him or Dutch in the job they had planned. They could look out for each other, they would both be okay. With that, Hosea went to Dutch's tent to work on some more preparations. Life was just a little more interesting now. 

[hysterialevi]

When the Devil Cries pt. 35

Fanfic summary: (NO SPOILERS IN THIS STORY) After arriving in Saint Denis, Arthur ends up falling in love with a seemingly innocent pianist, only to find himself in a battle with one of the most notorious outlaws to ever emerge from America. Now, between working for Dutch and robbing money for the gang, Arthur has to also protect the man he loves as the two of them try to find their freedom.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Male OC

Author’s note: Sorry about the longer wait for this one guys! I had a hard time putting my thoughts into words on this one for some reason, but I’m finally happy with the end result. There’s only going to be one more chapter after this one, and I’m extremely excited to share the final parts of this story with you. Enjoy!

Previous chapter

This story is also on AO3

From Eddie’s POV

A FEW YEARS AGO

BISHOP RESIDENCE, LONDON

“Nathaniel!” I exclaimed, trying to calm the man down as he paced around. “What are you doing? We need to go! Your father’s men will be here soon!”

“I know!” He replied in a frantic tone, trying to barricade the door. “Which is why you need to get the hell out of here!”

I pulled back at the reply, shaking my head in confusion. “What? But w-what about you?”

Nathaniel took out his gun and staunchly faced the doorway, loading a series of bullets into the chamber as Atticus’ men approached the house.

“I’ll hold the gang back. Try to make ‘em see reason. It really ain’t worth it, all this death. You and your family...none of you deserve to die. This whole thing’s a goddamn massacre. My father’s just gone mad. I can only pray that I’ll be able to change his mind.”

I paused for a moment, instantly thinking about the worst outcome.

“...And if you cant?

Nathaniel fell silent at that and gazed sorrowfully at me, letting out a morose sigh as his head hung low.

There was a certain temperament to him at the moment that really I didn’t like, and the longer he stayed in place, refusing to leave -- the more I got a terrible feeling that I knew exactly what he was thinking.

I just hoped I wasn’t right.

“...Listen, Theo,” Nathaniel said softly, freezing mid-action. “I...I need you to make it outta this alive, you hear me? I need you to survive.”

“And I will,” I insisted, “but not if we stay here! We need to move! Come on!”

“We’re surrounded, Theo.” Nathaniel replied hopelessly. “If we run off together, they’ll gun us down before we can even escape the city. The only way you’re gonna get out of this is if I cause a distraction and force them to come up here. In the meantime, you’ll be haulin’ ass to safety and hopping on the first ship to America. You understand?”

I still rejected the idea.

“Nathaniel, you’re out of your mind if you think I’m leaving you here. There’s no way--”

“--I can’t come with you, Theo!” He fired back, causing me to go quiet. He immediately picked up on my surprise and switched to a gentler tone, lowering his voice.

“Trust me, if there was another option, I’d take it, but...this is where we’re at. This is all we can do. I’m...I’m sorry, Theodore. I truly am. But I can’t go with you.”

I bit my bottom lip and held back the tears that were welling up in my eyes, only to have them spill out freely once everything started to sink in. It was just one of those things I couldn’t control, and despite the reality of our situation, I absolutely refused to believe that this was the last time I’d ever see Nathaniel.

I mean, I had already lost both of my parents, and God only knew what was happening to Alice. I couldn’t lose Nathaniel too. I just couldn’t. He was the only person I had left. What...what the hell was I going to do without him? I had never been to America before, and I didn’t even know if I’d be able to make it there on my own.

All of this was just...too much at once, and it felt like the weight of the world itself was crushing my shoulders.

Striding over to me, Nathaniel affectionately wiped away some of the tears on my face and lightly gripped my chin so that I was looking at him, causing the both of us to nearly break down right then and there as we silently said goodbye to each other.

There was a look of finality in his eyes -- the kind that said he knew he was going to die -- and with every shaky breath that he took, I could almost see the life draining from his expression.

“Listen to me, Theo,” Nathaniel reassured. “You’re gonna be okay. Just...go to America. Change your name. Start a new life. Don’t tell anyone who you are, and you’ll be safe. You ain’t gonna be alone.”

I turned away from him out of distress and held onto his hand, desperately trying to think of any excuse that would permit me to stay.

“...It’s not that easy, Nathaniel.”

He caressed my cheek, offering whatever encouragement he could.

“I know, but if anyone can do this -- it’s you. You’re much stronger than you believe, Theo. Someday, you’ll see that. But for now, just do whatever it takes to survive...and don’t look back. No matter what happens. You hear me?”

I offered only silence in return, causing the other man to grip me by the shoulders and look me in the eye.

“Do you hear me?” He repeated, his tone growing more desperate.

I took a deep breath and nodded in response, albeit reluctantly.

Nathaniel suddenly planted a brief but deep kiss on my lips and brought me into a tight embrace, clearly reluctant to let go so soon.

“Goodbye, Theo,” he whispered mournfully. “And thank you for everything. ...I’ll never forget you. Promise you won’t forget me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

PRESENT DAY

EASTERN NEW HANOVER

...Nathaniel Rose.

I couldn’t stop repeating his name in my head.

As Arthur and I scaled this enormous rock formation where Atticus awaited our arrival at the top, I felt like I was finally confronting the past that had haunted me for so long.

Years of grief, fear, and hatred all overwhelmed me at once, and despite having spent the majority of my life writing stories, I couldn’t think of a single word that was sufficient enough to describe my emotions at the moment.

There were just so many memories, so many questions, so many regrets -- that it was impossible to express them all.

From the time I spent falling in love with Nathaniel, to Atticus’ betrayal, to the murder of my family, and now, to the end of it all...I didn’t know what to think.

Was this truly the only way it could’ve ended? Was there ever a possibility of my family living in peace? Had I always been destined to live this kind of life from the start?

...Were Arthur and I even meant to cross paths in the first place?

Well, whatever the case was, I couldn’t deny that I was somewhat remorseful of how I had grown.

Not too many years ago, I would’ve never even considered the option of shooting someone to death -- and yet, here I was, after all this time, ready to kill the man who had single-handedly destroyed my life in the name of greed.

I had to admit, it was rather frightening to see the sort of man I had become. I never anticipated that I would go out of my way to end another human being’s life like this, but it was something I felt like I had to do. Not just for my family, or for Nathaniel...but also for Arthur.

I loved that man more than anything. He may not have thought much of himself, but he was a hero in my eyes.

Arthur found me whilst I was at one of the lowest points in my life, and not only did he help me survive, he also gave me the courage to become the man I was today.

He showed me the beauties of this world and turned everything I feared into something I could conquer. He always faced his problems head-first, no matter how frightening they could’ve been, even if it meant confronting the man in the mirror.

There wasn’t a single thing I felt like I couldn’t achieve with Arthur at my side, and now that the two of us were finally preparing to take Atticus down for good, part of me wondered if this could truly be the end.

I only hoped I’d survive long enough to find out.

Bringing myself back to the task at hand, I pulled the trigger on my gun and fired it once more, putting down the last of the Pinkerton agents blocking our path.

The silence following the gunshot seemed to fill the air more than the sounds of any battlefield could, and as I watched the smoke slowly dance away from the barrel of my pistol, I could sense Atticus’ gaze following me from afar.

He was keeping an eye on us. I could feel it. I just had to find him first.

“...Look at all these bodies,” I remarked, examining the Pinkertons that we didn’t kill. “They’re still incredibly fresh.”

Arthur glanced at the surrounding area, reloading his weapons. “That can only mean one thing. Atticus is still here. And he’s waitin’ for us.”

I bit my lip in nervousness, trying to find any clues that could’ve led us to Rose. “Well, let’s just hope we can find him before he finds us. Atticus may be outnumbered, but make no mistake -- he’s not at a disadvantage. If anything, he has the element of surprise on his side. We need to be extra careful.”

Falling silent at that suggestion, Arthur thought to himself for a moment and simply stayed in place whilst I wandered off ahead, only to abruptly stop in my tracks once I realized he wasn’t following me.

I peered over my shoulder, curious to see if he was okay.

“Arthur?” I called out. “Is...something wrong?”

The other man furrowed his brow in concern and gave me a firm stare, squinting slightly in the sun radiating behind me.

His eyes were fixated in a manner that told me he was evidently preoccupied with something else, and judging by his current demeanor, I could tell he wasn’t entirely on board with the plan.

Just what was going on?

“...Are you sure you wanna do this?” He asked plainly, keeping his voice steady. An uncertain sigh escaped me.

“I know it’s...probably foolish,” I conceded, admittedly tempted to turn back, “but even if it gets me killed, this is something I have to do. I can’t keep running away from Atticus like this. Look at all the people who have been hurt because of what we’ve done. Nathaniel, Hosea, Lenny...even you. This war between us has to come to an end sooner or later. Otherwise, it’ll never stop following us.”

Following my words with a heavy heart, Arthur let out an uneasy breath and brought his gaze to my gun, reminiscing about the first few days of our relationship.

It was pretty clear that he never expected that I would someday use his gift to take down my worst enemy, and on top of all that, it was probably safe to assume that he blamed himself for indirectly pushing me onto this path.

I knew how much Arthur beat himself up, after all. He may have never expressed it aloud, but it was rather obvious that he felt guilty for bringing me into such a chaotic lifestyle.

What he didn’t realize, however, was that he actually taught me how to find peace within myself.

As much as I wanted to put a bullet through Atticus’ brain and avenge my family, I still hadn’t forgotten Arthur’s words to me back at the Bastille.

He experienced the same kind of grief I did after his own family was murdered. He shared the same anger. There was no question that Arthur knew what he was talking about when it came to vengeance, and regardless of how crippling my rage could’ve been at times, I didn’t want to lose myself either.

I didn’t want to become a killer.

I didn’t want to become Atticus.

But even then, I doubted I’d ever fully forgive myself if I didn’t at least try to settle things. There was just far too much history between me and Atticus for us to simply part ways, and I refused to pretend as if I could just move on...but that was where Arthur and I disagreed.

Or, at least, I thought it was.

“Okay,” Arthur said at last. “I understand.”

“...Really?” I asked, tilting my head up in surprise.

Arthur nodded, casually resting his hands on his hips. “Yeah. I still don’t think this is the best idea, but all I know is I’d want the same kinda closure with Dutch. That man betrayed me same as Atticus betrayed you, and I ain’t so righteous that I’d pretend I wouldn’t try to get some answers if given the chance. But...just try not to lose your head, alright? I don’t plan on goin’ to England alone.”

I gave him a reassuring glance. “And you won’t. Thank you for understanding, Arthur.”

The outlaw grinned, lightening the mood slightly. “Hey, if we won’t understand each other, who will?” He patted me on the shoulder. “Now, c’mon. We got ourselves a score to settle.”

Climbing further up this magnificent rock formation, Arthur and I kept our eyes peeled as we scanned the surrounding area for any signs of Atticus’ presence, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice.

Ideally, I was hoping I’d at least be able to pull some answers out of the outlaw before anyone got shot, but if there was one thing I knew about Atticus, it was that he had lost any traits of forbearance ever since losing Nathaniel. Most-likely, he wouldn’t even bother to hear me out.

...It was sad, really, to think about how far our friendship had fallen. When I first met Atticus, he became somewhat of a paternal figure in my eyes. He never once fell short of the legends that spoke about him, and with every threat that presented itself to him or his son, Atticus only proved himself to be the man that the Wild West truly feared.

Who knew? Perhaps this fight would be over within a minute. Or perhaps, it would drag on for another couple of years. Or maybe, the Pinkertons would surprise us all, and none of us would walk out of here alive.

Really, there was no way to predict how the future was going to play out. But, God willing, perhaps this would finally be the day where Atticus and I put this battle to rest. Far too much blood had already been shed over these past few years because of our feud, and if my time with Dutch’s gang taught me one thing, it was that wounds should never be left to fester.

I didn’t know who was going to die today, but it had to be one of us.

Breaking the silence with an intrusive bang, a single bullet suddenly implanted itself into the ground beneath my feet as a flock of birds spread into the sky, causing me to come to a halt.

I didn’t see anyone in the area who could’ve pulled the trigger just yet, but as the gunshot started to echo throughout the mass emptiness surrounding us, a gentle series of footsteps crept towards me from the side, leading my attention to a rather big boulder up ahead.

It was only a short few meters away and cast a rather tall shadow in its wake, but what came sauntering out from behind it only seemed to blot out the sun even more.

Atticus Rose.

“...My, my,” the solemn man flatly remarked, holding his revolver in my direction. “I suppose the rumors are true, then. The Theodore I know would’ve fled at the first sign of danger. That’s usually his typical response. And yet, here you are -- purposely seeking me out after years of avoiding me like the plague. One could say you’ve grown, Mister Bishop. Perhaps...one could even prove it.”

I clenched my jaw in an effort to remain unwavering, not even daring to take my eyes off Atticus lest he shoot me in the back.

“...You know why I’m here, Atticus.” I replied, barely able to speak above a whisper with how hard my heart was pounding.

The older man’s stare didn’t even shift. “Yes. I do. But before we get to that, I must ask...” his eyes flicked around in curiosity, “where is Rodrick? Hm? What has happened to my friend?”

Arthur jumped in, not even bothering to sugarcoat the truth. “That maniac is dead. I killed him.”

Contrary to what I expected, Atticus didn’t seem shocked by the news. Only disappointed.

“Is that so?” He questioned, afterwards sighing out of dolor. “...I knew it would happen someday, but I suppose you can never truly brace yourself for someone’s death, can you?”

Atticus took a few careful steps towards us, his boots softly scraping on the rock.

“So, you’ve dealt with Mister Kingsley -- as well as the rest of my gang -- and now you’ve come to put out the last fire. Is that it? ...One final fight to be marked in the pages of history? The extravagant end of a journey that will be preserved through storytelling? A glorious conclusion for the benevolent heroes?”

Rose scoffed.

“Well, I for one, have been eagerly waiting for this day to arrive -- I cannot deny that. But I hope you understand, Mister Bishop, that none of this truly means anything.”

I gave him a puzzled look. “What are you talking about?”

Atticus gestured to the world around us. “We’re nothing but a group of outcasts, Theodore. Whether you kill me, or I kill you, none of this will matter. In the end, civilization will only express relief at our demise, and they will happily forget that we ever existed. They’ll say, ‘Good. Let the savages kill each other.”

He let out a deep breath, staring at the ground. “...This is why revenge is pointless. This is why our little war will be no more than a raindrop in the storm to come. Because we mean nothing.”

I furrowed my brow out of frustration. “Then why bother chasing me like this? Why rip the country to shreds in an attempt to track me down? Why kill those who simply wish to protect me if we are ‘nothing?”

Atticus’ expression softened in a forlorn manner, and I could’ve sworn I saw a glimmer of the man he once was buried deep within his eyes.

“...Because I have nothing else to live for.” He answered truthfully. “It may be a mission doomed to end in futility, but this is the only thing I can do, now that Nathaniel’s dead. Just as killing me is the only thing you can do. ...Isn’t that right, Mister Bishop?”

Trying not to lose my resolve, I forced myself to keep my eyes on Atticus and clenched my hand into a fist, admittedly terrified of what was to come.

I wanted to shoot the man. I wanted to shoot him more than anything in the world. But...despite my natural impulses, something just...held me back.

What was wrong with me? Was I afraid of killing a man? I had done it before. What made it so hard to pull the trigger this time?

I supposed it was because I had witnessed Atticus’ past for myself. Sure, I had done my fair share of killing -- unfortunately -- but it was far easier to end a person’s life when you didn’t know their life.

With other enemies, the only thing I knew about them was that they were trying to hurt me. I had no other knowledge or interest concerning their previous experiences, and there had never been a reason for me to find out.

With Atticus, on the other hand...I watched him grow, just as he watched me. He guided me through the world alongside my father ever since I was just a young man, and treated me as if I was a second son.

We bonded over the years. We learned to trust each other. We became a family.

But...ever since Nathaniel’s death, everything just fell apart. Any redeeming qualities that Atticus once had were quickly replaced by a desire for vengeance, and the more he suffered due to his own sins, the more he desperately searched for something else to blame.

And, with time, the blame eventually fell on me.

But now, I realized. Simply pointing fingers at each other was no longer enough to help anything. Regardless of who was truly at fault, or who could’ve prevented this from happening, things had to be settled one way or another.

Atticus would have to kill me, or I’d have to kill him.

This was my reality, and it was time for me to wake up.

“...You murdered my family,” I recalled mournfully, thinking back to those horrible times. “You drove me away from my own home, and you took away the person I loved the most.”

Rose said nothing in response, so I continued.

“You ruined my life, Atticus. But I won’t let you take it.”

Using this opportunity to attack, I moved before Atticus could even have a chance to blink and aimed straight for his head, risking everything in a Hail-Mary attempt to finally finish him off.

As I brandished my revolver, time itself seemed to slow down. There were no second guesses or thoughts of hesitation holding me back, and for the first time in forever, I felt free of myself.

I had no fears, or worries, or doubts...I just did what I had to do, and the world seemed to hold its breath until I accomplished it.

I was finally where I had fought so long to be, and I would be damned if I didn’t take this opportunity.

Slamming the hammer on my gun down, I unleashed an array of bullets into Atticus’ torso as the man’s body jolted violently from the impact, causing him to collapse to his knees.

By now, there were clouds of blood evaporating into the air behind him, and with every second he spent staring at me in shock, the more I could see hints of Nathaniel’s presence lingering in his gaze.

It was the same look Nathaniel had when he knew his death had finally come knocking. It was a horrible sort of realization that carried a genuine sense of dread with it, but to be honest...I didn’t even know if that was an accurate description for it.

I had never been that close to death, after all. Yes, I had experienced a few close calls in my past, but I couldn’t even begin to comprehend how terminating its embrace truly felt. How...powerless it must’ve rendered someone. Especially someone like Atticus.

I mean, this was the same man who changed my entire world. This was the same man who grew up with the outlaws that murdered his parents, and eventually turned their gang into his own. He became a walking legend by the time he was my age, and later sacrificed all that glory in order to raise a family once he grew older.

He lived a life twice as adventurous as those who surpassed his own generation by decades, and yet...here he was. Mere moments away from meeting his maker, all because one person managed to slip through his fingers. All because he made one mistake.

...That was when it dawned on me.

Despite being the center of many legends, Atticus was no legend himself. He wasn’t the devil that civilization made him out to be, nor the invincible gunslinger his men saw him as.

In the end, he was only human. Nothing more than a father mourning the loss of his son, and a reflection of what I could’ve been if Arthur hadn’t been there to guide me.

He was the embodiment of everything I didn’t want to be, and so -- with a single bullet left in the chamber, I steadily approached the dying man as he knelt on the ground and held my gun up to his head, bidding him an incredibly delayed farewell before pulling the trigger one last time.

And just like that...Atticus was gone.

He fell backwards, plunging off the edge of this rock formation and disappearing into the vast nothingness below, vanishing as if he never existed.

Meanwhile, I stood there in disbelief, unable to comprehend what just happened.

Was...was that it?

Was that really the “glorious” moment I had spent all these years fighting tooth and nail for?

Was that all the end had in store for me?

I mean...I just took another person’s life, for God’s sake. I just killed the man who was responsible for all the suffering I’d endured, and yet...everything felt so mundane. So...empty.

The world didn’t realign itself like I expected. Instead, there was a definitive silence looming over us, and with the time I had to reflect on Atticus’ crimes, I simply used it to look at my own.

Goddammit...Arthur was right, wasn’t he?

I couldn’t deny that I felt a new sense of relief now that Atticus was dead, but there was nothing fulfilling about this sort of vengeance. In the end, I only found absence where peace once stood, and rather than falling into a state of serenity, my mind tore itself apart with an eternal list of questions.

It may have been the end of my war with Atticus and his gang, but it was not the end of this journey.

Calmly walking up to me from behind, Arthur placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and gently turned me around, giving me a look that said he knew exactly what I was feeling.

There was a sorrowful glint of familiarity in his deep blue eyes, and without even saying a word, I could tell that he was somewhat disappointed in me for not taking his advice.

But in spite of all that, there was still a faint smile hiding underneath his well-meaning glower.

Arthur understood that even though I made a mistake, the fact of the matter was: Atticus Rose was dead. Rodrick Kingsley was dead. Their entire gang was dead. And as for Dutch, well...we hadn’t seen any sign of him for weeks.

All these men who had pursued us for so long were finally out of our lives, and we were free of them, at last.

For the first time in years...our future was in our own hands.

It may not have been the triumphant victory that I envisioned, but it was a moment worth celebrating nonetheless.

I cupped Arthur’s face with my hands and gazed longingly at him, smiling ecstatically once Atticus’ death sunk in.

“Arthur...” I whispered softly, caressing his cheek, “...we’re free.” A cheerful giggle escaped me. “...We’re finally free!”

Arthur returned the laugh and pulled me into a embrace, holding tightly onto me.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, clearly in disbelief. “We actually did it. We goddamned did it. We’re...we’re gonna free men. We made it.”

I lightly stroked my fingers down Arthur’s bearded jaw and tilted my head in admiration, unable to take my eyes off his adorably crooked smile.

“Thanks to you. I may have killed Atticus, but I never would’ve reached him without your help. I...I owe you so much, Arthur.”

The outlaw beamed at that and affectionately gripped my wrist, offering his own praise.

“Aw, you helped me with a lotta things too, Eddie. Just in ways you don’t know.”

I chuckled, taking a step back from Arthur. “Well, I suppose we can talk about it later. For now though...” I glanced at the southern horizon, “I think you and I have a ship to catch. Shall we be off?”

The other man picked up Atticus’ revolver from the ground and wiped it clean, smirking at me as we took our leave.

“We shall.”

~~~~~~~~~~

From Arthur’s POV

A FEW MINUTES LATER

Gallopin’ freely through New Hanover’s open meadows, Eddie and I savored the natural beauty surrounding us as we steadily made our way to Saint Denis, eager to say goodbye to this hurricane of a country.

At the moment, Eddie’s head was calmly restin’ on my shoulder and his arms were tied loosely around my waist, allowing the poor pianist to finally find some solace in the midst of this mayhem.

I was still attached to the spontaneous nature of America in a number of different ways -- that was true -- but after witnessing the whole showdown between Eddie and Atticus...I couldn’t help but wonder if, perhaps, it was time to leave all this chaos behind.

I mean, I'd be lyin’ if I said I weren’t gonna miss the excitement of livin’ as a gunslinger, but all the violence and death that came along with it -- that weren’t the kinda lifestyle I wanted for Eddie.

He was a good man. He deserved a good future. One that didn’t involve crime, or bounty-hunting, or livin’ in the ass-end of the wilderness. It was my job, as his friend and as his partner, to get serious about settling down and start caring about other people.

Maybe we’d live somewhere in the countryside. Work away from the pandemonium of the cities. Earn our money like honest folk. I didn’t know how the hell England worked, but I was ready to learn if it meant livin’ a free life with Eddie.

He was all that mattered to me now, and Lord knew I had wavin’ this gun around for far too long.

I may have started out my life as a criminal, but it was time for me to move on from Dutch’s society, and pursue a normal career.

I doubted I’d ever truly be a civilized man at heart -- I couldn’t deny that -- but I was always gonna be a free one. And if findin’ my freedom meant giving up my ties to the Wild West, then so be it.

Right now, his was our only path to a stable, secure future...and I’d be damned if we turned back.

[derlinde-blog]

first of all i want to preface this post by saying that none of what i’m about to discuss here is intended to excuse dutch’s actions--that a lot of the things he did were wrong, and from a wider viewpoint, all of the things he did were criminal. everyone in the gang made mistakes, including dutch. mistakes that he knows about, mistakes that he accepted and feels guilt over, is remorseful of, and quickly began to regret towards the end of rdr2. ALSO THIS WILL BE A LONG POST !!

so, for starters, we think about dutch at the very beginning, before the start of the second game. this i make as a point to just show to everyone that dutch isn’t any kind of sociopath, that he never intended to and was never out here trying to use anyone in the gang. people like to presume that he was always emotionally distant and just took advantage of them. that’s not the case. if he wanted to do that, surely he would’ve picked up random folk, hired guns and outlaws that could hold their own? no, he, alongside hosea, helped arthur, they helped john, helped a bunch of folk--scorned folk, like themselves--who needed help. and dutch loved them. he grew very fond of them, very attached. dutch is nothing if not affectionate, he feels a lot, loves a lot, connects a lot, and surely would’ve done anything to keep any member of the gang alive. he no doubt made promises, that he wouldn’t let anyone touch a hair on their heads, that he would always be there for them, that as long as they needed him he would help them. things went on like this for a while, they were close, dutch loved them, maybe a little too much. he was very willing to forgive them whenever they did something stupid. every time dutch or hosea had to break one of them out of prison, had to help them out of a bar fight or a shoot out, every time they hurt someone who didn’t deserve it or stole from someone who needed the money, they were quickly forgiven by dutch--given another chance to improve, with an ounce of scolding. dutch never dropped any of them. never pushed any of them away. he helped them grow. he taught them. raised them. took care of them. and it was because he wanted to. he loved them and every time they did something good, made some progress, growed some, they made him immensely proud. he also never forced them to stick around. some of them chose to leave the gang, leave the camp; hosea, john, both of them left at one point. dutch wasn’t happy about it, naturally, he loved them and didn’t want to lose them. hosea he missed incredibly so for however long he was gone, but he understood the reason why he left; the life he was trying to build for himself. it hurt to be left behind, but it would never hurt as much as it would knowing that he forced hosea to stay and abandon the love of his life. now this logic also applies to the worst people in the gang, in terms of personality. if you look at bill, with his undeniable racist tendencies--to note, dutch does not support racism of any kind, in fact it makes him incredibly angry to witness, his father died fighting with the union at gettysburg when he was very young, and since then he’s sought to keep his dead father’s morality alive. he doesn’t let bill get away with his racist commentary, and will shut him down and tell him off if he steps out of line. BUT HE STILL FORGIVES HIM EVENTUALLY. dutch gives him opportunities to learn and change his ways, still trusts him and values him and sees good in him--that he has a heart and is capable of being a better man. -- then there’s micah. nobody in the gang were the best of people when they first joined, but dutch gave every single one of them a chance to be someone better. MICAH WAS ONE OF THEM. he did a lot of horrid things, that dutch was very aware of, he wasn’t blind, he wasn’t an idiot. there are plenty of occasions that you see micah suggesting something terrible or horrid, and dutch scolding him for it. such as in chapter six, when micah suggests “letting the weak go” and dutch immediately snapping at him that that isn’t happening. so there isn’t anyone who’s going to tell me to my face that dutch ever abandoned folk because he wanted to. but back on topic. he gave micah a chance, he thought he saw something in that man that simply wasn’t there. he hoped for micah, that he might improve and grow, and he never did. dutch gave him way too many chances. way too many. but he was holding onto that slim bit of hope. micah used this against him a lot. whenever dutch would yell at him he’d break out his submissive acts, his bootlicking, and dutch bought it. maybe not before, not earlier in the game--he didn’t fully trust micah at first, didn’t trust him enough to tell him the location of the blackwater money. why would he? they’d only met a few months prior. but later, when things started to fall apart, it became easier for dutch to buy it. it became easier to just pass it off as micah being micah. now, when it came to what went down at blackwater--there’s not much to talk about. we don’t really know what went on other than a lot of pinkertons showed up, dutch shot a woman in a “bad way,” and the entire heist was micah’s idea. when it comes to dutch and the woman he shot, i can’t imagine he did it for no reason. i can’t imagine that he killed a girl because he felt like it, because she was just there. i think it was either an accident, or that he did it as a means to help the rest of the gang escape. because he promised them that he would do anything to keep them safe and alive. they’d already lost mac and jenny, john and davey had been shot, he wasn’t about to risk anyone else. he did what he had to do to keep the rest of them safe. but this is all headcanons, there’s no information. the fact of the matter is dutch cared about the gang enough to do a lot of stupid shit just to keep them safe. we see this in how he kills bronte, to make sure they wouldn’t receive repercussions on any activity that took place in his city. we also see it in the way he kills that woman on guarma-- a decision that was clearly rash, not thought through well, but a decision made with interest in the gang’s safety. she pulled a knife on them, he had no money left to pay her off. if he didnt act quickly, he or arthur could’ve been hurt, and if one of them had been hurt then javier could’ve died. he didn’t have to kill her, he did so without thinking. that brings me onto my next point on his desperation. for starters, when things began to go wrong--for no apparent reason--dutch began to wonder if there was something suspicious going on. that maybe someone in the gang was betraying them, or sneaking around behind their backs, or simply slipping up. he was paranoid that someone was doing something. he began to eye most people in the gang with suspicion, but never once acted on those suspicions. he simply wondered. threw theories into the air. and then let the subject lie. micah didn’t help with any of this. micah built on dutch’s paranoia, whispering suspicions of his own in dutch’s ear, making him wonder. that being said, there were times that dutch definitely thought the rat could’ve been micah, but just like with everyone else, he never saw anything that could or should have acted on. there was no hard evidence. and that’s why it was so easy for micah to convince dutch that the traitor was arthur. to reiterate my point on how dutch cares for the gang, i want to also state that he cares about everyone. the idea of sacrificing one for another is abhorrent to him. he’d never be able to deal with that kind of guilt later on down the line. even past guarma, towards the end of chapter six, dutch has no reason to doubt arthur. he simply wonders. but he’s more distant, more suspicious than before, especially after arthur decides to go against dutch’s word to break john out of prison. now, dutch didn’t want to leave john in that prison. he didn’t. but he thought, and rightfully so, that rescuing him in their already precarious position would put them under a lot more danger than they should be. the entire gang would’ve been on the line in that decision. it wouldn’t have been fair to them. this decision also came at a point in time where dutch was starting to connect with his grief over losing hosea, who was always a valued friend and a man who he had relied on to give him that second view point. that second opinion that he needed. when hosea died, dutch began to lean on micah instead. not out of choice. i believe he would’ve preferred to lean on arthur, but arthur never gave him the opportunity. and i think it came to a short conclusion when dutch tried to open up a little to arthur about his grief on losing hosea, and arthur quickly cut him off and brought the subject back around to “what mattered,” so to speak. there was no doubt that that hurt dutch. no doubt that it settled heavily in his heart and further altered his judgement. and then arthur betrays him to rescue john, puts the gang in danger doing so, and micah leapt at the opportunity to use that against arthur. it was easy to convince him then that arthur had ulterior motives, and when dutch looked harder he could see the way that arthur was, in a lot of ways, tearing apart the gang. of course, a lot of them had doubts of their own, that dutch knew, but arthur made an outward effort to help them flee the life they’d chosen. he helped a specific few. in his eyes, that was a man he thought of like a son and a brother and a best friend who was going behind his back to break apart the gang that dutch was trying so desperately to hold together. dutch was doing everything in his power to try and get them enough money, quickly, to flee together. DUTCH ALWAYS HAD THE OPTION TO TAKE THE MONEY AND FLEE ON HIS OWN OR WITH A COUPLE OF GANG MEMBERS, BUT HE NEVER DID. HIS ACTIONS WERE NEVER SELF CENTRED LIKE THAT. i can’t say much about dutch leaving john for dead after the train heist, but i can say that what makes no sense is for a man who intended to leave john behind, to actively search him out. to hunt him down until they could see each other, and THEN turn his back on him. dutch didn’t hesitate to turn his horse around, steer the count back towards where john had fallen from the train, to help him. i don’t know what went down. but there’s a good chance that micah was involved somehow. either way, dutch had intended to help john. his choice to leave arthur was motivated entirely by his own heart. by that point he was very certain of arthur’s actions, but he got the wrong end of the stick with it. he chose to walk away because he felt betrayed, and heartbroken, and risking his life to save a man who chose to go behind his back the way he did just didn’t seem worth it when there was the rest of the gang to consider. and when arthur survived the guilt settled in almost immediately, and i do think he regretted that decision and would’ve taken it back if he could. instead, he lied about it, because he simply could admit it in front of the gang. all of that was wrong. he made a rash decision, fuelled by his own heartbreak and rage, and ended up regretting it later. the choice to leave behind abigail, again, another bad decision, but in retrospect, was also the only decision that could be made. he had the gang on his mind, the people who needed him, and he already suspected abigail--as apparent in a discussion he has with arthur at guarma--as the one who exposed their location during the bank job in saint dennis. he had to get the gang out of danger as soon as he could, and with micah appealing to the desperation in him, it was a decision quickly made. HOWEVER, YOU CAN SEE HIM HESITATE. and i do believe that if micah had not been there, arthur could’ve easily convinced dutch to go back and save abigail. BECAUSE HE STILL CARES. like i said before, he would never act on his suspicions without hard evidence, and he never had evidence against abigail, he would’ve gone back for her if it wasn’t for micah’s devil tongue. then, at the top of that mountain at the end of the game dutch realises that arthur is telling the truth. that whilst arthur is dying, whilst he’s running out of air, that he has no true reason to be lying to him, and there’s nothing that breaks his heart more than the guilt in his realisation that he’d doubted arthur this whole time when he should’ve been trusting him. he made that mistake, he realised that mistake, that he hadn’t noticed before through all of his heartbreak and all of the betrayal and desperation. it was all too much to accept, so he left. not to abandon arthur again, but because he didn’t know what to think. staying would’ve meant dealing with micah right then and there, and he couldn’t bring himself to do that. so he left. when he found himself with micah again, it was 100% intentional. the one thing that is absolutely acknowledged about dutch is that he has a silver tongue, a way of fooling folks into giving him what he wants. and i dont doubt that it would’ve been easy for him to use micah the same way that micah used him. alone, dutch found micah again, no doubt played the part of the man that micah wanted him to be. acted like he had no motive other than to work with micah to get that blackwater money, thought had no doubts in the back of his mind that micah would still likely shoot him one it was retrieved and take it all for himself. but dutch wanted vengeance. for himself, and for arthur, who didnt deserve to die as he did. and vengeance for the gang that micah helped to destroy. when john finds him at the top of that mountain its confirmed in two simple lines “what are you doing here dutch?” “same as you, i guess.” dutch shoots micah, thought i dont doubt he wouldve preferred to keep him alive a little longer. in turn, that saves the life of john AND sadie, who both likely wouldve died if he chose otherwise. and dutch simply walks away, without the blackwater money. he leaves it behind for john, without a word. and since this man of words is suddenly a man of actions, i can only imagine that it was an apology of some kind. that was a sacrifice he made. he needed the money to flee. he gave it to john, in a last ditch of generosity. i’m gonna skip talking about most of the stuff that happens in rdr1, but in a nutshell, dutch is alone, kinda given up on a lot of his hope he had before, and is desperate and just trying to survive, but to round things up i’ll talk about the end of dutch’s life. for starters, if he was truly heartless and evil, i see no reason why he wouldn’t have killed john on that mountain. john put his guard down once dutch threw away his empty revolver, but failed to notice that dutch had a second one that was available to him. a revolver that was unused. a revolver that likely held a good six bullets. enough for him to draw quick and put a bullet in john’s head when he least expected it. but he doesnt do that. he could. but he doesnt. instead he kills himself, after a quick and delicate admittance of how he thinks of himself: AS A MONSTER. and at the end of the day he never actively hurt any member of that gang by his own hand except for micah. at the end of the day all he wanted to do was protect them.

[eustasszoros]

Enjoying The Show?

Summary: The Deputy travels to John’s ranch to take back Nick’s plane, and John is working on Nick’s plane she arrives… sweaty and covered in oil.

Rating: E. no smut today!

Warning: none.

Pairing: John Seed/f!deputy

Word Count: 2,133

A/N: This is a fic I wrote for @helptheexo‘s birthday. Sorry it’s a bit late. I really hope you like this. <3333

One week. It’d been one week since the Deputy and John had their first altercation face to face. The baptism. She’d lost track of how long it had been since she woke up in Dutch’s bunker and started this journey with the Resistance against Eden’s Gate, but for some reason, she could remember the exact number of days since she was last in John’s presence. She had written the butterfly feeling in her chest off as a Bliss trip when she remembered that night. His bright blue eyes staring intently at her, his tattooed arms holding her firmly in place, and that voice, “You will confess every sin, no matter how petty. No matter how small. I will pull from you.”

She shivered at the thought. The merchant behind the counter looked up at her with a puzzling look on his face. The Deputy just smiled weakly at him as she laid down her cash on the counter and restocked her quiver and rifle ammo. Stealthy, just how she liked it.

Slowly she made her way up the road out of Fall’s End still trying to shake off the thought of John’s touch, hating the places her mind went to with every step. As she made her way up the road, she heard an explosion in the distance followed by gunfire. She knew it came from Nick’s.

In an instant she was able to put her questionable thoughts on hold and sprung into action. There was another loud explosion, one so loud and close that it stopped her in her tracks and through the trees she saw a yellow plane fly overhead, “Damnit, hello?” Her radio cracked to life and Nick’s voice bellowed through the speaker, “Its Nick Rye. Peggies have us pinned. They stole my plane. We need help!”

“Nick!” The Deputy responded in her radio as she moved to a better position near the two buildings by the air strip, “It’s me,” She never had to specify to the people of Hope County who she was. At this point they knew who she was and that she was there to help however she could, “I’m at your 12 o’clock. Just keep the peggies distracted and I’ll do the rest.”

She could see Nick duck down to answer, “Uhhh. You got it, Partner. You help us outta this one, and I’ll owe you big time, Deputy,” Before he was able to finish his sentence, the Deputy was already firing shots from the ground, hidden from the scurrying peggies trying to figure out where the shots were coming from. Before they knew what hit them, they were all dispatched before more showed up, “They have reinforcements! Get ready, Nick!”

As the truck turned the corner onto the dirt road towards the air strip, the Deputy had a perfect shot at the driver. She took the first shot she could without hesitation, and she caught the peggie in the shoulder causing him to crash the truck into the gas tank. She took one quick shot to the tank, but no explosion and of course she was out of ammo. But Nick had the same idea. He tossed a grenade over by the truck, and by the time the peggies made it out it was too late. The grenade went off, causing the whole tank to explode, blowing up the truck…. And the peggies in the process.

“Aww shit YES,” She heard Nick scream as he jumped in the air, “Get on over here, Deputy. I gotta shake your hand for savin’ my ass,” There was a pause as the Deputy stood and began walking towards Nick, “And uhhhh I might have another favor to ask.”

Of course he did, she had thought to herself as she shook her head before trodding up to Nick’s front porch. Nick greeted her with a fist bump and a quick slap on the back, “That’s was incredible, Deputy, but those damn peggies made off with my plane. I gotta get her back,” Nick welcomed her inside his house where she saw luggage packed, “I gotta family I gotta get the hell outta this County, so if we don’t get her back, we’re fucked. I need your help bad.”

“Where would they have taken her?” She asked without nearly any hesitation.

“They must be taking her to John’s Ranch. It’s just a few miles up the road there,” The Deputy stopped momentarily in her footsteps before continuing into Nick’s home, “Please, help me and my family, Deputy. Get my plane back for me, please.”

She couldn’t say no to Nick’s puppy dog eyes, so the next thing she knew she was on a 4 wheeler, driving herself as close to John’s ranch as she could without being noticed, deciding the forest across from the Bradbury Farm at the end of John’s airstrip would be the best call.

Get the plane. Get out. Don’t bother with anyone else. Part of her twisted mind thought about what she’d do if John would be there. “First off, you’d shoot him. Secondly, he won’t be there. He’s probably gotta go drown someone,”  She convinced herself, laughing slightly at the thought as she jumped from cover to cover behind every tree and in every large patch of grass until she reached John’s Hangar.

She immediately ducked down and readied her rifle when she heard yelling coming from the end of the runway, “I told you to bring it back...Undamaged,” She heard a voice yell in anger but mostly annoyance. John Seed.

“Shit shit shit,” She groaned to herself as she hid in a small patch of grass. She probably should have expected this, but she also thought he’d be too busy tattooing ‘Yes’ into someone’s forehead. Slowly she eased closer and readied her rifle when she heard, “I’m sorry, John. We had to get out of there. Nick almost got us all, and I’m pretty sure the Deputy showed up after I left.”

She watched as John sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, “Just. Go,” He waved the peggie off with his free hand, “I have a plane I need to fix,” Once the peggie had walked off, John turned to the yellow plane now taking up the space in his hanger. Still intently staring at him through her scope, the Deputy watched as he looked at the plane quizzically before rolling up his sleeves and removing his vest and tossing it to the ground. She had him lined up in her sights. She could have the pulled the trigger and ended this right there. Liberated this entire Valley from his reign, but she didn’t. “Well, I might as well wait until he fixes Nick’s plane,” she thought to herself as John turned to face her in the scope, walking into the hangar and out of her view, “Damnit,” she audibly complained before eyeing the next closest patch of grass. She tried to scurry quietly to the new hiding spot just behind the small shed at the end of the runway. The Deputy then laid fully on her stomach glancing through the sights again trying catch a glimpse of her “target” once more. John now had his tool box in his hand and a smile plastered on his face. The man truly loved his planes, so maybe he was just happy to work on one that wasn’t his own.

As time passed on, he continued to work on the plane’s damaged wing and the Deputy had no excuse for not shooting him at this point. John had changed positions around the wing of the plane, now sweaty and covered in oil and grime from the plane. The sight made her swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. If she were being honest, it’s no wonder the man was in charge of converting souls to the project. He was charismatic and those blue eyes could indoctrinate you to believe just about anything he wanted you to. Maybe that’s why he became a lawyer before this cult nonsense. She continued to watch him as he stopped and took the towel laying on his toolbox and wiped his hands before unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way down. The gun nearly fell out of her hands in such an awful cartoonish way. She wanted to slap herself for how this man was making her feel. With that thought, she watched as he reached for the radio. “Oh no,” She immediately thought to herself.

“Deputy!,” John greeted over the radio, his voice too happy for her liking. Slowly, he walked up the length of the plane’s wing to the tip of its nose before turning and looking directly in her direction. Shit. His eyes were burning into her as she crouched in the tall grass, and she knew he knew exactly where she was, “Enjoying the show, are you?” Her jaw nearly hit the ground. She had no idea how long he’d known she’d been watching him, but her cheeks were burning and her heart was racing as John continued to stare directly at her.

Her throat was completely dry as she brought the radio up to her lips, “A good sniper waits for the perfect shot, John. Plus, you were kind of fixing the plane I came here to take back, so I figured I’d let you finish…” Sweating. She was legitimately sweating. “How in the world am I getting out of this one.”

The sound of genuine laughter came from her radio, and she cringed at how funny he thought this situation was. He clutched his chest from laughing and began, “You know what I think, Deputy? I think that y-”

Almost as if on cue, the peggie from earlier distracted John by coming through the door behind him upstairs. He let go of the button on the radio, but she still heard him yell annoyingly in the direction of the stairs, “WHAT NOW?!” The Deputy couldn’t stop the chuckle that fell from her lips as she took the opportunity to sneak off to the side of the hangar. The peggie knew he had interrupted something important and was already slinking back to the door he’d just come from. Slowly and quietly the Deputy had managed to sneak around and beside the hangar. Before John had a chance to speak to her again through the radio, she turned it off. She opened the door to the hangar and heard John sigh annoyingly when he realized the Deputy had moved while he was distracted, “Come out, my dear, I just wanna talk,” She shivered at the sound of his voice and imagined what those words would feel like whispered against the skin of her neck. Another shiver overwhelmed her as she quietly climbed the plane and entered the cockpit.

She smiled before turning on her radio once more, “Oh John?” Her voice sounding like a sing songy tune.

She watched as John smiled and turned back to the plane, “Yes, Deputy? I’m listening.”

“Get off the runway unless you want to be run over,” She stated before starting up the plane.

John’s smile faded into a look of complete horror, “DEPUTY!” He yelled as he scurried to the end of the runway watching as the peggies started booking it to the runway at the sound of the plane starting up, “Do you even know how to fly that thing?!”

“Shut up and watch a real pilot in action,” She stated lining the plane up on the runway as quickly as she could before bullets started flying, “And to answer your question from earlier, yes, I did enjoy the show,” With that, she threw radio behind her and took off down the runway, leaving a dust trail behind her as the plane was lifted into the air.

John paid no attention the peggies swarming him, asking if he was okay or hurt. He only watched as Nick’s plane left his airstrip before flipping around mid-air as if to taunt him. And taunt him it did. He swatted the hands of his followers away and watched the path the plane had just taken still listening to the faint sounds of the plane fading into the distance.

“Should we follow her and get it back,” One peggie asked, hoping to make up for their failure at stopping her.

He was still staring thoughtfully at the sky, secretly hiding the feeling in his groin at the way she handled the plane so smoothly. Truth be told, he didn’t expect that, and it excited him, “No,” He replied stroking his beard, “Let her have this victory. She’ll confess her sin to me soon enough,” They nodded and he once again waved them away. He smiled to himself whispering, “And I’ve learned today just what sin consumes her.”

[fly-pow-bye]

DuckTales 2017 - “The Last Crash of the Sunchaser!”

Story by: Francisco Angones, Madison Bateman, Colleen Evanson, Christian Magalhaes, Bob Snow

Written by: Francisco Angones

Directed by: John Aoshima

Storyboard by: Jean-Sebastien Duclos, Jason Reicher, Sam King

The calm before the shadowy storm...or is it?

Previously on DuckTales 2017, Dewey found a note on the back of a portrait that happened to have the same handwriting as Della Duck’s! While following the clues on it only led to a prank involving a hat that was meant for Donald Duck, Huey takes the note and uses a pencil to mark it. Apparently, that’s a Junior Woodchuck tradition, and not just another Adam West Batman style riddle solving!

It revealed these dates, and something that looks like the tip end of a spear. It even happens to be labeled the Spear of Selene! Clearly, unlike the ending of Other Bin, they didn't want to wait a few episodes before coming back to that! Surely enough, it will be brought up again in this delightful comedy romp known as “The Last Crash of the Sunchaser!”

...yeah, something tells me this won't be pretty.

The episode begins with a trip to the country of Monacrow, and everyone has their own reasons for enjoying the vacation. The boys, Webby, and Launchpad are interested in a convention called E.X.C.E.S.S., which has many star attractions, like...

Webby: Experimental racecars?

Huey: Lasers?

Launchpad: Aeroplanes?

Subtle! Mrs. Beakley also shows up to use up one of her stacked up vacation days on one of Monacrow's beaches. Who would have guessed they would use vacation days to not write off a character, but actually get one involved in a plot?

Scrooge, in particular, is more interested in the Maltese MacGuffin, which happens to be something of massive worth. It's both a reference to the trope, and a reference to one of the most famous uses of it. He also talks about how having the nephews around has made him more energetic than he ever was in a long time! Hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmmmm.

They all aboard the plane, and right from the get-go, there's problems. After Mrs. Beakley is utterly shocked about the massive amounts of safety violations on a plane usually boarded by young children, including having a pilot known for crashing planes, Scrooge tells her there's nothing to worry about. He tells Launchpad to give Mrs. Beakley a tour of the ship. While he's away, he's going to take the wheel.

Mrs. Beakley tells him he doesn't know how to fly a plane, but Scrooge McDuck says that he he's Scrooge McDuck, and that seems like a good excuse for anything. Throughout most of this episode, his ego is through the roof, but why not? Right from the beginning, he seems like this invincible hero who can do anything.

Meanwhile, in a large wooden box, the boys and Webby piece together a bunch of pieces of a photograph that Louie snuck into the car, along with a few other things. Apparently, this all came from that wacky librarian from The Great Dime Chase.

While Dewey learned his lesson from the last episode, the theme of secrets still holds true for Scrooge. They feel that if Scrooge finds out about this, he'll shut down the entire operation. Much like Dewey, a lot of this is based on assumptions; if he wanted to shred these papers, clearly this has to be something Scrooge doesn't want people to know.

They manage to piece together almost all of the photograph, except for this one large piece that happens to be right in the middle. Half the episode becomes Dewey trying to get this one piece of photograph. Unfortunately, as soon as Dewey across towards this piece, the plane starts shifting forwards and backwards.

They go out of the box, doing some inconspicuous whistling when Mrs. Beakley asks them what they are up to. Well, the boys do, Webby just sings "inconspicuous whistling". They soon see what exactly happened, as we see Scrooge getting angry at the plane. He can't blame himself, he's Scrooge McDuck.

While Scrooge McDuck has many talents, flying a plane isn't one of them. It’s not a Launchpad crash, either, but a crash that ends up putting the plane on top of a "10,000 meter speedbump". Needless to say, this episode isn't going to end with racecars, lasers, or aeroplanes that aren't the titular Sunchaser.

Scrooge tries to get the plane out of this situation, because he's Scrooge McDuck, he can solve anything! That seemed to work for most episodes, but it does not work here, as anything he tried to do only made things worse.

Of course, the Sunchaser being on top of a small spire-shaped peak means that balance is absolutely everything. Unlike most episodes, there's no real villain in this episode outside of gravity. It's a high concept episode, there's no B plot happening anywhere else. Maybe.

For example, Launchpad accidently drives a car into the large door of the Sunchaser, causing the plane to lean backwards. Eventually, the door opens, and Launchpad is hanging on. We get to see some cool moments with Scrooge, having him jump up on a box that's sliding down and being able to rescue him from falling off. It's like an action movie.

Not that Scrooge gets all the fun, Mrs. Beakley gets a lot of great moments, too. Throughout the episode, she's trying her best to keep the kids safe, and arguing with with Scrooge about how he's endangering everyone. She really wants Scrooge to admit that he can't fix this problem, but Scrooge is having none of that. Under Scrooge, nothing bad is going to happen to the children! Or, as he accidently says...

Scrooge: Nothing bad is going to happen to her!

Mrs. Beakley: ...hmm?

Scrooge Er, kids.

This is our first big hint that Scrooge is not just acting the way he is in this episode because of his sense of self-worth or for the safety of his kin. This becomes far more apparent near the end of the episode. It's clear that this isn't just about Scrooge's war against Isaac Newton.

The kids eventually have to stick to one place, as much as Dewey really needs that one piece of the photograph.

Launchpad tries to give some in-flight entertainment with a nice nod to Darkwing Duck. Hopefully we’ll get to see him, or his actor, next season. Sadly, the tape only repeats the same section of credits over and over again due to damage to the VCR caused by the crash. They eventually start to sing the portion of the theme song. The lone exception being Dewey, who just can't take it anymore.

Huey gets an idea: go to the opposite way Dewey is going, keeping balance, allowing Dewey to get the piece of the photo. Eventually, Scrooge spots Dewey with the piece of the photograph, and asks what he has. Dewey, left with no choice, decides to give Scrooge that piece, only for it to blow away to the same spot where Launchpad crashed the car from earlier.

Dewey chases after the photograph, while Scrooge chases Dewey. It's the slowest chase scene ever, due to Mrs. Beakley ordering them to be careful to not to make the title fit. That joke would have been a lot better on shows that I actually judge the titles on, I realize. Scrooge is only trying to grab Dewey to save his life.

Scrooge: I'm only trying to save your life, so come back here before I have to end it!

Obviously, Scrooge doesn't mean this, but he's getting a bit unhinged.

Eventually, the box where the secret hideout was hits the door and breaks open, revealing the hideout and all the pieces of information that were nailed to its interior. Mrs. Beakley notices the paper in Webby's skirt, which happens to be the Spear of Selene picture from earlier. Her reaction to this seems to be telling.

Mrs. Beakley: Oh, children, what have you been up to?

She doesn't do anything else to the nephews and her granddaughter about this, mostly because what will happen a few seconds later will heavily, but this line read is a clear sign that whatever secrets that Spear of Selene holds is not going to be pretty.

While the paper with the Spear on it is taken, the little piece of the photo gets blown out of the window by a gust of wind. Of course, that doesn’t stop Dewey from leaping out onto the Sunchaser, chasing after it. Scrooge utters to himself, "no, not again". Anyone who's watching this show will know this is referring to his side of the Della mystery.

Dewey's reckless endangerment even scares the other nephews and honorary niece, and they ask Dewey to forget about this and love the family he has. Dewey is having none of that, and neither does the viewer; we're not going to have another cop-out. Scrooge eventually has to ask what he can do to get Dewey to listen to him. Dewey, in no uncertain terms, decides to ask him for the truth.

Dewey: (holding up photograph) Tell me about the Spear of Selene!

We saw this scene in the trailers, and that’s definitely something people would want to see Scrooge answer. Scrooge eventually nods his head, grabs Deweys hand, and gathers everyone together for the big story.

No, there's no cop-out here. The longer answer, as I said before, is that it is not pretty. The even longer answer should be figured out by watching the episode. I would stop here, but this is the kind of ending I need to talk about. This episode was already good enough that a cop-out wouldn't have made this a below-average episode.

However, I'm sorry to inform that this is not the twist you will be watching. The twist you are about to see is extremely unpleasant. If you wish to see a film about three bug-eyed freaks that beat the stuffing out of monkeys, I'm sure there's still copies on eBay.

← The Secret(s) of Castle McDuck! ☆ The Shadow War! →

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Alright, fine, in the immortal words of a Dark Souls soapstone message, "time for tears".

I honestly thought they were going to stretch the Della plot into the Season 2, but lo and behold, Scrooge manages to keep his word. He’s not a hypocrite, just like how he promised Webby that all she had to do to know about the number one dime was to ask, all Dewey had to do was ask. No need to keep secrets, we learned that in the last episode.

Even in this episode, it’s hinted that the Della situation is not going to be a bright and cheery one, and oh boy, oh boy. It all started before the nephews were even hatched.

She went on many different adventures across the entire world, until there just wasn't anything left. Eventually, she decided that. Donald was completely against this, because it's too dangerous. Scrooge decided the best plan was to buy the Spear of Selene, and keep it a surprise from both Donald and Della.

...that is, a big rocketship in the shape of one. Unfortunately, Della finds out about this surprise because she's that clever. Della takes the Spear, leaving a note.

Scrooge tries to get Della to abort the mission and come back home, but Della wasn't having any of it. After all, she was Della Duck! Needless to say, there's a lot of parallels between this and everything else in the episode. However, there is one big difference...

Scrooge: I couldn't keep her safe. The rocket and your mother were lost...in the empty abyss of space.

Major props to David Tennant’s performance here. I had no doubt that he would do well as Scrooge. Donald wasn't too happy when he heard about this, and they never spoke again until the fateful day the nephews met Scrooge. This is completely understandable, and I bet it's even more understandable that telling your nephews that your Uncle indirectly caused your mother's disappearance may not make them like you.

Dewey: Cool...so you're the reason why our Mom is gone.

My earlier assertion that there are no true villains in this episode except for gravity becomes not an opinion shared with any of the characters aside from Scrooge and maybe Launchpad after this story. Symbolically, the plane starts to teeter and totter as the boys accuse him of being a greedy person who didn't even try to save their mother.

Webby shares her two cents as well, and Scrooge immediately tells her to stay out of family matters, as she isn't family. It felt like she became this honorary niece a few episodes ago, so this is a stab in the heart. This earns the anger of Mrs. Beakley. The anger continues until the Sunchaser falls off the spire into a regular Launchpad-style crash. Did anyone forget about that?

On the bright side, Uncle Donald finally fixed that houseboat, and everyone else managed to survive and walked all the way back to Duckburg! Donald Duck shows off the freshly painted houseboat, which is fully repaired, and ready to go back to the Marina. The boys tell their not-a-rich-mother-killer uncle about what happened, and all Donald can say is, "oh."

While they are bummed out, the nephews are glad that they don’t have to live with that money-grubbing tyrant that caused their mother to get lost in space due to his greediness. Actually, that’s not bright at all. There's nothing but tears at this point.

As Scrooge is sitting in his chair, everyone leaves the Manor, even Duckworth. I wouldn't know if it's even possible for a ghost to leave the mansion he's haunting, and that never comes up again in the next episode as far as I can tell. We see another flashback, and it's even more heartbreaking than the first.

Unbeknownst to everyone else, he did try to use his riches to find Della. The Vulture Capitalists have to forcibly restrain him from wasting so much money to reverse his biggest mistake. Well, it’s also her biggest mistake, but nobody seems to blame Della for abandoning her kids before they even hatched. There's some moral ambiguity here, and whether they'll address that is up in the air.

We even see the money bin get smaller and smaller. I actually didn’t even notice that, even in this cartoon’s modern day, he never managed to get it back to the heights it was generally shown to be in previous iterations of the Scrooge McDuck mythos.

Actually, speaking of “the beginning”, this shot at the very end may take that way further than I thought at first.

This is a recreation of Scrooge’s very first appearance in the original comics, back when he wasn’t too far off from his namesake. It's a neat touch; it also references him before he met Donald, and this would be a horrifying bookend. Thankfully, there's another episode.

I was thinking that this episode was going to be the calm before the shadowy storm, but it turns out that the episode before was the calm before the storm. But after a storm, there tends to be a rainbow, and anyone can expect that the next episode would be that rainbow. But...how? I just couldn't wait to find out, and that's something an episode should be proud of.

How does it stack up?

I never thought I would spend any percentage of my day crying over Disney ducks, but here we are. It’s an action-packed thrill ride and a heartbreaker in all of the best ways.

This is the best episode of the series so far, and definitely something I want to see the conclusion to. We might not see if Della is truly gone or not, but maybe the “get the kids back together” plot. Oh, and that Lena plot, too. I guess that’s important. As much as this image is very unfitting for this episode...

Next, prepare to be drafted for the finale of DuckTales Season 1.

← The Secret(s) of Castle McDuck! ☆ The Shadow War! →

[strainingfororiginality]

Chapter 15

Note from Author:  This part was supposed to contain more, but it turned out longer than I assumed, so expect a Part 7 before another Interlude.

ʘ‿ʘ

Part 6

He took a step back and looked at the creature at his feet.  At some point, in the haze of torment and pain something inside the German’s head had snapped and he had tried to attack him, shooting the stinger out in a desperate fury.  He had grabbed it and nearly pulled it completely out of the strigoi’s body.  This would have killed it.  So, he had stopped halfway and then just ripped it in half, tossing the piece of it away from him in disgust.

Thomas gurgled and convulsed at the action and now just laid before him, curled into as small a ball as possible.  He ripped the head back, seeing the tears that streamed down his cheeks as he dropped another into the mouth, stepping back as he healed again.  This was becoming less enjoyable, as he just seemed to lay there through the pain, seeming to be increasingly numbed by it all.

It had given up.  No more begging, no more pleading, no more screams and no more movement.  Pity.  He was hoping for more fight than this.  It had only been a few hours, after all.  He’d had real men who had lasted through days of his torture before.  In the days before The Youngest was cast down, they had all been expected to share in the punishment of man.  Michael had made even Lucifer look merciful.

He stepped back and leaned against the wall with his back, waiting and watching for Thomas to move again, but he made no attempts at anything.

“I did not … “ He finally muttered to him, “I did not wish to hurt her.”  Michael sneered and reached down again, pulling the thing up to his face and Thomas whispered in quiet desperation, “I did not.”  For the first time since he’d started, Michael’s anger had dissipated enough for him to see the face and hear the words and it caused him pause as Thomas continued, “You know I am not lying.”

He wasn’t.  Michael could tell when any man lied.  This fact almost made him more angry, but he released his hold, allowing the German to stumble and gain his own footing, standing before the angel with his head bowed in weak and utter submission.

“Yet you did.”

“It was not my choice, My Lord.”  This was the truth.  “We have no choice any longer … once we become … this.”

“Did you enjoy it?”  He asked, looking for any kind of fuel to recharge his animosity.  “Did you enjoy hurting us?”

“I did not, My Lord.”  Another truth.  “I did not wish you pain.  I did not wish her pain.  I … liked her.”  Yet another truth and he hissed towards the thing as he leaned back against the wall again, bringing the bottom of his right foot up to rest against it while he crossed his arms.

“Yet, you tasted her.”

“Yes.”

“And now he has forsaken you.”

“Yes.”

Michael nodded.  “What is his plan now?”

“My Lord?”  Thomas blinked suddenly.

“I have been told you know him like none other.  Where is the final piece of my brother?”

“I know not.”  He pushed himself from the wall, stepping forward as Thomas flinched in submission, putting his palms up in defense, “I know not!”

“You lie to me, little plague.”  Michael could smell it on him.  “He has forsaken you.  He hunts you now.  Do you love him still?”

“I will love him always, My Lord …”  Truth.  This caused Michael to pause.  There was no treachery here, he could feel it.  “I love him the same as you.”

“I don’t love that thing … not anymore.  Now, tell me what I came to know NOW …”  He drew his sword quickly, showing it to the German as he used the blade to glint the street light into the creature’s eyes, “And I will give you a quick death.  Keep it from me and I will continue my previous work.”

Thomas looked up suddenly and smiled.  The look caused Michael to strike him again.  He hit the ground with extreme force but the German only laughed at this causing the anger of the angel to mount again, to boil within.

“YOU LAUGH AT ME?!”  He growled as he lifted the creature by his neck, listening to the tiny bones in it crack under his divine pressure.  The grip was too tight to allow any escape of sound, but he could see Thomas’ face as he continued his laugh in silence, “YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT!”

One rib, two rib, three rib *cracked* … He crumpled to the ground and once he caught his breath, Thomas managed to cough words toward the angel, “You … you want something from me.”

“I WANT NOTHING, PLAGUE!”  The beast crunched and broke under his thundering punches and he resorted to kicking next.  When he was finished, Thomas was no longer conscious and he huffed, torquing his neck to crack it in frustration.

Shit.

Calm your fire.  He chastised himself clearly, hearing it in her voice, his Prophet’s voice.  He breathed and walked back and forth for a moment, pacing to generate a calmness within.

Calm.  Alright.

He bent to heal the German again, jolting him back to consciousness.  The little shit smiled again.

“Tell me what I want to know now.”

“You give away too much.”  Thomas’ smile did not abate.

Michael resisted hitting it again with every single fiber of his being, “I give nothing away.”

“Your emotions are so raw.  She has tainted you.  The same way that he tainted my Master.”  He raised his hand again as the strigoi continued to speak, unwilling to submit again, “Do what you will, My Lord.  But you have given it away already …”

He pushed the German back from his grip, causing it to stumble back as the smile continued, “What do you think I have given away, plague?”

“… That you need me …”

Dusk had come and gone while Quinlan sat on the swing bench, rocking it back and forth gently while she laid beside him, asleep on its wide planks.  He had not left her side since the episode started, regardless of how angry and testy she had become with him.  He knew she was not angry at him, understanding fully that the anger was not hers to control.

There were few words exchanged as it ultimately proved to be difficult to communicate with her in this state.  She had mentioned feeling something similar on the tank, but assumed it was motion sickness.  She admitted it was not the same though.  Not exactly.  It had not been nearly as strong as it was now.  She described it as distant, very far away, more like an itch.

He sat next to her though she demanded she was fine many times and bid him to take his leave.  The actual wording she had used was much more vulgar.  Eventually he wore down her reserve and she laid down on the cold planks, curling into a tight ball beside him and he had placed his hand on her shoulder.  He rocked the swing back and forth gently as it seemed to ease her agitation.  They were both in total agreement as he nudged her closer and she eventually rested her head fully on his leg.  

He had not noticed initially that he was humming along with the rhythm of his swinging until she was already asleep and because he didn’t wish to wake her, so he continued, or that was the excuse he gave himself.  It wasn’t entirely a hum though; it was more half-hum and half-rattle as he pulled air around and through the stinger in his chest, vibrating it slightly.

Initially, it had been one of Tasa’s melodies, until he realized it and he shifted to one of Liviana’s instead.  He had always preferred Tasa’s songs, but something about humming it for Dawn had made him feel guilty at this point in time.

He hadn’t realized he even remembered any of the songs until he was recreating them.  It brought back good and bad memories but everything melted away as he looked down, stroking her hair line with his bare thumb while he isolated his thoughts on the softness of her skin and her hair … focusing on the scent of it … of her … Angelica.  Of course.

He’d never found it was an overly pleasant scent until now.  He had come to appreciate its uniqueness.  It had a floral and earthiness to it and slowly he was coming to love it … just a little.

Hmmmm.  Perhaps more than just a little?  Perhaps.  Yes.  Completely.

As far as what he had felt from the Master in the past, this was obviously more intense.  His bouts had usually lasted many seconds to only a minute or so at the very longest.  A nauseating and overwhelming rush of pure uncontrollable emotion would put anyone in discomfort.

It had taken him hundreds of years to come to terms with this feeling, and he easily admitted to her that he could not imagine what such an extended occurrence of it would be like.  Experiencing this was not something that Quinlan had ever been able to share with anyone else and he had gone through all of it alone.  There was no reason for her to do the same.  Plus, he knew that this was undeniably his fault too; he had unlocked this within her.

He could hear the humans within and he had no idea who to expect when he heard the door begin to creak open but he was pleased to see Dutch emerge, with Dawn’s blanket in hand.  It was getting colder as the sun completely retreated and she sneaked over to laid it over the sleeping woman.

She went back inside without uttering a single word and it would be another hour before Dawn would stir awake, feeling normal and nearly balanced.  

Until then, he stared out across the water as the even fuller moon rose from the horizon, reflecting brightly against the still water of the lake.  He felt like he should be restless, like he should be eager to begin the hunt of the Master yet again, but he was not.  There was a peacefulness in this place.  He liked it far better than their other house but he worried over what would have such a crippling affect on her now. This only served to remind him that the war still ensued elsewhere.

What had transpired exactly …

And where …

… and most importantly … with whom?

Michael stared at him with eyes of flame as Thomas smiled back.  He was actually terrified, but he also knew that regardless of anything that transpired next, pain would be better than death.  He knew where his soul would go if he died, and from the word of the Master, this was not a fate he would be able to endure.  He would stave off that eventuality for as long as possible.

“Then we have a deal?”

Michael scoffed at him, “What makes you think I won’t just kill you after you tell me?”  Thomas blinked … Was he trying to talk him out of trusting him?  His honesty was almost stifling to the freed strigoi.

Thomas remained smiling, “Because I know many things about you, My Lord …”

“Do not test me, foul thing.”  A threat … No.  A promise.

“You are a man of your word.  I know this much.  He said that there was nothing more sacred to you.”

A laugh from the silver man, “Yet did you not say that I am tainted now … I am not who I once was, after all.”

Thomas looked at him with slight bewilderment, “My Lord, she did not change you.  She simply made you more of what you already were.”

“And what is that exactly, snake?” Michael furrowed his brow,  “Flawed?”

“The five were never flawed.  The rest–”  Thomas attempted and Michael swiftly interrupted as he brought the sword up to the man’s throat.

“Enough, silver tongued plague.  Tell me what I wish to know.”

“We have a deal then?”

A sigh and a surrender.  Michael resheathed his sword and crossed his arms, “So be it.”

“I know not where he is.”  Truth.

“You son of a bitch–”  The angel’s hand was on the hilt of his blade again, but Thomas spoke over his pending sentence.

“But you do, My Lord.”

The patience of the divine being was wearing thinner, “Do I now?”

“He seeks the gate.”

“Yes.  I figured as much.  He’ll never find it.  That knowledge was taken from him with his fall.”

“He lost The Call, yes.  He is no longer drawn to it, but he remembers where he fell, My Lord.  He remembers where you three cut him asunder.”

“I had no part of–”  The guilt on the angel’s face was painful.

“He remembers where you forsook him and he knows the gate cannot be far from there.  It is only a matter of time now.”

Michael laughed, “If he thinks he can take Heaven with a plague army, then he is madder than we left him.  He has forgotten our strength.”

Thomas smiled widely, “Oh no … no … no … he doesn’t seek the gate to return, My Lord.  He seeks the gate to destroy it.”

Michael cocked his head to the right, brows furrowing with confusion, “No.  That makes no sense.  They wished to return home.  The Truce–”  He sneered.

“The other six?  Oh yes.  But not my Master.  Never my Master.  This … all of this … it has never been about you nor Heaven, Great Governor.  He has never wished to return home.  For what?  To be allowed to grovel at the feet of the family who betrayed him?”

Michael shook his head in disbelief, though he knew Thomas spoke the truth, “It makes no sense.  You can’t destroy the gate.  It is not possible.”

“The Lumen is quite useful.  Telling us many things.  The power lies in the water and not the land.  An explosion, one of such blistering heat that is hot enough to evaporate all of the water–”

“Bah.  There are other gates.  They can be reopened.”

“Yessssss, there are.”  Thomas smiled, “That would take time, My Lord.  To reconstitute the waters–”

“What would it matter?  To what end?!”  Michael hissed, “We would come eventually and the battle would be swift.  We have purged the entire Earth before.”

“Time, My Lord.  To give us time to find the girl.  Eventually we will find her, you know.  The Born thinks he protects her, but he just keeps her alive … for us.”

“He is a fool.”

“Very much so, My Lord.  He is in love.”

Michael scoffed at the statement, laughing, “That barbarian?  He is incapable of such a thing!  I have seen the atrocities that he is capable of.”

“Believe what you will … but my Master felt it.” “It matter’s not.  What could your Master possibly still want from her?  I am here now.  He wished my attention, he has it.  And I promise that he will regret it.  He is but a shadow of Ozryel.”  Michael sneered, “And if he thinks that using her existence against me further will play well in his favor, then he has forgotten than I am more merciful … more understanding … than either of our remaining brothers.”

“She is still a means to an end.”

“A means to what end?!  Even if you turned the entire world, your army doesn’t stand a chance against mine.  He merely delays the inevitable.”

“Exactly.  EXACTLY.”  He chuckled, “We cannot defeat you … alone.”

“Alone?  Who do you think would aid you?”  Michael laughed out loud now and mused at Thomas’ statement, “Aid from whom?  Man?”  He laughed again.  “Man can’t even help themselves!!!  They shit on the very world that they were given.  They bicker amongst themselves like child–”

He hissed the words, savoring the look on the angel’s face as he delivered the news, “Such two dimensional thinking, My Lord.  It is disappointing as my Master spoke so highly of you.  He said you were the most creative of the five.  Do better …”

Michael’s smile faded and he considered, “There is no one else who … “  His words trailed and he finally blinked at the German, “Two dimen– … other gates?”  Revelation felt upon his face, “No.  No.  That is not possible.  He is locked away, little plague.  That cage cannot be ope–”

“No prison is foolproof, My Lord.  He simply needs a key.  And you have made him the most perfect and precious key.”  He reveled in the look on Michael’s face as he continued the confession.

“My Master hoped the boy would be that key, but his soul proved to be … Unbesiegbar.”

     (Unconquerable)

“Years of torment, years of pain … Unnachgiebig.”

    (Unyielding)

“Taking everything and everyone from him, yet … Unzerbrechlich.”

    (Unbreakable)

“No.”  Michael’s denial was fierce, “It doesn’t work like that.  It won’t–”

“This … “ Thomas flung his arms up in the air and spun, waving at the fallen city around them, “This has been a sleight of hand.  A distraction … for you.”  Michael shook his head, “You have been so focused here … on her.  My Lord, excavation has been underway for months now.”

Michael turned sharply to take his leave of Thomas, he face a contortion of anger and concern, “And you are wrong, creature … I have broken my word before.”  He said solemnly, his voice laced with sadness, before he began to take his leave from him.

Thomas called after him, “This is all possible because of you.  When he saw her eyes, everything changed.”  Michael spoke as he walked, without turning back to him again.

“I let you live only because he loves you.  The next time I see you, I end you.”

Thomas was alone again.  He looked down at both of his hands as he smiled.

[katebushwick]

All men are designers. All that we do, almost all the time, is design, for design is basic to all human activity. The planning and patterning of any act towards a desired, foreseeable end constitutes the design process. Any attempt to separate design, to make it a thing-by-itself, works counter to the inherent value, of design as the primary underlying matrix of life. Design is com- posing an epic poem, executing a mural, painting a masterpiece, writing a concerto. But design is also cleaning and reorganizing a desk drawer, pulling an impacted tooth, baking an apple pie, choosing sides for a back-lot baseball game, and educating a child. Design is the conscious effort to impose meaningful order. The order and delight we find in frost flowers on a window pane, in the hexagonal perfection of a honeycomb, in leaves, or in the architecture of a rose, reflect man's preoccupation with pattern, the constant attempt to understand an ever-changing, highly complex existence by imposing order on it - but these things are not the product of design. They possess only the order we ascribe to them. The reason we enjoy things in nature is that we see an economy of means, simplicity, elegance and an essential tightness in them. But they are not design. Though they have pattern, order, and beauty, they lack conscious intention. If we call them design, we artificially ascribe our own values to an accidental side issue. The streamlining of a trout's body is aesthetically satisfying to us, but to the trout it is a by-product of swimming efficiency. The aesthetically satisfying spiral growth pattern found in sunflowers, pineapples, pine cones, or the arrangement of leaves on a stem can be explained by the Fibonacci sequence (each member is the sum of the two previous members: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34 .. .), but the plant is only concerned with improving photosynthesis by exposing a maximum of its surface. Similarly, the beauty we find in the tail of a peacock, although no doubt even more attractive to a peahen, is the result of intra-specific selection (which, in the case cited, may even ultimately prove fatal to the species). Intent is also missing from the random order system of a pile of coins. If, however, we move the coins around and arrange them according to size and shape, we add the element of intent and produce some sort of symmetrical alignment. This sym- metrical order system is a favourite of small children, unusually primitive peoples, and some of the insane, because it is so easy to understand. Further shifting of the coins will produce an infinite number of asymmetrical arrangements which require a higher level of sophistication and greater participation on the part of the viewer to be understood and appreciated. While the aesthetic values of the symmetrical and asymmetrical designs differ, both can give ready satisfaction since the underlying intent is clear. Only marginal patterns (those lying in the threshold area between symmetry and asymmetry) fail to make the designer's intent clear. The ambiguity of these 'threshold cases' produces a feeling of unease in the viewer. But apart from these threshold cases there are an infinite number of possible satisfactory arrangements of the coins. Importantly, none of these is the one right answer, though some may seem better than others. Shoving coins around on a board is a design act in miniature because design as a problem-solving activity can never, by definition, yield the one right answer: it will always produce an infinite number of answers, some 'righter' and some 'wronger'. The Brightness' of any design solution will depend on the meaning with which we invest the arrangement. Design must be meaningful. And 'meaningful' replaces the semantically loaded noise of such expressions as 'beautiful1, 'ugly', 'cool', 'cute', 'disgusting', 'realistic', 'obscure', 'abstract', and 'nice', labels convenient to a bankrupt mind when con- fronted by Picasso's 'Guernica', Frank Lloyd Wright's Falling-f water, Beethoven's Eroica, Stravinsky's Le Sacre du printemps, Joyce's Finnegans Wake. In all of these we respond to that which has meaning. The mode of action by which a design fulfils its purpose is its function. 'Form follows function', Louis Sullivan's battle cry of the i88os and 18905, was followed by Frank Lloyd Wright's 'Form and function are one'. But semantically, all the statements from Horatio Greenough to the German Bauhaus are meaningless. The concept that what works well will of necessity look well has been the lame excuse for all the sterile, operating-room-like furniture and implements of the twenties and thirties. A dining table of the period might have a top, well proportioned in glisten- ing white marble, the legs carefully nurtured for maximum strength with minimum materials in gleaming stainless steel. And the first reaction on encountering such a table is to lie down on it and have your appendix extracted. Nothing about the table says: 'Dine off me.' Le style internationaland die neue Sachlichkeit have let us down rather badly in terms of human value. Le Corbusier's house as la machine a habiter and the packing-crate houses evolved in the Dutch De Stijl movement reflect a perversion of aesthetics and utility. 'Should I design it to be functional,' the students say, 'or to be aesthetically pleasing?' This is the most heard, the most understandable, and the most mixed-up question in design today. 'Do you want it to look good, or to work ?' Barricades erected between what are really just two of the many aspects of function. It is all quite simple: aesthetic value is an inherent part of function. A simple diagram will show the dynamic actions and relationships that make up the function complex: It is now possible to go through the six parts of the function complex (above) and to define every one of its aspects. METHOD: The interaction of tools, processes, and materials. An honest use of materials, never making the material seem that which it is not, is good method. Materials and tools must be used optimally, never using one material where another can do the job less expensively and/or more efficiently. The steel beam in a house, painted a fake wood grain; the moulded plastic bottle designed to look like expensive blown glass; the 1967 New Eng- land cobbler's bench reproduction ('worm holes $i extra') dragged into a twentieth-century living room to provide dubious footing for Martini glass and ash tray: these are all perversions of materials, tools, and processes. And this discipline of using a suitable method extends naturally to the field of the fine arts as well. Alexander Calder's 'The Horse', a compelling sculpture at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, was shaped by the particular material in which it was conceived. Calder decided that boxwood would give him the specific colour and texture he desired in his sculpture. But boxwood comes only in rather narrow planks of small sizes. (It is for this reason that it tradition- ally has been used in the making of small boxes: hence its name.) The only way he could make a fair-sized piece of sculpture out of a wood that only comes in small pieces was to interlock them somewhat in the manner of a child's toy. The Horse', then, is a piece of sculpture, the aesthetic of which was largely determined by method. For the final execution at the Museum of Modern Art Calder chose to use thin slats of walnut, a wood similar in texture. When early Swedish settlers in what is now Delaware decided to build, they had at their disposal trees and axes. The material was a round tree trunk, the tool an axe, and the process a simple kerf cut into the log. The inevitable result of this combination of tools, materials, and process is a log cabin. From the log cabin in the Delaware Valley of 1680 to Paolo Soleri's desert home in twentieth-century Arizona is no jump at all. Soleri's house is as much the inevitable result of tools, materials, and processes as is the log cabin. The peculiar viscosity of the desert sand where Soleri built his home made his unique method possible. Selecting a mound of desert sand, Soleri criss-crossed it with V-shaped channels cut into the sand, making a pattern somewhat like the ribs of a whale. Then he poured concrete in the channels, forming, when set, the roof- beams of the house-to-be. He added a concrete skin for the roof and bulldozed the sand out from underneath to create the living space itself. He then completed the structure by setting in car windows garnered from automobile junkyards. Soleri's creative use of tools, materials, and processes was a tour deforce that gave us a radically new building method. Dow Chemical's 'self-generating' styrofoam dome is the pro- duct of another radical approach to building methods. The foundation of the building can be a 12-inch-high circular retaining wall. To this wall a 4-inch wide strip of styrofoam is attached which raises as it goes around the wall from zero to 4 inches in height, forming the base for the spiral dome. On the ground in Paolo Soleri: Carved earth form for the original drafting room and interior of the ceramics workshop. Photos by Stuart Weiner. the centre, motorized equipment operates two spinning booms, one with an operator and the other holding a welding machine. The booms move around, somewhat like a compass drawing a circle, and they rise with a spiralling motion at about 30 feet a minute. Gradually they move in towards the centre. A man sit- ting in the saddle feeds an 'endless' 4 x 4-inch strip of styrofoam into the welding machine, which heat-welds it to the previously hand-laid styrofoam. As the feeding mechanism follows its circular, rising, but ever-diminishing diameter path, this spiral process creates the dome. Finally, a hole 36 inches in diameter is left in the top, through which man, mast, and movement arm can be re- moved. The hole is then closed with a clear plastic pop-in bubble or a vent. At this point the structure is translucent, soft, but still entirely without doors or windows. The doors and windows are then cut (with a minimum of effort; in fact the structure is still so soft that openings could be cut with one's fingernail), and the structure is sprayed inside and out with latex-modified concrete. The dome is ultra-lightweight, is secured to withstand high wind speeds and great snow loads, is vermin-proof, and inexpensive. Several of these 54-foot-diameter domes can be easily joined together into a cluster. All these building methods demonstrate the elegance of solution possible with a creative interaction of tools, materials, and processes. USE: 'Does it work?' A vitamin bottle should dispense pills singly. An ink bottle should not tip over. A plastic-film package covering sliced pastrami should withstand boiling water. As in any reasonably conducted home, alarm-clocks seldom travel through the air at speeds approaching five hundred miles per hour, 'streamlining' clocks is out of place. Will a cigarette lighter designed like the tail fin of an automobile (the design of that auto- mobile was copied from a pursuit plane of the Korean War) give more efficient service? Look at some hammers: they are all different in weight, material, and form. The sculptor's mallet is fully round, permitting constant rotation in the hand. The jeweller's chasing hammer is a precision instrument used for fine work on metal. The prospector's pick is delicately balanced to add to the swing of his arm when cracking rocks. The ball-point pen with a fake polyethylene orchid surrounded by fake styrene carrot leaves sprouting out of its top, on the other hand, is a tawdry perversion of design for use. But the results of the introduction of a new device are never predictable. In the case of the automobile, a fine irony developed. One of the earliest criticisms of the car was that, unlike 'old Dobbin', it didn't have the sense 'to find its way home' whenever its owner was incapacitated by an evening of genteel drinking. No one foresaw that mass acceptance of the car would put the American bedroom on wheels, offering everyone a new place to copulate (and privacy from supervision by parents and spouses). Nobody expected the car to accelerate our mobility, thereby creating the exurbant sprawl and the dormitory suburbs that strangle our larger cities; or to sanction the killing of fifty thou- sand people per annum, brutalising us and making it possible, as Philip Wylie says 'to see babies with their jaws ripped off on the corner of Maine and Maple'; or to dislocate our societal groupings, thus contributing to our alienation; and to put every yut, yahoo, and prickamouse from sixteen to sixty in permanent hock to the tune of $80 a month. In the middle forties, no one foresaw that, with the primary use function of the automobile solved, it would emerge as a combination status symbol and disposable, chrome-plated codpiece. But two greater ironies were to follow. In the early sixties, when people began to fly more, and to rent standard cars at their destination, the businessman's clients no longer saw the car he owned and therefore could not judge his 'style of life' by it. Most of Detroit's Baroque exuberance sub- sided, and the automobile again came closer to being a transportation device. Money earmarked for status demonstration was now spent on boats, colour television sets, and other ephemera. The last irony is still to come: with carbon monoxide fumes poisoning our atmosphere, the electric car, driven at low speeds and with a cruising range of less than one hundred miles, reminiscent of the turn of the century, may soon make an anachronistic comeback. Anachronistic because the days of individual transportation devices are numbered. The automobile gives us a typical case history of seventy years of the perversion of design for use. NEED: Much recent design has satisfied only evanescent wants and desires, while the genuine needs of man have often been neglected by the designer. The economic, psychological, spiritual, technological, and intellectual needs of a human being are usually more difficult and less profitable to satisfy than the carefully engineered and manipulated 'wants' inculcated by fad and fashion. People seem to prefer the ornate to the plain as they prefer day-dreaming to thinking and mysticism to rationalism. As they seek crowd pleasures and choose widely travelled roads rather than solitude and lonely paths, they seem to feel a sense of security in crowds and crowdedness. Horror vacui is horror of inner as well as outer vacuum. The need for security-through-identity has been perverted into role-playing. The consumer, unable or unwilling to live a strenuous life, can now act out the role by appearing caparisoned in Naugahyde boots, pseudo-military uniforms, voyageur's shirts, little fur jackets, and all the other outward trappings of Davy Crockett, Foreign Legionnaires, and Cossack Hetmans. (The apotheosis of the ridiculous: a 'be- your-own-Paul-Bunyan-kit, beard included', neglecting the fact that Paul Bunyan is the imaginary creature of an advertising firm early in this century.) The furry parkas and elk-hide boots are obviously only role- playing devices, since climatic control makes their real use redundant. A short ten months after the Scott Paper Company introduced disposable paper dresses for QQC, it was possible to buy throwaway paper dresses ranging from $20 to $149.50. With increased consumption, the price of the 99c dress could have dropped to 40c. And a 40c paper dress is a good idea. Typically, industry perverted the idea and chose to ignore an important need- fulfilling function of the design: disposable dresses inexpensive enough to make disposability economically feasible for the consumer. Greatly accelerated technological change has been used to create technological obsolescence. This year's product often incorporates enough technical changes to make it really superior to last year's offering. The economy of the market place, however, is still geared to a static philosophy of purchasing-owning' rather than a dynamic one of 'leasing-using', and price policy has not resulted in lowered consumer cost. If a television set, for instance, is to be an every-year affair, rather than a once- in-a- lifetime purchase, the price must reflect it. Instead, the real values of real things have been driven out by false values of false things, a sort of Gresham's Law of Design. As an attitude, 'Let them eat cake' has been thought of as a manufacturer's basic right. And by now people, no longer 'turned on' by a loaf of bread, can differentiate only between frostings. Our profit-oriented and consumer-oriented Western society has become so over specialised that few people experience the pleasures and benefits of full life, and many never participate in even the most modest forms of creative activity which might help to keep their sensory and intellectual faculties alive. Members of a 'civilised' community or nation depend on the hands, brains, and imaginations of experts. But however well trained these experts may be, unless they have a sense of ethical, intellectual, and artistic responsibility, then morality and an intelligent, 'beautiful', and elegant quality of life will suffer in astronomical proportions under our present-day system of mass production and private capital. TELESIS: 'The deliberate, purposeful utilisation of the processes of nature and society to obtain particular goals' (American College Dictionary, 1961). The telesic content of a design must reflect the times and conditions that have given rise to it, and must fit in with the general human socio-economic order in which it is to operate. The uncertainties and the new and complex pressures in our society make many people feel that the most logical way to regain lost values is to go out and buy Early American furniture, put a hooked rug on the floor, buy ready-made phoney ancestor portraits, and hang a flint-lock rifle over the fireplace. The gas-light so popular in our subdivisions is a dangerous and senseless anachronism that only reflects an insecure striving for the 'good old days' by consumer and designer alike. Our twenty-year love affair with things Japanese - Zen Buddhism, the architecture of the Ise Shrine and Katsura Imperial Palace, haiku poetry, Hiroshige and Hokusai block-prints, the music of koto and samisen, lanterns and sake sets, green tea liqueur and sukiyaki and tempura - has triggered an intemperate demand by consumers who disregard telesic aptness. By now it is obvious that our interest in things Japanese is not just a passing fad or fashion but rather the result of a major cultural confrontation. As Japan was shut off for nearly two hundred years from the Western world under the Tokugawa Shogunate, its cultural expressions flourished in a pure (although somewhat inbred) form in the imperial cities of Kyoto and Edo (now Tokyo). The Western world's response to an in-depth knowledge of things Japanese is comparable only to the European reaction to things classical, which we are now pleased to call the Renaissance. Nonetheless, it is not possible to translate things from one culture to another. The floors of traditional Japanese homes are covered by floor mats. These mats are 3x6 feet in size and consist of rice straw closely packed inside a cover of woven rush. The long sides are bound with black linen tape. While tatami mats impose a module (homes are spoken of as six-, eight-, or twelve-mat homes), their primary purposes are to absorb sounds and to act as a sort of wall-to-wall vacuum cleaner which filters particles of dirt through the woven surface and retains them in the inner core of rice straw. Periodically these mats (and the dirt within them) are discarded, and new ones are installed. Japanese feet encased in clean, sock- like tabi (the sandal-like street shoe, or geta, having been left at the door) are also designed to fit in with this system. Western- style leather-soled shoes and spike heels would destroy the surface of the mats and also carry much more dirt into the house. The increasing use of regular shoes and industrial precipitation make the use of tatami difficult enough in Japan and absolutely ridiculous in the United States, where high cost makes periodic disposal and reinstallation ruinously expensive. But a tatami-covered floor is only part of the larger design system of the Japanese house. Fragile, sliding paper walls and tatami give the house definite and significant acoustical proper- ties that have influenced the design and development of musical instruments and even the melodic structure of Japanese speech, poetry, and drama. A piano, designed for the reverberating insulated walls and floors of Western homes and concert halls, cannot be introduced into a Japanese home without reducing the brilliance of a Rachmaninoff concerto to a shrill cacophony. Similarly, the fragile quality of a Japanese samisen cannot be fully appreciated in the reverberating box that constitutes the American house. Americans who try to couple a Japanese interior with an American living experience in their search for exotica find that elements cannot be ripped out of their telesic context with impunity. ASSOCIATION: Our psychological conditioning, often going back to earliest childhood memories, comes into play and pre- disposes us, or provides us with antipathy against a given value. Increased consumer resistance in many product areas testifies to design neglect of the associational aspect of the function complex. After two decades, the television-set industry, for instance, has not yet resolved the question of whether a television set should carry the associational values of a piece of furniture (a lacquered mah-jongg chest of the Ming Dynasty) or of technical equipment (a portable tube tester). Television receivers that carry new associations (sets for children's rooms in bright colours and materials, enhanced by tactilely pleasant but non-working controls and pre-set for given times and channels, clip-on swivel sets for hospital beds, etc., etc.) might not only clear up the astoundingly large back inventory of sets in warehouses, but also create new markets. And what shape is most appropriate to a vitamin bottle: a candy jar of the Gay Nineties, a perfume bottle, or a 'Danish modern' style salt shaker ? The response of many designers has been like that so unsuccessfully practised by Hollywood: the public has been pictured as totally unsophisticated, possessed of neither taste nor discrimination. A picture emerges of a moral weakling with an IQ of about 70, ready to accept whatever specious values the unholy trinity of Motivation Research, Market Analysis, and Sales have decided is good for him. In short, the associational values of design have degenerated to the lowest common denominator, determined more by inspired guesswork and piebald graphic charts rather than by the genuinely felt wants of the consumer. Many products already successfully embody values of high associational content, either accidentally or 'by design'. The Sucaryl bottle by Raymond Loewy Associates for Abbott Laboratories communicates both table elegance and sweetening agent without any suggestion of being medicine-like. The Lettera 22 portable typewriter by Olivetti establishes an immediate aura of refined elegance, precision, extreme portability, and businesslike efficiency, while its two-toned carrying case of canvas and leather connotes 'all- climate-proof. Abstract values can be communicated directly to everyone, and this can be simply demonstrated. If the reader is asked to choose which one of the figures below he would rather call Takete or Maluma (both are words devoid of all meaning in any known language), he will easily call the one on the right Takete (W. Koehler, Gestalt Psychology), Many associational values are really universal, providing for unconscious, deep-seated drives and compulsions. Even totally meaningless sounds and shapes can, as demonstrated, mean the same thing to all of us. The unconscious relationship between spectator expectation and the configuration of the object can be experimented with and manipulated. This will not only enhance the 'chair-ness' of a chair, for instance, but also load it with associational values of, say, elegance, formality, portability, or what-have-you. AESTHETICS: Here dwells the traditionally bearded artist, mythological figure, equipped with sandals, mistress, garret, and easel, pursuing his dream-shrouded designs. The cloud of mystery surrounding aesthetics can (and should be) dispelled. The dictionary definition, 'a theory of the beautiful, in taste and Art' leaves us not much better off than before. Nonetheless we know that aesthetics is a tool, one of the most important ones in the repertory of the designer, a tool that helps in shaping his forms and colours into entities that move us, please us, and are beautiful, exciting, filled with delight, meaningful. Because there is no ready yardstick for the analysis of aesthetics, it is simply considered to be a personal expression fraught with mystery and surrounded with nonsense. We 'know what we like' or dislike and let it go at that. Artists themselves begin to look at their productions as auto-therapeutic devices of self- expression, confuse licence and liberty, and forsake all discipline. They are often unable to agree on the various elements and attributes of design aesthetics. If we contrast the 'Last Supper' by Leonardo da Vinci with an ordinary piece of wallboard, we will understand how both operate in the area of aesthetics. In the work of so-called 'pure' art, the main job is to operate on a level of inspiration, delight, beauty, catharsis ... in short, to serve as a propagandistic communications device for the Holy Church at a time when a largely pre-literate population \vas exposed to a few non-verbal stimuli. But the 'Last Supper' also had to fill the other requirements of function; aside from the spiritual, its use was to cover a wall. In terms of method it had to reflect the material (pigment and vehicle), tools (brushes and painting knives), and processes (individualistic brushwork) employed by Leonardo. It had to fulfil the human need for spiritual satisfaction. And it had to work on the associational and telesic plane, providing reference points from the Bible. Finally, it had to make 30 identification through association easier for the beholder through such clichés as the racial type, garb, and posture of the Saviour. 'The Last Supper', by Leonardo da Vinci. Earlier 'Last Supper' versions, painted during the sixth and seventh centuries, saw Christ lying or reclining in the place of honour. For nearly a thousand years, the well- mannered did not sit at the table. Leonardo da Vinci disregarded the reclining position followed by earlier civilisations and painters for Jesus and the Disciples. To make the 'Last Supper' acceptable to Italians of his time, on an associational plane, Leonardo sat the crowd around the last supper table on chairs or benches in the proper positions of his (Leonardo's) time. Unfortunately the scriptural account of St John resting his head on the Saviour's bosom presented an unsolvable positioning problem to the artist, once everybody was seated according to the Renaissance custom. On the other hand, the primary use of wallboard is to cover a wall. But an increased choice of textures and colours applied by the factory shows that it, too, must fulfil the aesthetic aspect of function. No one argues that in a great work of art such as the 'Last Supper', prime functional emphasis is aesthetic, with use (to cover a wall) subsidiary. The main job of wallboard is its use in covering a wall, and the aesthetic assumes a highly subsidiary position. But both examples must operate in all six areas of the function complex. Designers often attempt to go beyond the primary functional requirements of method, use, need, telesis, association, and aesthetics; they strive for a more concise statement: precision, simplicity. In a statement so conceived, we find a degree of aesthetic satisfaction comparable to that found in the logarithmic spiral of a chambered nautilus, the ease of a seagull's flight, the strength of a gnarled tree trunk, the colour of a sunset. The particular satisfaction derived from the simplicity of a thing can be called elegance. When we speak of an 'elegant' solution, we refer to something consciously evolved by men which reduces the complex to the simple: Euclid's Proof that the number of primes is infinite, from the field of mathematics, will serve: 'Primes' are numbers which are not divisible, like 3, 17, 23, etc. One would imagine as we get higher in the numerical series, primes would get rarer, crowded out by the ever-increasing products of small numbers, and that we would finally arrive at a very high number which would be the highest prime, the last numerical virgin. Euclid's Proof demonstrates in a simple and elegant way that this is not true and that to whatever astronomical regions we ascend, we shall always find numbers which are not the product of smaller ones but are generated by immaculate conceptions, as it were. Here is the proof: assume that P is the hypothetically highest prime; then imagine a number equal to 1 x 2 x 3 x 4 ... x P. This number is expressed by the numerical symbol (P!). Now add to it 1: (P! + 1). This number is obviously not divisible by P or any number less than P (because they are all contained in (P!)); hence (P! + 1) is either a prime higher than P or it contains a prime factor higher than P . . . Q.E.D. The deep satisfaction evoked by this proof is aesthetic as well as intellectual: a type of enchantment with the near-perfect.

[republicstandard]

The Football Lads Alliance: Extremists?

Britain is my homeland. For all her flaws that I find in myself and all her greatness that so often I do not, there is a part of me that is forever England.

Editor's Note: This piece was originally published on my now permanently banned Medium.com account on October 13, 2017. It is still accurate in my opinion, so I have republished it here. ~A.S

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Having lived overseas for some time now, I am in a peculiar position- every time I return home, the landscape is a little different. Is it England that is changing, or I, or both? What I have noticed, is that as ever, the United Kingdom absorbs cultural norms from America, across the gossamer fine Atlantic membrane that separates our civilizations like opiates crossing the blood/brain barrier.

Scaremongering about the far right is just the latest phenomena in this grand cultural ‘exchange’.

For years, the archetype of the British socialist has fallen into one of two broadly defined categories. Firstly, there are the so-called ‘champagne socialists’ who will wring their hands at the problems of the poor and the racial minorities. Ask them to visit a soup kitchen with you, and you will be drowned under a deluge of pressing engagements and nonspecified excuses. They are, however, well versed in how jolly awful capitalism is, despite having no real desire to change anything about it.

Second come the children of these middle-class dilettantes; they who are studying Gender Studies & Sociology at a university in the middle of nowhere, with professors produced by the same system as they are. Dutch door anarchy. These kids are the twins of the ones who have taken up shields with NO HATE emblazoned on them in the US. All the better to beat veterans in wheelchairs with, my dears. The red blood of these angry men (and feminists) is fashionably juxtaposed with the black, the black of bloc anarchist.

Technically speaking, there is a third kind of quasi-socialist who flits in between the parent and child socialists at will, selling pot to both. This is, of course, the true anarchist, the greebo, the hippy. Politically and culturally irrelevant, these strange critters cloak themselves in cold war German military jackets and patchouli.

For some reason, they never age, only seeming to be replaced by a never-ending cycle of dropped out kids, who burn out on acid, decide the system is fucked, and that psytrance raves on mountains are better than houses and jobs anyway.

All three groups are rarely comprised of stupid people. Ideologues, for sure. But never stupid. They have read Proust. They understand Sartre or at least tell you they do over a poorly rolled joint with a THC content lower than their contribution to the national GDP. These people are our intellectual elite.

Do you know who is stupid? I mean, really stupid?

Football (soccer) fans. They are stupid. They fight each other over tribalist nonsense. They spend vast sums of money earned working on building sites on tickets and paraphernalia that swells the off-shore accounts of Russian billionaires. Their simple minds turn to junk food when their team loses. They don’t care about politics. They are working class, by and large. They vote as their parents voted.

Except.

Except recently this has changed, and dramatically. For decades, the left has bemoaned the lack of political engagement among the working class of Britain. The leftist wrings his hands about ways to engage the youth of today in politics. For, as we all know, the 18–24 demographic now outnumber the baby boomers, and if only they would get out and vote- well. Socialist eutopia beckons.

Jeremy Corbyn, with some… friends

This is not what has happened.

The predominantly working-class men who follow football have begun to be politicized, alright. Oh yes, they have. As Rudyard Kipling wrote,

It was not preached to the crowd. It was not taught by the state. No man spoke it aloud When the English began to hate.

The Football Lads Alliance, an ostensibly apolitical movement against all forms of extremism, on the surface looks ideologically naive. Formed in the wake of Islamic terrorist attacks in Britain that are all too soon scrubbed from the mind, the FLA planned a march through London, on June 24th.

The March Against Extremism disavowed the far right, but is in essence a response to the lack of action taken by the UK government against Islamic Extremism. After all, Islamic Extremism is by far the most threatening and deadly extremist behavior in the nation. The march paused to pay respects at London Bridge, site of the horrific van and knife attacks.

Naturally, the March has been portrayed in the press as organized by the far right. Naturally, the usual suspects on the left the communist Unite Against Fascism (UAF) and the Socialist Worker were quick to jump on the bandwagon. What is a leftist movement if you have no enemies to purge.

In all, ten thousand working-class men marched through the capital, with no violence, a far-right presence tiny enough to be insignificant, and yet, there the leftists were. Crying ‘NAZI’ at the top of their little lungs.

But, this article is not about the march. The march organizers claim to be apolitical, which is idealistic in the extreme. In the case of any social movement, you play politics, or you will be played with politics. As the Socialist Worker newspaper points out with accuracy:

“By pointing out to softer elements of the FLA that they are being used by fascists, the opposition can drive a wedge into this new right-wing movement to split it too.”

This is correct. It doesn’t matter if the Football Lads Alliance is 0% fascist. It only matters what the optics are, and who controls the narrative. Outside the group, the narrative is controlled by the left, who have successfully painted the FLA as an offshoot of the English Defence League, a nationalist group that has been explicitly shunned by the FLA. It is also indicative of the desired outcome of the socialists that the “softer elements” be brought over to their camp. As ever, when the far left cannot convince through argument, it will attempt to subvert through slander.

The Football Lads Alliance, 07 October 2017

That really should prove my point. On the inside of this growing movement, there is the danger of infiltration by the far right. Outside the group, the press and the far left are already lumping the movement in with far-right nationalism. It’s a great recruiting tactic if you are a budding Antifa, who is all dressed up and with no one to mace.

I hope I have given a complete enough overview of the situation around these events, coming as they are hot on the heels of Muslim gangs raping white girls, children losing their lives to nail bombs at pop shows, stabbings in pubs and an attempted bombing of a train, this last, that has been met with a resounding ‘so what.’

While our politicians, cowards to the last, exhort us all to Keep Calm and Carry On, You Bloody Plebs it is the working class who are finally realizing who -and what- has come for dinner.

“I already am eating from the trash can all the time. The name of this trash can is ideology. The material force of ideology makes me not see what I am effectively eating.” - Slavoj Zizek, on ideology.

Does it take a bunch of football fans to point this out? Are we Brits so mentally enchained so to be unable to discuss the elephant in the room?

So it appears, that to discuss the problem of Islam in the United Kingdom online gets one arrested. To talk about it in the workplace will result in unemployment. To talk about it in the home will split your family. To talk about it with your friends loses you your friends.

*Just part and parcel of living in a big city. *

Where then, as a culture, are we to look? We have built bridges on our walls because we are not racist enough to build walls around our nation. We quibble over Brexit, the democratically mandated will of the people because middle-class socialists like easy holidays in Tuscany. Freedom of movement across Europe is jolly good, but it doesn’t mean a damn thing on the dole queue.

Here is the clarion call that is loud and clear. The people on the Football Lads march are the people of Rotherham. The people of Newcastle. The people of Manchester. The people of London. Their opponents live in the green belts. Their opponents cry “Not All”, when the argument is never about all or none, and never has been.

Unlike the United States, the actual violent aspects of the left are incredibly small in the United Kingdom. This is proportional to the numbers of active far-right street groups, who can barely draw more than a hundred people to a rally. The idea that a bunch of sports fans can drown out both sides with a non-partisan message is highly encouraging to me. There are still dangers ahead.

On October 7th, another Football Lads Alliance march took place in London. The organizers are of the opinion that a turnout of 50,000 or more people peacefully marched through the city. This is encouraging- although for some reason the BBC and other mainstream media outlets ignored it.

The press ignored the march because there was no violence. Without violence, the march cannot be held up as an example of far-right bigotry against the left, the religion of peace, and globalism. What. A. Pity.

Despite this great success, I hope to see some development in organization within the Football Lads Alliance to protect themselves from their enemies- who are numerous, vocal, and politically astute.

Here is the issue. The Football Lads are one hundred percent correct in opposing extremism from Islam and the far right. They fail to understand that this will not deflect criticism from the leftist media that the march is a smokescreen for the far right, regardless of intentions. It will also not prevent, as the Socialist Worker again correctly noted, that the far right will recruit on these marches if they can.

And so we come to the problem inherent in having such a laudable but vague goal. Marching against extremism sounds nice enough; except that extremism is a subjective term.

Without context, extremism is meaningless, and so is the opposition to it. Extremism itself is not in and of itself an enemy. As Sam Harris has said, extremist Jains walk around looking at the floor, so to avoid treading on ants. While there is no need for the Football Lads to become a political movement, the understanding must be that the movement is political.

The Football Lads Alliance has only recently begun, and so we should not be too critical of their organization yet. Still, as friends, we should not allow friends to fumble blindly in the dark in a room full of knives.

The wry comedy we can all at least enjoy, however successful this nascent movement might be, is that the decades-long struggle for the leftists to instill class consciousness in the proletariat may be at an end. It’s just not ending up the way their Critical Theory professors told them it would. The working class has awoken, and shockingly enough, they have decided that being told that they are racist, homophobes and Islamophobes, when they are not, is a crock. About bloody time.

And where are our police force while all this goes on?

What has happened is that our police force is busy pandering to an LGBT+ crowd with freshly painted squad cars. The use of no-no words on social media will see you arrested. The very idea of criticising Islam in public will have you on a watch list. The watch list that we already have in the UK, that of 23,000 known jihadis or fundraisers for terrorists, lies gathering dust.

This is not to say the security services in the United Kingdom do not do a seriously heroic job preventing and catching terrorists when they are allowed to. Our leaders were told for years that cutting the policing budget in the face of Islamic Terrorism was an awful idea. Those senior officers who said so were ignored and portrayed in the press as simply greedy for more tax revenue.

It’s good to know who our masters consider to be the real problem. It’s not the terrorists. It’s not the socialists. It’s everyone else. It’s you, with concern for your family as another rape gang is arrested and passed off in the press as simply Asian. Strangely we are yet to see a group of Japanese men in the dock for passing around teenage white girls like sex dolls. It’s the people who voted for Brexit. It’s the working class themselves, who resolutely vote against what they are told is in their best interests.

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And so, tired of being ignored, sick of being disparaged, the English have begun to march. Let us all hope they do not begin to hate.

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[cathygeha]

DUTCH by Madhuri Pavamani

E-Original published by Swerve

Publication Date: April 4, 2017

ISBN: 9781250127198

Price: $3.99

  Description

“Full of sex, magic, and turmoil...poetic and utterly beautiful. I can't remember the last time a book made me stop and think, wow.” --Meredith Wild, #1 New York Times bestselling author

 DUTCH is Madhuri Pavamani’s first book in a stunning new, suspenseful urban fantasy series that will take you on a wild ride full of danger, love, sex, and magic.

 I've spent years holed up in the deepest, darkest parts of the city, fighting to keep Death and her Poochas from crossing the dead back to the living. My skill with a blade is bested only by my menace, my despair, my anguish - the strongest weapons I yield.

 Then I meet Juma Landry and it all goes to hell.

 She is beauty and love and sex and light, everything I am not. And she makes me want things I haven’t desired in years. But the monsters of my life, the evil lurking in the dark corners of my soul, those places craven and vile, bind me to a past I cannot shake free. As the most skilled Keeper for the Gate, nothing and no one can prevent me from excelling at a job I never wanted. I do it because it is my legacy, a fate I cannot outrun, but when Juma becomes my next assignment, each of her nine lives to be ended by my hand, I must decide: the legacy I never wanted or the love I don’t deserve.

 "Ms. Pavamani's DUTCH is the perfect melange of poetry, fantasy and rebellious raunch. Absolutely addictive!" --Helen Hardt, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

 "Dark. Sensual. Unputdownable. I devoured this book and can't wait for the next!"--Kate Baxter, author of The Untamed Vampire

 Author Bio

Madhuri Pavamani is the author of the paranormal romance trilogy, THE SANCTUM. A Southern girl with Northern sensibilities, a slight twang, and who still uses the word y’all, but never fixin’, she has an affinity for writing twisted love stories and dark poetry. A graduate of Barnard College, and incapable of leaving the bright lights of New York City, Madhuri works in Manhattan, but rests her head in New Jersey. She loves whiskey, tattoos, Bukowski, and yoga.

 Author Links

Website: madhuripavamani.wordpress.com

Twitter: twitter.com/madhuriwrites

 Buy Links

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MZI3C0A

B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dutch-madhuri-pavamani/1125684506

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/dutch/id1202992419

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/dutch-3

Google Play: https://books.google.com/books?vid=ISBN9781250127198

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

 DUTCH

 I was eight years old the first time I rode an elephant.

I was visiting my grandparents, and the local zoo’s specimen had given birth to a dwarf, so everyone in the household wanted to witness the freak. They rustled up the whole lot of us, waved down some auto-rickshaws, and off we went, zooming toward the unimaginable feat of nature.

I took one look at that dwarf and knew it was scared. I also knew it was a complete bore.

The mom was much more interesting and already back to earning her share, offering rides to any souls brave enough to climb atop her back. My cousins needed no invitation, and before anyone knew what was happening, grandparents included, they scampered up the poor beast’s back and were raring to go.

I stood off to the side and watched, shy and somewhat quiet, still a bit ill at ease in my new environs. It was not every day I was shipped halfway across the world on a bird in the sky, and summarily deposited with two elderly souls I barely knew and certainly did not trust.

The elephant was a good move.

I was warming up to the two brown people smiling while their eyes flashed back and forth in rapid succession from me to the brood atop the grey beast. My grandmother clucked warmly in my direction, offering some words of encouragement as the mahout waved me over.

He was awfully scrawny and rather filthy, and I shot him a foul look. No fucking way was he controlling anything if that grey monster decided to stop taking anyone’s shit. But I was eight, and I was curious, and it was an elephant, for fuck’s sake. So I stopped putzing around on the outskirts of the action and leaned in

contemplative

somewhat curious.

Which was enough for Mr. Mahout. Faster than I would have ever assumed he could move, he grabbed me by the nape of my neck and hoisted me onto the dwarf’s mama.

Not on her back, with my cousins

but right behind her ears, on what seemed to be her neck, my hands resting on her head.

She was just like the old man who swam laps at the YMCA every Monday and always bent over to lotion his legs, providing me the perfect view of his ass—hairy and wrinkled and grey.

The mahout settled in behind me and gave his signal, but the old girl wasn’t going anywhere. She bobbed her head side to side, and he yelled something in Tamil, all of it unintelligible since I didn’t speak a bit of anything from the motherland.

At least not then.

He yelled again and gave her some swats with his whip, but she didn’t give a shit. Instead, she lifted her trunk into the air, pushed it about like a show-off, raised it to her head, and sniffed my hands.

I froze, for a second worried I might piss my pants.

I did not want to piss my pants, sitting there high in the air, because I did not want to soil her neck, but really I did not want another excuse to be the laughingstock of my unruly gang of cousins. So I let her do whatever she needed to do, praying all the while her trunk wasn’t full of tiny teeth that could suddenly inhale my hands and then my arms and then my head to chew me up and feed me to the dwarf.

I had not flown halfway across the fucking globe to wind up as dwarf fodder.

So I shut up

and homegirl sniffed me up

and eventually she started walking, doing a slow rotation of the park, giving us kids the ride of our lives.

I was eight, and it was magical.

I am now thirty-seven, and let me tell you, this world is anything but magical.

My name is Dutch Mathew

I kill for The Gate

and I am a Keeper.

  CHAPTER TWO

 JUMA

 I was five years old when I died

and ooooooh god

did it hurt.

The pain is what I recall most, even more than the blood and the fear, the panic in my ma’s eyes as she begged my da to drive faster, the strain in my da’s voice as he emphatically insisted his child would

not

receive

a

transfusion.

Louder than any of that was the pain, the searing shock and burn of my throat as the bullet missed its mark, entered my neck right below my left ear, and exited slightly lower on the right side.

It had been a normal summer day in Atlanta, hot beyond all get-out, but by late afternoon with a storm on the horizon, the heat had relented a bit, providing some respite from the cramped boxes of our apartments in the Shamrock complex

North Druid Hills Road

Decatur, Georgia.

Hardly glamorous but hardly the hood, kind of a socioeconomic in-between land, rather nondescript and average.

The complex was full of families with kids everywhere

in the pool

on the courtyard

down the street.

A jumbled, excited, energetic mix of brown and black and white arms and legs, ponytails and braids, Mohawks and fades. We played outside, unsupervised, because there were so many of us, a mass of pint-size humanity, running wild.

Until the day I died.

The sky was clear and a bird sang,

which was so strange because usually the heat killed any motivation for creating sweet music. But not that day and not that bird. She was singing her heart out that afternoon.

I like to think of her as a “she” because that song was so damn pretty, so clear and melodious.

Until it wasn’t.

The shot rang out in all of that summer perfection, ruining our fun and scarring our childhood. Those kids I ran with when I was so, so small, they forever remembered that shot. I, on the other hand, forever remembered the pain.

Heat

ripped flesh

pain like fire

too much for a tiny human to comprehend and contain.

And metal.

The taste on my tongue, filling my throat until I coughed and sputtered and felt like I could barely breathe.

I screamed

I think

or I tried at least.

It came out gurgly and thick

choked.

Then arms

so strong and certain clutching me

and being airborne

high above the others

running

fast

fast

faster.

And screaming

everyone was screaming

kids

mothers

fathers

and over all of them was the lilt of my ma’s voice.

Through the haze of my pain and blood loss and trauma, she talked to me. Rubbing my head, begging me to keep my eyes open

we’re close

we’re close

we’re close.

But she could not ease the pain, damp the burn. Her voice could not soothe my misery, act as a salve, a poultice for the gaping holes in my tiny throat. Nothing could stop the fire that threatened to rip me in half.

That pain remains to this day. It hid in the dark places of my body, lingered in some of my light, and made certain I never forgot it. I might have worked for Death, that sexy mistress, but the pain was my lord and master.

I just didn’t share that with Death. Not then, not ever.

My da was chief of something at the hospital in town. He ran in like he owned the place, I came to learn much later, and started going about the business of saving my life. Until he was pushed away and told to “wait right there!” so they could go about the business of saving my life. But it did not matter, they could do nothing. None of them, neither the doctors and nurses nor my da the chief, because that day, July eleventh, was to be my last on this earth as Juma Landry, daughter of Rufus and Mimi Landry.

Because on that day, July eleventh, I died and became Death’s Poocha.