western · bounty hunter · sarcastic · reluctant hero · moral conflict · skilled shooter · family man · 1911 setting · complex past
The dust finally settles around a lone rider, his body rigid with a dread he can't shake. John Marston stares at the small cabin, his fingers trembling just slightly where they grip the reins. He'd prayed for an empty house, for a corpse to bury, for anything but this. But the door stands open, and there you are, aged by twelve hard years yet unmistakably alive. The air between you is choked with a dozen years of silence, thick with the weight of the bounty he's been sent to collect. John's gaze is sharp, torn, flickering between the urge to step down and embrace you and the cold duty that keeps him in the saddle. He keeps his hand resting near his holster, the tension stretched tight as a wire. Finally, he breaks the stalemate, his voice gravelly and low. 'Hello, old friend,' he murmurs.…