June, 1899 Spider Canyon, Ambarino.
Even though summer was approaching, the land surrounding the canyon remained buried under a thick layer of snow.
In the abandoned mining town known as Plowshare Village,
Mike Walker now living in the body of the outlaw Mac Callander, couldn't help but shiver slightly as he recalled everything that had happened in the past weeks.
Creaaak
The rotten wooden door was pushed open, interrupting his thoughts.
Mike turned his head. A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a battered gambler's hat stepped inside.
Golden hair, a rugged beard, piercing blue eyes, and a stern yet familiar face
Arthur Morgan.
Seeing him, a familiar name instantly surfaced in Mike's mind.
"Mac, relax a little. Davey's injury is way better than before. We're all going to be fine."
"Dutch is studying that intel we took from the O'Driscolls. He'll think of something. We'll be fine."
Brushing the snow off his coat, Arthur spoke with his usual calm optimism.
"I hope so. Things have been far too hard lately…"
Mike or rather, Mac Callander nodded lightly.
As unbelievable as it was, this was reality.
He had transmigrated into the world of Red Dead Redemption, the legendary open-world classic of his previous life.
He had become Mac Callander, a twenty-five-year-old gunslinger of the Van der Linde Gang.
Just two months earlier, he had lived through the crucial turning point of the gang's downfall
the disastrous Blackwater Job.
Fortunately, Mike had one advantage:
as a fan of the game, he remembered Mac Callander
a powerful gunslinger who never even appeared in the original game, but who died covering the gang's retreat during the job.
Knowing this, Mike had intentionally held back during the escape, delaying the enemy just long enough for Arthur and the others to provide support.
And perhaps because of his transmigration, Mike now possessed an uncanny ability
an instinctive danger sense toward anything that could threaten his life.
On top of that, he could activate something akin to the game's Dead Eye, though much shorter in duration, barely a minute.
With these abilities, he managed to survive the escape from Blackwater.
And his intervention had even saved the life of Davey Callander, who was supposed to die from his wounds in the original history.
Davey was still injured, but not fatally so.
But that was the limit of his influence so far.
In the original timeline, the runaway girl Jenny had been shot dead by Pinkertons on the spot.
Sean MacGuire, the Irish hothead, had been separated while drawing gunfire away.
Mike had no idea whether Sean had died or, like in the game, been captured by bounty hunters preparing to deliver him to federal prison out West.
"Don't worry. Dutch will come up with a proper plan."
Arthur pulled out two cigarettes from his pocket.
Striking a match on his boot heel, he lit one and handed the other to Mike.
"Too bad you missed the raid on the O'Driscolls earlier. They had some real good loot on 'em." He joked.
"I wasn't comfortable leaving Davey alone," Mike replied, declining the cigarette with a small wave.
"Davey will be fine. Not even one smoke?" Arthur said encouragingly.
"No mood for it… and my throat doesn't feel great," Mike responded casually.
Among outlaws of the West, few could refuse tobacco or alcohol.
But Mike had no desire at all.
In this brutal, chaotic era especially as an outlaw his strong, healthy body was the only thing he could rely on.
He wasn't about to ruin it.
"Well, suit yourself. But sometimes a cigarette is good for the body."
Arthur shrugged, putting the unlit cigarette back in his pocket precious supplies were scarce.
Good for the body?
Mike almost laughed aloud before realizing
Right. This was 1899.
People had no concept of "smoking kills."
Tobacco companies were still advertising cigarettes as beneficial to health, practically miracle medicine.
"Why are we doing this?"
"The weather's clearing up! We can leave!"
"I thought we were supposed to stay low!"
Outside, arguing voices rose along with the restless neighing of horses.
Mike immediately recognized the two arguing men:
Dutch van der Linde, the gang's charismatic leader
and Hosea Matthews, the elder strategist and co-founder.
Dutch, an idealistic rogue who still believed in the fading cowboy dream of the Wild West…
unable to accept how the world was changing.
His stubborn resistance would eventually doom the gang.
Hosea, on the other hand, preferred brains over bullets
a master conman who sought to secure peaceful retirement for the gang.
"Let's take a look," Mike suggested.
Arthur crushed his cigarette, slipped the stub into his pocket, and nodded.
Stepping outside, Mike squinted his eyes against the blinding snow and sunlight.
Near the makeshift stable, Dutch and Hosea's argument had reached a heated peak.
"What do you want from me, Hosea?" Dutch barked.
"I just don't want more people to die, Dutch," Hosea replied, shaking his head.
"We're doing fine, Hosea. We're doing just fine…"
"Look at me, we're alive. Even you're alive! John, Davey, Mac, Arthur… we're all still here!"
Dutch gestured passionately like a man delivering a speech on stage.
"Right now we need money. All our supplies are in Blackwater. You want to go back there?" Dutch pressed.
"No… Dutch, I'm not trying to oppose you," Hosea said patiently.
"I just want us to follow the plan, lay low and return West quietly. But now suddenly we're robbing a train."
"What choice do we have?" Dutch shot back.
"Cornwall isn't someone we can cross lightly. He's a railroad magnate, a sugar baron, an oil tycoon " Hosea explained.
"Sounds perfect. Plenty that he can spare for us," Dutch chuckled dismissively.
"Alright, gentlemen. Let's go plan how to make some money." Dutch waved.
"Arthur, with me. Mac, you stay and keep an eye on Davey and John."
Then Dutch walked off, still visibly irritated.
Watching him disappear into the building, Mike felt a surge of unease.
If events followed the game's timeline, Dutch would soon lead the gang to rob Cornwall's train.
In the game?
Exciting. Thrilling.
But here…
this was real.
Mike might have enhanced instincts and Dead Eye, but he had no desire to test whether he could survive against dozens of armed men.
In this world, time moved forward.
Injuries didn't disappear after drinking a tonic or eating salted beef.
Death meant death.
And no one could carry twenty guns or hundreds of bullets on their back unrealistically.
If you get shot, you die.