"Ok… where am I…?" a man whispered, his throat dry as he stared at the desert stretching endlessly around him. Just a moment ago, he had been in his warm bed. Now he lay on scorching sand, sweat already clinging to his skin. The air was sharp, dry, unforgiving. A tumbleweed drifted lazily across his vision, as if mocking his confusion.
"Texas?" he muttered, peeling off his jacket and tossing it aside. He was left in a damp white vest and beige pants, his shoes already filled with grit. His tongue felt like cotton. Water, that was all that mattered now.
"Dammit…" He shook his head, forcing himself to move. "If this is real, I need to survive first."
He stumbled forward. The sun beat down, each step heavier than the last. His vision blurred until he saw something. A faint track, dusty lines etched into the sand. A road.
And on it, a wagon.
His heart leapt. A horse pulling a small wooden cart creaked closer. Desperation flared in his chest. "Hey! Over here! Help me!" he shouted, waving frantically.
The wagon veered toward him, hooves pounding until it stopped beside him.
The rider, a weathered man with sunburned cheeks and a calm drawl, tilted his head. "What're you doin' out here in the middle of nowhere? You look half-dead, mister."
The stranger glanced down at himself, sweat-soaked vest, sandy shoes, trembling hands. He couldn't even explain. "Honestly?... I don't know."
The rider studied him, then shrugged kindly. "Alright. No questions, then. You want a ride? Nearest town ain't far."
He laughed bitterly. "Not like I've got options. Sure."
"Good. Hop on. Town of Valentine's just a couple miles out." The man froze at the word. Valentine. His chest tightened. He knew that name, but only from a game. From Red Dead Redemption.
The wagon creaked as it rolled, dust kicking up behind the wheels. The man sat stiffly, eyes darting between the stranger beside him and the endless desert stretching into the horizon.
"Name's Everett," the rider said, holding the reins loosely. "And you are?"
The man hesitated. He wanted to blurt out his real name but something in his gut warned him against it. 'What if names don't work the same here? What if saying the wrong thing makes me stand out?'
"…Call me Cain," he finally said, picking a name at random.
Everett nodded without suspicion. "Well, Cain, you're lucky I came by. That sun doesn't spare anyone. Folks wander out there too long, you'll find their bones picked clean by coyotes."
Cain swallowed hard. The word coyotes made his stomach twist. He tried to focus on the town's name instead. "Valentine… so that's real, huh?"
Everett raised an eyebrow. "Course it's real. You'll see for yourself soon enough."
Cain stared at the road ahead, heart pounding. Valentine. The same town where Arthur Morgan brawled in the mud. Where Micah started trouble. Where the gang left its mark. He knew exactly what world he was in now. And if the timeline matched the game… then Arthur was alive. The Van der Linde gang was out there, somewhere.
And Cain? He was just a regular guy with no horse, no gun, and no clue how to survive in a land where lawmen and outlaws were one bad day away from spilling blood.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, forcing himself to think.
'Do I try to find the gang? Change things? Or do I just… keep my head down, survive, and hope no one notices I don't belong?'
"Almost there," Everett said, breaking his thoughts. Over the next hill, the sight of wooden buildings came into view, smoke rising from chimneys, the faint sound of a hammer striking an anvil echoing through the valley. Horses neighed, dogs barked, and the bustle of life filled the small frontier town.
Cain's heart raced. He was no longer dreaming. He was in Red Dead Redemption.
...
"And we're here," Everett announced, guiding the wagon into town. Cain sat rigidly, eyes darting over the wooden buildings, the smoke curling lazily from chimneys, the clang of hammer on anvil in the distance.
"See anything that fancies you, Mister Cain?" Everett asked with a chuckle.
"Well… there's definitely a lot going on," Cain said, watching horses tied up outside the saloon, men carrying sacks into the general store, a couple arguing on a porch. "Doesn't seem as quiet as you said."
Everett smirked. "What I meant is, nothing important happens here. Folks cause their own trouble, sure, but the sheriff usually sorts it out before it gets bloody."
Cain nodded slowly, though the unease in his chest didn't fade.
"You got money for a hotel room?" Everett asked.
Cain froze. "I… don't have anything." He forced a half-smile, trying to mask the panic rising in him. But then a thought sparked: work. Money. Survival. "Is there any place I could find work?"
Everett rubbed his chin. "Hmm… Maybe Amos Levi, runs the blacksmith and stables. Always needs strong backs. Can't promise much pay, though."
Cain shook his head politely. "You've done enough for me, sir. I'll manage from here." He extended his hand. Everett clasped it firmly.
"Strange fella," Everett muttered as Cain walked off, but he simply shrugged and rode away.
Cain drifted through Valentine like a ghost. The butcher shop, the gunsmith, the saloon, they were all here, just as he remembered them from Red Dead Redemption. His stomach twisted. This isn't just a game anymore.
He stopped outside the stables. Horses snorted, restless in their stalls.
"Welcome, mister. Here to purchase a horse?" The voice came from a bearded man with a scruffy mustache, Amos Levi, plain as day.
Cain swallowed. "…No. I'm here for a job."
Amos blinked, then barked a laugh. "A job? Look at you, scrawny as a fencepost, pale as a ghost. You sure the horses won't eat you alive?" He smirked, but his grin faded when Cain didn't flinch.
"I may look weak, sir. But I work hard. Give me a chance, and I'll prove it."
Amos studied him a long moment, chewing the inside of his cheek. Finally, he grunted. "Hmph. You got some fire in you, I'll give you that. But this ain't charity. Stable hands earn two dollars a day, sunup to sundown. If you last half a day, I'll give you one dollar. Enough for a bed at the hotel and a bowl of stew."
Cain's chest tightened. A dollar. In this world, that was the difference between starving on the street and sleeping under a roof.
"That's… fair," Cain said quickly, nodding.
"Good. Then prove it." Amos jerked his thumb toward the stalls. "First job, muck out those pens. Don't spook the mares. They kick harder than a drunk mule."
Cain accepted the pitchfork, his palms slick with sweat. The smell of hay and manure filled his nose. His body screamed from the heat and exhaustion, but for the first time since waking up in this world, he had purpose.
He stepped toward the stall, heart pounding.
"Alright. If I'm really here… then I start here."
To be continued.....
(Hope y'all like it)