Arthur Morgan did not intend to survive when he gave his hat to John Marston and stayed behind to gain his redemption. As he crawled towards his final resting place, he never intended to wake up again.
But he does wake up. Thanks to time travelers F...
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This chapter contains a PTSD flashback and a graphic-ish depiction of rape. The rape conversation is surrounded by hashtags so it's easy to skip if it might trigger you, but reader discretion is still advised in this chapter.
2021
"Morgan!"
The voice slowly prodded at Arthur, breaking into his mind as he dreamed peacefully.
"Wake up, cowpoke!" it cried nastily, icy fingers prodding at Arthur's psyche.
Despite himself, a deeply sleeping Arthur slowly began to return from the calm, relaxing embrace of his dreams. "The fuck do you want?" he grumbled angrily, rolling over in bed.
"Oh, I think you know," Micah crooned soothingly, in the tone a poisonous viper might use as it sang to its prey. "You ain't never gonna be rid of me, Black Lung. I'll follow you to the ends of the Earth and never, ever let you rest. I got your girl, and now I'll get her kin too. The Lintons will never be safe as long as you're with them. Ain't a thing you can do about it except watch like the pathetic sack of shit you are."
"No," Arthur groaned weakly, shaking his head and pressing it into his pillow. "No, Micah. Please!" He turned his head over and chanced opening his eyes a bit.
Micah sat on the edge of the bed, hands on his hips, grinning sickeningly from below the brim of his white hat. His crooked, yellow teeth were bared in a smile that was almost a grimace, and his shifty, grey eyes sparkled with malice. "Yes," he murmured in a singsong voice. "You think you're a peacemaker, Morgan? All your pathetic life, you were no better than me. Think of all the good folks who ended up as your collateral damage over the years. Limpany, Blackwater, all those policemen you shot in Saint Denis? They had families, lives of their own. And you snuffed them out, you filthy bastard."
"No!" Arthur cried, fingers fumbling at his waist for a gun that wasn't there. His eyes, wild with fright like those of a horse startled by a cougar, flashed around the room looking for some sort of escape.
Micah only placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder and continued talking in a sickly-sweet voice. "You're just as big a bastard as me. At least I'm honest with myself about it, though. You pretend you're a good person, but deep down inside you and I both know that anything you try to do in order to seek redemption will never change the fact that you're a killer. You're a vicious, bloodthirsty coyote who doesn't care a damn thing about anybody but himself, and that ain't going anywhere any time soon. If it weren't for your tuberculosis, you'd still be a bastard and you'd be dead. You deserved to die for what you done, and for some reason you didn't. You think that brings any comfort to the people who lost loved ones due to your misdeeds? You think they'd feel better knowing you didn't die and that justice was not served?"
"You're one to talk," Arthur hissed, struggling under Micah's hand, which seemed to weigh several tons and prevented him from rising.
