A Red Dead Redemption story.
A seasoned bounty hunter, you've buried your past beneath the weight of your work. But a brush with the notorious Van der Linde gang unravels everything. Amid bullets and bloodshed, you discover love and a sense of belon...
Busting through the never ending doors in the exquisite building; you, John and Arthur had split up in an attempt to cover more ground. You'd kicked a door down, barricaded by a chair. Entering what seemed to be a drawing room of some kind, papers scattered the floor; grand book cases spanned the length of the skirting board to the ceiling. Catching a guard covering behind a table, you clattered a bullet through his forehead; sending bone fragment scattering like shrapnel. Brain tissue smeared the Persian carpet, it's trajectory landed on books stacked behind the lifeless body of the guard.
"Shit—He ain't here neither!" You screamed to the others at various parts of the building.
Growing frustration and the tiresome effort of kicking down doors had created a veil of sweat across your forehead. The humid climate of Scarlett Meadows desperately needed some rain to clear the thick, boggy air that held the state in a chokehold. Sections of Braithwaite Manor's beautifully muralist walls were tainted cardinal with blood splatter, this family had got what was coming to them.
You lowered into a crouch, resting for a small second. Lifting the black stalker hat from your head, your (h/c) hair underneath flattened to your scalp with moisture. Tight denim ranch pants stretched over your legs as you gathered your thoughts on the wooden floor boards of the manor. No sign of the elder Braithwaite brother nor his beloved mother, you'd feared they'd fled before the gang could get to them.
Commotion sounded from above your head, raising you to your feet. "(Y/n), Arthur—get up here!" Dutch's voice boomed above the bangs and clutters on the first floor.
Racing up a grand spiralled staircase, you met Dutch and Hosea attempting to force down a double door into the right-wing of the property.
"I think there's a door around the other side, go—go!" Hosea instructed, using his shoulder to push his best effort at shifting whatever was blocking the door.
Your boots carried you out on to the balcony, the remaining gang members below fought off dwindling Braithwaite's. Ferocity mimicking that of a pack of lions, hungry for their prey. Reaching the slatted door, Arthur and John used their shoulders to heave whatever obstruction was blocking the entrance to the room.
Clambering over chairs and nightstands, you'd spied heads bobbing behind tipped tables. You quick-drawn bullets from your hip without hesitation. Arthur and John reinforced the effort, slinging more ammunition towards the targets. You crept over, inspecting the bodies for any sign of life left in them. Collaring fingertips reaching for a revolver, you cracked their nuckles underneath your boot into the wooden floorboards. The man shrieked in pain.
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Peering down at his face, your recognition placed him as the older Braithwaite brother. Finally, you hummed to yourself. Kneeling down, crushing his bones further, your gaze met his pupils; widened in fear.
"Where's the boy?" Forcing the silver barrel of your Revolver to his temple. He smirked in pain, relinquishing his answer purposely. Poking the barrel further into his flesh, the man whimpered. "He a-ain't h-here, he ain't here." He panicked.
