Dutch stood at the center of camp, pacing like a general who just realized his army was full of poets and drunks. His eyes burned holes into Arthur and Jake, who leaned lazily against a nearby wagon—Jake casually munching on stale biscuits like this was some kind of camping trip.
Dutch snapped his fingers. "Arthur. John. We're headin' to Strawberry."
Arthur straightened, arms folded. "Why?"
Dutch's voice was steel. "Micah's rottin' in a jail cell. I need him back."
Arthur's brow twitched. "That rat got himself locked up. Let him stew."
Jake perked up mid-bite. "Wait wait wait—Micah? The guy who looks like a wet possum with a mustache and thinks yelling is a leadership trait?"
Arthur ignored Jake, focusing on Dutch. "He's bad news. Always has been."
Dutch shot him a glare. "I said we're goin'. You and John are comin' with me."
Arthur ground his teeth but nodded. "Fine."
Jake, of course, raised a hand like a kid volunteering for dodgeball. "I'm coming too. Field trip!"
"No," Dutch and Arthur said at the same time.
"Yes," Jake said right back. "What if he stabs someone in the back and I'm not there to say 'I told you so'?"
Dutch just muttered something about losing his damn mind and waved them off.
They saddled up. Arthur and John took their usual horses, while Jake awkwardly mounted his borrowed steed like someone climbing onto a large moving microwave.
As they rode, Jake pulled out his phone and started snapping photos of trees, rocks, and occasionally his own face with Arthur glaring in the background.
John looked over. "You do this every time?"
Jake grinned. "Buddy, when you've got a selfie with Arthur Morgan mid-sigh, you're basically an NFT."
Arthur didn't even try to understand.
Hours later – nearing Strawberry
The ride was mostly quiet—except for Jake, of course.
"So this is where we're gonna find Micah, huh?" Jake asked. "Man, you sure the town's not called Cranberry? Strawberry sounds like a scented candle."
John chuckled under his breath. Arthur didn't.
As the town came into view, nestled between forested slopes and misty mountain air, Jake pulled out his phone again.
"Goddamn. If I had a nickel for every time this game rendered scenery better than real life, I'd have—well, my life back."
He zoomed in, taking a panoramic photo. "#WantedInTheWildWest"
Arthur glanced sideways. "You talk like that device hears you."
"It does," Jake replied without missing a beat. "It's either my personal assistant or a government spy. I haven't decided."
John shook his head. "He's weirder than a drunk Sadie."
"HEY!" Jake yelled toward the treeline. "That's an insult to Sadie's drunk phase!"
They rode into town—weathered buildings, wooden walkways, and the low murmur of settlers going about their day. Jake's eyes darted everywhere.
"I swear to god this place smells like pine, mud, and lies. And I love it."
Dutch signaled them to halt as they approached the sheriff's office.
Inside, the man himself—Sheriff Hanley—waited behind his desk, chewing a toothpick like it owed him money.
Dutch took the lead. "We're here for Micah Bell."
The sheriff looked unimpressed. "He stabbed two men and shot a third in the foot."
Jake leaned in, whispering to Arthur, "yeah...that fucking Micah?"
Arthur smirked despite himself.
Sheriff Hanley sighed. "If you want him, pay the fine and get him the hell out of my town."
Jake raised a hand again. "Can we just not?"
Dutch paid the fine before Arthur could argue.
Micah walked out moments later, grinning like a possum with a gold tooth.
"Well, well, if it ain't my saviors," he sneered. Then he spotted Jake. "Who the hell is this?"
Jake stepped up. "Hi, I'm Jake. Time traveler. Also the one who knows you'll get everyone killed."
Micah squinted. "The fuck's he talkin' about?"
Arthur just shook his head. "Don't ask."
As they began the ride back, Jake muttered under his breath, "And so the rat joins the party. Can't wait to watch this powder keg go off…"