Arthur walked slow down the center of the street, the dead runner already fading into memory. The city stretched in every direction, quiet as a graveyard, but with the kind of silence that made your skin itch — like something was watching.
He passed a burned-out bus, what looked like some sort of train on wheels, and gave it a sideways glance.
"Y'all had some strange damn contraptions," he muttered, stepping over a rusted bike melted into the asphalt.
Then he heard it.
A whistle — short, sharp.
Followed by shuffling footsteps on broken glass.
He stopped.
Behind a broken sedan, three figures emerged — rough clothes, mismatched armor, gas masks pulled up on their foreheads. One held a makeshift machete. Another had a pistol. The third? A bat wrapped in barbed wire.
Arthur didn't flinch.
The one in front, tall with a buzzcut and a grin way too wide, took a step closer.
"Well now… what the hell are you supposed to be?"
Arthur's hand rested casually on his revolver.
"Just passin' through."
The second one scoffed. "You serious, man? Look at this dude. Cowboy hat? Leather duster? What is this, a Halloween parade?"
They laughed.
Arthur didn't.
The third one, the bat carrier, pointed at the satchel.
"He's packin' old-world gear. That bag might have meds, ammo, food—hell, even ration cards."
Buzzcut gave Arthur a toothy grin.
"Yeah. You're gonna hand over that satchel, Grandpa."
Arthur tilted his head slightly. Studied their weapons. Their stances. The nervous twitch in the pistol guy's hand.
"Y'all best think real hard about this."
The laughter stopped.
"What's that, old man?"
Arthur took one slow step forward, thumb easing the hammer of his revolver back with a loud, click.
"'Cause if you pull iron on me… you best be ready to see how fast the ground can meet your teeth."
For a second, they hesitated.
Just a second.
Then the pistol raised.
Too slow.
Arthur drew, dead-eye sharp, and fired.
First shot — CRACK — the pistol flew from the man's hand, bone and blood spraying as he screamed and dropped.
Second — CRACK — the machete wielder caught it in the shoulder, spinning and slamming to the pavement.
Arthur stepped forward, barrel leveled, voice cold as river ice.
"Next one's going between your eyes, friend."
The last one — buzzcut — dropped his bat.
Hands raised. Face pale.
"S-Shit! Okay! Okay, man! I didn't know—!"
Arthur didn't blink.
"You know now."
He backed away slow, revolver never shaking.
Buzzcut scooped up the wounded, dragging them off behind a wrecked truck as fast as their pride would let them.
Arthur holstered his weapon, adjusted his hat, and kept walking.
"World might be different…" he muttered, spitting once on the street, "…but dumb sons'a bitches stay the same."
Arthur stopped walking.
Something in him itched. He wasn't done.
He turned around and called out to the one who'd dropped the bat — the only one still able to walk proper.
"Hey."
Buzzcut froze.
Arthur tilted his chin.
"You're gonna tell me somethin'. You ain't leavin' 'til you do."
The man hesitated, glancing at his bleeding crew.
"W-What… what do you want?"
Arthur stepped closer, revolver still loose in his grip, but not aimed.
"What the hell happened to this place?""What year is it?""Where am I?"
Buzzcut blinked, confused like a drunk waking up in someone else's boots.
"You—are you serious?"
Arthur said nothing.
"You don't know…? Shit, man—" he laughed nervously. "—You hit your head or somethin'? You in a bunker all this time?"
Arthur's voice stayed flat.
"Answer the damn questions."
"Alright, alright! Jesus…"
He took a shaky breath, looking over his shoulder, then back to Arthur.
"You're in the U.S. Still — Seattle, to be exact. And it's… 2038, I think. Or close to it."
Arthur squinted.
"Two thousand and thirty…?"
The man nodded.
Arthur ran a hand down his face. He didn't say anything for a long moment. Just let it sink in — the numbers, the city names, the weight of something he didn't understand pressing down on his chest.
"What the hell happened to the world?"
The man rubbed his neck, eyes twitching to the infected corpse behind Arthur.
"Some kinda outbreak, years back. 'Cordyceps' — fungus shit. Spread fast. Real fast. Took out most of the world in, like, months. Whole damn country collapsed."
"Government's gone. No internet. No laws. Just factions, fireflies, FEDRA, raiders, whatever's left of humanity clawing at each other."
Arthur stared, jaw tight.
"Fungus... turnin' folks into that?" he nodded back toward the runner. "That what happened to him?"
"Yeah," the man muttered. "Runner. First stage. Fast. Stupid. Just meat with legs."
Arthur nodded once.
"And them fireflies? Who are they?"
"Used to be a resistance group. Anti-FEDRA. Kinda scattered now."
"And FEDRA?"
"Military types. Took over when the government fell. Not much better than the folks they replaced."
Arthur looked away, processing, gaze drawn to the overgrown skyline. Vines clinging to steel. Birds circling in the hot sky.
"So the whole world just… gave up."
"Pretty much. Yeah."
Arthur grunted. No more questions for now. He looked back at the man.
"Get outta here."
"Y-Yeah. Of course. Thank you, man. Seriously. You—whatever cosplay you're doing? You sold it."
Arthur narrowed his eyes.
"Cos… what?"
"Nothing. Nothing!" he stammered, limping off into the street like the devil himself was watching.
Arthur stood still for a moment. Then, under his breath:
"Two thousand and thirty-eight… Christ."
He adjusted his hat, muttered a low curse, and turned back toward the street ahead.
A world outta time. But he was still Arthur Morgan.
And he'd be damned if it beat him.