There's nothing quite like walking around a camp full of outlaws while dressed like a time traveler who lost a bet.
Shoeless, hoodie-styled, one sock flapping in the wind like a surrender flag—I strolled awkwardly through Horseshoe Overlook like it was Bring Your Embarrassing Cousin to Work Day.
People stared.
"Oh, he's pale," someone muttered. "Like... candle wax pale."
"He must be from a noble house," Hosea mused, rubbing his chin.
"Yeah," I said, nodding, "the noble House of Overdraft. Our family crest is a bill collector and a half-eaten Hot Pocket."
Pearson gave me a once-over and looked like he wanted to throw a burlap sack over my head just to restore fashion equilibrium. "Don't get near the stew pot. You'll scare the beans."
Kids stared at me like I was a failed science experiment. Adults kept pretending I wasn't there while very much acknowledging I was there.
Then came the hoofbeats.
John Marston slid off his horse like he'd done it in cutscenes a hundred times. Which, spoilers: he had.
He glanced at me, then at Arthur.
"New guy?"
Arthur gave the vaguest grunt known to man. "Kinda... woke up tied to a tree. Says his name's Jake. Talks a lot."
John raised a brow. "Looks like a ghost who fell into a laundry basket."
I smiled brightly. "Aww, thanks! I moisturize."
John didn't laugh.
Arthur didn't laugh.
No one laughed.
Tough crowd.
Then it hit me.
Wait.
Waitwaitwait.
I turned to Arthur, dead serious. "Where's Micah?"
Arthur paused. "Locked up in Strawberry."
"Good," I blurted. "Keep him there. Lose the key. Burn the jail. Salt the earth. Trust me."
Arthur squinted at me. "You know something?"
I shrugged. "Nope. Just... got the vibe. Evil goatee energy."
Arthur looked unconvinced, but didn't press it. Thank the fourth wall.
"We're headin' into Saint Denis," he said, turning to John. "He needs clothes. Somethin' less... modern."
I looked down at my hoodie. "This was fashion-forward in 2020. Now it's just sad."
Arthur looked at John. "You're comin' too."
John sighed. "Yeah, alright. Let's get the pale man some pants."
Fifteen minutes later…
I was on a horse.
With Arthur.
Which sounded cooler than it was because my back was screaming, I was clutching his waist like a koala on caffeine, and I had never ridden a horse that didn't come with a tutorial menu.
Jack trotted beside us, looking at me like I was a living comic strip.
"So... this is normal for you guys?" I asked.
"No," Jack replied. "You're weird."
"Thank you. I try."
We trotted through roads, past trees, through the beautiful, majestic frontier—while I nearly dislocated my hip every time the horse bounced.
Arthur finally spoke. "So... you talk about the future."
I froze. John glanced back.
Oh crap. I did do that.
"Just... little things," I said quickly. "Y'know. Like how milk gets delivered in plastic. And phones become rectangles that steal your soul."
Arthur snorted.
John asked, "You ever hear of a place called Blackwater?"
"Only in every wanted poster and 90% of your backstory," I muttered.
They stared.
"I mean—uh, just a guess! Sounds shady!"
Arthur gave me side-eye. "You talk too much."
"You guys shoot too much. Let's call it even."
Later, at Saint Denis
Saint Denis. The stinky city with Paris vibes and less romance.
I sniffed. "Smells like horse poop, overpriced wine, and political corruption."
"You fit right in," John muttered.
We stopped in front of a tailor shop. Arthur jumped off, then helped me down. I almost ate the dirt again but landed semi-gracefully. Like a cat that's been punched mid-air.
Inside, the store was filled with prim and proper outfits, none of which said 'I survived the digital age.'
The clerk stared at me.
"I'm... his cousin. From... Eastern Boston," I said.
"Doesn't sound like that's a place," the clerk replied.
"Exactly. Very exclusive."
Arthur handed the clerk some cash and told me to pick something that didn't make him embarrassed to be seen in public.
I rifled through the outfits like I was shopping for Halloween.
"Too ruffly... too itchy... too dead raccoon…"
Eventually I found something manageable: a vest, shirt, trousers, boots—basically Peaky Blinders-lite. And, yes, I looked disturbingly good in it.
John raised a brow. "Better."
Arthur just grunted.
I stepped in front of the mirror, adjusted my collar, and winked.
"Well damn, Jake. You clean up nice. Still pale. But nice."
I turned to Arthur and John.
"Alright, boys. I got the look, I got the sass, I got the weird knowledge of the next decade... let's go NOT trigger any butterfly effects."
Arthur: "Just don't talk."
Me: "No promises."