The Sins and Virtues of Gunslinging and Love

A Sour Memory in a Gold Frame

When you think about it, violence is in your blood. It only makes sense for you to run with a gang of lowly killers and thieves. Life has been rather cruel to you for as long as you can remember.

– 

 After being chased out of Italy, your parents took you with them to America in search of a better life. At least, that's what they called it. In reality, it was for no other reason than to escape the mob that was hunting your family. After moving from around the West for something close to five years, the past has finally found you. Your father, Carlo Moreno, had been brutally murdered by the mob leader's henchmen. This left you with only your mother, Sansia Moreno. After turning to prostitution to make her money, the two of you barely managed to keep your home. All of her work proved to be worthless when your mother succumbed to Scarlet Fever's deadly grasp. 

You were only 6 years old when you were placed in an orphanage. After managing to escape from your negligent caregivers, you had been able to scrape by on pickpocketing the local townspeople. The orphanage was the last time you slept on something that resembled a bed. Most nights were spent sleeping on general store benches and back alley crates. The world was cruel to you, turning you as cold as the muddy roads you called home. Unfortunately, a few slip-ups in your petty crimes had caused you to be chased out of your town by the lawmen and some angry ranchers. Your hopes were beginning to dwindle, day after day. After 11 years of thievery, you'd have to find another way to keep yourself alive.

 By the time you were 17, you were nothing more than a walking corpse. Your only meals came from sneaking into unattended cabins. Even then, you'd only have some bread or a bowl of stew every few days. The weight of gravity was practically crushing you, your body too weak to even fight back. Following your exile from your former 'home', you had managed to catch a train to the next city over. That's where you met Elliot Wilson. The naivety that your malnourished body granted you had you selling your body to the man for the promise of food and shelter. You always held your standard for yourself higher than working in a brothel. Then again, starving to death in the streets was an ideal either. 

A year had disappeared in front of your face once you turned 18. The food you received was barely enough to keep you from looking like a walking skeleton. The men who paid for you were worthless. They abused your young body. Slapping, kicking, choking, and other ungodly things that would have every bible within 60 miles catching on fire. Your 'boss', Elliot Wilson, was far from a saint too. One night, after refusing a particularly wretched man, Elliot took matters of punishment into his own hands. He had treated you as his rag-doll that night. Any last bit of childhood innocence you had was wrung out and left to dry. Just as you thought nothing could be worse, he dumped you on the outskirts of town and left you to die.

The cold night air was ruthless. Its unforgiving bite gnawed at your open wounds and sore skin. Your body trembled and the last bit of energy you had stored ran empty. Your failing body almost prevented you from hearing an approaching voice, "Ma'am... Ma'am? Can you hear me?" It was unfamiliar. 

Your body released a weak groan as you were forcibly turned over. You couldn't open your eyes. All you could do was hang limp as the person picked you up. "Stay with me. I'll get you safe," the stranger told you. The words hardly made it through your ears before everything went dark.

– 

Once you managed to fight back into consciousness, you were startled by your surroundings. In your discombobulated state, you disregarded your dizziness and fatigue. Fight or flight took over your body and it seemed to have chosen both. In a split second, you had located a dull knife inside the warm canvas tent where you were being held. Wielding the rusty steel blade, you pushed yourself through the canvas flaps. You were greeted by the all too familiar hot, unforgiving Western sun and temporarily blinded. Given a moment, your eyes adjusted and you were able to take in your surroundings. Confusion struck you once more as you could see nothing more than the rugged, sandy surroundings. Your eyes darted side to side, scanning for danger. Hushed voices began to register in your overwhelmed brain. Although the sounds were audible, it was difficult to make out what was being said. However, it was obvious there was more than one voice. Leant up against a wagon supporting your tent, you tried to listen over the pounding in your chest. You were able to hear a few people. Three men's voices and one woman's. The men all sounded notably different. None of them quite sounded like they were from the same place either. One voice was deep and rounded, sounding rather eastern for being this far west. Another was noticeably younger, sounding more Northwestern than Southwestern, and considerably gruff. The third, and final, male voice you heard rang the bell of familiarity in your head. You recognized it to be the voice of the man who had presumably brought you here. But where are you? Were you still out west? Had they brought you here to take advantage of you just as Elliot did? Mustering up all the courage you could gather from your anxious mind. You decided to get the answers yourself. 

"Who are you? Where am I?" You made yourself known as you frantically declared your questions. Your voice was surprisingly strong after what had happened to you. You must have looked as feral as a rabid animal, brandishing a weapon in your state. Mangled hair, tattered clothes, bruises covering your limbs. Everyone in the small group stood from their seats around a weak campfire.

Raising their hands to show you they weren't a threat, one of the men began to speak. "Put the weapon down ma'am. We're not trying to hurt you," the man said. That's the voice of the man who brought you here. He had blonde hair as bright as the sun. His face was rather defined and his cheeks were gaunt. Slowly, he removed his weapons from their holsters, placing them on the ground. Glancing to the side, he ushered the two other men to do the same. Now that they were unarmed, you felt different. You had the upper hand but somehow, you felt more vulnerable than if you were completely unarmed yourself. You furrowed your eyebrows and thrust your blade in the direction of the black-haired man approaching you.

 He took slow and careful steps toward you, careful not to spook you as if you were a wild horse. "We aren't trying to harm you, ma'am. Please, put the knife down," the man with the deep, eastern voice said. Although you did not move, he continued to approach. His gentle yet fearless approach intimidated you. Releasing the blade, it hit the dusty ground with a thud. The tall man smiled at you and continued to approach. You stood your ground, refusing to let show how truly exposed you felt at that moment. 

Stopping a few feet in front of you, the man introduced himself, "Dutch Van Der Linde. You are?" You paused not wanting to reply but you didn't want to find out what they would do if you didn't "Y/n," you said with a hint of annoyance. Your voice was meek yet powerful. Years of your lifestyle had taught you how to manipulate a person just with your tone. Scanning his face you could tell he was waiting for something. You sighed before continuing, "Y/n Moreno." 

Still smiling and now nodding his head, the man that you assumed was attempting to take advantage of you, dared to hold his hand out for you to shake. After a prolonged and rather awkward second, he let his hand retreat to his side once again. He cleared his throat before speaking again, "Well, Miss Rossi. We are glad to see you're doing better. Have a seat?" He gestures behind him to the makeshift seats made of logs. 

The others had sat down after you had dropped your tarnished blade. Deciding it was for the best, you sat on the closest log seat. A bottle of beer was given to you by the brown-haired young man who sat next to you. Taking the bottle, you gave him a confused but grateful nod. A while passed and the five of you sat around the fire. They explained to you that the blonde-haired man, Hosea Matthews, had found you while he was hunting and brought you back to their camp. The last two around the fire, Arthur Morgan and Susan Grimshaw, were also members of their little posse. 

They called themselves The Van Der Linde Gang. They were open about what they did — robbing, killing, fighting — but you couldn't find it in you to be scared of them. They were genuine folk, just like you; trying to survive. After being given the proposition of a place in the gang, you accepted. Although you enjoyed your solidarity, the thought of having something to fall back on was rather appealing given your recent year. 

Over the years, the gang grew. Some members came and went, some died, some left, and some joined. However, most of them were like family to you. They cared for you and you cared for them. Where they went, you went. You wouldn't change it for the world. Even now, fleeing from the botched Blackwater heist, with a bullet in your leg, riding in a wagon up in the snowy mountains, your heart keeps beating with the promise that your patchwork family will keep you safe. 

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Thank you for reading! Constructive criticism is highly appreciated!