RDR2 DBD Killer mains headcanons because its taken over my life
Arthur: Deathslinger or Nurse, usually lets the last survivor go if they aren’t toxic, struggles with the Nurse’s ability a bit and forgets to reload as Deathslinger often
John: Executioner or Nightmare, not the best with their abilities and usually gets chased by thirsty survivors when Executioner
Kieran: Pig or Huntress, always lets survivors farm and is a friendly killer, just stares at oblivious survivors fixing gens as Pig to see how long it takes them to notice him crouching behind them
Karen: Ghost Face or Legion, memes with the survivors if they aren’t toxic, otherwise destroys survivors
Mary Beth: Oni or Plague, gets called hacker with how good she is at both killers, once got stuck in the vomit animation with Plague and memed with the remaining survivors with it
Tilly: Wraith or Shape, needs to remind herself to hold down button to uncloak as Wraith, will always find the players who just hide in the lockers all game and camps them on the hook (as she should)
Sean: Blight or Hillbilly, has zero control over Hillbilly’s chainsaw and nearly always runs into walls, surprisingly good at Blight’s ability but only on certain maps
Bill: Cannibal, he camps and only camps
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I buried you in the snow
Arthur was done. He was done listening to Dutch's pretty speeches that proved to be nothing but empty words, he was done being the fool who robbed and kidnapped and killed in the name of money he never saw the light of day and fame that earned him nothing but to be chased out of towns. Sure, it had been funny at first to compare his bounty with the gang and puff out with pride at the knowledge his was the highest, but now all he felt was guilt and anger at blindly following Dutch and Hosea for so long.
Years of being the workhorse without even thinking of questioning if what he was doing was the right thing.
He was a goddamn fool, he thought bitterly as he threw another pebble at the lake, not even trying to make it ricochet anymore. He grabbed the neck of the whiskey bottle next to him and took a long swig of it. He barely felt the heat anymore, as drunk as he already was. The pain, at least, was more bearable. He sighed into the cold night and sniffed. His fingers were frozen and he shook them to warm them up. He'd been at the O'Creagh's Run lake for a week now, to try and figure out what he wanted to do.
The thing was, he didn't know. He'd been a Van Der Linde boy for so long, blindly doing their bidding, that his own ambitions were now nebulous. He never had to think too much about what he wanted. Settling down with Eliza had been his first time choosing something for himself, and although he loved being a father, he’d tried to juggle both worlds without ever fully committing, incapable of leaving his so-called family for an actual one of his own.
It’d also happened without much input from him other than a drunken tumble behind a tavern. He missed his boy, missed him every time he had those moments of discovering something and he’d think he’d love to see this before remembering that he was long gone and he wouldn’t show him anything new ever again. He’d cherished every moment spent with him, wished he’d had more. Jack had reminded him of Isaac every goddamn day, like a wound that would open again and again until its raw edges remained permanent on his heart.
Abigail's son wouldn't grow up with a father either, even though everyone knew John hadn’t been his biological one. Christ, the man had never slept with her and yet had decided to take responsibility of the both of them for some foolish, heroic reason after he’d disappeared for a whole year. It had been around the same time Arthur had been recovering from his relationship with Mary, harsh with his words and crankier than ever. They never discussed about it, not even as they slowly grew close again, and closer still.
And then Blackwater happened and John had died, not killed by the law but eaten by wolves. Arthur could still see his body whenever he closed his eyes for too long, face bloodied and body already half frozen. He couldn't remember how Javier and him managed to make a burial for him, refusing to let the wolves have the rest of him. They'd left him there, his tomb marked by nothing but a few rocks stacked together. Arthur hadn’t even had time to mourn him.
It hadn't been the same once they settled in Colter, and it definitely hadn't been the same without Jenny, the Callahans and John. He missed that goddamn bastard, his raspy voice good for nothing but complain about this and that, getting in Arthur's way more times that he could count and following him around instead of doing his camp's chores. John had pretended he wanted to help , but they both knew Arthur was usually better on his own. He still let him accompany him, like the besotted fool he was.
Tonight, Arthur was utterly alone, with nothing but regrets and misery to keep him company, and whatever whiskey he had left. He scratched his beard and looked up at the starry sky, so bright at this time of the night. It was the day before the full moon, which explained why he kept hearing the wolves howl back and forth in the surrounding forest. Buell, the magnificent horse that Hamish had given to him before dying, didn't seem worried, munching on the hay Arthur had spread for him.
His firecamp was down to embers. He’d been nursing his flask for a while now and hadn’t bothered feeding it. He was starting to get sleepy anyway. He used his knife to fetch the last slice of pineapple from the tin can he was holding and drank the juice before stuffing the fire with dirt.
He hazardly put his revolvers on the table and started undressing, throwing his clothes on a chair. He hadn't been bothered the whole time he'd been at the lake, other than chasing away wolves who hadn't dared to come back, and he’d taken to sleep naked simply because he could. He brought one of his guns on the end table and crashed on the bed, slipping under the covers when the cold was too much for his bare ass. Drinking himself to sleep had the benefit of having him black out almost instantly. He slept soundly without nightmares.
He woke up to a splash outside. He groaned and jerked his head up, dizzy. It was close to dawn, judging from the lightening sky, and he remained in bed for a moment confused as to why he was awake. Then he heard it again. There definitely was an animal in the lake splashing around. It was quite usual, but this one seemed to be big and struggling. He could hear them whimper in panic. He'd heard horses drown before and it wasn't pleasant, not at all. As much as he hunted for food, if there was a way for him to save animals, he at least would try.
That's what he told himself as he quickly got up with a wince, his head dully throbbing. He had the mind to put on his jeans before grabbing his lasso and heading outside. The moonlight was enough for him to see, and he spotted the disturbance immediately. He tried to identify what they were as he rushed around the lake on unsteady feet.
At first he thought it might be a moose, for how big it seemed to be. "Hang on just a bit longer," he muttered as he tried to figure out how to proceed. He couldn't see antlers to throw his lasso at, but he did see a head poking out, human-like arms valiantly attempting to swim but obviously not knowing how. Was this a person? Arthur swung his lasso for momentum and threw it forward, successfully wrapping it around one arm. "Come on, big fella, I gotchu." He started pulling, struggling at the heavy weight. This ought to be a big fella indeed.
A big, hairy fella.
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