Enrolllment

While Colm O'Driscoll, that one-legged, venomous viper, raged and roared, frantically embarking on his path of self-destruction, the Van der Linde Gang, far away in the vibrant heart of Valentine, New Hanover, had already quietly accomplished another impossible feat, building not just a school, but a foundation for a burgeoning empire.

But even as Valentine bustled with new student recruitment, far away on the humid, sun-baked shores of Guarma, John Marston and his crew had already plunged headfirst into their grim, preliminary work.

"SPEAK! Who are you?! Who exactly are you?! Speak! Will you speak, will you speak?! Damn it, quickly, who are you?! Quickly, speak!"

A rhythmic thud of bone against flesh accompanied the hoarse, desperate interrogation. In a crumbling house ruin on Guarma, a man was tied to a chair, his body convulsing with each blow.

"Damn it, where are your people, where are they?! Quickly, speak, quickly! Shit!" The interrogator bellowed, his voice raw. His punching motions never ceased, a relentless assault that suggested he was either an idiot or had no actual intention of letting the man utter a single syllable.

"Ow! Ah!" The man tied to the chair screamed continuously, each punch punctuated by a fresh shriek. He tried to speak, tried to form words, but the sheer, brutal force of the blows left him gasping, unable to open his mouth, a choked gurgle his only response.

Finally, Bill, who had been observing the 'interrogation' with detached amusement through a pair of binoculars from a distance, couldn't stand it anymore. He lowered the binoculars, shaking his head. "Oh, shit, Marston," he drawled, casting a withering glance at John. "If you keep pounding on him like that, he'll be too busy swallowing his teeth to tell us anything. Damn it, can you pause your damn fists for a while?"

That's right, the man tied up, currently serving as John's personal punching bag, was not a Van der Linde Gang member, but one of Fussar's subordinates – ironically, the very same poor bastard who was supposed to have captured Arthur and beaten him severely in the game.

John, unceremoniously scolded, paused, a sheepish, awkward expression on his face. He scratched his head, then, with a renewed surge of fury, grabbed the collar of the man tied to the chair. "Damn it, quickly, where did that damn Fussar hide our goods?!" John's face was a menacing, frightful mask of anger. The thought of Fussar impounding that ship, bristling with ten thousand dollars worth of clothing, made his heart ache with a physical, agonizing pain. Damn it, he fumed internally, it's always been the Van der Linde Gang robbing others; who in their right mind would dare rob the Van der Linde Gang?!

"I was wrong! I was wrong! I'll tell you! I'll tell you! That ship of goods was sent to Saint Denis by Mr. Fussar!" the man choked out, barely audible through his swollen lips.

"Oh, shit!" John cursed, a fresh wave of outrage washing over him. He delivered a swift, brutal punch directly to the man's eye socket.

"Ow!" The man shrieked, a sickening crack audible. His eye socket immediately bloomed into a puffy, bruised black.

"Damn it, why did he send our goods to Saint Denis?! Quickly, speak!" John roared, yanking the man's head, which had snapped back from the punch, back forward. His voice grew progressively angrier, his eyes narrowing to slits.

"Wuwuwu… He's going to give it to Mr. Cornwall, he's going to give it to Mr. Cornwall! Aghhh…" The man sobbed, his voice dissolving into whimpers.

"FUCK YOU, YOU DAMN BASTARD!" John screamed, his patience finally snapping. He delivered a bone-jarring punch to the man's jaw, a sickening crunch echoing in the ruin. The man's eyes rolled back, and he slumped unconscious.

Bill, who had been watching the entire spectacle with a critical, appraising eye, frowned deeply. He slowly walked over to the unconscious man, then, with a casual, almost bored motion, raised his pistol.

"Bang!" Accompanied by the sharp crack of gunpowder and the sudden, loud report, the unconscious man was shot squarely in the head by Bill, dead beyond any conceivable doubt.

"John," Bill said, holstering his weapon with a practiced flick, a slight frown still on his face as he looked at John. "When we came over, Dutch already instructed us not to leave any survivors. Leaving survivors in this place is simply a disregard for our own lives. What if he wakes up and poses a threat to us?"

"Shit, Bill!" John retorted, his face flushing with indignation. He pointed to the pistol still clutched in his hand. "I was going to kill him! Of course, I'd kill him! But why kill him if I wasn't finished asking questions?!! Oh, next time you're going to do something, can you at least tell me first?!"

"Alright, brother! Fair enough!" Bill chuckled, scratching his head, a rare, awkward gesture. "But next time, if you're not finished asking, you don't have to knock 'em out!"

Fortunately, Charles and Flying Eagle, walking casually from a distance, broke the rising tension and awkward silence.

"John, Bill," Flying Eagle called out, approaching, "we've already scouted the area. Fussar is currently not on Guarma. He took our goods, ironically enough, to Annesburg, to meet with Mr. Cornwall. The number of gunmen on the eastern side of the island is roughly over a hundred, especially concentrated around that damned sugar mill. I think it's time for us to make our move."

Charles, usually aloof and private, didn't typically care for John or Bill. However, their relationship had softened considerably recently, mostly because John and Mac were either busy spending money or perpetually on missions, leaving them no time to torment wild animals. Of course, the main reason for Charles's grudging tolerance was Dutch's explicit request: Dutch had ordered the Van der Linde Gang members to at least pretend to be good people. And good people, certainly, couldn't be caught abusing animals anymore, not if someone saw it. Such behavior would, God forbid, damage the Van der Linde Gang's carefully cultivated public reputation.

Listening to Flying Eagle's report, John nodded grimly, then looked at Bill. "So, shall we make our move?"

"Let's make our move!" Bill declared, a glint of predatory excitement in his eyes. "We need to ensure the coastal area is completely cleared, utterly sterilized, to guarantee the main force's landing. Besides that, tell the brothers to be exceedingly careful with their actions. We'll try to avoid open firefights; if we can assassinate, we will! Tell everyone to protect themselves as much as possible. Damn it, I don't want Dutch to have to pay out that five hundred dollar survivor's benefit!" MacCallum actually shuddered at the thought of Dutch's meticulous accounting. He thought about Dutch's instructions, then waved his hand, signaling to the others.

Compared to Bill, the Callander Brothers (who included Davey and Mac) were renowned for their exceptional loyalty and rigid sense of righteousness. Their personalities, though crude, could be clearly defined from their few discussions in the game. Loyal, righteous desperadoes who, despite their enjoyment of abusing animals, possessed a core sincerity and passion. Otherwise, Bill wouldn't have been riddled with bullets like a beehive for the gang in the game.

"Alright, I'll go tell everyone else now. Oh, by the way, we just finished testing our explosives; they're fully usable," Charles said, his tone surprisingly agreeable, nodding in agreement with MacCallum's plan. "I think we can blow up the coastal artillery then, but… Dutch might prefer to keep them for himself?" Charles added, a hint of wry amusement in his voice.

"Hahaha, of course, Charles!" Bill roared with laughter, slapping his thigh. "Dutch definitely likes to grab everything and make it his own! The man's a magpie for property!"

Charles nodded, then turned, preparing to leave with Flying Eagle to deliver Bill's message. Just as they began to walk away, Bill, a rare, uncharacteristic impulse taking hold, suddenly called out, "Charles!"

Charles stopped, turning his head back slightly, a questioning look on his face.

"Oh, you know," Mac said, a faint, almost shy smile touching his lips, "I think I'm starting to like you a little."

Charles felt a slight, unexpected warmth in his chest upon hearing these words. He then turned, a small, genuine smile gracing his features, and walked away with Flying Eagle. Only one, soft sentence lingered in the air behind him: "At least you brothers are much better than Bill."

"Hahahaha, Bill, oh, that poor fellow,"

Bill laughed heartily, watching Charles and Flying Eagle disappear into the distance, his eyes gleaming. "When I think of him now, I wish I could kill him again!" No one in the gang, it seemed, held any deep-seated grudges with anyone else, except, perhaps, for Bill. That mischievous little fellow always managed to make everyone dislike him equally. What a talent.

It was just a pity he died so mischievously.