Birds chirping.Leaves rustling.My face? Hugging a tree like it's my emotional support bark.
I blinked.
Slowly.
Once… twice...
Yawned like I'd just slept through a Netflix binge.
Then—
Click.
Something cold nudged my cheek.
I waved it off with the grace of a man swatting a fly while still half-asleep.
"Gimme five more minutes, Google... I'm in the middle of a boss fight…"
The cold nudged again—firmer this time.
I opened my eyes. Blurry figures. Beards. Hats. Guns. Forest-y vibe. Smelled like pine needles, old leather, and regret.
Still groggy, I muttered, "Davis, dude, I told you not to mess with my VR while I'm passed out—"
Then stopped.
Wait a damn minute.
I don't own a VR headset.
Or a forest.
Or a gun-wielding cowboy standing two feet from my face.
Scream.exe has launched.
"WHAT THE ACTUAL FFFFF—"
The cowboy flinched. Probably because I sounded like a YouTuber getting swatted mid-livestream.
"Who the hell is this?" came the deep voice. Texan twang. Gravelly. Wears hats better than 99.9% of humanity.
Arthur Morgan. In full 4K resolution.
I blinked at him.
Looked around.
More faces.
Dutch. Hosea. Bill. Javier.
A very confused Jack Marston staring at me like I just dropped from the sky wearing nothing but existential dread and pizza socks.
"Uncle Arthur, he's crazy."
"Wrong. I'm confused. There's a difference. Though—crazy is catching up real fast."
Arthur stepped closer, still aiming his gun at me like I owed him rent. "Name. Now."
Tied to a tree. Surrounded. Brain overheating.
I did the only logical thing.
"Jake. Just Jake. Like Madonna. But with more chest hair."
Bill raised a brow. "He dressed weird."
I looked down.
Pizza-slice socks. One sneaker. A hoodie that says 'Loading... Please Wait'.
"I dress for comfort and crippling student debt."
Arthur didn't laugh. He didn't even blink. Guy has the emotional range of a broken vending machine.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
"New York. I think. Or maybe hell. Not sure anymore."
Dutch squinted. "What in the hell is a New York?"
Right. Nineteenth century. No WiFi. No Rockstar Games. No sanity.
"Okay, okay, timeout. What is this place? And if you say Saint Denis, I will punch myself unconscious just to wake up in my apartment again."
Arthur nodded toward the forest.
"You're in Horseshoe Overlook. Our camp."
I blinked.
Then blinked again.
"Horseshoe Over—Oh come on! That's Chapter Two! You've gotta be kidding me!"
Arthur looked at Dutch. "Maybe we should've left him tied to that tree a little longer."
"No, no, no," I said, struggling against the ropes, "you don't get it. I was just on my couch. Playing this game. This game. RDR2. PlayStation. Controller. Rockstar Games."
Nothing. Just confused cowboy silence and a whole lot of "what in tarnation."
I slumped.
"This is either the weirdest dream, or I passed out drinking expired root beer and now I'm living a meme."
Dutch stepped forward. "He ain't one of them Pinkertons."
"Nope," I said, "but I did file a complaint about microtransactions once, so close enough."
Dutch gave Arthur a look. "Cut him loose. He ain't dangerous."
"I'm definitely dangerous," I said proudly. "Mostly to myself."
Arthur grunted and sliced the ropes with a quick swipe.
I fell face-first into the dirt like a dropped burrito.
Groaning, I got up, brushed leaves off my shorts, and looked around.
It was all too real. The detail. The voices. The smell. You know a world's real when you can smell someone's B.O. from ten feet away.
I turned to Arthur. "Okay. Question time. On a scale of 1 to 'what the hell,' how mad will you be if I keep talking like I know how this all ends?"
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You got a death wish?"
I raised a finger. "Follow-up question: is death permanent here? Asking for a friend."
Jack piped up again, squinting. "Why's he so pale?"
"I have a monitor tan," I explained. "Also I haven't seen the sun since the pandemic."
"What's a pandemic?" Javier asked.
"Oh boy." I sighed. "You guys are in for a ride."
Arthur muttered something under his breath that definitely wasn't a compliment.
As the camp slowly returned to doing cowboy things—cooking beans, cleaning guns, and silently judging me—I stood awkwardly nearby like a lost Uber Eats driver.
"Alright, Jake," I whispered to myself, glancing at the imaginary camera, "you're stuck in the game. You're weird. They're weirder. Don't get shot. Don't ruin the storyline. And maybe—maybe—don't mention the alien UFOs. Yet."
I adjusted my crooked hoodie, wiped dirt from my face, and gave a two-finger salute to absolutely no one.
"Game on, buckaroos."