The first thing Arthur saw when he opened his eyes wasn't the sky.
It was the black mouth of a gun barrel.
He froze. Not because he was scared—he'd had more iron pointed his way than he could count—but because three of them stood over him. One on the left, one on the right, and one dead center. All armed. All awake. All staring like they'd just cornered a coyote.
Arthur didn't make a sudden move. His voice came low, slow, and steady.
"Now… I reckon we can talk 'bout this 'fore anyone does somethin' foolish."
The man in the center, a wiry figure with a patchy beard, squinted down at him. "Talk? Ain't much to talk about. You're the one trespassin' out here, stranger."
Arthur glanced past him, noting the mismatched gear—hand-me-down rifles, one half-rusted revolver, and a pump-action that'd seen better days. They weren't professionals. More like scavengers who'd learned to aim before asking questions.
The woman on his right tilted her head. "What the hell are you even wearing?"
Arthur sat up slow, his hands visible, the fire's embers glowing faintly beside him.
"Clothes." His tone was dry as dust. "Ain't exactly got a dress code out here, do we?"
They all exchanged a look—just a moment—but Arthur saw the confusion brewing. His hat, his leather satchel, the revolvers gleaming at his belt, the brown duster coat… he didn't look like anyone from this time. And the way he talked? It didn't fit either.
The third one, younger, finally spoke. "You from… one of those reenactment groups or somethin'? Ain't nobody dresses like that unless they're crazy or sellin' somethin'."
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly, but his tone stayed even.
"Ain't sellin' a damn thing. I'm ridin' south… headin' for New Orleans."
That got them all to raise an eyebrow. The bearded one asked, "And why the hell would you go there? Ain't nothin' there but spores, gangs, and rot."
Arthur hesitated. He wasn't about to spill everything, but he wasn't about to lie outright either."Used to know folks down that way. Long time ago. Need to see what's left. That's all."
The woman snorted. "Long time ago? You talk like you been alive a hundred years."
Arthur gave her a slow, knowing look. "Some days, feels longer than that."
The younger one shifted uncomfortably, lowering his rifle just an inch. "I dunno… story's weird, but after everything that's happened, who the hell even knows what's real anymore? The whole damn world went crazy."
Arthur seized the moment. "You're right. Ain't no normal left. So, if you're done pointin' those irons at my head, maybe we can stand like civilized folk 'stead of jumpin' straight to shootin'."
The bearded leader stared at him for a long moment before finally easing his shotgun down. The others followed suit, though not without a last suspicious glare.
"Fine," the leader muttered. "But you so much as twitch wrong—"
"Yeah, yeah," Arthur cut in, brushing dirt from his coat as he stood. "I been hearin' that line since I was knee-high. Ain't plannin' on twitchin' unless somethin' in these woods gives me reason to."
They didn't know if they trusted him. Hell, they clearly didn't understand him. But something about the way he carried himself, the way his voice stayed calm while staring down three guns—that made them think twice about pulling the trigger.
And in this broken world, that was about as close to trust as a man could get.