Through the train window, Chris quietly absorbed the passing landscape. With each breath, he took in a little more of his new reality, as if it were entering through his lungs.
It was stunning. Vast fields, dense forests, waterfalls, rivers... In awe, he tried to recognize as many places as he could, absorb the details, connect the dots. He knew that if he wanted to stay alive in that world, he'd have to rely on everything he remembered.
But it wasn't easy.
The place felt so... bigger. That world no longer followed some invisible code. It wasn't made of obedient pixels anymore. It was living nature, with smells, wind, motion, change.
They crossed a tall bridge over a river he recognized. not by name, but because there was a treasure nearby. Or there should be, if he remembered right. Chris made a mental note to search for all the ones he knew the location of. They could be incredibly useful — some easy change and valuable items.
Then came Riggs Station, and the familiar giant railway bridge of Bard's Crossing. It was all there. The same, but different. Real.
After another stop, Flatneck Station, he recalled, the train was already slowing down for the cattle town that marked the true beginning of the game: Valentine.
Chris stepped off the train, his bare feet landing on the wooden platform.
He walked around the station building without even thinking of going inside. The looks he'd gotten when he got off the train had said enough: he wasn't exactly welcome there.
Rounding the back, he came face-to-face with the town in a way that, surprisingly, he recognized well. A muddy road wound past a massive corral and led to buildings deeper in. Riders passed by, horses whinnied, workers herded cattle.
It smelled awful...
But there was something... off. A few extra houses. A building he didn't remember. And everything seemed just a bit larger. Not much, just enough to make his memory feel distorted.
As soon as he stepped onto the main street, Chris was tempted to head straight for the saloon. His stomach growled, a day and a half of hunger pressing down on him.
But the single, pitiful dollar left in his pocket wouldn't be enough to fill his belly.
To get a place to sleep, however...
So he headed for the hotel — thankfully, still down the road beside the bank, just like in his memory. He scraped the mud off his feet at the door, already bracing for the disgusted look from the clerk, and hoping it wouldn't be enough to get him turned away.
"Wish I had a damn pair of shoes right now…" he muttered.
He was greeted by a man of immaculate appearance, freshly shaved, slick hair, the kind that probably hated dirt. Clean clothes, a wine-colored vest neatly layered over a crisp white shirt... His stern eyes scanned Chris from head to toe, and his face soured on the spot.
"I'd like a room for the night," Chris said quickly, afraid the man's first words would be to throw him out.
The clerk didn't answer at first. You could see the gears turning. His expression shifted in stages, as if each part of his face was deciding something different.
"One dollar... young man." He said it slowly, as if the words hurt coming out.
Chris handed over his dollar — this time, a clean and crisp note — and received a key in exchange.
Room 2B, he read on the tag.
He gave a simple "thanks" and left in a hurry. He wasn't looking for conflict or judgment, not on his first day.
The sunlight warmed his shoulders as the inevitable question finally came: "Now what?"
Work was the first thing on his mind. He still didn't have food, answers, or shoes. But work? That he'd find, no doubt. A town like this always needed someone willing to get their hands dirty.
And when he turned his head, his eyes landed immediately on the stable at the end of the street.
"Here we go…" He clapped his hands once, like a decision sealed, and started walking.
...
"Hey there, friend. Morning." Putting on the friendliest face he could, Chris stepped through the stable gate.
The man he addressed was old. A thick, graying beard covered everything but his oddly bare chin. His boots were caked in mud, his coat stained and heavy. His sweaty forehead glistened under the brim of a worn-out hat. The kind of man who'd clearly been working all day.
"Mornin'." the man replied, offering little more than a glance before going back to shoveling manure. "Don't look like you're here for a horse, 'friend'. What d'you want?"
"No, I'm not," Chris answered, trying to hold his posture. "I'm actually looking for work. Honest work."
The man paused.
He shoved the shovel into the ground, leaned on the handle, and gave Chris a once-over.
"Plenty of honest work 'round here," he said, with a hint of irony. "For those who can handle it."
"I learn fast."
"Hmm…" The man didn't even need to think. "Start with that manure, then. My back's killin' me. Two dollars and fifty cents for the day — if you do it right. If not, you don't get paid. We clear?"
"Crystal." Chris answered without hesitation.
"Got some old boots in the back." The man pointed. "You can grab 'em. Barely boots anymore, but better than nothin'."
"Thank you... boss." Chris scratched his head. "What's your name?"
"Amos Levi, kid. But 'boss' works just fine."
And so began the first of many days of hard labor.
Chris poured everything he had into the job, determined to earn every cent of that small wage. His head swam with financial worry, but he knew, deep down, the money was going to food. At least the first time. After a full belly and a night's sleep, he could think about the rest.
The days dragged by like dried mud in worn-out shoes: always the same, always heavy.
Chris would wake up early, splash a bucket of cold water on his face to skip the 25-cent bath fee, and march to the stables. The work was relentless: mucking out stalls, hauling hay, scrubbing pails, walking in boots that fell apart a little more each day. But he didn't complain. He couldn't. Every sweaty dollar became bread, or thin soup, or a pair of patched-up socks from the General Store.
Amos barely spoke to him at first. A nod at best. Maybe a grunt of approval if the job was done right. But slowly, the silence turned to remarks.
"Did a good job today."
"Watch that Morgan, he bites."
"If you want, got an old tarp left over for the cold."
Chris began to notice the looks changing around town too. The butcher started giving him bones with a bit more meat on them. The newspaper kid stopped avoiding him. One of the blacksmiths even nodded at him from across the street.
Valentine, little by little, stopped treating him like a stranger.
And when folks said "the stable boy" in conversation, it was clear who they meant.
One evening after work, Amos sat down on a hay bale and handed Chris half a hand-rolled cigarette.
"Ain't much of a talker, but… you're alright. Quiet sort. That counts for a lot around here."
Chris took the cigarette. Coughed after the first drag, he'd never smoked anything before. But he smiled.
It was the first time he felt like he belonged to something there.