Jake jingled Davis's car keys in his hand, a smirk plastered across his face.
"Alright, gentlemen. Field trip time."
Davis, still wide-eyed and in shock, pointed weakly at the keys. "You… you don't even have a license—"
"Do I look like I need one?" Jake grinned, spinning the keyring on his finger. "Besides, the last time someone told me that, I reversed into a Taco Bell."
Dutch adjusted his black coat, his iconic hat low over his brow. "So what exactly are we doing now, Mister Jake?"
Jake threw the door open dramatically. "We ride."
THE STAIRCASE
All five of them filed into the stairwell, cowboy boots clunking loudly with every step. The fluorescent lighting buzzed above them. It was ten flights down.
"Sweet holy hell," Micah muttered, gripping the railing. "How tall is this damned building?!"
"I think we're goin' deeper into the earth," Arthur growled. "Been walkin' for hours."
"It's called stairs, you legends," Jake replied, tapping his phone to check GPS. "Lifts are broken. Again."
Dutch's voice echoed down the stairwell in that familiar deep preacher-like tone. "These steps... they never end. This is some goddamn tower of Babel shit."
John let out a low whistle. "Back in my day, a ladder was somethin' you used to fix the roof. Now they stack homes on top of each other."
Micah panted. "I'm dyin'. I swear. If this is hell, it smells like piss and takeout."
Arthur frowned, sweat already on his brow. "You sure we ain't stuck in some kind of cursed rabbit hole, Jake?"
Jake laughed, skipping a step. "Welcome to the modern West, fellas. It's just vertical now."
THE STREETS – BROOKLYN, MIDDAY
The door slammed open—and suddenly, they were in it.
The 21st century.
Horns blared. People shouted. Music blasted from a corner bodega. Delivery bikes zipped by. The five of them stepped onto the sidewalk like an Old West posse lost in time.
Dutch's eyes narrowed behind his mustache. "...What the hell kind of town is this?"
John blinked at a passing food truck. "That cart's got more smoke than a train."
Arthur was already half-reaching for his revolver, staring down a garbage truck. "What in the hell's that mechanical beast?! Is that... armored?"
Micah raised a brow at the crowd staring at them. "Why's everyone lookin' at us like we're damned clowns?"
"Because you look like the main cast of a really good DLC," Jake said flatly.
As they walked, people snapped photos. A tourist muttered, "Are they filming something?" A group of teens said, "Yo, that's gotta be cosplayers. Realistic as hell though."
Some heads turned, murmurs followed:"Is that Dutch Van der Linde?""No way, dude—Arthur Morgan's dead!""Bro... is that John Marston?!"
Jake ignored it, power-walking toward Davis's Honda Ridgeline, parked just a few streets down. It stood like a digital horse in the middle of the chaos.
"There she is," Jake declared, slapping the hood. "Our noble steed."
Micah walked up to it and immediately kicked the tire. "That ain't no horse. That's some metal bullfrog on wheels."
Arthur circled it slowly, jaw tight. "How in God's name does this thing move?"
"Gasoline," Jake said.
Dutch raised an eyebrow. "You feed this beast oil?"
John leaned into the driver's side window, then jumped back as the rearview mirror tilted. "It's got eyes?!"
Jake, laughing, unlocked it with a beep beep.
All four gunslingers reached for their weapons at once.
"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!" Arthur barked.
Jake waved them off. "Chill. Just the car saying hi."
Micah growled, "This whole place talks... It's like the Devil invented a city."
Jake opened the door and slid into the driver's seat. "Alright, saddle up, gentlemen. We ride in style now."
Dutch eyed the seat warily. "There ain't no saddle."
"It is the saddle," Jake grinned, firing the ignition.
VROOOM.
The engine roared.
Dutch jumped. Arthur gritted his teeth. Micah cursed. John laughed.
Jake revved it again.