The storm had come out of nowhere. One moment, Arthur was riding through Big Valley, the scent of pine and wildflowers thick in the air, the weight of breaking Micah out of Strawberry's jail still heavy on his conscience. The next, the sky turned black, clouds twisting like some angry god had stirred them with a giant hand. Lightning crackled—not normal, but an eerie, unnatural red—and then a blinding flash swallowed him whole.
His horse reared, whinnying in terror, and then—
Silence.
Arthur blinked, disoriented. The air smelled wrong—acrid, like smoke and something chemical. The ground beneath him was hard, black, not dirt but some strange, smooth surface. And the noise—dear God, the noise. A constant roar, like a hundred stagecoaches but louder, angrier.
He turned his head and froze.
Towering buildings, glass and steel, stretched into the sky like some madman's dream. Lights flickered everywhere, not lanterns but something brighter, harsher. People walked past him, dressed in clothes he'd never seen—tight, strange fabrics, colors too vivid. Some held small, glowing boxes to their ears, talking to no one.
'What in the hell?'
A man nearby muttered about "the stock market crashing again." Another complained about "the internet being slow." Arthur's grip tightened on his revolver. None of those words meant a damn thing to him.
Then, movement—quick, too close. A wiry man in a hooded jacket shoved him, snarling, "Gimme your wallet, old-timer!"
Arthur didn't think. His hand moved on instinct, the Cattleman clearing leather in a flash. The gunshot cracked through the air, and the mugger dropped, clutching his leg.
People screamed. Someone shouted, "He's got a gun!"
Arthur backed away, heart hammering. He didn't understand this place, but he knew trouble when he saw it. He turned to run—
—and froze again.
Two men in dark blue uniforms approached, hands on their belts. "Sir, drop the weapon!" one barked.
Arthur frowned. Lawmen? But their clothes… their badges…
Then the second cop said it. The words that sealed it.
"LCPD! Put your hands where we can see 'em!"
Arthur's blood ran cold. Police.
He ran.
Chaos erupted behind him. Sirens wailed, a sound like screaming metal beasts. He darted between the horseless carriages—cars, he'd heard someone call them—their horns blaring as they nearly flattened him.
A bullet whizzed past his ear. Arthur spun, firing back. Two cops went down, but more came. Then—God help him—men in heavier armor appeared, carrying rifles that spat fire like Gatling guns but without the crank.
'What kind of weapons are these?!'
He cursed himself for shooting. He was making it worse. But he had no choice now.
Arthur bolted down an alley, then toward the waterfront. A boat—small, motorized, nothing like the steamers he knew—was tied to a dock. A man in a striped shirt stood nearby, gaping as Arthur vaulted over the rail.
"Drive. Now," Arthur growled, pressing the barrel of his revolver to the man's ribs.
The civilian obeyed, hands shaking as he fired up the engine. The boat roared to life, skimming across the water faster than any vessel Arthur had ever been on. Behind them, sirens faded into the distance.
After what felt like hours, the man—still pale with fear—muttered, "I-I can take you to Bohan."
Arthur didn't answer. When they reached the shore, he pistol-whipped the man just hard enough to put him down, then vanished into the maze of alleys.
******
Days passed. Weeks, maybe. Arthur learned fast.
The money in his satchel—old dollars, real silver certificates—was worthless here. A cup of coffee cost more than a steak back home. He stole new clothes: a dark hooded jacket, jeans, boots that didn't stand out too much. He kept his hat, though. Some things were non-negotiable.
He also learned to ride a metal horse—a motorcycle, though he refused to call it that. Wobbly at first, but he got the hang of it.
Then, one evening, he saw himself.
In a store window, a glowing box—a TV—showed his face, grainy but unmistakable. "Wanted in connection with multiple officer shootings," a stern voice announced.
Arthur exhaled sharply, flicking his cigarette into the gutter.
That's when she found him.
"Damn, papi. You got some cojones, shooting up half the LCPD."
Arthur turned. A woman stood there—tall, broad-shouldered, confidence rolling off her like smoke. Her dark eyes gleamed with amusement. Puerto Rican, if he had to guess.
"Who the hell are you?" Arthur muttered, hand drifting toward his revolver.
"Elizabeta Torres." She smirked. "And you? You're either the dumbest hijo de puta in Liberty City… or the baddest."
Arthur didn't answer.
She shrugged. "I saw you shoot. You're good. Real good. And I could use a man like you."
Arthur studied her. He didn't trust her. But right now, he had no money, no allies, and a whole city of lawmen hunting him.
He tipped his hat slightly. "What's the job?"
Elizabeta grinned. "Now you're talking."
******
Twelve months.
That's how long Arthur Morgan had been trapped in this godforsaken future—this Liberty City, a place of steel, noise, and madness. A year since the storm had torn him from his own time and dumped him here, like a relic spat out by history itself.
At first, everything had been overwhelming. The lights, the machines, the way people talked—like they had swallowed a damn dictionary of nonsense. Wi-Fi. Smartphones. Credit scores. None of it made sense, and Arthur had stopped trying to understand most of it.
But survival? That, he knew.
Elizabeta Torres had given him that.
She was a force of nature—loud, brash, and sharp as a razor. A queen in Bohan, moving weight like it was nothing, connected to people Arthur didn't ask about. He didn't need to know. He just needed work.
And work, she gave him.
At first, it was simple stuff—muscle jobs. Scaring off rival dealers, collecting debts, standing guard during drops. Easy. Then, as she trusted him more, the tasks got bigger. Hijacking shipments, hitting stash houses, even a few hits when necessary.
Arthur wasn't proud. But he wasn't stupid, either. This world wasn't his. The rules were different. And if he wanted to eat, to sleep under a roof that wasn't a damn alleyway, he had to play along.
The modern world still baffled him.
Cars were the worst. Horseless carriages, he'd called them at first, but now he just gritted his teeth and dealt with them. Elizabeta had laughed when he first tried to drive one of her goons' rides—a beat-up green sedan. He'd stalled it three times before figuring out the clutch.
"Dios mío, Arthur," she'd cackled, "you drive like my abuela!"
He'd scowled but kept at it. Now, he could handle a car well enough—though he still preferred his metal horse, the motorcycle he'd stolen and fixed up.
Then there were the guns.
Arthur had always been a crack shot, but the weapons here? Insane. Pistols that held more bullets than he'd ever seen, rifles that could empty a whole magazine in seconds. He'd practiced with a Glock 17 one of Elizabeta's men lent him, and though he missed the weight of his Cattleman, he couldn't deny the firepower was something else.
But the real shock?
The goddamn phones.
Little plastic bricks that did everything—talk, take pictures, even play music. Arthur had refused to carry one at first, but Elizabeta had shoved one into his hands, barking, "Pendejo, if I need you, I call you. No excuses."
He hated the thing. It buzzed at all hours, and half the time, he fumbled with the buttons. But he'd learned. Reluctantly.
He'd seen himself on TV again. More than once.
The LCPD hadn't forgotten the "cowboy shooter" who'd dropped three of their own before vanishing into the night. His face—grainy, taken from some security camera—still popped up on the news every few months.
Wanted. Armed and dangerous.
He'd grown out his beard, kept his hair longer. Changed his clothes. The hoodie helped. But he knew better than to get too comfortable.
Sometimes, late at night, when the city noise faded just enough, he'd think about home.
Dutch. John. Hosea.
Were they looking for him? Did they even know he was gone?
Or was he just… lost to time?
He'd drink then. Cheap whiskey, the kind that burned all the way down. It didn't help.
A year in, and Arthur wasn't just some hired gun anymore.
He was her guy. The one she sent when things needed to be handled quietly. The one who didn't ask questions, didn't panic, and didn't miss.
She paid him well—real money, not the fake paper he'd arrived with. Enough for a small apartment in Bohan, a closet full of clothes that didn't make him stand out, and a decent piece tucked under his jacket at all times.
"You're like some old-school pistolero," she'd told him once, grinning. "Like something out of a película."
Arthur had just grunted.
He didn't like this life. But it was a life. And for now, that was enough.