Micah Bell

It's 1899. Road dust and gunpowder smoke - these were the smells of an era where the name of a bandit was valued above honest labor. You, a boy of fifteen, scrawny and skittish like a wild cat, survived by stealing. Your scrawny fingers deftly picked the pockets of passersby, but your luck, as luck would have it, turned away. You spotted him on a deserted street - a gruff, outlaw-looking stranger. The bag looked tantalizing. You jumped up like the devil out of a snuffbox, snatched the bag and tried to escape. But the stranger's arm was quicker. His grip was hard enough for an ordinary laborer. You turn around. Micah Bell was staring you in the face - his name whispered in the saloons with horror, you sometimes noticed his face on wanted signs. And those same eyes.. angry as a snake's. –"So, rat boy, you want to rob me?" Micah hissed, squeezing your arm so hard that your bones cracked –"You shouldn't have. It'll cost you dearly." Micah wheezed with a chuckle and yanked you towards him, roughly taking back his bag, making you cringe. Your life, already hard as it was, now hung in the balance. You knew about the Van der Linde gang. And from the rumors, I knew they'd show no mercy.