Marston’s car pulled up in an abandoned area of Philadelphia. His bodyguards shrugged in bemusement as he walked over to an area that was totally destroyed over a decade ago. Burnt out buildings on both sides of the once busy street, which was scorched and riddled with small craters and empty bullet cases. The walls that still stood were crumbling and peppered with bullet holes, this corner of town was abandoned and didn't look like Philadelphia at all. It looked more like the remains of a village in Verdun, bombarded by artillery and razed by the French and German armies during The Great War, the ground and area left so contaminated by explosive remains and poisonous gases that it would never be rebuilt. 

After a short walk he found the charred remains of an old compound, he approached the gate and using a bobby pin he quickly picked the padlock that chained it shut and went inside. The sign at the entrance was still standing, but the layers of paint were disintegrating so that the writing appeared to be a multi coloured gibberish roughly reading ‘SentYaFaceArmSin’, but Marston knew that this sign had once read ‘The Yaowa Army’, ‘Sentinels of Sin’, and ‘The Faceless Men’. He went through the entrance doorway to the main building, where two reinforced doors had once stood, and walked straight down the hallway to the large office at the back. The large office was a wreck, scorched by what appeared to be a dynamite blast and the large oak desk burnt, shot at, but still standing on four legs.

Marston opened the top drawer and found a small staff with a Chinese symbol atop and a large antique coin that had once been passed between two old friends. He rubbed the coin, then whispered something beneath his breath before placing it into his breast pocket. Having found what he was looking for, he left the compound the same way he had entered with the contents of the drawer and set off for his next destination.

It was only a stone's throw away, but unless looking from above you wouldn’t see the grounds of the old mansion at all. Not a recognisable part of the building was left standing in the land where a Godfather had made his last stand. Burnt timber, and rubble littered the landscape, and the jingling of spent cases was all that could be heard as Marston trudged through the wreckage of the former home of ‘The Strangers’. Marston carefully clambered over big chunks of rubble as he made his way to where the centre of the mansion once stood, and there he began searching through the rubble.

Minutes turned to hours as Marston and his men sorted through the rubble, but nothing of worth had been found. He sifted deep into another pile of rubble and caught hold of something metallic. He pulled a few bricks out of the way and gave the sign a big heave, and it was loose… ‘Ca-Sin-O - Las Vegas’ it said in big lettering. Marston had found the right spot, he gestured to his men and they closed in to the area around their boss to continue their search as others loaded the sign into the truck. The excavation had found new energy, and soon the rubble had cleared the area and revealed the entrance to what seemed to be a fortified underground bunker. A few steps downwards there was a huge metal door, still in perfect condition despite the devastation in all directions. Marston swept some dust from the door revealing a large oddly shaped keyhole, and from his breast pocket withdrew a large key, inserted it into the keyhole, and with a loud clunk turned it. The locking wheel was now free to turn and with a struggle Marston rotated it until finally the door was open.

Inside a small passageway led him down a spiralling staircase, the walls of the passageway had dried bloody hand prints all the way down, where it appeared a bleeding man had used his hand to support his descent. At the bottom of the stairs the passageway opened into a large room, the dried blood led to a chair, and next to it a small pile of used items from a medical kit, where it appeared someone had performed some self-surgery and removed a bullet, which had been left on top of a bloodstained handkerchief.

In the corner of the room was a large safe, and in the centre of the door it was marked with another blood handprint. Marston walked over and began spinning the dial, his heart pounding in anticipation of what he might find inside, if anything at all. He finished rotating the dial and attempted to turn the handle to no avail, he’d messed up, he reset and tried again, this time with beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. He reached for the handle and pushed it… CLUNK

Marston pulled the handle and opened the heavy door, looking inside on the top shelf was a mighty revolver in a customised holster. Marston took the holster and attached it to himself on the opposite side to his own, then whipped out both revolvers and held them together. They were a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, handcrafted and perfectly balanced, identical in every way other than the initials engraved on the grip and for the moment JM & LR were reunited. With a flick of his hands Marston spun the revolvers and returned them to his holsters with a flourish, and as he looked down he spotted something at the bottom of the safe.

Marston bent over and gently took hold of a long wooden case, he picked it up and gently put it down on the old godfather’s desk. It was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, rich mahogany inlaid with light beach and walnut patterns. Marston flipped the clasps and opened the box. Inside a rich silk lining supported a Roman short-sword, Clearly ancient, the handle was intricately carved ivory ending in an elaborate eagle's head carving. The hilt was inlaid with gold and jewels and the guard comprised of different coloured metals worked together with incredible skill. It was a breathtaking item which he had only laid eyes on once before, but it wasn’t this item which had taken his breath away. On top of the antique sword was a letter, which Marston snatched up and began to read eagerly.  As he read the letter a grin crept across his face as he glanced around and saw what appeared to be the entrance of a tunnel which had been sealed with rubble by a controlled explosion some time ago. Marston read the last line of the letter “...I have survived, but barely, you’ll find me where I last saw you” and could contain himself no more, in a rare display of emotion his deep laugh echoed all around the ruined grounds…

Marston returned to New York, a city he was very familiar with, that he had called home many years ago. The city seemed to be flourishing, just as it had been all those years ago. The faces in the city weren’t recognisable but the business they conducted was the same. Marston followed the trail that the letter had given him, to the place where he had last seen his brother. The journey was marked by a sense of urgency, a burning desire to finally uncover the truth surrounding his brother's fate.

He finally arrived, and was immediately disappointed. It was stupid but in his imagination his brother would be sitting there on the headstone with a cigar and a smile, but this was not the case. The headstone sat there looking immaculate, the graveyard was still very well kept. It was very surreal looking at his own headstone, he looked around and to see if anyone was there to share this moment but the place was a ghost town. As he went to inspect a little closer something caught the bottom of his boot and made him stumble a little. He looked down to see what had tripped him and saw that the turf had recently been dug into. He pondered for a moment, then bent over and began to peel the turf back. It was freshly lain, the soil underneath was lumpy, not packed… This grave had been dug up very recently!

Marston took a look around, suddenly the area seemed to have become a hive of activity. Marston knew he needed to dig, but 10am in the morning was not the time for that…

Marston returned to his hotel, he tried to go to sleep, but the anticipation of what he might find buried had him wired, making every hour seem like days. Eventually the sun did begin to lower, so Marston finally donned his duster coat, grabbed a large spade and headed back to the graveyard.

When he arrived there appeared to be a simpleton digging a fresh grave for some poor soul, he knew the man would be there for a long time so went over to see if he’d be a problem.

“Hey there buddy, I need to do a little digging over there… You don’t mind, do you?”

The simpleton stopped digging for a second, and gave Marston a half smirk…

“Hahaha, buddy… I don’t work here either!”

Marston tipped his hat and looked at the enormous hole the man was digging, and wondered how many missing persons posters would be going up that week. Then returned to his own grave to begin the dig. After removing the turf, the going was pretty easy, the soil was still broken from whoever had recently dug there. Barely an hour had passed when Marston felt a CLUNK as his spade hit something solid. He bent down and began sweeping dirt away with his fingers, and found an ammo tin lodged into the dirt. He pulled on the hand hard and freed it from the soil.

Marston climbed out of the hole, and unclipped the lid of the ammo container. He yanked open the stiff lid and peered inside and saw several documents. He laid them out and saw that they were hospital documents pertaining to a John Doe patient who had been in a coma for a decade, surviving bullets to the eye and head. He looked at the measurements and descriptions and was certain it was him, his brother had survived and had been discharged from the hospital back just three months ago, at the end of February. He looked at the header on the letters the ‘Norwegian Lutheran Deaconess Hospital’. He knew exactly where it was, right on the intersection of 46th Street and 4th Avenue…

It was the dead of night, but Marston’s curiosity couldn’t wait any longer, he left the grave looking desecrated, threw his spade in the trunk and drove straight to the hospital to see what more he could find out.

He pulled up at the front of the hospital and parked his car. There didn't seem to be anyone around outside, but lights were on in the hospital. He pushed open the front doors and saw there was no one at the reception, so looked at the signs to find his way to the right ward. He pushed through several sets of double doors until he arrived at the ward mentioned in the documents he had been sent. A nurse was sitting half asleep at the desk and didn’t seem to notice Marston’s arrival. Marston walked over and slapped a document with his brother’s patient information down on the desk in front of her.

“WUUUUUHHHH….WAAAAHHHHHH”

She screamed as she fell backwards from her chair onto the hard tiled floor beneath her. She recomposed herself and held her hand to her chest as she regained her breath and picked herself back up from the floor.

“Where is this man?!!” Marston barked as the nurse approached the desk.

“He left months ago… Just woke up one day feeling fine! That was his bed just over there, number three, I think he was the…”

Marston pushed through the doors to the ward and looked in astonishment at the notes that were left pinned to the foot of the bed. The nurse burst in afterwards and stood behind Marston with a smirk on her face.

“Ohhh, hahaha, I actually came up with that one myself on account of his big old, err…”

She went bright red, and giggled to herself, as Marston looked back at name on the board.

BALLS

Marston couldn’t believe what he had read, his brother had been working for the very same family as him and he didn’t realise. As he pictured Balls’ wrinkly skin and wispy hair, he felt silly not recognising his own brother. His appearance was different, he was now older, missing an eye, and his face had new scars, but he knew he recognised that small slit of an eye from somewhere.

Marston pondered what to do next, his search had forced him to abandon his duties in Detroit and he knew he needed to get back to work in Bricktown as soon as possible.

He returned to his hotel and sent a telegram to the headquarters of Dog Years in an attempt to finally reunite with his brother.

Dear Don Stiffler, the task of rebuilding Detroit has proved not to be a one-man operation. I am formally requesting that you release Don Balls from his duties in Philadelphia in order to assist me in this great task, as my second-in-command. If this loss of manpower is deemed acceptable to you, please could you send him to meet me at Deadshot’s Den as soon as he is able to travel. Yours sincerely, John Marston.

A week had passed and there was no sign of Balls in Detroit, and Marston had heard no word from Philadelphia. Marston had kept himself busy, and had spent his nights staking out the old Godfather Mansion in Bricktown. He’d been given the task of occupying it, but unfortunately since the downfall of Polio, a new resident had decided to make the place their home and declare themselves the Godfather of Bricktown. Marston had dealt with a similar character before, many years ago back in New York, but he had a huge team working for him back then that paved the way for his victory. 

It would be much harder, maybe impossible alone, but John knew the longer he waited the tougher it would be. After some tough deliberation Marston began to gear himself up to take the place on his own, all guns blazing, do or die. He checked that both of his holsters were secure, both pistols loaded, and every pouch full of spare ammunition. He threw on his duster coat, slung his rifle on his back, then carefully placed his hat on his head.

He marched to his horse, which stood proudly at the entrance, grabbed its reins and jumped up to his saddle.

“Where are you Brother?” He muttered as his restless horse paced in circles. He looked over at his range, and watched in awe as the sun set behind it, appreciating it as a parting gift from up high; it was a fitting farewell if this were to be the last time he would ever see it… Darkness ensued, and Marston looked down at his horse.

“YAAAAHHHH!”