Chapter 3: The Black Sheep’s Burden

The jolting of the car made my whole body ache. It wasn’t a limo, but one of those long black sedans you see in presidential motorcades, the kind that smells faintly of leather and aftershave. The hum of the engine and the slap of windshield wipers set a nervous rhythm, like a heartbeat I couldn’t slow down.

The old man in front of me was unmoved, his face full of worry, lost in thought. Every so often, his fingers tapped the armrest, like he was counting out battle plans in Morse code.

I took advantage of the silence to sort things out. The city slid by outside the tinted windows, all red brick and rain-soaked pavement—nothing like the dusty war camps I remembered reading about.

If I’m not mistaken, I’ve time-traveled. Time-traveled into the legendary era of the Dalton family. My own family, now—I could feel it in my bones, the weight of history pressing in from all sides.

The person in front of me is the Chief—the real Grant Campbell! The man himself, not some actor or dusty biography. I’d grown up reading about him, admiring his cool head and sharp tongue. Now here he was, in the flesh.

As a die-hard fan of Dalton history and reader of classic American epics, I almost wanted to kneel and beg for an autograph, shouting, "Chief, I’ll be loyal to you!" I half-expected him to quote Lincoln or FDR.

But I wasn’t in the mood. Just now, all sorts of memories—some mine, some not—came flooding in. My own childhood, summers spent chasing fireflies, and then fragments of someone else’s life—marches, rallies, late-night war councils. It was overwhelming, like flipping through a photo album at lightning speed.

Come to think of it, they called me... Crown Prince.

Oh no!

I’m Andy!

It’s really Andy!

Of all people, why did I become the infamous "first to surrender," "good-for-nothing," "happy to forget Maple Heights" Andy! The black sheep of the Dalton family, the guy everyone talks about in hushed tones at Thanksgiving.

My stomach dropped. Suddenly, every Thanksgiving dinner, every snide remark from a distant cousin, came rushing back. This was the family joke—and now, I was the punchline.

"Damn it!" The words slipped out, sharp and frustrated.

"Where did Your Highness learn such crude language?" Grant Campbell—Chief Grant—really laid into me. His glare was sharp enough to cut glass, but there was a hint of worry behind it, too.

I sulked for about three seconds, but then thought, maybe this isn’t so bad? No matter how useless this guy is, he’s still the Crown Prince of the Dalton family, right?

No more living in a basement without sunlight, no more worrying about my girlfriend running off with the boss. No more microwaved noodles at midnight, listening to the neighbors argue through paper-thin walls, no more scraping by on gas station coffee.

Isn’t this the life of the privileged? War? Which of Uncle Leo’s Five Top Generals isn’t a legendary hero? Every one of them was a household name back in my world, their stories carved into history like the faces on Mount Rushmore.

Governing the country? Leave it to Grant, Larry Young, Frank Foster—none of that’s my problem. Let the grown-ups handle the dirty work; I’ll just keep my nose clean and enjoy the perks.

And, like all time-travelers, I have the script. If I use it right, and step up at the key moments, can’t I change history? Maybe I’d finally get to be the hero in my own story.

Grant is Chief, Andy is Crown Prince, so this must be after the founding of the new Dalton order. The pieces were starting to fit together, like the first few turns of a Rubik’s cube.

Let me think. First, I need to find that "put a bounty on his own head" second brother and warn him about Aaron crossing the river in white uniforms (i.e., Uncle Gary’s downfall).

Second, tell that hot-tempered, hard-drinking fellow Zack Sanders to treat his men well, so he doesn’t get killed in his sleep. A little kindness goes a long way, even on the battlefield.

Third, tell Uncle Leo, never camp in the woods during battle. The mosquitoes alone could kill a man, let alone the enemy.

Fourth... I’ll decide based on the situation. After all, life comes at you fast.

If all these work out, isn’t "restoring the Dalton legacy and returning to the old capital" just around the corner? I could see it now: headlines, parades, maybe even a postage stamp with my face on it.

Imagining this beautiful future, I couldn’t help grinning like an idiot. The future felt almost within reach.

Then I heard Grant sigh and scold me: "At a time like this, Your Highness can still laugh."

He scolded me! That’s twice already!

If you weren’t Grant Campbell, I’d curse your whole family. But I held my tongue, out of habit and a little fear.

Looking at his worried face, I suddenly felt a little sad, thinking about how this old man would one day work himself to death for the Dalton family, dying in the fall winds of Westfield. He was more than just a name in a book now—he was flesh and blood, a man bearing the weight of a nation.

Who knows what state affairs he’s worrying about, always with that pained expression. No wonder he’ll get sick if this goes on. I made a mental note to remind someone to check his blood pressure.

Wait, something’s off.

The Chief and Crown Prince of a nation hurrying along the road at night—what huge event could this be? The hum of tires on asphalt, the flashing city lights—it felt like the world was closing in on us.

By the way, what year is it? What time is it? I checked my wrist—no watch. Of course.

Could it be that Uncle Gary and Zack Sanders are already gone? No, I haven’t even met them yet! My stomach twisted with anxiety.

"Chief, what’s happened that’s so urgent?" I asked anxiously.

"Alas." Grant sighed deeply and spoke slowly:

"His Majesty was utterly defeated at Red Creek. What I feared most has come to pass."

"Luke Boyer forced His Majesty to retreat to Maple Heights. According to reports, His Majesty is gravely ill and has summoned us at once..."

What? Red Creek? Maple Heights?

It’s over, it’s over! My heart dropped like a stone. There was no undo button here.

Looks like my old man—Uncle Leo, whom I’ve never even met—has already squandered everything, and Luke Boyer burned 700,000 troops and 700 miles of camps. The numbers alone made my head spin.

The first three steps are useless. Time to think of a new plan. The playbook was changing right before my eyes.