'A modern day woman,
with a weak constitution 'cause I've got-
Monsters' still under my bed
That I could never fight off.'

-

The light of the morning sun was almost too painfully bright as it shone through your window, the rays permeating through the thick city smog giving the light this rather hazy shine.

From the quiet of your room, the sounds of the trolley bell's ringing and the clopping of horses hooves could be heard clearly – with a mixture of voices calling far too loudly for the time of the day.

Sitting on the edge of the made bed, you rested your hands in your lap and stared at them blankly. There was so much going on in your head at that moment, you couldn't really focus on the things going on around you.

Since agreeing to Bronte's suggestion, you had grown more and more anxious over the situation. In these past few months, you had made more than enough money to support yourself – and you realised you could've... should've taken the chance to run.

But you had always tried to bear in mind what the other's had always warned you about regarding Bronte. He could be so dangerous, you had heard from those whispering red lips of your fellow workers – he was a tyrant who had hold of the city. Those who defied him often didn't come off very well.

So now, you felt rather more trapped than ever. Turning around now and refusing the offer would surely end in hell-flames.

A sigh exalted your practically doubled over frame as you resisted the urge to want to break down and cry. Why was this your situation? You found that daily you were hating yourself for being in this situation -using your body as an object for making money. It was so very wrong, and if it hadn't been for the security of the cash – you would've never set foot in this area... But all through this, especially since Bronte had been getting involved, you did not feel as if you had very much choice. You were his favourite girl according to the other workers... and it appeared that was more lethal than it was any kind of compliment.

Beside your bed on the floor, planted on the deep red rug – were your two small suitcases, packed up and ready to go. You had forced yourself to make them up the night before to stop yourself doing anything silly that would get you into trouble with Mr Bronte.

Around 8 o'clock – there were a few solid knocks on your door. You knew exactly who it was, and so shakily got up, small hands taking a white knuckled grip on your cases as you walked with wobbling legs across the room to the door.

Your hand trembled as it pressed the handle down to open the heavy oak door, revealing the faces of two very austere looking men. They were sharply dressed, fairly tanned skin and dark eyes. It was plain to see Bronte recruited men of his origin – Italian chaps. They looked you over in your modest blue cotton dress, like they were sizing you up. Already you felt nothing but bad energy over this whole ordeal. You so wished you could run up the street and never look back.

Wordlessly, the two men led the way ahead. They walked shoulder to shoulder, with you following a few steps behind. Their black hats looked stupidly large on their heads, whilst their pipe-legged black suit bottoms seemed to give them the image of a small boy who had borrowed his father's best suit.

Like a silenced prisoner, you had followed the men down and out of the large saloon which so cleverly masqueraded it's band of working girls – and into the street. Waiting at the grimy curb was a beautifully ornate royal blue carriage, pulled by two smart grey horses that stood patiently awaiting orders.

"In." the Italian man finally broke his silence. The other grabbed the cases from your hand, and before you could utter a word you were pushed inside ungracefully.

You rather fell into the seat than sat in it, grumbling to yourself at the men's piggish ways. After packing your cases on the back of the carriage and ordering the driver, the two men clambered into the carriage with you, taking a seat next to one another on the seat opposite you. Well if that wasn't intimidating, having the pair of them staring you out like vultures.

Unsettled by their heavy gaze, you forced yourself to look out of the window at the city as the carriage trotted on, rumbling over the uneven cobble stones whilst the horses' hooves clip-clopped rhythmically.

In that 15 minute ride, your curious (eye colour) eyes watched your surroundings shift.  You had started your journey in a rather deprived area of the city, with beggars abound, drunks falling in the street and questionable activity all around the distained and murky looking buildings. But a short while you had witnessed the scenery changed, buildings shifted into smarter, more European inspired architecture, the people were wearing suits, ladies in their pretty dresses – as opposed to the scruffy, worn clothes of the very over-worked working class.

Tall trees lined the last long street you travelled, their wilted russet leaves decorating the chalky-grey cobbles like confetti. Activity around this area seemed generally quieter, no shouting or hollering – just the sounds of the wind outside the carriage and the horses' hooves.

The carriage took a turn to the left, into a very idyllic looking cul-de-sac that centred around a pretty little park with it's pond and it's maintained greenery.  Your eyes were wide like that of a child in a sweet shop as you gazed at the beautiful and ornate houses that surrounded the park, all grand and huge in stature. The carriage slowed to a halt just outside of a pretty blueish-grey building that was absolutely breath taking. You knew then you had arrived at your destination, the Mayor's house.

There was sometime you were told the wait in the carriage whilst Bronte's men went out to liaise with the Mayor, but no more than 10 minutes later were you called out at last.

The sharply dressed, intimidating Italian men had taken your cases up to the front porch of the house, as you wandered slowly through the wrought iron gates which a rather haughty looking butler was holding open for you.

Trundling up the neatly cobbles path to the porch, you set eyes on the Mayor himself, loitering in the doorway and looking around like a skittish rat awaiting an attack from a beastly cat.

"Mr Mayor, sir." You greeted in a small voice, as the man bore a rather short and sharp smile – that flickered on and off as soon as anything, like he had been electric shocked.

"Ah – Yes. Do hurry inside." He was just as bumbling as ever, ushering you inside and having one of his butler's grab your cases from Bronte's men.

Despite the pit of sickening nerves in your stomach, you couldn't help but take in the beauty of the house. It was palatial, unlike anything you had set foot in before.

"Mr Bronte informed me you would be here at quarter past 9.... It's nearly quarter to 10." The major gabbled as he led the way upstairs, "M-my wife is d-dangerously close to coming back soon." He sounded irritated, but of course who was too much of a mouse than a man to expel any sort of real rage. Like most influential men in the city, the Mayor was under Bronte's thumb – and very much terrified of the man.

You merely nodded in response, not wanting to offer your word on anything as you already felt more than deep enough in this horrible swampy-mess of a situation. Ascending the stairs, you were led off the landing to another corridor – narrow with dark oak panelled walls and a wood floor that was decorated with a single roll of red carpet which added a touch of elegance.

At the very end of the corridor sat a door, which the Mayor had made a b-line for in a very rushed manner. You could tell that this man was terrified of his wife making an appearance before he had settled you in to your room.

"This-" he instigated, pushing the door open wide and revealing the more than modest room. "-will be where you shall stay." His tone was that of encouragement for you to step inside whilst the butler dropped your cases just inside the room and then quietly continued about his duties, as if he was turning a blind eye to what was going on.

You squeezed past his suited form and into the light and airy room. Through the large bay window there were views of the fenced park, the quiet street below and nothing much else – which was nice in a way. You were grateful for the peace in some ways, until you remembered the reasoning why you were here and felt stupidly and hopelessly trapped again.

Looking back, you offered a small appreciative smile to mask your current emotions to Mayor Lemieux who was looking expectantly at you through those small oval spectacles that sat upon the bridge of his beaked nose.

"Thank you, this will be most comfortable." You assured him, hoping that you could be left on your own once again, not feeling very much in the mood to attend to anyone at the moment.

The mayor nodded, his eyes falling from yours as he made a short bow of acknowledgement.

"Well, I must be getting back to my study. My wife shall be home shortly, I expect." He excused himself, "Should you need anything, just call for my butler, Mr Hart."

With that, the door was clicked shut – and you felt a wash of private relief at being allowed to your own company once again. Taking a few steps back, you seated yourself on the edge of the plush covered double bed – with it's various velvet and silk quilts and throws and it's expensive gilded pillows. You glared over your shoulder at them in hatred of yourself, this was no bed for the work of a whore.

Groaning out in frustration and animosity, you extended your leg out to kick your cases over on the floor, the leather baggage smacking the oak floorboards with a significant thud. Following this, you allowed your head to crash into your hands, whilst you really fought back the tears that were threatening to break free from your eyes at any moment.

Why had you let this get so far to a point that you felt you could not turn back? Even after being forced from a  gang of bloody outlaws it seemed you still managed to get involved with the most feared folk in all the land.

On this thought, your mind instantly trailed back to Arthur for what was probably the billionth time that week. Whatever would he think of you? Doing this to yourself for the sake of earning money? He would be so disgusted and ashamed of you. The idea of repulsing the man you idolised and adored so greatly made you break down – and now you gulped as your chest heaved and the tears flowed in streams down your cheeks. Why did everything have to be so crushing in this life? Everything you had cared for had been taken from you – and now you wondered just what exactly you ad left to live for?

Nothing. You couldn't keep riding on the small glimmer of hope that you would see Arthur again, it was time to face facts... even if you did meet him again, he would surely turn away at the thought of what you had been doing to earn yourself money. The shame plagued you like darkness in a shadowy cellar.

For the rest of that afternoon alone, you had cried yourself into a state of exhaustion – until you had fallen asleep, face tear stained with wet, spiked eyelashes.

-

~meanwhile~

The day was pleasantly light, with a deceiving bright sun that juxtaposed the rather chill feeling the air.

Away from the bustle of the camp, Arthur had sat himself out by the lake – still distancing himself from the gang. He didn't quite know who to trust anymore, after Dutch had turned his back on you like he did... to listen to Micah – Arthur wasn't inclined at all to bed his trust in anyone.

The gunslinger had been idly sharpening his hunting knife on a bit of old wood, listening to the repetitive scrapes when his ears fell upon a much more grating sound.

"I have some news you wanna hear, boss!" Micah was shouting from behind where Arthur was sat. The statement itself sparked a low level of curiosity in Morgan, who turned to look over his shoulder a little to catch a view of Micah sauntering over to Dutch with a stupid wager to his steps.

"Oh? And what might that be, son?" Dutch had replied, wandering out from his spot just on the edge of his tent to the clearing in the camp where Micah was stood, a smirk on his face – the same sort of smirk he had on the day he ended up getting you chucked out of the camp. A frown instantly settled on Arthur's expression, he didn't like the feeling Micah's tone was stirring in his stomach.

"I was ridin' back from Rhodes – and who do I run into? Couple of O'Driscolls." Micah started, and Arthur could hear the surprise even in Dutch's scoff.

"O Driscolls'? Out this far?" he started, folding his arms over his chest. "What exactly did them bastards want?" already the gang's leader's tone was dripping with aggravation. Micah clearly took joy in seeing that his little slice of information was winding Dutch up.

"They told me Colm wants a truce." Micah said simply, and Arthur watched as Dutch visibly took some steps back out of shock.

"It's a trap, Micah." Van Der Linde quickly replied with a chuckle of disbelief, as he went to move past Bell. "Colm don't want nothin' but trouble. Too much as happened between me and him – stuff that can't be forgotten." Dutch was saying, but Micah persisted like the little rat he was.

"Dutch, honest! Them boys told me he wants to settle peace, accept what's been and gone and for the pair of ya' to move on." Micah insisted, peering up into Dutch's face with this pleading expression that made Arthur feel sick just looking at it.

"What happened... it was a long time ago Dutch. Ain't it time to move past this...?" Micah's tones were falsely gentle, and Arthur growled to himself when he saw Dutch swaying. Even though he had enraged Arthur a lot in the past few months, he was still the leader of this gang and Arthur would not see him so blindly get led into danger.

It appeared Arthur was too late, as he closed in on Micah and Dutch. Immediately, Van Der Linde looked to Arthur with a determined stare.

"Arthur, you come with us please. We need you there if somethin' does happen to go wrong." Dutch insisted, his hands fisted a little as his finger's fidgeted, rings gleaming in the sunlight. Arthur could tell by Dutch's mannerisms he was fairly anxious about this.

"Dutch, this don't feel right." Arthur pressed, already knowing he was failing as Dutch marched over to The Count whilst Micah peppily kept up at his side.

"I wanna see what this is all about Arthur." Dutch snapped suddenly, mounting onto his horse's back. He glared down at Arthur with such a questioning look that made the gunslinger feel totally irrelevant next to Micah's apparent gleaming demeanour.

"Are you with me, son? Or are you goin' to question me?" Dutch's tone was more of a order than anything. An order for Arthur to follow, or there would be an argument.

Too tired to quarrel, Arthur let out a beaten sigh and shrugged his shoulders, slinging his Lancaster rifle over his shoulder and obediently making his way over to Phantom.

"I'm with ya', Dutch." Arthur started, glaring a little at Micah before staring at his so called father figure. "Til the end." He added, swinging himself into the saddle.

In the bright sunshine, the three men rode in a single file – lead by Micah. Trotting along, Arthur could not ignore the turbulent feeling that was stirring in his stomach, something did not feel right at all about this.

But he could not say he was surprised – wherever Micah wandered – trouble seemed to happily amble it's way behind.

Arthur just hoped this was not some kind of sick trap – for this time, he really would be planting a bullet in Micah Bell's head.