A/N: Yo I'm back! It feels good to have had a very small break from writing (literally a few days lmao) but I feel quite happy about how this chapter turned out considering I felt very much like I'd lost my footing in the previous chapter.

Please enjoy, as described in the chapter title this will be a 2 part-er because I couldn't fit so much juice into one chapter

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Saturday evening had arrived.

Striking out finally like  a predator Arthur had been wary of all week. The gunslinger had sat an observed with an ill-liking to the various enigmatic speeches and ponders Dutch had lectured so vividly. The man really was going through with the kidnapping, all to get one back on Harper.

Arthur had kept quiet, keeping his disfavour rather to himself, knowing if he at least showed the slightest objection towards Dutch's plan – that it would have the exorbitant gang leader's back up straight away; and as of recent it seemed putting any ounce of doubt against Dutch caused unnecessary questioning. The once powerful leader seemed a lack-lustre version of his former self, battling a war not many were bothering to fight any more.

So, Morgan trundled along with the idea, remaining passive at all times whilst Dutch happily had sent Lenny and Bill into Saint Denis to find any information they could about Lana Grant, Harper, the theatre – any other items they could be of worth.

-

It now occurred to Arthur just how much he wished to disregard this entire plan, trussed up in the back of some carriage wearing the garment's akin to some trussed up city folk. He hated the constriction, the oddity – this just was not him. Most importantly, he hated the idea he was going to have significant involvement in a plan that would cause stress to (what he believed was) an innocent girl, and piss off a gang leader that already wanted to snap all of their necks. The gunslinger had secretly been hoping all week he could possibly take a backseat on this...

How wrong he had been, and deep down Arthur scolded himself for ever thinking he could quietly take to the side and perhaps let Bill, Javier or Lenny have more of an involvement.

Of course that could not be the case, Dutch had far too much trust in Arthur to let that happen.

"I felt like a damn fool buying these here tickets the other day." Bill's nasally tones called in a disgruntled fashion, the man's weathered and roughed hands flashing the small paper tickets. "Queuing behind a loada' women and some overly excited young boys." Williamson tailed off, sounding tiresome about the ordeal. Meanwhile, Dutch was eyeing the tickets like they were admission to sweet revenge rather than a concert.

"Perhaps they all just thought you're sweet on Miss Grant." Javier piped up with a cocky smirk, looking even more lavish than usual in his tailed black jacket and crisp white shirt, decorated fashionably with a black bow tie.

Bill pulled a bit of a face, one that would suggest disdain, but was then followed by an expression that might also convey he wasn't entirely in objection.

"-Not that she would take a second glance at you." Came that overly confident baritone voice of Dutch Van Der Linde, who immediately had the attention of all 4 men in the carriage. It was clear to see Mr Williamson wanted to snap, but knew he couldn't. Dutch's ego as of lately had Arthur rather perturbed, it was as if he had stopped being self aware – and had resorted to these otherworldly ideas and an ostentatious personality to masquerade that fact he was crumbling like old ruins.

"That girl clearly likes a leader..." Dutch added soon after, a coy smirk curling in the corner of his lips. An almost uncomfortable silence fell in the carriage that had Arthur mildly worried about what plans Dutch might've had after the kidnapping.

"You're old enough to be her father!" Lenny harked, offering some lighter tones to the vary hazed atmosphere in this carriage. It had been teetering between tension and some kind of distant disorientation of ideas.

Lenny's playful manner was met by a rather stern brown-eyed glance, that immediately quashed Mr Summer's humoured approach. Sadly, Dutch had been like that a lot lately – things he used to laugh at, he now would question and snap at it. Being so close to him for some many years, Arthur wondered whether it was because Dutch had been gradually losing his self-esteem. A number of large things had happened in the gang as of recent that caused some turbulence, and it had been put onto Dutch to guide everyone and keep morale going.

"I don't know if you've noticed, Mr Summers. But Jim Harper ain't no spring chicken." Dutch returned back, a slight sprinkling of smugness to his tone. He clearly got some kind of secret satisfaction about putting young Lenny back into his place. It was apparent to see Lenny crawl right back into his shell, mentally remarking that he should make no more quips that evening.

"Look – if we're gonna do this, we gotta keep it simple." Arthur finally said, having been sat there feeling a nimble of anxiety brewing over the ordeal. "Don't try to claim the girl, for gods sake. That'll just make Harper do something really bad." Arthur cautioned Dutch, knowing that his criticism might not be welcomed.

Arthur's rainy blue eyes stared in Dutch's direction, the smartly dressed gang leader didn't even move a muscle for what seemed to be a matter of seconds – before he bore this rather crazed little smile that was disconcerting to say the least.

"Come on Arthur. I didn't say anythin' about claiming the girl, did I?" he laughed it off, deep tones rumbling, "Just makin' a point to Bill here about the type she likes." He had narrowed his eyes slightly, a self assured little gesture that made Arthur recoil quietly.

The outlaw assumed his quiet stance, reminding himself there really was no point wasting breath in trying to sway Dutch when he was onto something like this.

Turning into the lamp-lit street on which the concert hall proudly sat, the two dapple grey horses drawing the carriage clopped purposefully to the curbside- carrying their heads in a regal fashion. Coaches full of excited guests were in a constant flow – arriving, dropping off, and then pulling away. It seemed this really was to be a busy function, and that did nothing to settle Arthur's doubts surrounding the issue. The only way he could see this ending, was with Harper blowing all of their heads off.

"Right gentlemen," Dutch crooned, making the lead out of the shiny black carriage and onto the grey pavement outside, glossed with a sheen of wet from the rain earlier; even making the mere sidewalk gleam and attempt to match the glamour of the night ahead. "I want to check all is in order before we head in." The leader added, pulling his men aside.

"I've got the floorplans to the building in my pocket, boss." Javier reminded, patting his jacket with a proud smirk. Already he got a shocked look from Bill, who had been sent specifically out to find information by Dutch and had found next to squat.

"What- How!?" Bill snapped, seeming angered by such a loss that Javier had so gracefully gained. The Mexican outlaw bore a flashy smile, as charming as anything as he cocked his head a little at the ill-tempered Bill.

"The chicas working here will give you next to anything if you ask nice enough." His laugh was that of a dirty one, and it wouldn't take a genius to work out what he was alluding to. Now Bill looked even angrier than ever, it was like he knew if would never be able to achieve the flair Javier seemed to have with the women – and hated how cocky he was about it.

The fiery-tempered man was about to return some kind of remark that Arthur was sensing would surely end up in a fight, when a chorus of excited guttural screams and cries could be herd from just across the way, by the sidewalk.

The most extravagant carriage rolled up to meet the rainy side walk, a beautiful structure drawn by two sleek dark bay hunter-build horses, necks arched perfectly. The coach itself was a coal-black colour, gleaming under the streetlights with it's polished ornate silver handles and pretty art deco accents. It barely took a few seconds to work out that carriage... and more importantly, it's passengers.

"Get out of sight!" Arthur hissed, herding the other's like a flustered parent to a small alcove between the theatre's corner and an art shop next door – the lot of them staring from the safety of the shadows.

Soon enough the carriage door was peeled open by a ageing man dressed to the nines in smart occasion clothing. The crowd screamed for the villain stepping out like he was some admired celebrity, Arthur growled quietly to himself – he didn't like it one bit. Harper was not like them, not one bit – he used stealing, killing, lying to get his way to some godly celebrity status so his name could be known, feared and respected. He practically flashed his wrong earnings wherever he could, and the law turned a blind eye thanks to the generous amounts of cash pressed into the palm's of their hands.

"Harper." Dutch snarled like a feral wolf from Arthur's right, dark eyes not leaving the figure of the Cobalt Jackal's leader as he stood to the side of the carriage door, hand extended out like some refined gentleman as from the shadowy conceals of the carriage interior – out extended a slender arm, a dainty hand slipping into that of James Harper's.

The screams of the crowd of people gathered outside the concert hall heightened upon the figure of the glamorous singer leaving the carriage.

A long, gold evening dress – it's satin material shining to the eyes of many as the esteemed Miss Grant took her first few steps out of the carriage, large golden glimmering heels along the damp side walk. The chill in the night air had the singer curling her grey-fox fur shawl around her shoulders tighter, a shy smile on her lips to all those adoring fans cawing out her name like a demented bird.

"Lana! Lana!" the chirps seemed to come from everywhere, not that she ever had the time to stop and speak to the people that supported her music – because what looked to be a sweet link between Harper and herself was actually his one perfect way of dragging her away from conversing with anyone. It made Lana's heart sink, but she couldn't express this. All she could do was just smile and wave as best as she possibly could, before disappearing through the grand gold double doors into the venue.

Gone, like a glamorous ghost.

The Van Der Linde boys seemed mildly transfixed by the display they had all just seen of the beauty that was Lana Grant. It was easy to see why Harper was so transfixed. Gorgeous dark curls, a dazzling smile and sweet manners of a day-dream girl.

But underneath all this, there was the event alarming blare that Harper would be in the very same building whilst they tried to pull off the kidnapping. A scary prospect indeed... if they did not pull this off properly, it could be a highly dangerous ordeal.

"Shall we head in and enjoy the show first?" Dutch blurted, adding a clear juxtapose to the mad rush of thoughts going on inside Arthur's head. The gang leader placed his ring-decked hands on the lapels of his black jacket, shrugging the thing more fittingly onto his person.

"I'm really quite lookin' forwards to it." He added, the charismatic nature settling on his tones was not assuring, to say the least.

-

If there was anytime for feeling out of place, it had settled in Arthur Morgan upon the moment his black shiny shoes set food in that grand concert hall.

The structure was both incredible and breath-taking, but at the same time intimidating. He didn't frequent a lot in places like this (naturally), therefore he rather felt a lot like a simple, honest country man thrown into the posh and wealthy jaws of an industrialised community.

Down to four, (Lenny was to be waiting outside the stage door, as part of the plan) The Van Der Linde boys walked along the plush red carpet, gazing in awe at all the seating around them. The venue extended upwards into tiered seating on another level on the upper floor, with lots of private boxes mounted high on the sides of the venue. It didn't take long for Dutch to spot his arch nemesis.

"There he is, up there." Dutch hissed, making a subtle point up to one of the boxes way up high, positioned just to the left of the stage.  "Slimy bastard." Dutch added with a tone of pure contempt. The leader clenched his fists a little before continuing the way down to their allocated seats, having to side-step awkwardly in front of a group of young women who seemed to both eye the men in anger at the disruption but also in a way as if they were interested in such a curious bunch.

"Excuse me, ladies." Van der Linde crooned in an overly apologetic and charming tone, he had always figured he had this great power with the ladies; like a lamp drawing moths.

The women mumbled some incoherent polite dismissal, as the outlaws took their seats – a few rows back from the stage itself. This all felt very alien, the tight suits were enough to stir up a sense of abnormality; but now the feeling heightened considerably – what with being squeezed between the bodies of many rich and wealthy people who clearly dressed in a costly fashion all the time, and attended concerts like a church service.

What was pressing Arthur more was the fact when he saw Lana's figure appear on that stage... he would feel incredibly guilt. She was so unbeknownst to the hellish night that was instore. How he wished Dutch had just kept his bad blood with Harper to a personal level...

-

The past half an hour in the dressing room had been a peaceful escape from the chaotic reality that Lana found herself caged in.

These private moments before and after the shows were the singer's favourite places, but also her living nightmares. Sometimes, she could sit happily and relish the solitary moments; and others it just offered her mind a time to ruminate over all the shit she had gone through in the past 7 years.

Spritzing some perfume onto her neck, Lana became aware of a soft knock outside of the dressing room door.

'They are ready for you now, Miss Grant.'

Facing the hazy glowing reflection of the girl in the mirror, Lana stared critically at her features.

Who exactly was this girl she was staring at? Her hazel eyes framed by dark long lashes seemed to spell hurt, an expression of mild sadness which clearly could be mistaken from a sultry mysterious approach.

Lana gently ran your fingers through your dark hair, teasing a few curls. It felt her identity was everchanging between the shows; on that stage she was a darling of everyone's daydreams – a sweetheart with an angelic voice and a clean soul. In reality, she was more like some caged exotic bird – silenced regularly by her lover and living a life of pure misery.

Getting up from the white vanity table, Lana's feet carried her to the dressing room door, and began to take the usual journey right and up towards the stage.

She often did wonder, wish... fantasize...

About turning left one day, instead. Out towards the exit. To disappear into the night.

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