This pampered young lady, untouched by hardship, knew only one focus: love. While the rest of the Van der Linde Gang wrestled with the brutal realities of outlaw life, Ms. O'Shea fretted about Dutch's lack of attention. As they risked their lives robbing banks, she grumbled about Dutch's diminished romantic gestures. Even as the gang imploded, its very fabric tearing apart, Ms. O'Shea merely drank away her sorrows, lamenting the collapse of her relationship with Dutch.
She even orchestrated her own death under Susan's gun, a desperate, final plea for Dutch's notice. This wealthy young woman, whose sole worry from childhood had been Dutch's perceived neglect, ultimately perished because of his callous indifference. Ms. O'Shea's entire existence, it seemed, could be distilled into one pathetic word: "simp."
So, while Ms. O'Shea's portrayal in the game was brief and her death jarringly abrupt, it meticulously painted the portrait of a rich, romantic young woman, trapped in her gilded cage. Perhaps this was why few players harbored much affection for her.
Yet, if Ms. O'Shea were to exist in the harsh glare of the real world, she would be a striking, lovelorn heiress, determined to abandon her mansion, worth tens of millions, to return to your humble hometown and raise pigs. She wouldn't even flinch at your backward, impoverished home; instead, her every waking moment would be consumed by devising ways to please you.
Seen through that lens, didn't Ms. O'Shea suddenly seem far more appealing? Love permeated this woman's entire being, yet it held no sway over Dutch's impenetrable heart. This emotional chasm was precisely what drove her to madness.
Ms. O'Shea, her face flushed from Dutch's forceful kiss, stood rooted to the spot, every protest choked in her throat. Though deep down she worried that little Jenny and Mary-Beth's innocent affections for Dutch might ripen into something more, she swallowed her fears, remaining silent.
Meanwhile, Dutch, who had already turned to walk away, paused, a subtle shift in his stride. No. Ms. O'Shea, under the guise of Mrs. Arthur Callahan, could be an invaluable asset. She possessed the inherent grace and worldly knowledge to cultivate strong alliances with Ms. Dorothea and the noble ladies of Saint Denis, a polish that far surpassed the rough edges of his male gang members.
Using her as a stepping stone, transforming Dutch's relationship with Saint Denis's elite from mere cooperation to a truly mutually beneficial friendship, would undeniably align perfectly with his ruthless logic.
Dutch considered this for a moment, then turned, his gaze falling upon Ms. O'Shea. "Oh, Molly, alright, you come along too. I believe you might find kindred spirits among the noble ladies of Saint Denis."
"Okay, Dutch." Ms. O'Shea moved with a surprising elegance, her posture regal, yet her eagerness was palpable.
Against the fiery Western sunset, a lone carriage slowly rolled out of Hope's Dream Ranch. The two newly recruited gunmen, standing guard at the ranch entrance, watched Dutch and the others depart, their eyes alight with reverence.
"Hey, buddy, have a cigarette. Mr. Dutch is truly a great boss. He not only provides our food and lodging but even gives us monthly quotas for tobacco and alcohol. Being able to work here… I think I've used up all the luck in my life!"
"Hahaha, my wife's overjoyed now. Mr. Dutch just hired her as a cook, and our family can save sixty-five dollars a month from her high salary. Our son, he's got a great chance to attend school in Saint Denis now. This kind of life… I never even dared to dream of it before."
Hope's Dream Ranch buzzed with a newfound vibrancy. The workers' quarters, though separate from Dutch's and the gang's cabins, still offered glimpses of people moving constantly in the distance. Other gang members, patrolling the sprawling ranch, would sometimes engage in casual conversation with these new arrivals, adding a touch of normalcy to their lives.
Meanwhile, Dutch and his select group, already on the train, sped towards Saint Denis as night descended. This sprawling metropolis, a crucible of conflict and ambition in the game's narrative, was about to receive its first true wave from the Van der Linde Gang.
"Toot toot toot!" The train's whistle shrieked, piercing the night. With that ear-splitting sound, the locomotive slowly eased into the Saint Denis train station, nestled by the coast. Pungent black smoke belched from its chimney, billowing high into the sooty sky, yet it paled in comparison to the noxious fumes spewed by Saint Denis's towering thermal power plant. The entire sky above Saint Denis seemed perpetually shrouded in black, the very air thick with the acrid scent of burning coal.
"Oh, is this Saint Denis? Arthur! This city is amazing!" Mary-Beth, Karen, and Jenny, the three young women, cried out in unison, their voices filled with awe and laughter as they rose from their seats.
"Oh my God, shit! Dutch, the banks in this place must be overflowing with cash!" John stared blankly at the sprawling roads and the grand, intimidating city before him, his excitement bordering on manic.
"Haha, John, if you tried to rob a bank here, I'm sure you'd be riddled with so many holes you'd look like a porcupine," Hosea chuckled, rising from the back seat, patting John's shoulder as he passed.
"Oh, John. Give up that damned idea. The Van der Linde Gang, have changed professions!" Dutch added, a firm hand on John's shoulder as he moved past him.
"Oh, John. After having half your brain gnawed off by wolves, your thinking has indeed become… quite unique. Perhaps if the other half were gnawed off, you might actually become a true genius." Arthur, ever the master of the cutting remark, patted John's shoulder, shot him one last look, and sighed dramatically as he squeezed past.
"Did I say something wrong?" John scratched his head in confusion, following the others off the train, still utterly perplexed.
The area around the Saint Denis train station was a desolate landscape of coal storage yards and sprawling slums. The environment here was a putrid mix of filth and chaos, rife with thieves. The gangs of young pickpockets, vividly depicted in the game, were the undisputed kings of theft in these impoverished districts. Beyond petty thievery, the streets harbored petty thugs, brazen street ruffians, and members of small urban gangs who dared to operate only within these poor areas. Generally, they never ventured into the opulent rich districts, for they knew, instinctively, that they could not afford to provoke anyone there.
However, Dutch and his group moved as a unified force, and few dared to challenge such a sizable contingent. But absolute safety was a mirage. Perhaps it was the presence of too many women—four young women in total—that drew unwanted attention. As they disembarked the train and stepped onto the roadside, two men, clearly thugs, approached the group of eight with leering, malicious smiles.
"Hoo hoo hoo, gentlemen, ladies, new faces. I don't believe I've seen you in this city before. What's your business here?"
"Ladies, would you like to come with us and earn some dollars?"
One man stepped forward, a lecherous grin plastered across his face, his hand reaching out to touch Mary-Beth's cheek. The moment his fingers extended, Arthur's hand shot out, seizing his wrist, twisting his fingers back with bone-snapping force.
"Ow! Let go! Let go! Damn it, we're Mr. Bronte's men! Do you want to die?!" The man's body contorted in agony, desperate to relieve the excruciating pressure on his fingers. His companion, seeing the escalating violence, immediately drew a gun, a malicious sneer twisting his features.
"Oh, I don't care whose men you are," Arthur said, his voice cold, indifferent, as he applied more force, deliberately breaking the man's fingers.
"Bang!" A single gunshot cracked through the air. The other thug, who had pulled his gun and was about to fire, collapsed, a neat hole blown through his head by John's unerring shot.
The people around them did not scream and scatter wildly as they might in the game. Instead, they calmly retreated, some even pausing to watch the commotion with detached curiosity. Many were so accustomed to such violence that they remained utterly unfazed by the sudden burst of gunfire.