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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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He had strategically positioned several of the family's most elite, heavily armed capos all around the massive construction site. These were the scarred, ruthless veterans of the Italian mafia, dressed in dark city coats, holding repeating rifles casually across their chests as they slowly walked the elevated scaffolding and the muddy perimeter lines.
The capos were not there to act as cruel slave drivers. Caleb paid his laborers from the slums an incredibly generous, highly competitive daily wage, far more than they could ever make unloading cargo at the Cornwall freight yards. But Caleb also understood the desperate, often opportunistic nature of the Saint Denis underbelly.
The capos were specifically placed there to make absolutely sure that none of the workers from the slums developed some sudden, highly unfortunate 'bad thoughts.'
When a man is surrounded by tens to hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of pure copper wire, high grade steel tools, and expensive imported milling parts, the temptation to slip a few valuable items into a lunchbox or a heavy coat pocket could be overwhelming.
Furthermore, the city was crawling with rival union agitators and bitter remnants of Angelo Bronte's fractured loyalists who might want to sabotage the Don's new crown jewel.
But with Vincenzo's most terrifying killers silently watching their every move, the laborers kept their heads down and their hands honest. The presence of Silvio, the towering mountain of muscle standing right behind Caleb with his massive shotgun resting on his shoulder was more than enough to crush any whisper of theft, strike, or sabotage before it even had a chance to form in a desperate man's mind.
"They're working hard, Caleb," Arthur murmured, stepping up beside the Don and resting his heavy hands on the wooden railing. "The boys haven't had to crack a single skull all week. You pay them enough to feed their families, and they suddenly decide that stealing a hammer ain't worth a bullet in the knee."
"It is the simplest economic equation in the world, Arthur," Caleb smiled, his eyes fixed on a rising wall of red brick. "Desperation breeds crime. Prosperity breeds loyalty. We are buying their absolute devotion with every paycheck we hand out."
Vincenzo, standing a few paces away with a lit cigar clamped between his teeth, nodded his head in deep, profound agreement. The mafia underboss had spent decades terrorizing the slums for pennies. Watching Caleb manipulate the entire working class of the city through sheer, unadulterated capitalism was a terrifyingly beautiful education.
The grueling, relentless construction progressed for more than two weeks.
It was a staggering feat of industrial endurance. The laborers worked from the moment the sun crested over the eastern swamps until the gas lamps had to be lit in the deep of the night.
The massive, steam powered locomotives from Connecticut made several more runs, dropping off the final shipments of customized gunsmithing tools, thousands of pounds of raw brass for cartridge casings, and the heavy, polished oak crates that would soon hold the finished weapons.
Day by day, the factory rose from the mud. The deep foundations set perfectly. The towering, double reinforced brick walls grew higher, casting long, imposing shadows over the riverbank. The massive, heavy iron roof trusses were hoisted into the sky by the groaning steam cranes and bolted firmly into place by daring ironworkers. The smokestacks breached the skyline, and finally, the heavy, blast proof glass windows were slotted into their iron frames.
Inside the massive building, the master gunsmiths and the brilliant industrial engineers from the main headquarters worked frantically alongside Caleb's men to bolt the heavy milling machines into the concrete floors, string the electrical lighting, and calibrate the incredibly precise, high pressure hydraulic presses needed to forge the rifle barrels.
Finally, after fourteen days of non stop, earth shaking labor, the deafening noise began to subside.
The construction was officially finished.
The Thorne-Marlin Firearms factory was no longer a blueprint. It was a massive, fully operational, terrifyingly efficient fortress of modern weaponry, standing proudly on the edge of Saint Denis. The steam engines were humming quietly, the belts were spinning, and the first test batches of raw steel were already being fed into the milling machines to calibrate the dies.
By the time the final coats of dark paint were applied to the heavy iron entrance gates and the massive brass letters spelling out the company name were bolted to the front facade, the end of the year was rapidly approaching.
It was late December, 1899.
The humid, suffocating heat of Lemoyne had completely vanished, replaced by a crisp, biting winter chill that swept in off the Lannahechee River. The transition into a new century was merely days away. The entire city of Saint Denis was practically vibrating with a restless, electric anticipation for the massive New Year celebrations.
Caleb, however, did not view the turning of the century as merely an excuse to drink champagne. His max-level Business Skill recognized it as the absolute, perfect marketing opportunity.
He had a tens to hundreds of thousands of dollar factory ready to produce the finest weapons on the planet, and he needed the absolute elite of the country to know that he controlled the supply.
Caleb returned to the sprawling, luxurious Garden District mansion, leaving Arthur and the capos to permanently lock down the newly finished factory. He walked into the warm, roaring heat of the grand drawing room, brushing the winter chill from his heavy overcoat, and immediately pulled the velvet cord to summon his head butler.
Within moments, Antonio entered the drawing room, bowing perfectly. "You rang, Don McLaughlin?"
Caleb walked over to the crystal decanters resting on the mahogany sideboard and poured himself a small measure of aged bourbon. He turned to face the butler, his sharp blue eyes burning with visionary intent.
"Antonio. The factory is operational. The first crates of flawless, top of the line repeater rifles and heavy-caliber revolvers are rolling off the assembly lines as we speak," Caleb announced, taking a slow sip of the burning liquor. "It is time to formally introduce our new empire to the world."
Antonio's posture straightened even further. "How would you like to proceed, my Don?"
"The year 1899 is dying, Antonio. We are about to step into a brand new century," Caleb stated, his voice a smooth, resonant baritone that filled the quiet room. "I want you to prepare an end of the year party. But not just a standard gala. I want the most opulent, exclusive, and breathtakingly extravagant New Year's Eve celebration this city has ever witnessed."
Caleb began to pace across the imported Persian rugs, laying out the highly targeted, incredibly manipulative guest list.
"I want you to invite the absolute highest echelon of society," Caleb commanded. "Send heavy, gold embossed invitations to the elites, the corrupt politicians, the bank managers, the shipping tycoons, and the wealthiest old money plantation owners in the state. Invite Mayor Lemieux, the city council, and the chief of police. I want every single man who possesses significant capital or political influence in this city standing in my grand ballroom when the clock strikes midnight."
"It shall be done, Don McLaughlin. The catering and the orchestra will be secured immediately," Antonio nodded, his mind already drafting the seating arrangements. "But if I may ask, sir... a party of this magnitude for the city's elite? Are we merely celebrating the New Year?"
"We are never merely celebrating, Antonio," Caleb smiled, a dark, incredibly cunning expression that was pure mob boss. "This party is a highly calculated showroom. I am going to use this grand occasion to formally, publicly tell all of them about the new firearms factory."
Caleb walked over to the roaring fireplace, staring into the flames as he outlined his psychological warfare.
"These rich men, these tycoons and politicians... they are driven by ego and the desperate need for exclusivity. They want things that the common man cannot have," Caleb explained, his max level Persuasion Skill already weaving the pitch. "During the party, when they are drunk on my vintage champagne and feeling incredibly important, I am going to announce that we are the sole producers of the new, revolutionary Thorne-Marlin weaponry in the South."
Caleb turned back to the butler, pointing a finger to emphasize the absolute genius of the trap.
"I am going to bring out several pristine crates directly from the factory floor. I am going to let everyone here at the party 'taste' the new products," Caleb said, his eyes gleaming. "I will let them hold the perfectly balanced rifles. I will let them feel the smooth, flawless action of the revolvers. I will let them smell the gun oil and the polished walnut stocks."
Antonio's eyes widened slightly in profound realization. "You are letting them preview the weapons before they are shipped to the federal military or the local gunsmiths."
"Exactly," Caleb nodded. "And once they have the weapons in their hands, I will deliver the hook. I will tell them that because they are my esteemed, highly valued guests, they have an unprecedented opportunity. If they like what they feel, and if it's good, which I know for an absolute fact it is, they can buy it tonight. They can secure private shipments of these weapons for their own personal estates, their hunting lodges, and their private security forces, much, much faster than it will ever be sold to the general public market."
It was a brilliant display of artificial scarcity and VIP manipulation. By offering the guns to the elite before the public could touch them, Caleb was guaranteeing massive, immediate capital injection, while simultaneously ensuring that the politicians and tycoons would fiercely protect his factory from any federal regulations or local zoning laws, simply because they wanted to maintain their exclusive access to his arsenal.
But Caleb always pushed for the absolute maximum profit margin. He wasn't just going to sell them standard rifles.
"And to ensure they open their checkbooks completely," Caleb added, a rich chuckle escaping his lips, "I will also announce that there is a highly limited 'Collector's Edition' as well."
He mapped out the specifics of the luxury firearms. "I have already instructed the master gunsmiths to take fifty of our best repeating rifles and completely customize them. They are currently engraving the steel receivers with intricate, beautiful floral patterns. They are inlaying the wood stocks with pure gold and polished silver, and stamping them with a commemorative 'Turn of the Century - 1900' serial number."
Caleb finished the rest of his bourbon and set the crystal glass down with a definitive clack.
"I will price the standard rifles at a premium, Antonio. But I will price the Collector's Edition rifles at an absolutely astronomical, absurdly high number," Caleb smiled. "And these arrogant, wealthy fools will fight each other tooth and nail to buy them, just so they can brag to their friends at the country club that they own a piece of history that the others do not."
Antonio bowed so deeply his nose nearly touched his knees, utterly astounded by the sheer, unadulterated capitalistic brilliance of the man he served.
"It is a masterpiece of psychological commerce, Don McLaughlin," Antonio praised him, his voice thick with genuine reverence. "The city's elite will empty their bank accounts directly into our vaults, and they will thank you for the privilege of doing so. I will have the invitations printed and dispatched by nightfall. The ballroom will be prepared for a display of unprecedented wealth."
"See to it, Antonio," Caleb nodded, officially dismissing the butler.
As Antonio silently departed the drawing room to mobilize the massive household staff, Caleb stood alone by the roaring fire. He looked down at his own hands, hands that had fired revolvers, brawled in the mud, and seized a criminal empire by force.
Now, those same hands were pulling the strings of the entire state's economy.
The Van der Linde gang was completely safe. John was happily engaged. Senator Pendleton was currently sweating in Washington, actively wiping their federal bounties from existence. The luxury hotel in Strawberry was being furnished, and the massive firearms factory was officially churning out steel and smoke on the riverbank. As the final, freezing days of 1899 ticked away, giving way to the dawn of a new century, Caleb had systematically, flawlessly conquered the Gilded Age.
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Bow (Lvl MAX)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl MAX)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl MAX)
- Leadership (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 284,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall
Bank: -