If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
...
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
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 McLaughlin had systematically, flawlessly conquered the Gilded Age.
The next morning, the winter sun rose over Saint Denis, casting a pale, frosty light across the sprawling, smog choked industrial sectors of the city. The grand New Year's Eve party was already being meticulously organized by Antonio and his army of household staff, but for Don Caleb McLaughlin, the true preparation was not happening in the ballroom. The true preparation required steel, fire, and gunpowder.
To ensure that the highly anticipated premium and Collector's Edition rifles he said would be prepared for the party were absolutely flawless and ready for display, Caleb had to get his hands dirty.
After a quick breakfast, Caleb left the Garden District mansion and traveled back to the western outskirts of the city, heading directly to the Thorne-Marlin Firearms factory.
The massive, towering brick and steel fortress was already a roaring, deafening hive of industry. Today marked its third official day of full, operational working capacity. The towering smokestacks were belching thick white steam into the freezing morning air, and the ground physically vibrated beneath the carriage wheels from the sheer, concussive force of the heavy hydraulic presses stamping steel inside.
Caleb stepped out of his carriage, the biting chill of the river wind immediately hitting his face. He was not alone. Flanking him as he walked toward the heavy iron entrance gates were his top lieutenants, Arthur, Hosea, Vincenzo, and the towering Silvio. They moved as a single, terrifying unit, projecting an aura of absolute, untouchable authority.
As they stepped through the heavy doors and onto the sprawling, cavernous factory floor, the sheer scale of Caleb's investment was breathtaking.
Rows upon rows of massive, belt driven milling machines, heavy steel lathes, and roaring, coal fired forges stretched out as far as the eye could see. The machines were currently being operated by the hundreds of laborers Caleb had hired directly from the Saint Denis slums.
These desperate, hardened men were sweating profusely despite the winter cold, hauling heavy crates of raw iron, feeding the roaring furnaces, and operating the complex gears under the strict, demanding oversight and training of the specialized master gunsmiths and engineers that had been brought down here from Connecticut alongside the equipment and tools.
The factory head, a brilliant, bespectacled senior engineer named Mr. Harrison, immediately spotted the Don and practically sprinted across the concrete floor to greet him.
"Don McLaughlin! Gentlemen! Welcome back to the floor!" Mr. Harrison shouted, having to raise his voice significantly to be heard over the deafening mechanical roar. He wiped grease from his hands with a heavy rag, his face beaming with industrial pride.
Harrison immediately fell into step beside Caleb, acting as their guide as the group walked down the wide central aisle. The factory head actively explained to Caleb the intricate layout of the assembly lines. He pointed out exactly how the raw brass was being stamped into perfectly uniform cartridge casings on the left, while the heavy steel was being forged into receivers and barrels on the right.
"The entire floor is synchronized, sir," Harrison yelled over the hiss of a steam valve. "And the products that are currently being made... they are exclusively the brand new, inline weapons from the highly advanced schematics that you personally sent back to the headquarters in Connecticut some time ago. Since Mr. Marlin decided that from now on, the factory here in Saint Denis will be the one exclusively producing the revolutionary designs made by you."
Caleb nodded his head, his sharp blue eyes analyzing everything. He was very, very satisfied with the grounds of the factory.
As he walked past a line of drill presses, Caleb noticed a few sparks flying erratically from a poorly clamped steel barrel, and a pile of rejected, misaligned brass casings sitting in a scrap bin. He knew that even though the workers from the slums were incredibly eager, they were still fundamentally inexperienced.
They still made wrong errors that occasionally resulted in bad parts of the weapons or the production of faulty ammo.
But Caleb didn't shout. He didn't fire them. He was still profoundly satisfied because these men were desperately willing to work. They listened intently to the Connecticut specialists, absorbing the complex industrial training like sponges.
Well, that, and the heavily armed oversight. Caleb glanced up at the elevated iron catwalks running along the factory walls. Several of Vincenzo's most elite, terrifying capos were stationed up there, looking down at the floor.
The undeniable presence of the scarred mobsters, holding repeating rifles casually across their chests and watching from above, absolutely helped in keeping the massive workforce strictly in line. No one dared to steal. No one dared to slack off.
As Caleb walked past the roaring forges, feeling the intense, blistering heat of the molten steel radiating against his tailored suit, something deep within him began to stir. He looked at the flawless milling machines, the heavy steel presses, and the pristine workstations.
Caleb was suddenly, overwhelmingly itching to try making the weapons himself with this state of the art equipment.
He didn't just want to be the CEO in the boardroom. He wanted to feel the steel.
Caleb stopped at the end of the assembly line, standing before an empty, fully equipped master gunsmith's workstation. He unbuttoned his expensive dark overcoat and handed it to Silvio. He took off his tailored suit jacket, draped it over a stool, and rolled the crisp white sleeves of his dress shirt up past his elbows, exposing his heavily muscled forearms.
"Mr. Harrison," Caleb commanded, his voice cutting through the ambient noise. "Clear this station. Bring me the finest, highest grade tool steel we have in the inventory. Bring me the block of imported Turkish walnut. And bring me the pure gold and silver wire for the inlays."
The factory head blinked, completely stunned. "S-sir? You wish to operate the machinery yourself? Don McLaughlin, this equipment requires years of—"
"Just bring it, Harrison," Arthur interrupted, a highly amused smirk on his scarred face as he crossed his massive arms. He had no idea what Caleb was about to do, but he knew better than to doubt him.
Within minutes, the raw materials were laid out before him. Caleb stepped up to the workstation, his eyes narrowing in absolute, terrifying focus.
He then activated his max level Crafting skill.
What followed was a display of mechanical genius and physical mastery that left every single man in the immediate vicinity completely, utterly speechless. Caleb moved with the fluid, mechanical precision of a man who had spent a thousand lifetimes working the anvil and the lathe.
He decided to make each of the designs he had made himself. He was going to forge the exclusive Collector's Editions for the New Year's Eve party with his own two hands.
"First," Caleb murmured to himself, grabbing a heavy cylinder of raw steel, "we deal with the accessories."
He locked the steel into the heavy rotary lathe. Sparks flew in a brilliant, blinding shower as he began to carve out the barrel. He wasn't using standard grooving tools. Utilizing his advanced blueprints, Caleb actively milled the revolutionary Polygonal Rifling.
Instead of traditional lands and grooves, he cut a perfect, twisted octagon inside the barrel's profile. The complex math he had drafted weeks ago translated flawlessly into physical reality. The hills and valleys of the steel would provide a perfect gas seal, increasing the muzzle velocity of the bullet to lethal, unprecedented speeds.
Next, he moved to the optics. He machined a sleek, streamlined brass and steel tube. With delicate, almost surgical precision, he assembled the internal mechanics of his advanced sniper scope. He installed the internal windage and elevation turrets, locking the delicate crosshairs into place so they would never lose zero. He purged the tube of air, sealing it perfectly.
Arthur Morgan leaned closer, his green eyes wide with sheer awe. He knew guns better than any man alive, and he had never seen anything like the optics Caleb was currently building. It made his rolling block rifle look like a child's toy.
"Now," Caleb whispered, his hands moving to a fresh block of high carbon steel. "Project Alpha."
He began to forge the Thorne Model 1 Handgun, the legendary M1911.
He slammed the steel into the hydraulic press, stamping the heavy, aggressive profile of the semi automatic slide. He moved to the roaring forge, heating the slide until it glowed a blinding, cherry red. With flawless timing, he pulled it from the flames and quenched it rapidly in a vat of dark, smoking oil. The violent hiss of the heat treating process filled the air.
He was chemically hardening the steel exactly as his blueprints demanded, ensuring the slide would never crack under the massive pressure of the .45 ACP cartridge.
He assembled the internal guts, the short recoil mechanism and the swinging link that would unlock the barrel. He machined the 7 round box magazine with perfect tolerances.
But this wasn't just a weapon of war, this was a Collector's Edition. Caleb took a set of microscopic engraving chisels. His hands blurred as he cut intricate, breathtakingly beautiful floral patterns directly into the hardened steel of the slide.
He took the pure gold and polished silver wire, hammering it flawlessly into the grooves until the weapon gleamed with extravagant, unapologetic wealth.
Finally, he stamped the side of the receiver with a heavy steel die: 'Turn of the Century - 1900'.
"My god," Hosea Matthews whispered, leaning heavily on his cane. The old conman was completely stunned. He looked at Arthur, his jaw slightly open.
Hosea and Arthur were profoundly surprised to see that Caleb had such unbelievable, masterful skill. They had known him as a brilliant tactician, a ruthless mob boss, and a deadly shot. But to see him operate a factory floor like a master blacksmith was something else entirely. But they kept quiet for now, absolutely mesmerized by the show.
Like a boy finding a brand new, infinitely complex toy, Caleb was entirely lost in his element. He didn't stop. He immediately moved to the next design.
He began to draft and machine the Thorne Auto 5 shotgun.
He worked the steel, forming the iconic, aggressive humpbacked receiver. He meticulously coiled and tempered the heavy internal spring required for the long recoil operation, ensuring the entire barrel could recoil smoothly into the receiver to cycle the massive 12 gauge buckshot.
He grabbed the block of Turkish walnut, sanding the stock down until it was smooth as glass, rubbing it with rich linseed oil until the dark wood grain popped beautifully. He inlaid pure silver vines along the grip, creating a masterpiece of devastating close quarters firepower.
The crowd around his workstation had grown. The slum workers had actually stopped their own machines, drawn to the shower of sparks and the rhythmic, authoritative ringing of Caleb's hammer. Even the specialized master gunsmiths from Connecticut were standing in a circle, watching the billionaire CEO out forge their absolute best men without breaking a sweat.
Caleb wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, leaving a streak of dark grease, and moved to the rifles.
He locked another heavy barrel into the vice and began forging Project Vanguard, the ultimate bolt action infantry rifle.
He machined the heavy, incredibly complex bolt mechanism. He forged the massive, controlled feed extractor claw of the Mauser design, marrying it flawlessly with the two piece firing pin of the American schematics. He cut the internal box magazine to perfectly hold the 5 round stripper clips of the high velocity .30 caliber spitzer bullets.
He added the polygonal rifled barrel he had made earlier, and then began the meticulous engraving. He inlaid the dark wooden stock with heavy gold scrollwork, making the deadly military rifle look like a royal scepter.
The products all were completely, undeniably top notch. They were flawless.
And finally, as the afternoon sun began to wane and the factory lights were turned on, Caleb moved to the final, most terrifying design on his list.
Project Sweeper. The submachine gun.
The factory workers watched in sheer confusion as Caleb machined a solid, heavy block of steel for the receiver. It didn't look like a rifle, and it certainly wasn't a pistol. Caleb machined the open bolt blowback system, keeping the mechanics brutally simple but devastatingly effective.
Then, he began to forge the magazine. It wasn't a box. It was a massive, heavy circular drum. He coiled the intricate, clockwork like spiral spring mechanism inside the drum, designing it to hold fifty rounds of the heavy .45 ACP ammunition.
As Caleb attached the wooden foregrip and polished the blued steel of the weapon, Vincenzo and Silvio stared at it. The two veteran mobsters didn't fully understand the internal mechanics, but their violent instincts immediately recognized the apocalyptic, horrific lethality of the weapon Caleb had just built.
A gun that size, holding fifty rounds, meant a single man could clear an entire city street in a matter of seconds. Caleb finished the Sweeper, inlaying the wooden stock with pure silver, and stamped the final 1900 serial number into the steel.
He set the heavy weapon down on the workbench. He stepped back, wiping his grease stained hands on a rag.
The entire factory floor was dead silent for a fraction of a second. And then, it erupted.
The factory workers, the specialized engineers, and the mafia capos all broke into a massive, thunderous round of applause. They clapped and cheered, completely overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated display of absolute craftsmanship. Caleb hadn't just proven he was their boss, he had proven he was the absolute master of their trade.
...
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: -