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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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The federal bounties were on the progress of being erased, the money was flowing, and they now possessed a lethal technological advantage that made them entirely untouchable. "No, Arthur," Caleb smiled, a dark, incredibly powerful expression radiating absolute supremacy. "We didn't just build an empire. We built the future. And God help any man who tries to stand in our way."
After the absolute, earth shattering demonstration of the Sweeper submachine gun had thoroughly convinced the Van der Linde gang that they were now operating on an entirely different level of warfare, Caleb didn't just pack the weapons away. He turned his attention to the men who enforced his rule in the shadows of the city.
He gestured with a leather gloved hand toward Vincenzo, Silvio, and several of the elite, sharply dressed Italian capos who had been standing guard around the perimeter of the courtyard.
"Your turn, gentlemen," Caleb offered smoothly, stepping back from the stone wall and gesturing toward the velvet lined crates. "You are the men who hold the streets for this family. You need to know exactly what kind of firepower you are holding."
The capos didn't need to be told twice. They stepped up to the firing line with a mixture of profound reverence and eager anticipation. Vincenzo, the scarred Underboss, reached out and picked up one of the gold inlaid Thorne Model 1 handguns, while the towering Silvio gravitated instantly toward the silver vined Auto 5 shotgun. The other capos picked up the remaining Vanguard rifles and Sweepers.
Caleb walked them through the loading mechanisms, ensuring they understood the magazine releases and the charging handles. When they were ready, they aimed out into the churning, muddy ruins of the bayou and opened fire.
The courtyard once again erupted into a deafening symphony of modern ballistics. But what truly shocked the hardened mobsters wasn't just the sheer speed of the gunfire, it was the physical sensation of shooting the weapons. They were, of course, very surprised, their eyes widening with every trigger pull, since the recoil of the new guns was actually much, much less compared to the heavy, clunky weapons they usually used.
Vincenzo emptied the seven round magazine of the M1911 in a heartbeat. He stared at his hand, completely bewildered. He was used to the brutal, wrist snapping kick of a heavy iron revolver, a kick that forced a man to entirely realign his sights after every single shot. But the internal recoil spring and the sliding mass of the M1911 absorbed the kinetic energy so flawlessly that the barrel barely rose an inch.
"The kick... it is almost non existent," Vincenzo marveled, his thick Italian accent heavy with disbelief as he ejected the empty magazine. "I could fire this all day and my wrist wouldn't even ache. It is like pointing a finger."
Silvio grunted in profound agreement. The giant enforcer had just dumped five rounds of 12 gauge buckshot into the swamp without having to manually pump the action once. The long-recoil system of the Auto 5 had eaten the punishing blow that usually accompanied a shotgun blast.
He patted the dark walnut stock affectionately, looking at Caleb with a gaze that bordered on religious worship.
After finally everyone had managed to try the revolutionary firearms, the reality of going back to their old hardware suddenly felt incredibly depressing.
Arthur pulled his customized Cattleman revolver from his worn leather holster. He spun the cylinder, listening to the heavy, mechanical clicks of the old iron. He frowned, looking from his trusted sidearm back to the sleek, semi automatic Model 1 resting on the table.
"You know, Caleb," Arthur muttered, shaking his head. "I've carried this Cattleman for near twenty years. It's saved my life more times than I can count. But holding it right now... it feels strange. Clunky. Like I'm holding a damn old piece."
John agreed immediately, holstering his own Schofield revolver. "He's right. My old guns feel completely weird now after trying such great guns. It's like trying to ride a stubborn mule after you've just been handed the reins to a purebred Arabian."
The sentiment echoed rapidly through the crowd. All of the boys of the gang, Bill, Javier, Lenny, Sean, and Charles, began clamoring, practically begging the Don of Saint Denis for a favor. They requested to Caleb if they could officially buy one of each for themselves. They were more than willing to hand over their cuts from the recent casino skims just to get their hands on the weapons.
It was then that Uncle, who had completely recovered from his initial terror of the Sweeper, hobbled forward. He leaned heavily, utilizing his own unique style of theatrical wits to make his pitch.
"Now, Caleb, my boy," Uncle began, his voice taking on a grand, highly dramatic tone as he placed a hand over his chest. "You know I am a man of advanced years. The terrible, agonizing lumbago that plagues my lower spine makes carrying these heavy, outdated repeaters an absolute medical hazard! For the sake of my health, and to ensure I can properly defend this beautiful estate from any ruffians... I humbly request that you outfit me with one of those light, easy to use handguns. And perhaps one of those shotguns, just for close quarters medicinal purposes."
Caleb let out a rich, genuine chuckle hearing that. The tension of the morning's live fire exercise melted away into the easy camaraderie of the family.
He raised his hands, silencing the eager murmurs of the gang. "Keep your money in your pockets, boys. You don't have to buy a damn thing."
Caleb smiled, looking around at the men who had bled for him. "I am going to give you all one of each. Completely on the house. No need to buy it."
A massive cheer went up from the gang, Sean tossing his flat cap into the air with a triumphant whoop. But Caleb quickly raised a finger, dropping a vital piece of business logic onto the celebration.
"But I am not just giving them to you out of the goodness of my heart," Caleb explained, his sharp blue eyes scanning the crowd. "This is a highly calculated business strategy. With you boys carrying these weapons and using them out in the world, it will help spread the word to the people of Saint Denis at an incredibly fast rate. When the rival gangs, the local lawmen, and the wealthy tycoons see the Van der Linde gang wiping out threats with guns that fire faster than they can blink, the demand is going to skyrocket."
Caleb pointed toward the north. "This organic marketing is already happening up in Connecticut, as well. John Marlin is equipping his top security men with the prototypes, and the wealthy elite up east are already flooding the telegraph wires with purchase requests. But here is the catch."
Caleb walked over to the velvet-lined crates and ran a hand over the intricate gold scrollwork of a Vanguard rifle.
"The standard, blued steel models are going to be sold to the public and the military," Caleb stated, his voice ringing with absolute authority. "But the Collector's Editions, the weapons with the gold and silver inlays, the hand carved Turkish walnut, the absolute pinnacle of the craftsmanship, are only being made down here in Saint Denis. And you boys are going to get the Collector's Editions to use."
He locked eyes with Arthur, then John, delivering a strict mandate. "And I mean use them. I do not want you taking these beautiful guns up to your rooms and storing them in a glass display case to be shown off to guests. These are not paperweights. These are weapons of war. They are made to be shot. I want the gold gleaming in the sun when you draw them on the streets. I want the city to see exactly how untouchable we are."
Everyone laughed out loud at that, the sheer absurdity of carrying thousands of dollars' worth of gold inlaid weaponry into a muddy gunfight appealing perfectly to their outlaw sensibilities. They readily agreed to the Don's terms.
With the morning's business successfully concluded, the gang members began to disperse. They were in incredibly high spirits, chatting excitedly about their new arsenals as they headed back inside to the warmth and luxury of the sprawling mansion.
Caleb remained in the courtyard for a moment, shifting effortlessly back into the role of the mob boss. He sharply directed Vincenzo, Silvio, and the remaining capos to properly clear the firing line. The capos moved with immediate, disciplined efficiency.
They carefully wiped the sulfur and gunpowder residue from the display models, stored the guns back into the heavy padded crates, and ensured the thousands of rounds of remaining ammunition were securely packed away. Once the crates were nailed shut, they were hauled back to the estate's reinforced storehouse to be safely guarded once again.
With the courtyard cleared, Caleb adjusted his heavy overcoat. The day was far from over. The New Year's Eve party was rapidly approaching, and he had promised the city's elite a massive stockpile of these weapons.
He turned to his two top lieutenants. "Vincenzo. Silvio. Get the carriage ready. We are heading back to the factory."
As the heavy, black lacquered carriage was brought around to the front of the mansion by the estate's drivers, Caleb, Vincenzo, and Silvio walked around the side of the house. Just as they approached the circular gravel driveway and Caleb reached for the brass handle of the carriage door, the heavy oak front doors of the mansion swung open.
Mary-Beth stepped out onto the wide marble porch. She had changed out of her morning dress and was now wearing a very practical, beautifully tailored dark riding skirt and a fitted white blouse, with a thick woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders against the winter chill.
She walked quickly down the marble steps into the courtyard, her eyes locking onto Caleb.
"Caleb, wait a moment," Mary-Beth called out, her voice clear and confident. She reached the carriage and looked up at him, "Could I come and join you in the factory for the rest of the day?"
Caleb paused, his hand on the carriage door. He looked at her, a mixture of surprise and deep affection warming his chest. He loved that she wasn't just content to sit in the drawing room reading novels while he built an empire; she wanted to see the gears turning.
He nodded his head, a soft smile touching his lips. "Of course you can come join me, sweetheart. I'd love the company."
But then Caleb's expression turned slightly serious, offering a genuine warning about the brutal industrial realities of where they were going. "But you need to know, it will be incredibly hot in the factory. It isn't like the courtyard. There are roaring coal forges, open vats of boiling oil, and steam presses running at maximum capacity. The air is thick with sulfur and soot. It can be suffocating if you aren't used to it."
Mary-Beth didn't even flinch. She just shook her head, a tough, resilient smirk crossing her beautiful face, a look that reminded Caleb that beneath her elegant, literary exterior beat the heart of a woman who had survived the absolute worst the American frontier had to offer.
"It's okay, Caleb. I can handle hot temperatures," Mary-Beth said firmly, stepping closer to the carriage. "After all, I have faced far worse before when the gang moved places. I survived the blistering, insect infested swamps of Clemens Point in the dead of summer, and I survived the freezing, frostbitten peaks of Colter with barely a blanket to my name. A few coal forges aren't going to scare me away."
Caleb let out a proud, admiring laugh. He couldn't argue with that logic. "Fair enough, Miss Gaskill. Your carriage awaits."
He offered her his hand, helping her step up into the plush, velvet lined interior of the carriage. Caleb climbed in after her, sitting beside her, while Vincenzo and Silvio took their places on the opposite bench.
The driver cracked the whip, and together with Caleb, they rode out through the wrought iron gates, leaving the wealthy Garden District behind as they headed toward the industrial smog of the western outskirts.
When they arrived at the Thorne-Marlin Firearms factory, the sheer sensory impact of the place was staggering. The massive brick building was already in full, roaring production, just like before. The towering smokestacks were belching thick clouds into the winter sky, and the ground trembled with the rhythmic pounding of the hydraulic steel presses.
Caleb stepped off the carriage first, turning to offer his hand to Mary-Beth. She took it, stepping down onto the dusty, soot-covered ground, her eyes wide as she took in the massive scale of the operation. Vincenzo and Silvio followed closely behind, their repeating rifles held at the ready, instantly forming a protective perimeter around the Don and his lady.
As they walked through the heavy iron doors and onto the factory floor, a wave of blistering, metallic heat washed over them. The noise was deafening.
Caleb immediately took Mary-Beth's hand, leading her safely down the wide central aisle. He leaned in close to her ear so she could hear him over the roar of the machinery, acting as her personal tour guide.
He first showed Mary-Beth the sprawling factory floor, pointing out the massive, belt driven milling machines where the raw iron ore was being rapidly shaved down into perfect, gleaming rifle barrels.
He showed her the standard assembly lines, where the new guns were being produced by the hundreds. The slum workers were assembling the standard Vanguard rifles and the Auto 5 shotguns. But, of course, while they were deadly and perfectly engineered, the standard models were strictly functional.
They lacked the intricate gold scrollwork and the pure silver vines, they were beautiful in a brutal, industrial way, but it was nowhere near as beautiful as the breathtaking designs of the Collector's Edition she had fired that morning.
After the comprehensive tour of the heavy machinery, Caleb led her away from the main floor to a slightly elevated, heavily secured private workshop section in the back of the factory. This was his personal domain.
"This is where the real art happens," Caleb explained, taking off his heavy winter overcoat and draping it over a wooden chair. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, hung it up, and began rolling up the crisp white sleeves of his dress shirt.
He stepped up to the master gunsmith's forge and told her that he was going to show her firsthand exactly how he built and created the Collector's Editions.
"The fifty prototypes I made yesterday were just the beginning," Caleb said, locking a heavy, raw block of high carbon steel into the massive rotary lathe. "I am planning on making twenty more for each of the four gun designs today. So, in total, it would be thirty Collector's Editions that are currently made for each model. It's the perfect number to satisfy the absolute wealthiest men at the New Year's party while still maintaining an agonizing level of artificial scarcity."
Caleb pulled a pair of heavy leather blacksmith gloves onto his hands. But before he fired up the lathe, he pulled a small, incredibly precise set of steel stamping dies from a velvet box on the workbench. He held them up so Mary-Beth could see.
"And because these weapons are going to be worth a fortune," Caleb explained, his mind always ten steps ahead of the criminal underworld he ruled, "I have to make sure nobody tries to replicate them. Of course, there will be special symbols and microscopic codes present on every single one of these thirty guns to ensure that it is entirely valid and wasn't a cheap counterfeit knocked off by some back alley gunsmith."
He showed her the tiny, intricate Thorne family crest engraved on the tip of the die. "I stamp this crest on the inside of the receiver, completely invisible unless you fully disassemble the weapon. And there is a unique, alphanumeric serial code stamped beneath the barrel threading. If a politician brings me a gun claiming it's a Thorne-Marlin original and it doesn't have these marks, I'll know it's a fake immediately."
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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: -