If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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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."
With the anti counterfeit measures explained, Caleb went to work.
He threw the lever on the lathe, and a shower of brilliant, blinding orange sparks erupted into the air as the cutting tool bit into the spinning steel. Mary-Beth took a step back, shielding her eyes slightly, but she couldn't look away.
She stood safely off to the side, leaning against a sturdy wooden workbench, and watched intently as Caleb made the guns.
It was a mesmerizing display of raw, physical power combined with absolute focused precision. Caleb moved between the roaring forge, the hydraulic presses, and the delicate engraving vice with a fluid, masculine grace.
The intense heat of the forge caused a sheen of sweat to quickly cover his face and arms. The muscles in his back and shoulders flexed and coiled visibly beneath the thin, sweat dampened fabric of his white dress shirt every time he swung the heavy blacksmith's hammer or hauled a block of steel out of the quenching oil.
As Mary-Beth looked on from the side, a slow, deep flush began to creep up her neck that had absolutely nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the factory.
She watched the way his jaw clenched in absolute focus, the way his strong, capable hands effortlessly manipulated the deadly machinery, and well... she felt he was very, very handsome doing this. There was something incredibly intoxicating about watching the man who commanded the entire criminal underworld of Saint Denis reduced to his purest, most primal element, a creator bending fire and steel to his absolute will.
She found herself completely captivated by the sheer, unapologetic masculinity of the scene, her eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders and the dark, focused intensity in his blue eyes.
Of course, Caleb, possessing a hyper intelligent, incredibly observant mind, picked up on her intense, lingering gaze very fast.
He had just finished plunging a freshly forged M1911 slide into a vat of smoking oil. He pulled it out, setting it on the iron rack to cool, and turned to look at her. He caught the slight blush on her cheeks and the unmistakable, heated look in her eyes.
A slow, wicked, and incredibly charming smirk spread across Caleb's soot stained face. He couldn't resist. He decided to tease her about it while she looked from the side.
"You know, Miss Gaskill," Caleb drawled lazily, leaning his hip against the heavy iron anvil and crossing his powerful, sweat drenched arms over his chest. "If you keep staring at me like that, I'm going to get distracted. And if I get distracted, I might accidentally mill this barrel crooked. We wouldn't want the Mayor's new rifle blowing up in his face because you couldn't keep your eyes to yourself, now would we?"
Mary-Beth gasped, her blush deepening furiously into a bright, vibrant red. She quickly looked away, suddenly finding a box of screws on the table incredibly fascinating.
"I... I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Mr. Thorne," Mary-Beth stammered, trying and completely failing to maintain her elegant composure, a small, embarrassed smile breaking through. "I was merely observing the... the industrial mechanics of the lathe. It is a very fascinating machine."
"Uh huh," Caleb chuckled, a deep, rich sound that vibrated over the roar of the factory. He pushed off the anvil, taking a step closer to her. "The industrial mechanics. Right. Well, you just keep observing the 'mechanics,' sweetheart. I've got an empire to arm."
Mary-Beth playfully swatted at his arm, though she didn't step away. "Just forge the guns, you arrogant man."
Caleb laughed, leaning down to press a quick, soot smudged kiss to her cheek before turning his attention back to the vice.
Caleb spent the entirety of his time making more guns today. The hours melted away in a blur of sparks, hammering, and meticulous, microscopic engraving.
He cut the polygonal rifling for twenty more Vanguard rifles, forged the humpbacked receivers for twenty more Auto 5 shotguns, built the complex blowback systems for twenty more Sweepers, and assembled twenty more Model 1 handguns.
He inlaid every single one with pure gold and silver, stamping them with the 1900 serial numbers and his hidden anti counterfeit codes.
By the time the afternoon shadows began to lengthen outside the factory windows, the heavy display tables in the private workshop were completely covered with the gleaming, flawless Collector's Editions.
But Caleb wasn't entirely finished. To ensure the New Year's Eve demonstration was absolutely perfect, he also tried his hand at making the ammo as well.
He moved over to the heavy brass reloading presses on the far side of the workshop. While the standard laborers were mass-producing the ammunition on the main floor, Caleb wanted to create specialized, match grade ammunition for the Collector's Edition weapons.
He meticulously weighed the smokeless powder on a delicate brass scale, ensuring every single cartridge had the exact same, flawless powder charge to guarantee perfect accuracy. He pressed the primers into the brass casings with a smooth, rhythmic motion, and seated the heavy .45 caliber slugs and the pointed .30 caliber spitzer bullets perfectly into the brass.
Mary-Beth watched as he packed the gleaming, meticulously crafted ammunition into specialized, velvet lined wooden boxes. The sheer dedication to absolute perfection was astounding. Caleb didn't just want to build a weapon, he wanted to build a legacy.
As the factory whistle finally blew, signaling the end of the long, grueling industrial shift, Caleb wiped the grease and sweat from his face with a heavy towel.
The eighty new Collector's Edition firearms were completed, perfectly oiled, and gleaming under the gas lamps. The ammunition was packed, and the trap for the New Year's Eve party was entirely, flawlessly set.
Caleb walked over to Mary-Beth, offering her his arm. "Come on, Miss Gaskill. I think we've built enough of the future for one day. Let's go home."
After Caleb said that, wiping the last smears of industrial soot from his jawline with the heavy towel, Mary-Beth let out a soft, melodic laugh. The sheer contrast between the terrifying, hyper lethal warlord he was to the rest of the world and the incredibly charming, soot stained man offering his arm to her was something she cherished deeply.
Mary-Beth chuckled sweetly, a bright, affectionate sound that cut through the lingering mechanical hum of the factory. She reached out without a moment of hesitation and gladly took his arm, completely ignoring the fact that his rolled up shirtsleeves were covered in dark machine grease and fine iron dust.
Together, they turned away from the heavy wooden workbench and walked down the elevated platform to finally leave the private workshop section of the factory.
However, a man like Caleb never simply walked away from millions of dollars' worth of unsecured assets. Before stepping out of the massive iron doors, he signaled for Harrison, the bespectacled factory head, who immediately came running over with a clipboard in hand.
Caleb's voice dropped back into the cold, authoritative register of the Don. He explicitly ordered for the eighty newly forged, perfectly oiled Collector's Edition weapons to be securely stored into the heavy, velvet lined wooden crates.
"Nail them shut, Harrison," Caleb commanded, his sharp blue eyes scanning the exhausted but proud master gunsmiths. "And just like before, I want them brought directly to the mansion's primary storehouse tonight. Do not wait for the morning. I am leaving a full detachment of Vincenzo's capos here to oversee the loading process, and they will ride shotgun on the transport wagons. If so much as a single scratch appears on the gold inlays of those rifles, I will hold you personally responsible."
"It will be handled with the absolute highest priority, Don McLaughlin. You have my solemn word," Harrison nodded frantically, immediately shouting orders to the slum workers to begin padding the crates with thick layers of straw and heavy canvas.
With the security of the priceless cargo entirely guaranteed, Caleb and Mary-Beth stepped out into the freezing, biting winter air of the Saint Denis outskirts. They entered into the plush, warm interior of their waiting black-lacquered carriage.
Vincenzo and Silvio, having designated a dozen of their most lethal men to guard the transport wagons, climbed into the carriage alongside them, their heavy repeating rifles resting across their knees as they took up their protective positions on the opposite velvet bench.
The driver cracked the whip, and the heavy thoroughbreds pulled the carriage away from the roaring smokestacks of the industrial sector. They rode back to the wealthy, pristine streets of the Garden District, the rhythmic clatter of the hooves on the cobblestones serving as a soothing contrast to the deafening hydraulic presses they had left behind.
When they finally arrived there, the towering wrought iron gates of the estate swung open to receive them. Caleb and Mary-Beth stepped out of the carriage and entered back into the quiet, luxurious warmth of the mansion.
Caleb immediately went upstairs to the master suite. He needed to wash himself first before he could even think about sitting down in the formal dining room. The household staff had already drawn a massive, steaming hot bath in the copper tub.
Caleb stripped off his ruined, grease stained dress shirt and sank into the scalding water, letting the heat seep into his aching muscles. Forging eighty custom firearms by hand was a Herculean task that would have crippled an ordinary man, but Caleb's supernaturally enhanced physique merely demanded a hot soak and a heavy meal to fully recover.
He scrubbed the dark metallic dust from his skin, washing the smell of sulfur and quenching oil out of his hair until he was completely clean.
Dressed in comfortable, tailored evening clothes, he went back downstairs to eat dinner with Mary-Beth. The sprawling mahogany table in the dining room was set for just the two of them. Antonio's kitchen staff had prepared a magnificent feast of roasted duck glazed with orange, buttered root vegetables, and a heavy, incredibly expensive bottle of imported French Bordeaux.
They ate in a comfortable, intimate silence, the roaring fire in the hearth casting a warm, flickering glow across the room. Mary-Beth playfully recounted how terrified the factory head had looked when Caleb threatened him, and Caleb simply smiled, slicing his meat and enjoying the absolute domestic peace that he had successfully built to counter the violence of his empire.
After dinner, their plates cleared by the silent, efficient staff, they went upstairs and took a long, deeply earned rest, sleeping soundly in each other's arms as the winter wind howled outside the thick glass windows.
Then, days passed.
The final week of 1899 was a period of rapid, terrifyingly efficient expansion for the Van der Linde gang. Caleb, not wanting his closest brothers to be left out of the technological revolution, had returned to the forge briefly to make more of the Collector's Editions just for the boys of the gang.
He had hand crafted personalized, flawlessly balanced versions of the M1911 handguns, the Vanguard rifles, the Auto 5 shotguns, and the apocalyptic Sweepers, then gave it to them personally in the courtyard.
He also forged one complete, masterful set for himself as well, ensuring his own personal arsenal was the absolute pinnacle of human engineering.
His own new guns were meticulously cleaned, oiled, and stored first at his private, heavy-steel gun safe inside his room, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice should the absolute worst come to pass.
But for the rest of the gang, the new weapons were not meant to be kept in a safe. Caleb had given them explicit orders to use them, and the boys did not disappoint.
The gang used the new guns during their daily line of work, enforcing the Don's iron clad rule over the city's underworld. When Sean and Lenny were sent to the eastern docks to 'negotiate' a dispute with a stubborn foreman who had tried to skim from the family's shipping crates, they didn't bring baseball bats or old revolvers. They walked into the warehouse holding the sleek, blued steel Model 1 handguns.
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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: -