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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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"To Mr. Caleb Thorne (McLaughlin)," the letter read in sharp, aggressive cursive. "Your proposal is not just sound; it is visionary. With you operating as the major shareholder and the primary visionary of this expansion, I am more than assured of its inevitable success. The board has voted unanimously in favor."
Marlin didn't just offer empty promises, he offered immediate, devastating logistical support. The letter detailed that he just needed Caleb to send the exact dimensions and the surveyed size of the land for the factory. Marlin also confirmed that he already had the heavy manufacturing equipment, the advanced milling machines, and the industrial tools needed, all sitting ready and crated in their northern warehouses.
Furthermore, alongside the heavy machinery, Marlin was deploying several dozen of his most experienced, veteran foremen and master gunsmiths to head south via train to help oversee the construction and also actively train the new, local workers there in the art of modern firearms manufacturing.
Caleb smiled at this as he saw this absolute confirmation of his plans. The military industrial complex of Saint Denis was officially green lit.
He neatly folded the letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his charcoal suit jacket. He turned to his head butler, the gears of his empire already turning at maximum speed.
"The factory will be built on the western outskirts of the city, Antonio," Caleb commanded, his voice echoing with absolute authority in the empty marble hall. "Have the site prepared immediately. The massive plot of land bordering the old riverbed already belongs to the family through one of our holding companies, so the bureaucratic red tape is entirely done."
He gestured with his hand, outlining the physical reality of the task. "It just needs to be cleared out. Have the trees chopped down, the heavy bushes uprooted, and the large stones hauled away so the architects can begin laying the foundation the moment they step off the train from Connecticut."
Antonio nodded his head sharply at that, receiving the massive logistical order without a single flinch.
"Of course, my Don," Antonio said smoothly. "But to clear a plot of land that large in a matter of days requires significant manpower. Should I have my lieutenants hire people in the slums for the manual labor, or should we use the lower ranking soldiers of the family to secure and clear the perimeter?"
Caleb didn't even have to think about it. Utilizing his max level Leadership and Persuasion skills, he understood that labor was just another form of absolute control.
"Do not waste my soldiers on pulling weeds and moving rocks, Antonio," Caleb instructed coldly. "Soldiers are for holding territory. Hire the people in the slums. The dockhands who are out of work, the desperate men who need to feed their families."
Caleb mapped out the genius of the move. "They, of course, should know how to at least use axes and pickaxes to clear out the area. Pay them a fair, daily wage in cash. By hiring them, we inject our money directly into the poorest districts. We give them a livelihood. They will look at the factory not as an imposition, but as their absolute salvation. They will clear that land with a fierce loyalty because the Don is the only man in this city putting bread on their tables."
Antonio's eyes widened slightly in profound admiration of the strategy. It was flawless. The Don was literally buying the undying loyalty of the city's underbelly with a few crates of pickaxes and a bag of coins.
Antonio nodded his head deeply, bowing. "A brilliant directive, Don McLaughlin. The slums will bless your name. I will leave to immediately do it."
With the butler dispatched to mobilize a small army of laborers, Caleb let out a slow, satisfied breath. The pieces of the grand chessboard were moving exactly as he commanded.
After that, two full days passed in a blur of luxurious, unprecedented comfort.
For the Van der Linde gang, the transition from hunted fugitives to the honored guests of the absolute King of the Underworld was nothing short of a miracle. They slept on sheets made of imported Egyptian cotton. They ate three massive, exquisitely prepared meals a day. They soaked in hot, perfumed baths and traded their normal rags for freshly tailored, high quality clothing provided generously by Caleb's personal tailors.
But as Caleb well knew, outlaws were not built to sit idle. Rest was a luxury, but inaction bred restlessness. They were men of action, and they needed purpose.
So, on the morning of the third day, Caleb convened a massive meeting in the grand drawing room of the estate. He had Arthur and Hosea flanking him as he stood before the gathered men of the gang. It was time to integrate his most trusted brothers into the actual, functional machinery of his empire.
Caleb actively helped the "boys" of the gang get their newly minted, highly lucrative positions in the sprawling business of the family. He assigned them roles that perfectly, flawlessly matched their unique psychological profiles and their specific, lethal skill sets.
Bill Williamson was the first to be called up. The burly, often temperamental former cavalryman stood at attention, eager to prove his worth. Bill was made the official Explosives Expert of the mafia.
"Bill," Caleb told him, tossing a heavy brass key ring into the man's hands. "You understand demolition better than anyone in this state. You are now in charge of the armories. You will handle the dynamite, the blasting caps, and all the other heavy explosives that the family currently has in stock. You keep the powder dry, you inventory the crates, and if I ever need a bank vault opened or a rival gang's warehouse leveled... you are the man I call."
Bill's chest puffed out with immense, unadulterated pride. To be given a title, a responsibility, and total control over the boom was a dream come true. "You got it, Caleb. Nobody touches the powder without my say so."
Next, Caleb turned to John Marston and Javier Escuella. The two men were incredibly deadly, highly resourceful, and possessed a quiet, terrifying competence that made them perfect for specialized operations.
John and Javier became the Special Enforcers in the family.
"I am not putting you two in suits and having you stand guard at a casino door," Caleb explained, pacing in front of them. "You are too valuable for that. You two are my wolves. Your roles are entirely flexible, and you operate completely outside the standard chain of command. You answer to no one in this city except for Arthur, Hosea, and myself."
Caleb mapped out their duties. "You will act as my personal messengers to the other small time crime families, the corrupt politicians, and the tycoons here in Lemoyne. When they see you coming, they will know that you speak with my absolute authority. And if a problem arises that requires a quiet, highly lethal solution... you will be the ones who deliver the message."
John nodded slowly, a dark, understanding glint in his eye, while Javier spun a silver coin across his knuckles, smiling dangerously. They were the elite strike force of the Don.
Caleb then turned his attention to Charles Smith. The stoic, deeply honorable Native American warrior had never liked the claustrophobic, polluted environment of the city. Caleb knew this, and he had the perfect position for him.
"Charles," Caleb said warmly. "You don't belong in these smog choked streets. The family control over several massive, sprawling cattle ranches and livestock holding pens on the northern borders of the state to launder our rustling operations. You will oversee them. You will ensure the animals are treated right, the meat packing is efficient, and you will also manage the trappers and the fur trade coming into our warehouses. You get to stay under the open sky, and you get to run it your way."
Charles let out a slow, deeply relieved breath, nodding his head in profound respect. "Thank you, Caleb. I will make sure the land provides for the family."
Next was Sean MacGuire. The loud, arrogant, and incredibly charismatic Irish gunslinger was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Sean," Caleb chuckled, pointing a finger at the grinning Irishman. "You have a mouth that never stops moving and a charm that can talk a dog off a meat wagon sometimes. I want you running the saloons, the theaters, and the high end betting parlors."
Caleb explained the underlying intelligence strategy. "I want you to use your eccentric, loudmouth charm to gather information. Drink with the patrons, play cards with the wealthy, and get closer with the corrupt politicians who frequent our establishments. Even if the information you bring back is a bit untrustworthy or exaggerated, Hosea will filter it. You are my eyes and ears in the party scene."
"Oh, you leave it to me, Don McLaughlin!" Sean laughed loudly, adjusting his suspenders. "I'll have the Mayor spilling his deepest secrets to me by the end of the week, I swear it on me mother's grave!"
Then, Caleb turned to Lenny Summers. The young man was incredibly bright, highly educated, and possessed a mind for details that the older outlaws simply lacked.
Lenny, of course, would become something akin to his personal, high level secretary and Chief of Staff.
"Lenny, you have the best brain in this room, present company excluded," Caleb smiled. "You are going to help me handle the massive influx of corporate documents, the legal contracts, and the highly sensitive letters that belong to me. You will manage my schedule, oversee the accountants, and make sure that the legitimate businesses are running flawlessly on paper."
Lenny's eyes widened, completely honored by the immense intellectual trust Caleb was placing in him. "I won't let you down, Caleb. I'll have the ledgers balanced by nightfall."
Next was the gruff, easily offended camp cook. Pearson had already been promised his dream, and Caleb officially delivered it.
"Pearson," Caleb said, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "The building is secured. The kitchens are being installed as we speak. You have an unlimited budget for spices, fresh meat, and staff. Build me the most profitable restaurant in the city."
Pearson practically wept with joy, nodding frantically, already mentally drafting a menu that didn't include boiled bat wings.
And lastly, Caleb turned to Reverend Swanson. The man had struggled with his demons for years, but the absolute safety of the homestead and now the mansion had already sober him up. Caleb had a role that would give him true, undeniable purpose.
"Reverend," Caleb said gently. "We have a lot of money, and there are a lot of desperate, starving people in the slums of this city. I need a man of God to manage our philanthropy. You will organize the soup kitchens, distribute the leftover food, and ensure the orphanages are well funded. You will be the benevolent face of this family, building our public goodwill."
Swanson bowed his head, tears streaming down his face as he finally found a way to truly do the Lord's work. "Bless you, Caleb. Bless you for this opportunity."
With the critical, operational roles flawlessly assigned, Caleb's gaze finally landed on the last man standing in the room.
Uncle.
The old, lazy parasite of the gang stood there, scratching his beard, waiting to see what back breaking labor the Don was going to force upon him.
As for Uncle, well... Caleb just looked at him, a wide, deeply amused grin breaking across his face, and he decided to make a joke out of it.
"Uncle," Caleb announced, his voice totally deadpan. "I have thought long and hard about your specific, unique set of skills. And I have decided that you had better just stay completely out of the way and enjoy your time left on this earth."
The entire room erupted into laughter.
"After all," Caleb added, shaking his head with a chuckle, "we all know that even if I made you the manager of a mattress testing facility, you would only do the absolute bare minimum of your work because of your terminal lumbago."
Uncle didn't look offended in the slightest. In fact, he looked profoundly relieved. He tipped his worn hat to Caleb, a massive, lazy grin on his face. "You are a wise and merciful ruler, Don McLaughlin! I accept my position as Chief Whiskey Inspector with the utmost honor!"
The room was filled with joyous, unburdened laughter. The Van der Linde gang had officially transitioned. They were no longer outlaws running from the hangman's noose. They were the highly paid, fiercely loyal executives, enforcers, and managers of the most powerful, untouchable criminal and corporate empire that the Gilded Age will ever see, entirely secure under the protective shadow of Caleb Thorne.
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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: 3,222 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 285,392 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, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, 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: -