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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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He was sitting in Connecticut, inside the executive boardroom of one of the most historically important firearms companies in the nation, finalizing a strategy to negotiate directly with the military apparatus of the United States government. It was a staggering level of influence, a terrifying accumulation of power that he could never have truly comprehended when he first woke up in the Louisiana mud. Then, the heavy oak doors at the end of the boardroom swung open. "The delegation from the War Department, gentlemen," the senior clerk announced nervously.
Every man in the room immediately stood as a sign of respect.
Three men walked into the boardroom. They were flanked by secretarial aides carrying heavy briefcases. But as the lead representative stepped into the light of the windows, John Marlin's breath hitched in his throat. The blood drained slightly from the older man's face.
It was Elihu Root, the United States Secretary of War.
John had expected senior ordnance officers or high ranking quartermasters. He absolutely had not expected a sitting member of the President's cabinet to personally walk into his factory in New Haven.
Caleb's eyes narrowed slightly, masking his initial shock behind a wall of impenetrable, icy calm. John leaned over, quietly whispering Root's identity to Caleb. The revelation caused Caleb's mind to rapidly reassess the entire landscape of the meeting.
He understood instantly that this was not a routine procurement discussion. The Secretary of War did not travel for minor contracts. The presence of Elihu Root meant the federal government was taking Thorne-Marlin, and Caleb's rapidly expanding industrial footprint, extremely seriously.
"Mr. Secretary," John Marlin managed to say, recovering his composure and extending a hand. "It is a huge honor to welcome you to our facilities."
"The honor is mine, Mr. Marlin," Secretary Root replied. He was a composed, fiercely intelligent man with a sharp mustache and eyes that missed absolutely nothing. Root shook John's hand before turning his gaze directly, and heavily, onto Caleb.
"And you must be Mr. Thorne," Root said, offering his hand. "Your reputation has been making quite a bit of noise in the capital lately."
"I try to ensure the noise is productive, Mr. Secretary," Caleb replied smoothly, shaking the man's hand with a firm, perfectly measured grip. Caleb did not act starstruck, nor did he allow himself to be intimidated by the political weight of the room. He approached the cabinet member exactly as he approached any other titan of industry, as an equal.
Secretary Root introduced the two men accompanying him.
"This is Colonel Hayes, overseeing military logistics and procurement," Root said, gesturing to a rigid, stern faced officer with a ledger tucked under his arm. "And Major Sterling, from the Army Ordnance Department. He is our senior technical specialist regarding infantry small arms."
"Gentlemen," Caleb nodded, gesturing to the table. "Please, take a seat."
As the aides arranged the documents and the room settled, the first portion of the meeting began with a clear establishment of motives.
"The United States Army is currently in a transitional phase, Mr. Thorne," Secretary Root began, his voice calm and authoritative. "We are deeply interested in modernizing our small arms equipment. However, the government has no desire to purchase weapons simply because they are new or fashionable. We require firearms that are very dependable, very practical for the infantryman, easily maintainable in the mud, and capable of being supplied consistently by a manufacturer with ironclad logistics."
"I assure you, Mr. Secretary, Thorne-Marlin shares those exact priorities," Caleb replied.
Colonel Hayes, the procurement representative, immediately launched his offensive. "Mr. Thorne, your company has seen recent success in the commercial market. But outfitting an army is a different reality compared to the marketz. What is your actual manufacturing capacity? If the War Department were to order fifty thousand rifles by the end of the fiscal year, would you be forced to outsource the machining? Because we do not tolerate third party quality degradation."
Caleb met the Colonel's stern gaze without blinking, engaging his maximum level Business Skill.
"We do not outsource a single component, Colonel," Caleb answered with chilling confidence. "Every pin, spring, and barrel is machined in house. Between this facility here in Connecticut and my sprawling, newly expanded factory complex in Saint Denis, we possess the tooling and the manpower to meet your quota with months to spare. If the order scales higher, I already have the capital reserved to construct a third manufacturing plant without requiring a single dollar of government subsidy."
Major Sterling, the technical officer, leaned forward, entirely uninterested in the finances. "And what of the mechanics, Mr. Thorne? I've read the reports on your Vanguard rifle. Gas operation is notoriously finicky. It fouls quickly under heavy carbon buildup. How does it perform in adverse conditions?"
Caleb seamlessly shifted gears, his exhaustive Firearms Knowledge Skill taking over.
"The fouling you are referring to is a symptom of open system impingement," Caleb explained, speaking the language of a master gunsmith. "The Vanguard utilizes a closed, short stroke gas piston. The exhaust gases are vented away from the receiver entirely, meaning the bolt remains clean and cold even after sustained, rapid fire. It handles mud, sand, and moisture significantly better than the current bolt action rifles your men are carrying, and it requires half the time to field strip and clean."
Caleb then delivered the killing blow to their logistical fears. "Furthermore, Major, the weapon is chambered in the exact same .30 caliber smokeless cartridge the Army already utilizes. You will not need to retool a single ammunition plant or alter your supply lines to adopt it."
Root's eyes flickered with genuine, deep approval. Caleb wasn't just pitching a gun, he was solving the military's supply chain nightmare before they even asked.
"I would like to see these weapons," Major Sterling requested, his skepticism warring with intense professional curiosity.
Caleb nodded to Vincenzo, who stepped back and unlocked the heavy leather cases resting on the side tables. The Marlin employees carefully lifted the firearms, placing the Vanguard rifle and the Enforcer tactical shotgun in the center of the mahogany table.
Major Sterling reached for the Vanguard first. He handled it with the careful, practiced hands of a career soldier. He checked the balance, shouldered the weapon to test the sight radius, and then rapidly worked the action. The heavy, machined steel of the bolt locked into place with a crisp, terrifyingly tight metallic clack.
"The tolerances are incredibly tight," Sterling murmured, genuinely impressed. He depressed a latch, instantly removing the bolt group to inspect the firing pin and the extractor claw. "The machining is flawless. There are no tool marks on the bolt face."
"Every component is standardized, Major," Caleb explained, standing up and walking around the table. "If a soldier breaks a firing pin in the field, he does not need a gunsmith to hand fit a replacement. He simply drops a new one into the bolt and returns to the line. Absolute interchangeability."
Sterling dry fired the weapon, nodding slowly. The professional curiosity had shifted into profound, undeniable admiration.
Secretary Root watched the entire demonstration in silence. He wasn't just watching the guns, he was watching Caleb. Root was an incredibly astute political animal. He began to understand very quickly that Caleb Thorne was not simply a brilliant inventor who had stumbled into wealth. He was an apex industrial organizer who understood implicitly that raw technology was useless unless it was supported by efficient factories, disciplined workers, flawless supply chains, and ruthless management.
With the technical demonstration concluded, the atmosphere in the room tightened. The negotiation moved into the treacherous waters of a formal military contract.
"Assuming our preliminary field tests confirm your claims, Mr. Thorne," Colonel Hayes began, opening his ledger. "The War Department would be interested in a formal manufacturing contract. We would require an initial delivery of ten thousand units within six months. However, we would also require the legal rights to the patents, allowing the federal Springfield Armory to manufacture the weapons simultaneously to meet long term demand."
"Absolutely not," Caleb said. The refusal was quiet, but it hit the table like a hammer.
Colonel Hayes blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I am more than willing to supply the United States Army with the finest weapons on the planet, Colonel," Caleb stated, utilizing his Max Level Persuasion Skill to keep his voice completely reasonable, yet entirely unyielding. "But I will not surrender my intellectual property. The patents for the Vanguard and the closed piston system belong exclusively to the Thorne Holding Company."
"Mr. Thorne, it is standard practice for the government to secure the rights to military arms," Hayes pushed back aggressively. "We cannot be held hostage by a single private manufacturer in a time of war."
"And you won't be, because I can out produce Springfield," Caleb countered smoothly. "If you take my designs and hand them to competing contractors, you instantly destroy the financial incentive for my company to continue innovating. Protecting our proprietary designs is what funds the next generation of your weaponry. If you want the Vanguard, Thorne-Marlin builds it."
The tension in the room spiked. Hosea leaned forward slightly, offering a subtle, quiet observation to soften the blow. "We are, of course, open to negotiating highly favorable, long term procurement pricing for the War Department, Colonel, to offset the exclusivity of the manufacturing rights. A true partnership."
Secretary Root raised a hand, silencing Hayes before the Colonel could argue further. Root looked at Caleb, a faint, highly calculating smile touching the corners of his mustache.
"You are a remarkably ambitious man, Mr. Thorne," Root observed, leaning back in his chair. "And you negotiate with the confidence of a man holding all the cards. But tell me... you are amassing staggering amounts of capital, and you are building a monopoly on advanced firearms. What exactly do you intend to do with the money and the influence this industry is generating for you?"
Caleb understood the question perfectly. Root was testing his patriotism, his stability, and his ultimate endgame.
"I intend to aggressively reinvest it into the United States, Mr. Secretary," Caleb answered, his voice ringing with absolute, undeniable conviction. "For a century, European engineering and British capital have dictated the pace of global industry. That era is over. My interests extend far beyond firearms. I am investing heavily in modern transportation, alternative energy generation, and emerging technological communications. I intend to build the industrial infrastructure that ensures American industry does not merely catch up with our European competitors, but eventually, totally eclipses them."
The answer was a masterpiece. It appealed directly and deeply to Root's own deep, nationalistic interest in strengthening American institutions and projecting military and economic capability on the world stage. Root didn't want to buy guns from a war profiteer, he wanted to align the federal government with a titan who could build the American century.
"A formidable vision, Mr. Thorne," Root nodded slowly, tapping his fingers against the mahogany table.
By the end of the grueling, two hour meeting, the War Department did not sign a final, binding contract immediately, the bureaucracy of Washington would never move that fast, but Caleb had secured something infinitely more valuable.
They established a strong, undeniable preliminary agreement.
"We will commence formal testing and evaluation at the armory immediately," Secretary Root declared as the aides packed their briefcases. "If the weapons perform exactly as you have demonstrated today, the United States government is fully prepared to place a major, exclusive order with Thorne-Marlin. We will finalize the advance payment schedules and the intellectual property protections at that time."
"I look forward to it, Mr. Secretary," Caleb replied, standing to shake the man's hand once more.
"I expect we will be hearing quite a lot more from you in the near future, Mr. Thorne," Root said, his eyes locking onto Caleb's.
"You have my word on it," Caleb responded with quiet, absolute confidence.
The moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind the War Department delegation, the entire boardroom let out a collective, massive exhale.
John Marlin collapsed back into his chair, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his brow. "Lord above. I have negotiated with generals for twenty years, Caleb, but I have never seen the Secretary of War personally conduct a procurement meeting. The stakes have clearly risen far beyond anything I anticipated."
"Once the federal government becomes this deeply involved," Hosea pointed out, closing his portfolio, "every single major firearms manufacturer in this country will be watching Thorne-Marlin even more closely. The espionage and the political pressure from Colt and Winchester are going to multiply tenfold."
"I am counting on it, Hosea," Caleb said, his eyes cold and sharp. "Which is exactly why we will not become complacent. We push the factory floors harder starting tomorrow."
The meeting left Caleb deeply satisfied, but inherently more cautious. He had won the battle, but the war for absolute supremacy had only just begun.
Later that evening, back in the quiet sanctuary of the New Haven townhouse, the fire crackled warmly in the master suite.
Mary-Beth sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her dark hair. She looked at Caleb, who was standing by the window, staring out at the gas lit streets of the northern city, a glass of bourbon forgotten in his hand.
"How did the meeting go?" Mary-Beth asked softly.
Caleb turned his head, a complex emotion shifting in his eyes. "The government did not simply offer to buy a few thousand rifles, Mary-Beth. They are considering a massive, long term relationship with Thorne-Marlin. If the tests succeed... we will be arming the military."
Mary-Beth smiled, her chest swelling with genuine, immense pride. "Caleb, that is wonderful. It is exactly what you wanted."
"It is," Caleb agreed, walking over and sitting beside her on the bed. But his tone was more thoughtful rather than triumphant. He looked down at his hands. "But success at this level comes with a heavy price. The shadows are gone. From this moment on, more people will be watching my every move. More competitors will try to destroy what we are building. Politicians will want favors, and the government itself will expect flawless results."
Mary-Beth set her brush aside. she reached out, gently cupping his face and forcing him to look into her warm, steady eyes.
"You do not have to handle all of it alone, Caleb," she reminded him softly, her voice an anchor in the rising storm of his ambitions. "You have your men. You have Mr. Tesla. You have the Marlins. And you have me."
Caleb smiled, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he leaned into her touch. "I know, sweetheart. I know."
As the fire burned low, Caleb looked back toward the window, looking out over Connecticut at night. The government meeting had been a monumental turning point in his life. He had traveled north simply to meet the Marlin family. Now, the United States government itself was preparing to tether its military future to his factories.
Following the monumental meeting with the War Department, Caleb did not immediately return to Saint Denis. The Secretary of War had indicated a strong intent to proceed with the massive procurement order, but the glacial bureaucracy of Washington required several days to finalize the binding legal documents. Caleb therefore remained in New Haven, utilizing the waiting period to deeply fortify his personal relationship with the Marlin family.
For the next four days, Caleb stepped away from the aggressive posturing of the boardroom. He spent hours with John Marlin, Mahlon Henry, and John Howard outside the strict boundaries of business. They shared heavy dinners of roasted lamb and port wine in the Marlins' private dining rooms, discussing the extensive history of the firearms company, comparing their brutal experiences in heavy manufacturing, and debating exactly where they believed American industry was heading in the new century.
John Marlin gradually relaxed, becoming vastly more comfortable speaking openly with the young tycoon. He had spent decades dealing with ruthless Wall Street speculators who only cared about quarterly dividends. But seeing Caleb walk the factory floor, feeling the genuine, obsessive respect Caleb held for the craftsmanship of a perfectly milled receiver, John realized that Caleb cared very much about the actual future of the company, not just the profits he could extract from it.
Caleb also learned the internal structure of the Marlin family. Mahlon Henry and John Howard were not simply passive heirs, they possessed sharp, distinct ambitions. Mahlon Henry was intensely focused on modernizing the physical supply chains and expanding into the European sporting markets, while John Howard possessed a brilliant mind for streamlining the actual assembly processes.
They didn't blindly agree with everything Caleb proposed, which Caleb respected immensely. They engaged in spirited, intelligent disagreements over acceptable business risks, the speed of expansion, and the delicate balance between traditional, hand fitted craftsmanship and the rapid automation Caleb was pushing.
Caleb genuinely enjoyed the conversations. They grounded him in the gritty, practical reality of the northern industrial world.
At the same time, Caleb decided to show the Marlins exactly what true, world altering innovation looked like.
He invited John and his sons to a heavily secured, windowless storage room deep within the Marlin factory complex. Inside, Nikola Tesla had spent the last two days frantically unpacking and assembling the chaotic contents of the research train carriage.
The system was entirely experimental, incredibly cumbersome, and frankly dangerous looking. It relied on a chaotic web of heavy copper coils, tuned induction circuits, crude vacuum tube transmitters, and a massive lead acid battery bank. "Gentlemen," Caleb said, gesturing to the sprawling equipment. "Mr. Tesla and I have been developing a system capable of transmitting sound over vast distances. Without the use of a physical telegraph wire."
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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: 283,392 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 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: -