If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, 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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"Move the vats thirty yards to the left, directly at the end of the milling line," Caleb instructed the floor supervisor, pointing out the wasted motion. He didn't sound arrogant, he sounded work pragmatic. "I am not trying to interfere with your craftsmen's expertise. My goal is to make their jobs physically easier, eliminate the wasted transit time, and increase the volume of high quality work this factory can output before the whistle blows."
Mary-Beth watched him command the floor, deeply impressed. She had seen him run the holding company from behind a desk, but watching him dictate the flow of a massive industrial factory in a different state reinforced exactly how vast his mind truly was.
Arthur stood near the back of the group with Javier and Bill, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt, watching the endless rows of workers.
"Takes a hell of a lot of hands just to make sure one man can shoot straight," Arthur muttered quietly, shaking his head at the sheer manpower required to build a single rifle.
Tesla, meanwhile, was entirely fascinated by the machinery. He ignored the guns completely, his deep set eyes locked on the chaotic system of overhead leather drive belts powering the machines.
"The friction loss is staggering," Tesla murmured to himself, already doing the math in his head. "If we replaced the central steam drive with individual polyphase motors on each workstation..."
"That is exactly the kind of problem you and I are going to solve next year, Nikola," Caleb reminded him, clapping a hand on his back.
The tour concluded in the final quality control department. Caleb picked up a fully assembled Pioneer rifle from the rack. He checked the balance, racked the action, and inspected the bluing under the gas lamps. It was flawless.
"Excellent work, John," Caleb said, setting the rifle down. "Quality must remain the absolute center of our philosophy. I want every single firearm carrying the Thorne-Marlin name to reflect total reliability. We do not cut corners to save pennies when men's lives depend on the trigger."
John Marlin nodded, recognizing that Caleb wasn't just interested in extracting quick cash from the company. He genuinely wanted to build the strongest, most technologically advanced manufacturing empire in the world.
After the roar of the factory floor, John guided the party across the complex to the older, beautifully preserved brick building that housed the Marlin administrative and business offices.
The transition from the deafening noise of the factory to the hushed, wood paneled atmosphere of the executives was striking. Caleb was formally introduced to the senior administrative staff, the finance managers, and the national sales directors. He listened carefully, memorizing names and learning exactly who handled what.
At the end of the hall, John opened a heavy oak door, revealing a sprawling, luxurious office lined with bookshelves and featuring a massive mahogany desk.
"We had this office prepared exclusively for you, Caleb," John explained, gesturing inside. "For whenever you are in Connecticut."
Caleb stepped into the room, running a hand over the polished leather of the desk chair. He appreciated the gesture immensely. It was a physical manifestation of his power in the North.
"Thank you, John," Caleb said sincerely. "Saint Denis remains my primary home, but I expect to visit New Haven regularly. As this company continues to grow, I intend to be here to see it happen."
It was another clear indication that Caleb Thorne was establishing himself as a permanent, national industrialist.
That evening, the business of the day gave way to hospitality. John Marlin invited Caleb and a smaller, select group of his entourage to a private dinner.
The meal took place at an elegant, highly exclusive New Haven restaurant favored by the city's wealthy industrialists. The guest list was intentionally much more private, Caleb, Mary-Beth, Tesla, Hosea, Vincenzo, Arthur, and Silvio, sitting across the long, candle lit table from John Marlin and his two sons, Mahlon Henry and John Howard.
The atmosphere was significantly more relaxed than the intense factory tour. Over plates of prime rib and expensive imported wine, John took the opportunity to get to know the young billionaire beyond the balance sheets.
John asked Caleb about Saint Denis, his background, and exactly how he had managed to build the staggering wealth of the Thorne Trading Co. so rapidly.
Caleb answered smoothly, expertly weaving a narrative that was entirely truthful without ever revealing the impossible reality of his reincarnation or his knowledge of the future. He spoke of his lifelong obsession with technology, his deep understanding of efficient manufacturing, and his unyielding drive to find practical, modern ways of improving stagnant industries.
"But why Marlin?" John asked, swirling his wine glass, his curiosity genuine. "With your capital, you could have built your own firearms factory from the ground up."
"Because I see enormous, historic potential in the Marlin name," Caleb answered, his tone filled with absolute respect. "Your company already possessed the most skilled craftsmen in the North, experienced management, a globally recognized reputation for quality, and an established manufacturing base. My goal has never been to erase the Marlin identity, John. My goal is to combine your family's decades of hard earned experience with my own advanced engineering and limitless resources. Together, we are unstoppable."
John Marlin visibly relaxed, deeply appreciating the answer. He had feared that the Southern billionaire would eventually strip the family name from the company, but Caleb's vision was one of elevation, not erasure.
Mahlon Henry and John Howard participated actively in the conversation. Because they had dealt with Caleb previously, they spoke more openly about the company's future. Caleb used the opportunity masterfully, turning the focus onto the sons. He asked them directly what their own goals and ambitions were for the coming decades.
He listened intently to their ideas about expanding sales into Europe and modernizing the supply chain. He was actively, deliberately establishing a personal, deeply loyal business relationship with the next generation of Marlins, treating them as vital partners rather than mere subordinates.
Mary-Beth charmed the table effortlessly. She spoke fondly of the sprawling Grand Thorne Hotel in Strawberry, the vibrant, chaotic life of Saint Denis, and the beautiful wedding Caleb had given her. The Marlins hung on her every word, becoming increasingly fascinated by the sheer, terrifying scale and diversity of Caleb's empire.
Tesla, meanwhile, remained somewhat distracted throughout the dinner. He occasionally became completely absorbed in a technical thought, staring blankly at his silverware. At one point, he interrupted a conversation about national sales figures to ask Caleb a highly specific, unexpected scientific question about the acoustic resonance of the restaurant's crystal chandeliers.
It created a brilliant, humorous moment. Hosea, utilizing his lifetime of experience as a silver tongued conman, expertly and smoothly steered the conversation back toward the dinner before Tesla could launch into a lecture on vibrational physics. Arthur and Vincenzo mostly observed the high society dance, enjoying the incredible food and quietly noting the exits, maintaining their silent vigil over the Don.
By the time coffee and cigars were served, the dinner had achieved its exact purpose. John Marlin no longer saw Caleb merely as a wealthy investor. He saw him as a true partner, a brilliant, visionary force of nature who was going to fundamentally change the trajectory of the company's history.
After dinner, the Marlins' carriages escorted Caleb, Mary-Beth, Tesla, and the smaller traveling group to the private townhouse that had been prepared for their stay.
It was a beautiful, three story brownstone residence situated in a highly respectable, quiet New Haven neighborhood. It was comfortable, lavishly furnished, and featured enough sprawling rooms for Caleb's immediate party, with plenty of space on the ground floor for Vincenzo's security personnel to establish a perimeter. It stood in stark contrast to the massive, sprawling opulence of the Saint Denis mansion, but it possessed a quiet, northern elegance that made Mary-Beth feel entirely welcome.
Once the heavy front doors were locked and the capos took their posts, a quiet stillness settled over the townhouse.
Caleb and Mary-Beth retreated to the master suite on the second floor. Caleb took off his suit jacket and tie, groaning softly as the exhaustion of the long journey finally caught up to his muscles.
"Well," Caleb sighed, pouring two glasses of water from a crystal pitcher. "What are your first impressions of Connecticut?"
Mary-Beth sat on the edge of the plush bed, taking the glass with a warm smile. "It is certainly colder than Lemoyne. But I genuinely enjoyed seeing the factory, Caleb. It was incredible to finally understand how much sheer work, how many people, go into the company that occupies so much of your attention."
"Seeing the operation with my own eyes has given me dozens of new ideas for how the company can grow," Caleb admitted, sitting beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He kissed the side of her head. "But I haven't forgotten that this is still our trip together, sweetheart. Once the War Department leaves, I will make time for us to explore the city properly."
"I am holding you to that, Mr. Thorne," she murmured happily, resting her head against his chest.
Before turning in, Caleb walked down the hall to check on Tesla.
He opened the door to the guest suite to find the inventor already unpacking his battered suitcase. Tesla hadn't taken out clothes; he had pulled out several heavy copper coils and a pair of pliers, and was currently inspecting a set of vacuum tubes by the light of a gas lamp.
"Nikola," Caleb sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "It is nearly midnight. The War Department is arriving early tomorrow morning. We need you rested."
Tesla didn't even look up from the vacuum tube. "Tomorrow is still several hours away, Caleb. I was merely considering how the ambient humidity of the northern climate might affect the capacitance of the—"
"Go to sleep, Nikola," Caleb laughed, shaking his head at the sheer, impossible stubbornness of the man. It was exactly the attitude Caleb was always trying to correct, mostly because he recognized it so clearly in himself.
"Goodnight, Caleb," Tesla muttered, reluctantly setting the pliers down.
Returning to his suite, Caleb settled into the warm bed beside his wife, pulling the heavy quilts over them. He stared up at the dark ceiling, his mind sharp and focused, knowing that tomorrow would be one of the most monumentally important business meetings of his entire career.
As tomorrow morning, Caleb was going to sit across a mahogany table from the United States government and dictate the future of modern warfare.
The pale, gray light of a Connecticut dawn crept through the tall windows of the New Haven townhouse, illuminating the quiet sanctuary of the master bedroom. Caleb Thorne was already awake. He stood before the floor to ceiling mirror, silently and meticulously preparing himself for what he knew would be one of the most consequential mornings of his life.
He bypassed the comfortable, darker wool suits he preferred in Saint Denis, selecting instead a razor sharp, double breasted suit of charcoal grey worsted wool. It was a garment cut for northern boardrooms, austere, immaculate, and radiating an aura of entrenched power. As he adjusted his silver silk tie, he looked at his reflection. He was no longer merely a wealthy, regional businessman operating out of the Louisiana swamps. Today, he had to look every inch the rising national industrialist.
Behind him, Mary-Beth stirred slightly beneath the heavy down quilts. The quiet intimacy of the previous evening lingered in the warm air of the room, a deeply comforting contrast to the cold corporate warfare awaiting him. Caleb walked softly to the edge of the bed, leaning down to press a gentle, lingering kiss against her forehead. She sighed softly in her sleep, leaning into the warmth of his touch, completely undisturbed. Caleb smiled faintly, turning and stepping quietly out into the hallway, pulling the heavy door shut with a soft click.
Hosea and Vincenzo were already waiting in the corridor. Both men were dressed impeccably, their expressions locked into a state of sharp, professional vigilance.
"Good morning, Caleb," Hosea said softly, holding a thick leather portfolio under his arm.
"Morning," Caleb replied, adjusting his cuffs. "Have the demonstration materials been fully secured? The firearms, the ammunition crates, the metallurgical stress reports, and the factory capability ledgers?"
Vincenzo nodded, his dark eyes serious. "Silvio and Arthur supervised the loading ten minutes ago. Every prototype, every document, and every single round of ammunition is accounted for. The carriage is waiting."
"Good," Caleb said, his voice dropping into a hard, commanding register. "This meeting is going to dictate the next decade of this company's growth. I do not want a single sheet of paper misplaced. I do not want anyone distracted. We are dealing with the federal government today, and they will be looking for any sign of weakness or disorganization."
With the instructions set, Caleb gathered his immediate entourage. Hosea, Vincenzo, Arthur, and Silvio filed out of the townhouse and into the biting northern air. John Marlin had already dispatched a luxurious, enclosed company carriage to transport them across the city to the Marlin headquarters.
As the carriage rattled over the cobblestone streets of New Haven, the rhythmic clatter of hooves provided a steady backdrop for their final strategy session.
"Government negotiations are a completely different animal, Caleb," Hosea warned, watching the industrial cityscape pass through the window. "We aren't just dealing with men looking for a profit margin. We are dealing with politicians, bureaucrats, and generals. They have different priorities. They have congressional budgets, political pressures, and an intense fear of public embarrassment. They will push you, hard."
"I am aware, Hosea," Caleb agreed, leaning back against the leather upholstery. "And my objective today is not simply to win a contract at any cost. A bad contract with the War Department can bankrupt a company just as easily as a lack of sales. I want an agreement structured in a way that protects Thorne-Marlin's long term independence. We need room to grow, and we need our patents shielded. Do not let the prestige of the uniform blind you. They need our technology far more than we need their money."
When the carriage finally pulled into the courtyard of the Marlin manufacturing complex, the atmosphere was highly charged. The administrative employees who welcomed them at the doors were incredibly attentive, recognizing the sheer gravity of the visitors.
They were escorted up the grand staircase and down the wood-paneled hallway toward the primary executive boardroom.
John Mahlon Marlin, alongside his two sons, Mahlon Henry and John Howard, were already waiting inside. The room smelled of lemon polish, old paper, and burning coal from the hearth. The atmosphere was noticeably tighter, vastly more formal than the relaxed dinner they had shared the previous evening.
Caleb exchanged respectful, firm handshakes with John and his sons before taking his seat near the head of the massive mahogany table. Hosea and Vincenzo flanked him, setting the portfolios down with quiet precision.
"The War Department delegation will be here within the hour," John Marlin announced, taking his seat. He looked slightly nervous, the weight of the moment pressing on the aging founder.
"Then let us review the battle lines," Caleb said calmly, leaning forward and folding his hands on the table. "They are going to attack our production capacity first. They will want to know exactly how quickly we can scale up if they place a major order. John, Mahlon, you will handle the Connecticut factory numbers. I will address the Saint Denis expansion."
They spent the next forty minutes rapidly anticipating and dismantling the government's likely questions. They covered the absolute reliability of the new firearms, the exact manufacturing costs per unit, projected delivery schedules, military training requirements, and the availability of spare parts.
"They will ask about ammunition," Hosea pointed out. "The logistics of supplying an entirely new rifle to the army is usually a nightmare for the quartermasters."
"That is our strongest advantage," Caleb countered smoothly. "The Vanguard and the Pioneer are explicitly designed around the standard .30 caliber smokeless cartridge we are already producing. We aren't asking the War Department to adopt a new caliber. We are simply giving them a better platform to fire the ammunition they already stockpile."
Caleb then turned his intense gaze to the Marlin family, preparing them for the most difficult negotiating points.
"When the discussion turns to pricing, no one in this room is to immediately offer our lowest possible number," Caleb instructed firmly. "The government has the treasury behind them, but Thorne-Marlin is offering something incredibly valuable. We are offering weapons that are technologically a decade ahead of anything currently sitting in a federal armory. We do not discount our genius. We want the best possible contract, while making absolutely certain the War Department views us as an irreplaceable, long term partner."
A heavy silence fell over the room as the grandfather clock in the corner ticked methodically.
Caleb leaned back in his chair, taking a slow breath. He allowed himself a brief, profoundly surreal moment of private reflection.
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.
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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: -