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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Once they were out of earshot, the dynamic shifted instantly. Caleb turned to look at Doyle, the mask of the distant benefactor dropping to reveal the calculating owner. "Show me," Caleb instructed. "Show me the result of the furniture placement inside."
Doyle nodded his head, eager to please. "Of course. Right this way."
Together, they entered inside.
The transformation was even more striking than the exterior. The interior, with the furniture already placed, had turned the run down tavern into a respectable establishment well suited for the working class. It wasn't a palace, but it was clean.
The air smelled of sawdust, beeswax, and potential.
Caleb walked through the space, his eyes scanning everything. The chairs were simple, sturdy ladder backs, strong enough to hold a dockworker after a long shift but not comfortable enough to encourage loitering all day without ordering. The tables were thick slabs of pine, sanded smooth and sealed so spilled beer wouldn't rot the wood.
He ran a hand along the bar counter. It was a masterpiece of functionality, long, polished, and high enough to lean on comfortably. Behind the counter, the shelves were new, lined with the bottles Doyle had in stock, but with plenty of space for the better liquor Caleb intended to supply.
"And over here," Doyle said, pointing to the corner.
There sat a new piano. It was an upright model, second hand but polished to a shine. It promised music, noise, and life, essential for drawing a crowd and masking private conversations.
They moved to the back, inspecting the furniture in the small kitchen. It was outfitted with a large prep table and new shelving. It was ready to pump out the cheap, hearty stew Caleb had ordered.
Finally, they returned back to the bar area. Caleb stood in the center of the room, visualizing the space filled with smoke, noise, and the people of the slums.
He nodded his head, satisfied with the result.
"It works," Caleb said. "It feels right."
He turned to Doyle. "Now, the hardware is done. We need the software. You can begin to recruit several employees."
Doyle pulled out a small notepad. "Who do we need boss?"
"To become chefs," Caleb listed, ticking off on his fingers. "Someone who knows how to make cheap ingredients taste like a home cooked meal. I want a couple of waiters or waitresses, slash cleaning crew. They need to be quick, thick skinned, and observant."
He paused, his expression hardening. "Also, maybe hired two people who are proficient with guns as protection. Acting as guards. I don't want gang members. I want ex soldiers or men who are tired of the life but still know how to handle a revolver and some repeaters. They answer to you, and through you, to me."
Hearing that, Doyle nodded his head slowly. "I could ask around my contacts for these people, boss. There are plenty looking for work."
But then he hesitated. He looked at his notepad, then at the empty register. "But..."
As he said but, he scrubbed his hands together in the universal sign of financial embarrassment.
Caleb of course knew what he meant by that. A renovation was one thing, a payroll was another.
Caleb opened his satchel. He reached into the inventory, bypassing the revolver oil and the tonic bottles, and mentally selected a stack of cash. He took out 2,000 dollars in bills, a small brick of currency that represented power in its rawest form.
He placed it on the bar.
"This will be for the day to day operations," Caleb said, his voice low. "Supplies. Food stock. Liquor. And also to hire the employees for the tavern. Pay them a fair wage, Doyle. Better than the factories. If they're paid well, they won't steal from the till, and they won't sell us out to the first person who asks questions."
Doyle stared at the money. It was more capital than this building had seen in fifty years. He reached out with trembling hands, to which Doyle accepted it, clutching it to his chest.
"I... I will do it according to your instructions, boss," Doyle stammered, his eyes wet with gratitude and fear. "Rest assured, everything will be perfect. I won't let you down."
"See that you don't," Caleb said. "We open soon. Keep your ears open."
Caleb nodded his head with that. The asset was secured. The listening post was established.
After talking for a short time with Doyle about the specifics of the stew recipe and the brand of beer to stock, he goes to leave the tavern. He stepped out into the humid afternoon, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the west.
Outside, Morgan was waiting, her ears swiveling at his approach. "Finished playing businessman?" she asked, her mental voice dry.
"For now," Caleb said, swinging into the saddle. "Back to the Bastille. I need to prepare."
"For what? More meetings with the greasy man?"
"A battle," Caleb said quietly. "Tomorrow, there's going to be a battle."
Morgan's ears flattened briefly, then perked forward. "Will there be shooting?"
"Lots of it."
"Good. I like it when you're focused. You get less distracted by... paperwork."
Caleb laughed, a genuine sound that surprised him. "You're a bloodthirsty creature."
"I'm a horse. We're all bloodthirsty. We just hide it behind hay and whinnies."
They rode through the darkening streets, leaving the slums behind and climbing back toward the gaslit elegance of the Bastille's neighborhood. The transition was always jarring, from poverty to luxury in the space of a few blocks, the two worlds existing in parallel, barely acknowledging each other's existence.
Caleb hitched Morgan at the familiar post, before entering the saloon. The evening crowd was gathering, the piano already playing, the working girls circulating among the tables. He nodded to Ezra, who raised a hand in greeting, and climbed the stairs without stopping.
He goes to his room, locking the door behind him. The room was quiet, a stark contrast to the violence he was orchestrating.
He sat at the small desk, before he opened his system map and goes to see the docks. Tomorrow, men would die here. Bronte's men, Cornwall's mercenaries, they would bleed out on the docks, their lives spent in a conflict that served only Caleb's purpose.
He felt no particular guilt about it. They had chosen their sides, taken their pay, accepted the risks. In this world, violence was the currency, and death was the change.
But he was not careless. He pulled out a sheet of paper and began to sketch contingencies.
Scenario A: Bronte's men are incompetent.
If the mobsters panic when the shooting starts, even if it's just Caleb shooting at shadows or setting off explosives, they might break formation.
Contingency: Caleb checked his inventory for volatile dynamite and fire bottles. He needed to be the one to control the chaos. If Bronte's men routed, Caleb would need to create a wall of fire to simulate a heavy enemy force, forcing them back into the fight or covering his own retreat.
Scenario B: Martelli intervenes.
Martelli was the wildcard. He had been humiliated. He might send his own men to disrupt the ambush, or he might try to kill Caleb during the confusion.
Contingency: Caleb cleaned his rolling block rifle. He would need to keep one eye on the enemy "approach" and one eye on his "allies." If he saw Martelli or a known associate raising a gun in his direction, he would claim they were a Cornwall spy in disguise. A tragic friendly fire incident.
Scenario C: If the plan works too well.
If Cornwall's mercenaries were wiped out completely, Bronte would be emboldened, perhaps too confident. Caleb needed the conflict to continue, to drain both sides.
Contingency: He noted a few positions where he could "miss" several targets, allowing a handful of mercenaries to escape and report back to Cornwall, ensuring the war dragged on.
Scenario D: Just in case tomorrow the ambush plan doesn't go according to his way.
What if Bronte got cold feet? What if Cornwall have more men then what he found in the documents? (Unlikely, but the universe had a sense of humor and his high luck stats could lose if the universe willed it).
Contingency: Total denial. He was just a consultant. If it went south, he would fade into the night, use his Disguise Kit, and reappear as a concerned citizen.
He worked for hours, refining, adjusting. The oil lamp burned low, the sounds from below faded to a murmur, then to silence. Finally, he sat back, satisfied.
The contingencies were in place. The plan was solid. Tomorrow, he would walk into the kill zone and emerge the hero, while two enemies bled themselves white.
Then he spent next hours maintaining his weapons. He disassembled his two Navy Revolvers, oiling the springs, checking the cylinders. He sharpened his knife until it could split a hair. He also disassembled his Litchfield Repeaters, Pump Action Shotgun, and his other guns in his inventory.
As the sun set and the gas lamps of Saint Denis flickered to life outside his window, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor, Caleb felt a calm settle over him.
He was the director of a play where the actors used live ammunition. Bronte was the producer, Cornwall was the unwitting villain, and Martelli was the critic who was about to be silenced.
He laid the weapons he will use tomorrow out on the side of his bed, a metallic arsenal gleaming in the lamplight.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to the empty room. "Tomorrow, we burn it down."
He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and let his mind drift. Mary-Beth's face appeared—her smile, her gentle laugh, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she was thinking. The homestead. Arthur's wary contentment, Hosea's quiet wisdom, Jack's laughter echoing across the fields.
That was what this was for. All of it, the lies, the manipulations, the blood, was for them. To keep them safe, hidden, happy. To give them a life that the world would never allow if it knew they existed.
He closed his eyes and slept, the dreams filled not with violence, but with golden sunlight and the sound of a woman's laughter.
The next day, Caleb woke with the sunrise. The light filtered through the sheer curtains of his room at the Bastille, painting the floorboards in stripes of pale gold. He didn't linger in bed. Today was not a day for leisure; it was a day for execution.
He rose, the floor cool beneath his feet, and immediately began his ritual. He pulled on his boots, stomping his heels down to ensure the fit was tight. Next came the gun belt, the heavy leather settling around his hips with a familiar, comforting weight.
He checked the action on his two Navy Revolvers, the cylinders spinning with a smooth, oiled hiss, before sliding them into their holsters. They clicked into place, extensions of his own hands.
He reached into his inventory and withdrew the heavier ordnance. He took his Litchfield Repeater, checking the lever action, and slung it over his left shoulder.
The Pump Action Shotgun followed, the cold steel resting against his back. Finally, he placed his hat on his head, tilting the brim low to shade his eyes. He looked in the mirror, he didn't see a man, he saw a walking armory.
He stepped outside of his room and goes downstairs. The Bastille was quiet in the morning light, the raucous energy of the night before replaced by the clinking of silverware and the smell of coffee.
He sat at a corner table and signaled Ezra. "The usual?" the bartender asked.
"Heavy today," Caleb said. "I need fuel."
He ordered a breakfast that would have fed a family in the slums for a week, a rich, creamy lobster bisque, a thick cut of prime rib steak cooked rare, and a bottle of chilled beer to wash it down.
When the food arrived, he ate with methodical precision. The bisque was savory, the steak tender and iron rich. It was the meal of a man who didn't know when he would eat next.
When he finished, he wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and approached the bar.
"Put it on the tab?" Ezra asked.
"Cash," Caleb said. He placed the money on the counter, 16 dollars and 50 cents. It was an exorbitant sum, tourist prices, but Caleb paid it without blinking.
"Keep the change, Ezra." He enjoyed his breakfast, feeling the proteins settling in his stomach, offering a slow burn of energy. After he finished, he then leave the Bastille, stepping out into the humid morning air.
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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 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 1)
- Leadership (Lvl 1)
Money: 3,334 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 251,192 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 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
Bank: -