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!)
...
Caleb smiled at this. It was a wide, triumphant smile. He had essentially bought one of the most famous firearms manufacturers in American history, and they were literally begging him to tell them what to build next.
He, of course, shook it in the air playfully and handed the letter over to Mary-Beth so she could read it herself.
Mary-Beth took the letter, her eyes scanning the typed words. As she realized the sheer scale of the money involved and the power Caleb held over a massive eastern factory, her eyes widened. She looked up at him, a mixture of awe and curiosity on her face.
She in turn asked him, "Caleb... this is incredible. You own the majority of this company, but do you have any ideas on what to tell them to build?"
Caleb took the letter back, folding it neatly. He nodded his head, his eyes shining with a terrifying, brilliant light. "Oh, I have many ideas," he assured her confidently. "More ideas than they'll know what to do with."
While he spoke calmly to her, inwardly he smiled a massive, predatory smile. Because with his max level Firearms Knowledge skill, his mind was a literal encyclopedia of ballistics, engineering, and weapon design spanning centuries. He knew exactly how every gun in existence worked, and more importantly, he knew how the guns of the future worked.
He could even make modern firearms designs in his sleep. He could sketch out assault rifles, polymer framed striker fired pistols, and advanced gas operated machine guns. He could even improve upon modern designs with absolute mechanical perfection.
But, of course, the logical constraints of the current timeline grounded his ambitions. The current tools, metallurgy, and machining tolerances of 1899 simply couldn't make those modern weapons yet.
You couldn't ask a steam powered milling machine to craft the intricate, micro toleranced parts of an M4 carbine, nor could the chemical industry of the time produce the reliable smokeless powder needed for modern intermediate cartridges.
But that didn't matter. He didn't need to skip a century ahead to dominate the market. He only needed to skip a decade or two. He could make many designs and schematics that will make Marlin-Thorne be the undisputed, monopolistic leader of the firearms industry in a very short time.
As Mary-Beth watched him, captivated by the intense focus in his eyes, Caleb began to mentally organize his blueprints. He planned on spending the next few days in this room, sitting at Mary-Beth's desk, doing nothing but making detailed, mathematically perfect designs and schematics of firearms and all their corresponding upgrades.
He wasn't just going to design new guns; he was going to revolutionize the accessories. He thought about improvements on its rifling, moving away from the standard twists and introducing advanced polygonal rifling concepts that would drastically improve barrel life and accuracy. He thought about new scopes.
The current telescopic sights were long, fragile brass tubes that lost zero if you looked at them wrong. Caleb would draft schematics for shorter, more durable optical sights with proper internal windage and elevation adjustments, perhaps even drafting the precursor to the Unertl style scopes.
He thought about new mags. The world was currently obsessed with internal tubular magazines for rifles and internal box magazines for bolt actions. Caleb was going to introduce reliable, high capacity detachable box magazines.
Anything, really, that are present from 10 years to 19 years from now toward the end of World War 1.
His mind raced with the specific models he would introduce to Mahlon Marlin.
First, the handgun market. Colt was currently king with the Single Action Army, and they were just beginning to experiment with unreliable semi automatics. Caleb would draft the holy grail of handguns, the M1911.
John Moses Browning wouldn't finalize the design for another twelve years, but Caleb had the blueprints burned into his maxed out skill. A short recoil, semi automatic pistol chambered in a heavy, man stopping .45 caliber cartridge, utilizing a detachable 7 round box magazine. It would make every revolver on the market utterly obsolete overnight.
Next, the shotgun market. Pump actions were popular, like the Winchester 1897. But Caleb would send Marlin the designs for a long-recoil operated semi-automatic shotgun, essentially the Browning Auto 5, but branded as a Marlin-Thorne original.
Five rapid shots of 12 gauge buckshot without ever having to work a pump. The military and the civilian market would buy them by the tens of thousands.
Then, the rifles. For the civilian hunting market, he would design a lever action that utilized spitzer (pointed) bullets, requiring a box magazine or a spiral tubular magazine to prevent chain detonations, drastically increasing the aerodynamic range of hunting rifles.
And for the military contracts, the real money, he would draft a bolt action rifle that combined the best features of the German Mauser 98 action with the American Springfield concepts, featuring a 5 round internal magazine loaded via stripper clips, chambered in a high velocity, smokeless .30 caliber cartridge. It would be the rifle that would eventually win wars, and he would hold the patent.
He even toyed with the idea of drafting early submachine gun concepts. The Villar Perosa and the early Thompson prototypes were born from the trench warfare of WWI.
If he designed a blowback operated trench sweeper firing pistol cartridges from a high capacity drum or stick magazine now, Marlin-Thorne could secure government contracts before the Spanish-American War even fully faded from memory.
"You're drifting away, Caleb," Mary-Beth said softly, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek, pulling him out of his industrial daydream. "I know that look. Your mind is moving a mile a minute."
Caleb blinked, the intense, calculating light in his eyes softening as he looked down at her. He placed his hand over hers.
"Sorry," he chuckled softly. "It's just... this letter. It's the key to everything, Mary-Beth. With this factory, we don't just have money. We have legitimate, untouchable power. We essentially become the kind of people the Pinkertons work for, not the people they hunt."
Mary-Beth smiled, her eyes filled with absolute trust. "I know you'll do incredible things with it. You always do."
Caleb leaned down, capturing her lips in a much softer, sweeter kiss this time. The passion was still there, a low, thrumming heat, but it was tempered by profound affection.
"I'll need to use your desk tomorrow," Caleb murmured against her lips. "I have a lot of writing and drawing to do."
"You can have the desk," Mary-Beth whispered back, her arms wrapping around his waist once more. "But for tonight... you're not doing any work."
Caleb smiled against her mouth. The guns, the mobs, the system, and the ghosts in the basement could all wait until tomorrow. For tonight, he was exactly where he wanted to be.
"You're right," Caleb murmured, his voice a low, rough velvet that sent a visible shiver down Mary-Beth's spine.
He stepped fully into her space, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her effortlessly. Mary-Beth let out a soft gasp of surprise that quickly turned into a breathless sigh as she wrapped her legs around his hips, anchoring herself to him.
He carried her the few short steps to the large, sturdy oak bed, laying her down gently against the thick, patchwork quilt.
The passion between them, simmering beneath the surface since the moment he rode into the homestead, finally ignited.
It wasn't the frantic, desperate grappling of strangers, but the profound, deeply rooted heat of two people who had chosen each other against the backdrop of a dying era.
Caleb stripped off his heavy duster, the dark leather hitting the floorboards with a soft thud, followed quickly by his gun belts, the cold iron of his Navy Revolvers laid to rest on the nightstand.
He followed her down onto the mattress, his hands mapping the familiar, soft curves of her body. Mary-Beth reached up, her deft fingers making quick work of the buttons on his Henley shirt, pushing the fabric aside to press her palms flat against the hard, scarred planes of his chest.
She loved the contrast of him, a man capable of terrifying violence out in the world, yet possessing such absolute, reverent gentleness when he held her.
Clothes were shed in the warm shadows of the room, cast aside until there was nothing left between them but skin and heat. Caleb kissed her deeply, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before sweeping inside, tasting the sweet, faint lingering flavor of peppermint.
He trailed open mouthed kisses down her jawline, moving to the sensitive expanse of her neck, making her arch her back and let out a soft, melodic moan that made his blood run hot.
His hands, calloused from holding the reins of a horse and the grips of a rifle, moved over her with worshipping reverence. He memorized every curve, every sigh she made, completely consumed by the physical and emotional intimacy of the moment.
Mary-Beth's hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her body rising to meet his every touch. The crackle of the fireplace was the only sound in the room, harmonizing with their ragged breathing as they lost themselves in each other.
It was a night of profound connection, a slow, deliberate exploration of their bond, washing away the grime and the blood of Caleb's recent conquests.
Wrapped in the thick blankets, exhausted and entirely at peace, they eventually drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, completely secure in the sanctuary they had built.
The next morning, the soft, pale light of the rising sun filtered through the windowpanes, casting long, golden rectangles across the floorboards. Caleb woke up first. His internal clock, honed by his high stats and the relentless demands of his double life, brought him to full consciousness without a trace of grogginess.
He looked down at Mary-Beth. She was sleeping soundly, her face relaxed, one arm thrown casually across his chest. He carefully, silently disentangled himself from her embrace, tucking the warm quilt around her shoulders so she wouldn't feel the chill of the morning air.
He pulled on a clean pair of trousers and a fresh, simple cotton shirt, leaving his boots and his gun belts upstairs. Barefoot and moving with his max level Sneaking Skill out of pure habit, he slipped out of the room and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.
The main house was quiet, but the kitchen was already alive with activity. Pearson was standing over the large, cast iron stove, stirring a massive pot of his infamous beef stew. The smell of boiling root vegetables and salted meat was a staple of the camp's morning routine.
"Morning, Mr. Pearson," Caleb said, stepping into the room.
Pearson jumped slightly, nearly dropping his wooden spoon. "Lord above, Caleb! You move like a damn shadow. Didn't even hear you come down the stairs."
"Force of habit," Caleb chuckled, walking over to the pantry. "Mind if I commandeer a corner of your stove? I'm making a special breakfast."
Pearson grunted, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Help yourself. Though I don't know what's wrong with the stew. Put extra onions in it today."
Caleb didn't comment on the stew. Instead, he opened the cold storage box. He took out two pristine, plump pieces of chicken breast meat that Pearson had stored from the recent livestock purchases. He carried them to the prep table, retrieving a sharp knife from the block.
Activating his max level Cooking Skill, Caleb's hands moved with professional, almost mechanical precision. He didn't just cook, he orchestrated flavors. He butterfly cut the chicken breasts to ensure an even, rapid cook, seasoning them generously with salt, cracked black pepper, paprika, and a pinch of dried thyme he found in Pearson's spice rack.
He placed a heavy cast iron skillet on the open flame of the stove, dropping in a generous dollop of butter and a splash of oil. When the butter began to foam and turn a nutty brown, he gently laid the chicken into the pan. The sizzle was immediate and satisfying.
While the chicken seared, developing a beautiful, golden brown crust, Caleb grabbed four large potatoes. His knife blurred as he peeled and diced them, tossing them into a smaller pot of boiling, salted water. Within minutes, they were fork tender.
He drained them and began to mash them vigorously, folding in butter, a splash of fresh milk, and a heavy pinch of salt and pepper until the mashed potatoes were incredibly smooth, creamy, and decadent.
To finish the meal, he opened a jar of preserved canned fruits, peaches and pears in a light syrup, and arranged them neatly in two small porcelain bowls to add a bright, sweet contrast to the savory main course. He flipped the chicken, basting it in the herb-infused butter until it was perfectly cooked through, juicy and fragrant.
As Caleb plated the food, arranging the golden chicken breasts over a bed of the creamy mashed potatoes, the aroma filled the kitchen, completely overpowering the smell of the simmering stew.
Pearson, who had stopped stirring his pot, was staring at the plates with wide eyes, his nose twitching. "Well, I'll be damned," Pearson said, his voice laced with genuine culinary respect. "That... it smells amazing, Caleb. Truly amazing. Didn't know you had that kind of magic in the kitchen."
Caleb smiled, picking up a wooden serving tray and carefully arranging the two plates, the bowls of fruit, and two mugs of freshly poured black coffee.
"Thanks, Pearson," Caleb said. "But it's just for me and Mary-Beth. No leftovers for you or the others today."
Pearson let out a loud, snorting laugh, shaking his head as he turned back to his giant pot of stew. "You dote very much on Mary-Beth, Mr. Thorne. Spoiling her rotten, you are."
Caleb hoisted the tray effortlessly, balancing it on one hand. "Well, Pearson," Caleb replied with a warm, unapologetic grin, "if it's not me who is going to dote on her, who else is? A man has to take care of his own."
...
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 - 50x50x50)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 2)
- Leadership (Lvl 2)
Money: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 250,992 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: -