If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Also everyone I have a new novel a Dragon Age Inquisition novel named "From Couch To The Inquisitor", be sure to check it out and give some power stone)
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The sudden arrival of a roaring, pitch black metal machine completely shattered the normal rhythm of the city. As Caleb steered the Model T down the wide, oak lined avenue, heads snapped around. Pedestrians stopped dead in their tracks, dropping their parasols and newspapers. A wealthy merchant riding in a carriage coming from the opposite direction nearly stood up in his seat, staring at the front of Caleb's vehicle, desperately searching for the horses that were supposed to be pulling it.
"Watch the draft horse!" John shouted from the back, leaning over the side of the door.
Up ahead, a massive gray draft horse pulling a beer wagon threw its head back, its eyes rolling in terror at the loud, unnatural sputtering of the engine. The horse side stepped violently, threatening to drag the heavy wagon directly into their path.
Caleb didn't panic. He utilized the precise, lightning fast reflexes granted by his high level physical stats. He instantly pushed the clutch pedal halfway down, shifting the transmission into neutral to cut the forward drive, and simultaneously applied smooth pressure to the brake pedal on the right.
The Model T slowed flawlessly, gliding to a halt a safe distance from the spooked animal.
Caleb waited patiently, allowing the terrified wagon driver to calm his horse and pull it to the side of the cobblestones. The wagon driver stared at Caleb, his face pale, unable to articulate the sheer impossibility of the machine idling before him.
Caleb offered the man a polite tip of his hat, eased his foot back down into low gear, and accelerated smoothly past the wagon.
"Incredible," Mary-Beth breathed, leaning closer to Caleb, her hair blowing wildly in the warm wind. She wasn't terrified, she was utterly captivated. "It's so smooth, Caleb. The carriage always jolts and sways, but this... it feels like we are gliding."
"It's the pneumatic tires and the transverse leaf springs," Caleb explained, raising his voice over the engine, his hands resting confidently on the wooden wheel. "It absorbs the imperfections in the road far better than solid wooden wagon wheels."
"I have to admit, it moves fast," John called out from the back seat, the wind tearing at his long hair. "We're covering ground that would have a horse breathing heavy in a dead sprint, and this thing isn't even sweating."
"That is exactly the point, John," Caleb smiled, steering the vehicle down toward the bustling commercial district. "A horse needs water. It needs oats. It needs hours of rest. A horse breaks its leg in a pothole, and you have to shoot it. This machine? It requires gasoline, oil, and water for the radiator. As long as you feed it fuel, it will run for hundreds of miles without a single complaint. It doesn't tire. It doesn't panic. It is full of relentless endurance."
Arthur leaned forward, resting his forearms on the back of the front seat, his initial reluctance entirely dissolving into a fierce, grinning thrill. The speed was intoxicating. "It's a hell of a lot of noise, Caleb, but I see the appeal. Nobody is going to outrun us in this."
"They won't even try," Caleb promised.
They drove through the heart of Saint Denis, past the Bastille Saloon and the grand theater. The wealthy patrons spilling out onto the balconies and sidewalks stopped and stared in absolute, stunned silence.
Caleb, the undisputed king of the southern underworld and the rising titan of American industry, was not sitting passively in the back of a carriage driven by a servant. He was physically commanding a roaring, smoking machine of the future, driving his pregnant wife through the streets like a conquering emperor.
"I want to learn how to drive it," John announced suddenly from the back seat, his mechanical curiosity getting the better of him. "I bet I can handle those pedals."
"If Marston can drive it, I can drive it," Arthur immediately fired back, a competitive spark igniting between the two outlaws. "It can't be that much harder than breaking a wild horse ain't it."
"You are both going to learn," Caleb laughed, banking the steering wheel and turning the Model T back toward the quieter streets leading to the estate. "Everyone is going to learn. Because within couple of years, any man who only knows how to ride a horse is going to be left choking on our dust."
The drive back to the mansion was triumphant. The engine ran flawlessly, the radiator keeping the iron block perfectly cool despite the punishing Louisiana humidity.
When they rolled back through the iron gates of the Thorne estate, Caleb didn't pull the car into the heavy stone carriage house. Instead, he steered the Model T onto the sprawling, expansive circular driveway that fronted the mansion. It was a massive expanse of packed gravel, perfectly wide and flat, an ideal training ground.
He pulled the heavy brass handbrake, retarding the spark and killing the engine.
The silence that rushed back into the estate was jarring.
"Alright," Caleb announced, stepping out of the vehicle and stretching his legs. He turned to the capos and the inner circle, who had gathered on the steps to watch them return. Hosea, Silvio, and Vincenzo were standing alongside Mary Linton, Tilly Jackson, and Abigail Roberts, who was holding young Jack's hand.
"The horse era is officially over on this estate," Caleb projected his voice, addressing the entire gathered hierarchy of the syndicate. "These six machines are not museum pieces. They are our primary mode of transportation. And that means every single high ranking member of this organization, man or woman, is going to learn how to operate one. Today."
A murmur of excitement and nervous apprehension rippled through the crowd.
Caleb signaled to Thomas and the other five Detroit drivers. "Crank them up. We are running a driving school."
The next three hours descended into a chaotic, hilarious, and terrifying spectacle of roaring engines, grinding gears, and flying gravel.
Caleb assigned the six Detroit drivers to ride in the passenger seats as instructors, ready to grab the handbrake if things went entirely sideways.
Silvio and Vincenzo were the first to take the wheels of two separate Model Ts.
Silvio, an enforcer accustomed to brute force, treated the throttle lever like a weapon. He cranked the gas wide open and dumped the clutch pedal. The Model T roared, the rear tires spinning violently in the gravel, launching a spray of rocks into the air as the car shot forward.
"Easy, easy!" his instructor screamed, grabbing the side of the door as Silvio rocketed toward a massive marble fountain in the center of the driveway.
Silvio panicked, completely forgetting the brake pedal, and instinctively hauled back on the steering wheel as if he were pulling the reins of a horse. The car didn't stop, it just swerved violently, missing the fountain by absolute inches, two wheels lifting entirely off the ground before slamming back down with a heavy crash. Silvio finally stomped on the right pedal, locking the transmission and stalling the engine in a cloud of dust.
"Mother of God," Silvio gasped, prying his white knuckled hands off the steering wheel.
Vincenzo, standing by his own idling car, laughed uproariously. The calculating underboss took a much more methodical approach. He listened carefully to his instructor, eased the pedal down, and drove in a perfectly slow, painfully boring circle around the driveway at a blistering five miles an hour.
"It lacks the romance of a stallion, Boss," Vincenzo called out to Caleb as he puttered past, "but the applications are undeniable."
Then it was Arthur Morgan's turn.
Arthur approached the pitch black Model T with deep suspicion. He climbed into the driver's seat, his massive frame making the cab look suddenly small. He looked down at the three pedals, then up at the brass levers on the steering column, scowling deeply.
"Left pedal makes it go. Right pedal makes it stop. Middle pedal goes backward. What kind of madman designed this?" Arthur grumbled, gripping the steering wheel.
"Just ease the left pedal down, Mr. Morgan," the nervous Detroit driver instructed.
Arthur grunted, pressing his heavy boot down on the clutch. The car lurched forward. Arthur, unaccustomed to the immediate mechanical response, instinctively pulled back on the steering wheel, his boot slipping off the clutch pedal entirely.
The planetary transmission slammed into high gear.
The Model T bucked violently, surging forward with a terrifying burst of speed. Arthur let out a startled yell, completely missing the brake pedal and accidentally stomping on the middle reverse pedal instead. The transmission screamed in protest, a horrible grinding sound echoing across the lawn as the opposing forces battled within the gearbox. The engine violently choked and stalled, throwing Arthur hard against the steering wheel.
John, who was leaning against the stone balustrade, doubled over in a fit of hysterical laughter.
"Real smooth, Arthur!" John shouted, tears forming in his eyes. "You ride that thing like a drunken cowboy riding a drunken mule!"
Arthur glared at John, rubbing his chest. "Shut your mouth, Marston! This thing doesn't have a mind of its own! If a horse sees a wall, it stops! If this thing sees a wall, it tries to drive straight through it!"
"My turn," John grinned, stepping up to another idling car.
John's attempt was equally disastrous. He managed to engage the low gear smoothly enough, driving a slow, triumphant circle around Arthur's stalled vehicle, offering a smug salute. But when he attempted to stop, he completely forgot the handbrake, pressing both the clutch and the reverse pedal simultaneously. The car stopped, hesitated, and then violently shot backward, the rear tires spraying gravel over Hosea Matthews's polished shoes.
"Watch the paint, John!" Hosea barked, stepping back quickly.
Hosea, ever the calm, calculating presence, proved to be the most natural driver of the men. He slid behind the wheel, treated the machine with the quiet, delicate respect of a man picking a complex vault lock, and drove a flawless, smooth figure eight around the driveway without stalling the engine once.
But while the men were battling the machines in the center of the driveway, Caleb had taken the lead Model T and pulled it over to a quieter, straight stretch of the gravel path leading toward the gardens.
He hadn't brought an instructor. He had brought Mary-Beth.
She was sitting in the driver's seat, looking nervous but fiercely determined. Caleb was standing on the running board right beside her, leaning into the cab, his presence a calm, anchoring weight.
"You don't need to muscle it, Mary-Beth," Caleb instructed softly, reaching in to adjust the spark lever on the column. "The machine does all the heavy lifting. You just have to guide it. Treat the pedals like you are playing the piano. Smooth, deliberate pressure."
Mary-Beth took a deep breath, gripping the wooden wheel. "Left pedal is low gear. Right pedal is brake."
"Exactly," Caleb smiled. "I'm right here. Ease it down."
Mary-Beth applied a slow, incredibly smooth pressure to the left pedal with her booted foot. The transmission engaged without a single jerk or shudder. The Model T began to roll forward, a slow, steady walking pace.
"I'm doing it!" Mary-Beth gasped, a brilliant, radiant smile breaking across her face as the heavy machine moved under her command.
"Keep your eyes on the path," Caleb guided her, his hand resting gently over hers on the steering wheel, helping her feel the heavy, direct feedback of the steering column. "Now, ease your foot up slowly. Let it find high gear."
She lifted her foot. The engine note deepened, and the car accelerated smoothly, the wind catching the loose fabric of her linen dress. She drove down the long stretch of the garden path, the setting sun casting long, golden shadows across the pristine lawns. She didn't panic. She didn't jerk the wheel. She drove with a natural, elegant grace that completely eluded the hardened killers in the main driveway.
As they approached the end of the path, Caleb spoke quietly. "Right pedal. Firm, steady pressure."
Mary-Beth pressed the brake. The Model T glided to a flawless, perfectly controlled halt, the engine idling smoothly.
Caleb looked down at her, his heart swelling with a profound, overwhelming affection. She looked so powerful, so entirely in command of the modern world, sitting behind the wheel of the black motorcar.
"You," Caleb said softly, leaning in to kiss her deeply on the lips, "are a natural."
Mary-Beth laughed, breathless and exhilarated, wrapping her arms around his neck. "It's wonderful, Caleb. It truly is. I feel like I could drive to the end of the earth."
They drove back to the main driveway just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the Louisiana sky in brilliant streaks of orange and purple. The air smelled strongly of unburned gasoline, hot oil, and the faint, sweet scent of the blooming magnolias.
Arthur was currently standing in front of his designated Model T, a heavy wrench in his hand, arguing furiously with the Detroit instructor about why the machine needed a proper set of reins. John was successfully driving in reverse circles, entirely by accident, while Hosea calmly smoked a cigar, watching the chaos with deep amusement.
Caleb stood on the running board of Mary-Beth's idling car, looking over his empire.
The transition was violent, loud, and chaotic. But it was happening. The Thorne syndicate was no longer a family of business mob that are riding horses through the mud. They were an industrialized family, armed with semi automatic weapons, communicating through invisible radio waves, and driving the spearhead of automotive technology.
Caleb stood on the running board of the idling Model T, watching Arthur finally surrender to the Detroit instructor's advice and manage a slow, albeit incredibly jerky, forward roll across the gravel. The heavy scent of exhaust fumes hung in the still evening air, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the blooming magnolias.
He stepped down onto the pristine driveway, offering his hand to Mary-Beth, who gracefully slid out from behind the steering wheel. Her face was flushed with the thrill of the drive, her eyes shining in the fading light.
As they walked toward the grand marble steps of the mansion, Caleb caught the eye of his head steward, who was standing discreetly near the massive oak doors.
"Antonio," Caleb called out softly, his voice cutting through the distant, grinding sound of John Marston attempting to find neutral.
The impeccably dressed steward immediately stepped forward, bowing his head in attentive deference. "Yes, Mr. Thorne. How may I be of assistance?"
Caleb turned, sweeping his gaze across the sprawling front lawns and the massive iron gates of the estate. Then, he looked toward the towering, ancient cypress trees that formed the eastern and western borders of his property, separating the Thorne estate from the neighboring mansions of the Garden District's old aristocracy.
"I need you to look into the property deeds for the estates immediately bordering ours to the east and the west," Caleb instructed, his mind already visualizing the architectural expansion. "Find out who holds the titles, what their current financial standing is, and whether they might be open to a highly lucrative acquisition."
Antonio blinked, his usual composure faltering for a fraction of a second. "You wish to purchase the neighboring mansions, sir? Both of them?"
"I do," Caleb nodded, gesturing casually back toward the six pitch black motorcars currently tearing up his circular driveway. "The horse era is over, Antonio. But these machines cannot be left out in the rain or the blistering Louisiana sun, and our current carriage house was designed for broughams and stallions, not internal combustion engines. I need space to construct a proper, modernized motor house. A facility with reinforced concrete floors, dedicated fuel storage, and a fully equipped mechanic's bay for Thomas and his men to work."
Antonio absorbed the sheer scale of the request. Buying a single Garden District mansion was a feat that took most men a lifetime of wealth accumulation. Caleb was proposing buying two, simply to tear down their gardens and build a garage.
"I will dispatch our clerks to the city registry first thing in the morning, Mr. Thorne," Antonio promised, recovering his professional veneer. "However, I must warn you... the families residing on those estates are old Saint Denis blood. The Boudreaux family to the east has held that land for four generations. They consider themselves the absolute pinnacle of southern aristocracy. I do not know if they will be willing to sell to... to a newer resident, regardless of the price."
Caleb chuckled, a low, smooth sound of genuine amusement. He knew exactly what Antonio was delicately dancing around. The old money of Saint Denis still viewed Caleb as an upstart, a terrifyingly powerful, incomprehensibly wealthy upstart, but an upstart nonetheless.
"I understand their pride, Antonio," Caleb said, his voice entirely reasonable. "Which is why I want this handled with absolute delicacy. Offer them double the market value of their estates. If they refuse, offer them triple. You have a blank check."
Caleb paused, leaning in slightly, his expression turning serious to ensure his next words were perfectly understood.
"But hear me clearly on this," Caleb commanded softly. "There will be no intimidation. None. Do not send Silvio. Do not send Vincenzo. Do not have the capos stand on their sidewalks looking menacing. We are a legitimate empire now, and we conduct our real estate transactions like gentlemen. Persuasion through sheer, overwhelming financial capital is encouraged. But if they look at a mountain of gold and still refuse to sell... we leave them in peace. We do not force them out."
Antonio's shoulders relaxed visibly. Dealing with the syndicate's transition from brute force to corporate dominance was a delicate tightrope, and the steward was immensely relieved to hear that Caleb was strictly enforcing the latter. "Understood completely, sir. A purely financial negotiation."
Mary-Beth, who had been listening quietly beside Caleb, tilted her head, a playful, questioning smile touching her lips. "Is this truly necessary, Caleb?" she asked, gesturing to the towering white pillars of their current home. "Our mansion already has twenty rooms we rarely even walk through. We have sprawling gardens, a conservatory, and a massive ballroom. Do we really need to buy out the neighbors just to park six automobiles?"
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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: -