If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
...
(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
"The rumors are completely true," Caleb declared, his voice ringing with power. "They are the most advanced, flawlessly engineered firearms on the face of the earth. And later this evening, before the clock strikes midnight... I am going to bring the crates out. I am going to hand some of these beautiful, priceless new guns made from my factory directly to you. You will hold them. You will feel the future of warfare in your own hands. And for those of you with the capital to afford it... you will be given the exclusive, once in a lifetime opportunity to buy them."
After Caleb said that, delivering a big surprise of promise to an exclusive newly advanced type of guns access to the wealthiest men in the state, the polite murmurs in the grand ballroom instantly turned into a massive, roaring cacophony of sheer, unadulterated excitement.
The rich and influential tycoons, the corrupt politicians, and the old money plantation owners immediately began to talk over one another. Their eyes were wide with a mixture of capitalistic greed and visceral, childlike anticipation.
The elite of Saint Denis were a class of people who were entirely accustomed to having whatever they desired handed to them on a silver platter. But Caleb had masterfully created something that their money hadn't been able to buy until this exact moment.
Men in bespoke silk tails grabbed each other's arms, excitedly whispering about the sheer prospect that they could actually touch the fabled weapons tonight.
While a select few of the men in the room, mostly those who owned the shipping docks or the illicit gambling dens, had managed to catch fleeting, terrifying glimpses of the guns being used by the mafia capos out on the streets, the vast majority of the guests hadn't seen them yet.
They had only heard the whispered, ghost story rumors of handguns that fired like lightning and rifles that never missed. Now, they absolutely could not wait to see these marvels of modern engineering firsthand for the very first time.
Caleb stood on the grand staircase, letting the chaotic, desperate energy of the ballroom completely boil over. He waited for the exact perfect moment of maximum anticipation, and then, he gave the signal.
He looked over the banister and gave a single, sharp nod to Vincenzo.
The scarred Italian Underboss, dressed impeccably in a dark suit, immediately barked an order. The heavy, mahogany double doors leading out to the grand marble terrace swung open.
A squad of the family's most intimidating, sharply dressed capos marched into the ballroom. They moved in perfect, disciplined synchronization, carrying four massive, heavy wooden crates.
The crowd parted instantly, practically throwing themselves out of the way to create a wide path, their eyes entirely glued to the heavy wooden boxes.
Vincenzo and the capos set the crates down onto a series of reinforced, velvet draped tables that had been specifically set up at the base of the staircase for this exact presentation. With swift, practiced motions, the capos pulled the heavy brass latches and threw the lids of the crates open, stepping back to reveal the treasures hidden inside.
The collective gasp that sucked the air out of the grand ballroom was loud enough to be heard over the orchestra.
Resting on thick beds of deep crimson velvet, illuminated brilliantly by the light of the massive crystal chandeliers above, were the Collector's Edition firearms. The dark, blued steel of the receivers gleamed flawlessly.
The pure gold scrollwork and the intricate silver vines inlaid into the polished Turkish walnut stocks caught the light, sparkling with a level of unimaginable, unapologetic wealth.
The elites surged forward, pressing against the velvet ropes the capos had quickly established. They stared in sheer awe at the Thorne Model 1 handguns, the Auto 5 shotguns, and the Vanguard rifles.
But, of course, the weapon that instantly commanded the absolute most attention, the gun that drew horrified, mesmerized stares from the railroad barons and the military contractors in the room, was the Sweeper submachine gun.
Such a weapon had simply never been seen before in the history of human conflict.
The men in this room were highly educated, they understood the current global standard of military technology. They knew that the most advanced weapons existing in the world today were the massive, heavy Maxim guns that required wheeled carriages and water cooling jackets, the clunky German Mauser C96 pistol with its wooden stock, and the Winchester 1897 repeating pump action shotgun.
But the Sweeper completely defied logic. It was a block of machined steel with a massive, terrifying fifty round drum attached to the bottom, yet it was small enough for a single man to hold easily across his chest. It looked like an instrument of apocalyptic destruction.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please direct your attention to the open terrace doors," Caleb announced, his voice slicing through the frantic whispering of the crowd.
To properly showcase the weapons, Caleb hadn't just brought them out for visual inspection. He had prepared a live fire demonstration. Out on the edge of the marble terrace, facing the dark, expansive private gardens of the estate, Silvio and Arthur had set up a specialized target practice area.
Massive, two inch thick steel plates, heavy wooden barricades, and rows of glass bottles were illuminated by brilliant, focused gas lamps, creating a bright shooting gallery against the pitch black winter night.
Caleb walked gracefully down the staircase. The crowd parted for him as if he were parting the Red Sea. He stepped up to the velvet-draped tables and reached into the first crate.
He took the gold inlaid Thorne Model 1 handgun, the legendary M1911. He held it up, turning it slowly so the chandeliers caught the '1900' serial number stamped into the slide.
"This is the Thorne Model 1," Caleb introduced, projecting his voice over the crowd. "A magazine fed, semi automatic handgun chambered in a devastating .45 caliber. It makes the single action revolver completely obsolete."
Caleb casually walked over to the open terrace doors. The winter chill swept into the warm ballroom, but no one shivered; they were too captivated. Caleb didn't even take off his tuxedo jacket. He simply stood on the threshold, slapped a seven round steel magazine into the grip, and racked the slide with a heavy, metallic clack.
He pointed the gun at the target practice setup outside. With effortless, one-handed precision, he squeezed the trigger to showcase the sheer firepower of his creation.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The explosive roar of the handgun inside the stone confines of the terrace was deafening. The wealthy women in the crowd shrieked, pressing their manicured hands over their ears, while the men simply stood frozen in shock. Seven brass casings flew gracefully through the air, clinking against the marble floor. Outside, seven glass bottles shattered into dust in less than two seconds.
The crowd was completely astounded. Mayor Lemieux's jaw literally dropped. The sheer cyclic rate of the weapon was impossible.
Caleb dropped the empty magazine, handed the smoking, gold inlaid pistol to Vincenzo, and walked back to the crates. He picked up the Auto 5 shotgun next.
"The Thorne Auto 5," Caleb announced, holding the silver-vined weapon high. "A long recoil, semi automatic shotgun. Five rounds of heavy buckshot. No pumping required. The weapon cycles itself."
He stepped back to the terrace, aimed at a heavy wooden barricade, and fired.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The concussive blasts physically rattled the champagne glasses on the silver trays of the waiters. The heavy wooden barricade out in the garden was completely annihilated, reduced to a shower of flying splinters.
The plantation owners in the crowd, men who spent their weekends hunting, stared at the shotgun with absolute, ravenous lust. A weapon that could clear a flock of birds or a hallway of intruders in three seconds was priceless.
Caleb smoothly handed the shotgun away and picked up the Vanguard rifle, demonstrating the incredibly smooth Mauser style bolt action, and completely piercing the two inch thick steel plate with the high velocity spitzer bullets, proving its armor-penetrating capabilities.
And then, finally, Caleb walked over to the final crate.
The grand ballroom fell so silent you could hear a pin drop. Caleb reached down and picked up the Sweeper. He held the heavy, blued steel weapon by its wooden foregrip, the massive fifty round drum locking into place with a sinister, heavy thud.
"And finally," Caleb said, his voice dropping into a dark, incredibly dangerous register. "Project Sweeper. A fully automatic submachine gun."
The military contractors in the crowd gasped. They knew exactly what the implications of that sentence meant. They immediately knew, just by looking at the engineering, that this weapon would become a highly portable, single man version of the Maxim gun.
Caleb stepped out onto the terrace. He braced himself, aimed at the remaining targets, and held the trigger down.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT!
The sheer, continuous, horrifying roar of the Sweeper was apocalyptic. A solid stream of fire erupted from the barrel. Fifty heavy .45 caliber bullets poured into the steel plates and wooden stands at a cyclic rate of seven hundred rounds per minute. A massive, glittering fountain of brass casings sprayed across the terrace. The targets outside didn't just break, they were systematically erased from existence.
When the bolt finally locked open and the deafening echo faded into the winter night, the smell of smokeless powder and sulfur drifted into the grand ballroom.
The two hundred elite guests were completely, utterly paralyzed by shock. They had just witnessed a level of violence and technological supremacy that shattered their entire understanding of the world.
Caleb handed the smoking Sweeper to Silvio, who handled it with absolute reverence. Caleb then turned back to face the stunned, wide eyed crowd of billionaires and politicians. He brushed a speck of invisible dust from his tuxedo lapel, completely unfazed by the localized warzone he had just created.
"After a demonstration like that, I believe the firepower speaks for itself," Caleb smiled smoothly, walking back to the center of the room.
He gestured to the open crates. "Ladies and gentlemen, what you see before you are the Collector's Editions of these phenomenal firearms. These specific models, with their pure gold and silver inlays and hand carved Turkish walnut, will be the only ones of their kind to enter society. They are exceptionally rare. Because I have equipped my top lieutenants with a select few, there are only exactly forty five of these specific Collector's Edition pieces present in the entire world. And I will never forge them again."
The artificial scarcity hit the crowd like a physical blow. Forty five guns. Two hundred incredibly wealthy men who desperately wanted them.
"As you can see, the design is completely unique," Caleb continued, shifting effortlessly into the role of the master auctioneer. "Tonight, and tonight only, you have the opportunity to acquire them before the clock strikes midnight and the new century begins. Since this is not just a weapon, but a physical piece of history in the making, the opening prices will reflect their prestige."
Caleb began to pace slowly in front of the tables, laying out the absolute baseline.
"The bidding for the Thorne Model 1 handguns will open at one thousand dollars," Caleb announced.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. One thousand dollars for a handgun was an absolutely absurd, astronomical sum of money in 1899. A man could buy a sprawling house and a dozen horses for that amount.
"The Vanguard rifles will open at one thousand five hundred," Caleb continued. "The Auto 5 shotguns will open at two thousand dollars. And the Sweeper submachine guns... will open at three thousand dollars for each piece."
For a fraction of a second, the sheer audacity of the prices caused a stunned silence. Three thousand dollars was a staggering fortune.
But Caleb McLaughlin was a master of human psychology. He knew these men. He knew that for the ultra rich, price was not a deterrent, it was a challenge. They didn't just see the price tag, they saw the exclusivity.
They saw an opportunity to not only gain a futuristic collector's antique gun that no one else in their country club possessed, but they also saw it as the ultimate opportunity to publicly get closer to the Don of Saint Denis. To win an auction here tonight was to buy Caleb Thorne's direct favor
"Do I have an opening bid for the first Model 1 handgun?" Caleb asked smoothly.
The absolute madness of the Gilded Age erupted instantly.
"One thousand!" shouted a wealthy bank manager from the second row, raising his crystal champagne flute frantically into the air.
"Fifteen hundred!" screamed a rival banker standing completely across the room, his face flushed with champagne and greed.
"Two thousand dollars!" bellowed Mayor Lemieux, practically shoving a city councilman out of his way to get closer to the front. He desperately needed one of those handguns to secure his own personal safety in a city that was rapidly changing.
"Two thousand five hundred!" countered an old money plantation owner, adjusting his monocle.
The auction scene devolved into an absolutely frantic, cutthroat scramble. Men who usually maintained pristine, aristocratic composure were suddenly sweating, shouting, and fiercely outbidding men they had known for decades. The sheer desire to possess the guns completely overrode their financial senses.
"Three thousand dollars for the pistol!" the first bank manager screamed, completely losing his mind.
"Sold," Caleb nodded, his blue eyes flashing with predatory satisfaction. He gestured to Antonio, the head butler, who was sitting at a small mahogany desk off to the side, his pen flying across a ledger as he recorded the massive transfers of wealth. "Antonio, record the gentleman's purchase. Next Model 1."
The handguns vanished in a matter of minutes. The prices didn't stay at three thousand, as the supply rapidly dwindled from ten, to five, to two, the panic set in. The final M1911 Collector's Edition sold to a desperate shipping magnate for a staggering six thousand dollars.
...
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: 284,392 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 Braithwaites Land Deed, 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: -