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Caleb Thorne, not McLaughlin, exhaled with the weight of the future pressing down on his shoulders. Because now the web was tightening. Bronte. The Pinkertons. Saint Denis. And soon, the Van der Linde Gang would connect to all of it. He mounted Morgan, patted her neck, and began riding toward the heart of the city again. Ti to think. Ti to plan. Ti to get ahead.
As Morgan carried him through the wealth soaked western district, Caleb let McLaughlin's posture remain intact, straight backed, composed, stylish, but inside his mind was churning with the speed of a man who'd lived two lives and seen an entire story play out in another world.
Bronte wanted him to watch the Pinkertons… while maintaining a fragile friendship with them… while also ensuring Bronte's enemies couldn't use those sa Pinkertons to dig into his affairs.
It ant.
He have to monitor the Pinkertons, influence what they saw, control what they didn't see, and keep Bronte's enemies blind
And quietly turn the Pinkertons' attention away from anything that might harm his own plans or the gang
He was being positioned as the hinge between two powers that would eventually collide violently.
But there was more.
Bronte's request about "unsavory outlaws" wasn't random.
Caleb knew exactly who had recently arrived in Saint Denis.
Not the Van der Linde Gang, not yet, not until much later, but smaller outlaw outfits. Ambitious. Violent. Seeking territory.
Groups the ga ignored or glossed over.
But Saint Denis in reality was crawling with them.
And Caleb, with his modern perspective, understood what they represented.
Competition. Chaos. A powder keg.
If they grew too bold, the Pinkertons would notice. If the Pinkertons noticed, Bronte would bla them. And if Bronte was stressed, he would take it out on everyone, innocents and criminals alike to keep himself in power and hold control over the city.
aning everything would spiral faster.
Caleb steered Morgan through a crowded market street as he considered the implications. His Acting Skill kept his expression soft, eyes politely distant, posture relaxed, playing the role of a man enjoying the afternoon breeze, not ntally rebuilding the flow of Saint Denis's criminal underworld from scratch.
He had been sent to be Bronte's eyes and ears.
But if he was careful—
He could shape more than just what Bronte saw.
He could shape the entire city.
Caleb turned the corner onto a narrower street lined with small restaurants, smokehouses, and bakeries run by immigrant families. Children ran past with sticks, street dogs barked lazily, and a few shopkeepers leaned out their doors to gossip.
He had almost relaxed—
Then he heard it.
A faint scuffle.
A grunt.
A woman's sharp gasp.
Caleb halted Morgan, dismounted silently, and guided her to a hitching post.
Buildings close together. Sound bouncing between them. Soone being shoved hard.
He walked closer.
Around the corner, in a shaded alley, he spotted them.
Three outlaws with scruffy clothes, mismatched guns, hungry eyes, cornering a young man and his mother, demanding money. The mother clutched her purse protectively. The son tried to shield her, but one outlaw shoved him down with a boot.
Caleb recognized the n instantly.
The Lemoyne Rats.
Small ti, but vicious. A splinter group from the Bayou who recently drifted into Saint Denis. Bronte hated them. So did the police. So did everyone with the sense God gave a chicken.
Perfect.
A slow, cold calm descended on Caleb.
McLaughlin's calm.
He stepped into the alley.
"Afternoon, gentlen."
The outlaws jerked and spun around.
"What the hell—?"
"Who're you supposed to be?"
Caleb smiled, polite, chilling. "Soone who believes you've chosen the wrong street to cause trouble in."
They laughed.
One aid his pistol lazily. "This ain't your business."
Caleb sighed through his nose.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
With a fluidity refined by the skill he have and experiences, he stepped forward.
The outlaw fired—
But Acting Skill concealed Caleb's side twitch until the last instant.
The bullet grazed the wall.
Caleb closed the distance.
A single hard elbow to the throat dropped the first outlaw gasping. Caleb ducked the second's wild swing, seized his wrist, twisted, and drove the outlaw face first into the brick wall.
The third tried to run.
Caleb grabbed him by the collar, slamd him into the ground, and planted a boot on his chest.
He knelt beside him.
The outlaw stared in terror.
"Saint Denis," Caleb said softly, "already belongs to soone."
"We... we ain't an nothin' by it—!"
Caleb pressed slightly harder. "Understand clearly. There will be no territory carved here. If you continue causing trouble, if you hurt these people again, Mr. Bronte will hear of it."
They froze.
Terror replaced arrogance.
He let them scramble away, limping and coughing.
The mother fell to her knees beside her son, hugging him tightly.
"Thank you," she stamred. "Thank you, mister—"
Caleb tipped his hat politely.
"No trouble, ma'am."
Then he stepped back onto the street, mounted Morgan, and continued riding.
One infestation handled.
Many more to go.
Before heading anywhere, Caleb made a sharp turn south toward the docks district.
Bronte had made sothing very clear.
If he need anything… go to Guido.
Guido Martelli, Bronte's right hand man. The future cri lord of Saint Denis after Bronte's death in the original tiline.
Caleb arrived at the familiar brick warehouse overlooking the water. n carrying crates nodded as he passed, recognizing him as McLaughlin, one of Bronte's new selectively trusted associates.
Inside, Guido was standing over a massive ledger book. He looked up with mild surprise, then satisfaction.
"Ah. McLaughlin. The boss ntioned you might stop by."
Caleb offered a polite nod. "He said you'd assist if needed."
Guido gestured grandly at the open room, overflowing with crates of weapons, cash lockboxes, ammunition, and contraband. "For a man of your talents? Always. What do you require?"
Caleb considered.
Bronte wanted outlaws cleared.
Pinkertons monitored.
The city stabilized.
He needed tools.
"I'll take a few things," Caleb said. "Quiet tools. And loud ones. Depending on the situation."
Guido smirked. "I like your thinking."
He provided.
A custom long barreled revolver with custom engraving, Guido naming it the Angelo Revolver.
A slim, easily hidden derringer.
Two high quality knives balanced for throwing.
A box of ammunition.
A pouch of 300 dollars in cash from Bronte's funds.
A forged police badge.
And a small notebook of nas, outlaw groups causing trouble around the city.
Caleb accepted them carefully, each item disappearing onto his satchel and inventory system with practiced ease.
"The boss expects great things from you," Guido said. "And so do I."
Caleb tipped his hat. "Then I won't disappoint."
By the ti he left the warehouse, the sun had dipped low. The sky turned orange, then purple, then a velvet blue broken by lanterns flickering to life across the city.
Caleb rode slowly along the waterfront, planning his next step.
The Lemoyne Rats were only the beginning.
There were.
The Bayou Ghasts
The Dockyard Strays
The Bordeaux Street Snakes
The Blackbridge Riders, a gang of northern outlaws testing the city limits
And a few freelance bounty n with more ambition than brains
Any of them could disrupt the fragile balance.
Any of them could attract Pinkertons.
And any of them could ruin Bronte's mood and thus ruin Caleb's leverage effect on the future.
He needed to handle it quickly, efficiently, and subtly.
He wanted to improve McLaughlin to beco a more than a respected bounty hunter, make him turned into a shadow legend in Saint Denis, feared, respected, and known as the man who kept order without ever drawing too much attention.
He turned Morgan toward the industrial district first.
The Bayou Ghasts were rumored to be harassing workers by night.
Caleb arrived near the old textile mill just as a group of n in dark coats erged from an alley, dragging a drunk worker by his collar.
Perfect.
Caleb dismounted.
He walked toward them without hesitation.
"Gentlen," he called softly.
Six heads turned.
Six pairs of hostile eyes locked onto him.
McLaughlin smiled calmly.
"I believe you're lost."
The Ghasts fanned out, knives glinting. One laughed. "You lost, fancy boy?"
Caleb didn't bother answering.
He stepped forward.
The fight was brutal.
Efficient.
One Ghast swung a pipe, Caleb ducked, grabbed his wrist, twisted, and drove a knife into his thigh before kicking him into a stack of crates.
Two charged, Caleb sidestepped, elbowed one in the ribs, slamd the other into a support beam.
The leader swung a machete.
Caleb blocked with his revolver's barrel, pivoted, and slamd the butt into the man's jaw, cracking it.
The others hesitated.
Caleb raised the revolver, calm, steady, and eyes cold.
"I don't kill unless you force ."
They dropped their weapons.
Smart.
"Tell your people," Caleb said slowly, "that Saint Denis is not open for business. Not for gangs. Not for would be kings. If you try to build territory here… Bronte will know. And I will co back."
They scattered.
The drunk worker whined on the ground, confused.
Caleb hauled him upright gently.
"Go ho."
The man nodded and staggered away.
Caleb holstered his revolver, wiped the last trace of blood from his knuckles as the final Bayou Ghast limped off into the dark, clutching his shattered jaw.
The night air had cooled, thick with the heavy scent of smoke and oil drifting from the old textile mill's chimneys, but Caleb barely felt it. His pulse was settling, his mind already shifting into its usual thodical analysis.
Another threat contained. Another piece of the city's balance quietly restored.
He stepped out from between the looming shadows of machinery and iron scaffolding, boots crunching on broken glass. Morgan stood where he left her, ears twitching, tail flicking with alert patience. A dependable horse. A grounding presence in a city that devoured the weak.
As Caleb reached for the reins—
A soft tallic chi rang in his skull.
The System.
He blinked, inhaling sharply through his nose, and imdiately pulled the interface open in his mind's eye. The translucent pale-blue screen unfurled before him like a well-worn page of a familiar book.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATIONS:
Persuasion Skill has leveled up! Level 3 → Level 4
Hand To Hand Combat Skill has leveled up! Level 3 → Level 4
Knife Skill has leveled up! Level 3 → Level 4
A warmth spread beneath his ribs. Satisfaction. Progress. Control.
Caleb smiled faintly, tilting his head with approval.
"Good," he murmured. "Very good."
Each skill flowing upward, stronger, sharper, more efficient, marked another step toward surviving the coming storm. Toward altering the fate of an entire gang. Toward protecting Arthur, Hosea, John, Sadie, Mary-Beth, and countless others from the tragedy he knew all too well.
The future was a minefield.
He would cross it with steel in his hand and every advantage he could carve.
Satisfied, he dismissed the interface, swung into Morgan's saddle, and guided her away from the industrial sprawl. The world around him slowly shifted, brick factories thinning out, chimneys shrinking into the distance, replaced by tall gas lamps that glowed like tiny golden beacons marking the edges of the wealthier districts.
Saint Denis at night wasn't just alive.
It breathed.
Fancy apartnt buildings rose high enough to catch and reflect the lantern glow across polished windows. Carriages and trams rattled on rails even at this hour, carrying middle and upper class townsfolk heading ho from opera houses, late night shops, and decadent restaurants. n in suits laughed loudly. Won in shimring gowns crossed streets guarded by footn.
Caleb rode through it all, looking effortlessly composed in McLaughlin's posture, straight backed, unhurried, blending elegance with quiet authority.
Inside his mind, plans churned, layered and precise.
Bronte. Pinkertons. Gang conflicts. City power struggles. Every piece on the board moved, subtly or violently. He had to move faster.
Morgan's hooves clacked against cobblestone as they neared a familiar glow at the end of the street, the Bastille.
Warm. Rowdy. Wealthy. Corrupt.
Caleb dismounted in front of the establishnt, looping Morgan's reins onto the hitching post. He patted her neck gently. "Stay here, girl. I won't be long." She snorted, content. Caleb ascended the few steps to the front door, pushed it open and was t with a wall of sound.
...
Na: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 7/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life mory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 3) → (Lvl 4)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 3) → (Lvl 4)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 3) → (Lvl 4)
- ntal Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 4)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,798 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 112,142 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 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
Bank: -
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