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Vincenzo's monocle glinted. "Ah! The Statement of Belonging. I understand perfectly." He clapped his hands. "Maria, Chiara, the midnight blue worsted, the charcoal herringbone, and the black broadcloth with the subtle stripe. And the shoes. We begin."
The ladies immediately knelt by the suitcases and began opening them, revealing carefully wrapped garments within.
For the next hour, Caleb was a mannequin. He was measured, pinned, and dressed. One by one, suits were brought out, fine fabrics in deep blues, rich blacks, muted grays, and subtle earth tones.
Caleb was directed to stand still as the women assisted him in changing, their movements professional and efficient, adjusting cuffs, straightening lapels, stepping back as Vincenzo circled him like a sculptor studying stone.
Each suit was evaluated aloud.
"This one, very strong shoulders, yes, but perhaps too aggressive for cards."
"This cut is excellent, but the color… it speaks too loudly."
"Ah, this, this is good. Very good. But not yet perfetto."
Caleb said little, letting the expert work. His reflection shifted with each change, different versions of himself staring back, industrialist, aristocrat, gambler, predator, and other styles.
In the end, three suits remained hanging apart from the rest.
Caleb tried on the midnight blue, the fabric rich and heavy, the cut impeccable. Vincenzo praised its "authoritative hue."
The charcoal herringbone was softer, more professorial, "excellent for disarming conversation." The black broadcloth with its nearly invisible silver pinstripe was severe, modern, and faintly intimidating.
"This one," Vincenzo murmured, stepping back as Caleb stood before the mirror in the third suit, "this one has a bite. It does not ask for a seat at the table. It assumes one."
Caleb had to agree. The suit fit like a second skin, the jacket tapering to his waist, the trousers breaking perfectly on the polished oxfords. It was armor, but of the most refined kind.
"Excellente," Vincenzo declared. "These three, he declared. They fit you not only in body, but in spirit. They are, of course, under Mr. Bronte's commission as gifts to you. A man in your position must have choices."
Caleb's eyebrow lifted slightly, but he nodded. "I appreciate it."
"It is my pleasure," Vincenzo said sincerely. He hesitated, then gestured lightly toward Caleb's hair. "Your hair, Signor. Perhaps a haircut is needed. Your hair has grown… how do you say… a little wild. It has… vigor, but it lacks direction. For the Grand Korrigan, every detail is a sentence. May I suggest a visit to Marcel, on Rue d'Orléans? He is an artist with shears. Tell him Vincenzo sent you."
Caleb almost smiled. "You're not wrong. Thank you for the sggestion."
Vincenzo bowed lightly. "Then I wish you an excellent day."
He motioned for his assistants, who repacked the unused items with great precision and departed as quickly as they came, leaving the three chosen suits hanging in the wardrobe.
Alone again, Caleb changed back into his familiar, sturdy clothes, feeling the ghost of the fine wool against his skin. He selected the black pinstripe suit, carefully folded it, and placed it in his inventory system, a trick that never failed to amuse him.
He then headed downstairs, paid the bartender in shift today who weet Ezra, 50 cents, for the key to the bathing room, and spent the next half hour submerged in a deep copper tub of steaming water, scrubbing away the last vestiges of the swamp and the chapel's dust.
Clean, shaved, and feeling more human, he returned to his room. He retrieved the suit from his inventory, it emerged perfectly pressed, a benefit of the system's storage, and dressed with deliberate care.
He strapped his gun belt on over the fine shirt, the worn leather and polished metal a stark contrast to the elegant cloth, a necessary reminder of the world beneath the veneer.
He transferred his satchel which was filled with some essentials, cash, the key to Milton's safety deposit box, his journal, and couple of stuffs, into his inventory since wearing a satchel ruins the elegance of the suit. His previous outfit also vanished into the inventory.
A final look in the mirror. The transformation was startling. The man who stared back was a stranger, a wealthy, dangerous stranger. The suit gave him height and presence, the sharp cut of his newly planned haircut would complete the picture.
He left the Bastille, the morning sun now warming the city. Morgan, hitched outside, gave him a curious look. "Don't get used to it, girl," he muttered, mounting up.
The ride to Marcel's barbershop was short. The establishment was all polished brass, gleaming mirrors, and the scent of bay rum. Marcel, a Frenchman with impeccable manners, received Vincenzo's name like a royal decree.
"Um I want a swept back fade, also gave it sme pommade after it's done," Caleb requested, settling into the plush chair.
"Mais oui, monsieur. A style of confidence," Marcel agreed, and his scissors began to whisper.
Twenty five minutes later, Caleb examined the result. His previously unruly dark hair was now sharply tapered at the sides and back, swept back from his forehead with a precise, clean line.
A small amount of pomade gave it control and a slight sheen, without looking greasy. It hardened his features, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw and the cool assessment in his eyes. He looked every inch the rising industrialist or the ruthless financier.
He paid Marcel 5 dollars, a small fortune for a haircut, but worth every cent for the armor it provided, and left feeling like his disguise was now complete from the skin out.
With hours still until the Grand Korrigan's evening departure, Caleb guided Morgan south, toward the bustling waterfront where the riverboat was docked. He didn't approach directly.
Instead, he found a secluded spot in a small park with a view of the dock, tethered Morgan in the shade, and settled on a bench with a newspaper he'd bought from a boy on the corner for 50 cents. He was ostensibly reading, but his enhanced Perception was focused entirely on the activity around the magnificent riverboat.
The Grand Korrigan was a floating palace of white paint, gilt trim, and sparkling glass. Smoke already curled from its twin stacks, and crew members in crisp uniforms scurried about, preparing for the evening. By mid-afternoon, the first guests began to arrive.
Caleb's Business skill activated almost automatically, categorizing and assessing.
The Old Money, arriving in polished private carriages with family crests. Elderly men with stern faces and young, bored looking heirs, accompanied by their ladies. They carried an air of inherited entitlement. Potential for information on land holdings, political dynasties, old scandals.
The New Industrialists who were boisterous, confident men who arrived in the newest model of carriages or expensive horses. They talked loudly of steel output, railroad miles, and oil yields. Their wealth was brash and self made. Targets for investment opportunities, but also for blackmail, new money often had dirty hands.
The Political Class, these men arrived discreetly, often alone, with careful, scanning looks. A state senator Caleb vaguely recognized from Bronte's list. A police commissioner in civilian clothes. Their presence was a testament to Bronte's reach. They were wells of corruption, but also landmines.
The Out of Towners, some plantation owners from Lemoyne with sun weathered faces and slow, deliberate movements. A pair of cattle barons from New Austin, their boots and hats distinctly out of place. They represented external capital and potential new markets.
Lastly, Cornwall's man, he arrived last, just as the sun began to dip. A man in a severe black suit, flanked by two quiet, watchful associates who were clearly bodyguards, not guests. He was older, with a face like a ledger book, all hard lines and calculation. He didn't mingle, he just observed around, his eyes missing nothing. Caleb memorized his face.
As he watched, his mind worked. He wasn't just scouting for Bronte. He was scouting for himself. That Lemoyne plantation owner might be over leveraged. The noisy industrialist boasting about his factory might be ripe for a partnership or a hostile takeover. The politician… every one was a potential key to unlock future doors.
This was the true game. Not just winning poker hands, but winning influence. The table inside would be about cards and tells. The real play was the web of connections, debts, and secrets in the room.
With his Poker skill maxed, his Acting and Persuasion sill flawless, and his Business skills sense humming, he was uniquely equipped to play both games simultaneously.
As the sky turned a deep indigo and the Grand Korrigan's lights blazed to life, casting a golden glow on the dark water, Caleb stood up. He brushed nonexistent lint from his sleeve, a final, subconscious check of his armor. The observer phase was over.
Now, it was time to step into the light. He walked toward the illuminated gangplank to enter the Grand Korrigan, and begsn his personal and Bronte's mission.
The polished gangplank of the Grand Korrigan gleamed under the electric lights, a bridge between the mundane world and a sphere of gilded artifice. As Caleb approached, two of Bronte's men in formal but subtly armed attire stood at attention.
They didn't ask for an invitation. They didn't pat him down. The taller of the two simply nodded, his voice a low murmur meant only for Caleb. "Signor McLaughlin. The boss is expecting you. Enjoy your evening."
The deference was absolute, the unspoken message clear. You are one of us, and above these others.
Caleb gave a brief, acknowledging nod and stepped onto the deck. Behind him, a murmur rippled through the queue of waiting guests, a portly banker in a silk waistcoat, a plantation owner's wife in an elaborate gown, a young dandy with a ridiculous mustache. They had been waiting, their invitations scrutinized.
This unknown man in the severe, beautiful suit had simply… walked on. Whispers bloomed like poisonous flowers. "Who is that?" "I've never seen him before." "Even Cornwall had to show his ticket last year…"
Caleb ignored them, the sounds fading as he absorbed the scene. The upper deck was alive with pre tournament mingling. Gentlemen puffed on cigars, their laughter sharp and practiced, ladies fanned themselves, their eyes darting with calculation beneath the guise of amusement.
The setting sun painted the Lannahechee River in hues of molten copper, a dramatic backdrop to the human theater.
He moved with purpose, not haste, through the crowd toward the main entrance to the gaming salon. Two more guards, these in the Korrigan's own navy and gold livery, flanked the ornate double doors.
They saw him coming, recognized the unspoken authority in his stride, and pulled the doors open in unison before he reached them. "Welcome aboard, sir. The tournament will commence shortly."
Caleb passed through with another nod, entering a short, plush carpeted hallway that muffled the outside sounds. At its end, he pushed through another set of doors and stepped into the heart of the beast.
It was exactly as he remembered from another life's pixels and code, yet infinitely more vivid. The grand salon was a cathedral of vice. A soaring ceiling with a stained glass skylight depicting vague nautical themes.
A long, polished mahogany bar ran along the back wall, its mirror reflecting a hundred glittering lights from the crystal chandeliers. To the right, the cashier's cage, its iron bars a stark reminder of the transaction at the heart of all this luxury.
Round green felt tables were arranged across the floor, awaiting the evening's battles. The air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco, French perfume, whiskey, and anticipation.
Laughter and conversation swirled in a constant, buzzing hum. Guards, discreet but watchful, stood at every door. A curved staircase led to a second floor balcony overlooking the room, presumably leading to private quarters.
He had only a moment to absorb it all before a man materialized at his side. He was dressed in a flamboyant crimson tailcoat, a man who blended the roles of majordomo and carnival barker. His smile was professional, his eyes shrewd.
"You must be Mr. McLaughlin," the man said, his voice a smooth baritone. "A pleasure. I am Alphonse Reynard. I have the… distinct honor of ensuring Mr. Bronte's floating enterprise runs smoothly tonight."
...
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: 3,465 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 192,892 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, & 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key
Bank: -