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...
Between negotiating with Bronte and burying four bodies, the day had drained him to the core. As his eyes closed, his thoughts wandered, about Bronte, about the key marked F.F., about the growing influence he could leverage inside this city. He drifted off with a single thought echoing in his head. "Step by step, climb the ladder, until I'm the one holding all the strings."
The next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains. The sounds of Saint Denis had already begun outside—the distant hiss of trams, the chatter of morning vendors, and the rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestone. Caleb stretched, the memory of last night hazy but satisfying. Bronte's task was done. Then his stomach growled immediately, he hadn't eaten since before the Bronte meeting.
He strapped on his Litchfield Repeater and slung it across his torso before heading downstairs. The Bastille was quieter now, the scent of whiskey replaced with the aroma of baked bread and butter for breakfast alongside coffee. Ezra wasn't at the counter this time another bartender, a younger man with rolled up sleeves, greeted him with a nod.
"What'll it be, mister?"
Caleb leaned against the counter. "Two lobster bisques, some bread, and a bottle of beer."
The man raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Big appetite. That'll be 11 dollars, sir."
Caleb didn't hesitate. He pulled the money from his satchel and placed it neatly on the counter. "There you go,"he said simply.
The bartender pocketed the cash, fetched a bottle, popping the cap with a clean hiss, and slid it across to him. "It'll come right up."
Caleb catch the bottle, took a long swig, and let the bitterness roll down his throat. It grounded him, the simple pleasure of a drink before another long day.
It didn't take long for the food to arrive. The lobster bisque came steaming in porcelain bowls, the bread fresh and warm. Caleb ate in silence, occasionally glancing out the window at the flow of the city's morning life. Carriages rolled by, workers shouted at each other, and the world kept turning as if nothing had happened in the shadows of the graveyard.
By the time he finished, the hunger was gone, replaced with a familiar sense of purpose. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, stood, and adjusted his coat.
Outside, the city was already alive, carriages rattling, vendors shouting, the metallic hum of the tram echoing in the distance. Caleb hitched up his belt and walked toward the door, boots tapping lightly on the polished floor.
Morgan was waiting where he'd left her, tail swishing lazily, her ears twitching as she caught sight of him. He mounted up, the Litchfield glinting in the morning sun.
"Alright, girl," he said, clicking his tongue. "Time to earn our keep again."
They trotted down the bustling avenue toward the Saint Denis Police Station. Bronte's second request still lingered in his mind, clearing out the remaining three bounties. It wasn't just work anymore, it was strategy. Every job, every kill, every favor brought him one step closer to Bronte's inner circle.
And once he was in, he'd do what he always did best, observe, adapt, and eventually… replace.
He already knew who would come after Bronte, Guido Martelli, the underboss. He remembered what Charles had told John years later in another life. Martelli took Bronte's empire when the old man died. Caleb smiled faintly at that thought.
Caleb mounted up, the city crowd parting slightly as he guided her toward the police station. He rode past carriages, vendors selling morning paper, and groups of passerby gossiping about last night's events that have spread through the city, how police found something strange at the cemetery, but nothing was found to support it.
He allowed himself a small smile. Good.
He finally reached the Saint Denis Police Station after almost couple of minutes if riding through Saint Denis. He dismounted, tied Morgan at the hitching post, and walked through the double doors with purpose.
Inside, the air smelled of ink and cigars. He could see officers were busy writing reports behind the window glass, while exchanging chatter which most likely about last night's disturbances.
Caleb approached the desk officer who was here as well when he goes to take Weller and Doran bounties, before then bringing in those two alive. "Morning officer."
The desk officer looked up as Caleb approached, ink-stained fingers pausing over a stack of reports. He gave a short nod, recognition flickering through his features. "Morning, McLaughlin. You back so soon?"
Caleb returned the nod. "Yup. I'm takin' the rest of them bounties, all three. Figured better get 'em off the streets before anyone else gets hurt."
The officer's expression shifted from polite interest into something bordering on alarm. ''You sure you want to take all three of those bounties at once? I understand you're skilled, bringin' in Weller and Doran like that. But these other three... they're a different breed of nasty. The top one's more dangerous than Weller and Doran put together."
Caleb gave a low, confident chuckle. "I understand that, officer. But let's just say I don't like this cancerous side of society still roaming free. I like to do my part to make the world a little better. And getting paid for it is a win win situation."
The officer shook his head with a wry smile. "Well, whatever you say. I can't stop you. Just... keep your head on a swivel. I've done my part in warnin' you."
"Don't you worry," Caleb said, tipping his hat. "I know how to keep myself safe. I know my value to this city is growing." He gestured vaguely toward the station's interior. "After all, I know several other bounty hunters failed to bring in even one of the original five. Then I come along and bring in two alive. I'd say my track record speaks for itself."
The officer snorted but didn't argue. "Just don't get cocky, mister. Cocky gets you dead."
Caleb just smiled and turned to the bounty board. The three remaining posters were still there, their promised rewards significantly higher. He read each one carefully.
· $300 - George Hackshaw: Leaders of an organized outlaw gang called the Hackshaw Brothers. Wanted for armed robbery, murder, and racketeering. Considered extremely dangerous and well armed. WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE.
· $250 - Chen Lei: A Chinese smuggler dealing in opium and other illicit goods. Wanted for smuggling, bribery, and suspected murder. Operates out of the Saint Denis docks. WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE.
· $200 - "The Saint Denis Phantom": A serial killer. No known name. Sketch based on eyewitness accounts. Victims are found with two small puncture wounds on the neck, completely drained of blood. WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE.
Caleb's attention snagged on the last one. The description, the two small holes, the blood drainage, triggered a memory from his past life. Roaming the alleys of Saint Denis as Arthur Morgan, he had encountered a gaunt, pale stranger who spoke of immortality and drank blood. A vampire. It seemed the folktale was a grim reality in this world.
He carefully took down all three posters, folded them, and returned to the desk officer. "Tell me everything you got. I want locations. Last seen. Any particular habits. Who's been asking after them. Lay it out plain."
The officer appreciated the directness. He rattled off the latest from the blotter and patrol notes, the kind of rough, practical map a city policeman keeps in his head.
"The first one was the Hackshaw leader. Name's George Hackshaw. Last seen with two of his brothers and a handful of men on the rail yards near the west branch. They been robbing shipments, muscle for some out of town crooks. Seen castin' about in the old freight sheds. Patrols tried to push them back last month, they set a trap on a night raid and cut two officers to ribbons. Not a small fight. You'll want numbers, quiet strategy, maybe smoke."
Caleb's jaw tightened. George Hackshaw, leader of the Hackshaw brothers, already painted an image in his head, a man used to being feared. He made a mental mark, rail yards, western branch, freight sheds, traps.
"Good to know," he said. "Next?"
"Next would be Chen Lei. He deals in opiates, stolen goods, and sometimes the more… exotic cargo. He moves stuff out through the docks and certain warehouse fronts. He keeps a safe house in the Chinese quarter sometimes, sometimes a back shop in the market. Hard to pin 'cause he uses fronts and his men are ghosts. Be careful, he's got knives and friends in low places."
Caleb nodded. Chinese quarter, docks, market fronts. He pictured the fence he'd sold his haul to yesterday, the shadow network was thicker than most, and Chen would be slippery.
"And the Saint Denis shadow?" Caleb prompted.
The officer's face went a shade paler. He lowered his voice, as if the walls had ears. "That's the odd one. Victims found mostly in the slums and alleyways near the Riverfront and a couple near the theatre district. Two small punctures in the neck, look ain't pretty. Witnesses either see a shadow, some bloke in a coat, or a man with sharp teeth. Other witnesses say nothing, they hear a rustle, a whisper."
"One patrol found someone runnin' from an alley at midnight with blood on his collar, he ran when they shouted, vanished into the tram crowd. We posted eye sketches, but none match real faces consistently. Could be a serial killer who drains blood, could be a costume, could be a trickster. Either way, it's dangerous. If it's what the slum folk whisper, then it's worse, because the man moves at night and picks places where folks don't notice."
He kept his face neutral. "Where did the last eyewitness put him?" he asked.
"Near the shipping quay off Lower Flavian last week. But yesterday a vendor in the market heard screams near the theatre alley at night. So intermittent. It's the sort who hides in plain sight and works in the dark. Start near the places people vanish. Hit the slums at night and keep your eyes open. And for the love of the Lord, don't go alone into those alleys with only a lantern."
Caleb let the advice settle. He owed the man a nod. "Thanks. I'll be careful. One thing, if I don't come back in a while, let people know I didn't fail for want of trying."
The officer gave a short, sour laugh and shoved a scrap of paper across the counter. "If you go missing for too long, we'll assume one of two things, you got yourself killed by the bastards on that board, or you decided the city's too hot and skipped town. Either way, we'll send men after you if we think it's viable. Chief wants these off the streets, but we're stretched. You bring them in alive, there's bonus. If not, well… don't let that be how you're remembered."
Caleb flipped the scrap open with a thumb and read the factual bits the officer had written down, last seen coordinates, names, a few anonymous tips. He thanked the man and slid the paper into his coat. "Thank you, officer. I'll be back with them," he said.
"I'll be here," the officer replied. "Remember if you don't come back in a reasonable time, we'll have to assume you failed."
Caleb gave a final wave as he left the station. His mind was made up. He would hunt the vampire one first. The supernatural element presented a unique challenge, and its urban hunting grounds were closest. But a regular knife or bullet might not be enough. He knew the stories of vampires after all, better safe than sorry.
Instead of heading straight for the slums, he guided Morgan toward the Saint Denis market. He found a vendor selling firewood and selected a sturdy, foot long piece of seasoned oak. Paying a few cents for it, he found a quiet corner and drew his Civil War Knife. With precise, practiced strokes, he began to whittle one end of the wood into a sharp, pointed stake.
It was a precaution, born of knowledge from his world. If guns and knives failed to immobilize the creature, he would resort to folklore. With the crude but effective wooden stake tucked securely into his belt, he mounted Morgan and turned her toward the decaying, gas lit heart of Saint Denis's slums. The hunt for the vampire had begun.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 6/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 3)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 3)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 3)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 2)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 1)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 3)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Germanic Language Proficiency (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 3)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,859 dollars and 70 cents
Inventory: 104,369 dollars and 72 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 64 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
Bank: -