Eagle Soars

Arthur, a grim shadow against the Saint Denis sun, led Rains Falls and his son, Flying Eagle, towards the bustling heart of their new empire: the clothing store.

Inside, the air thrummed with a frenetic energy. The twelve newly recruited girls, already scrubbed clean and fed, moved like a well-oiled machine under Dutch's watchful eye. He hovered, a benevolent, slightly manic conductor of a human orchestra.

"Oh, Ms. Avril, these clothes, on the mannequins, now!" Dutch commanded, his voice a crisp snap. He gestured with a flourish, his eyes darting from garment to garment. "And you, dear," he pointed with a dramatic finger, "iron these clothes flat, until they gleam! We want not a single wrinkle, not a single flaw for the discerning ladies and gentlemen who will grace our establishment!"

The girls, barely out of their teens and twenties, transformed. After their ritualistic washing and donning the crisp, beautiful uniforms, they were radiant. Malnutrition had made them thin, yes, but their striking European features—the wide, hopeful eyes, the elegant nose bridges—now shone.

Dutch, of course, had selected them for their beauty, and draped in the store's finest, they truly were captivating.

Strawberry, Valentine, Rhodes, and Saint Denis. Four outposts, three girls in each, meticulously chosen not just for their looks, but for their sheer, unadulterated desperation.

The sheer volume of clothing Dutch was about to unleash would dictate their earnings, a cunning safeguard against any sticky fingers. These girls, plucked from the very maw of destitution, clung to this opportunity like a starving kittens. Stealing? From this? Never. They'd rather lose an arm than ruin their golden future.

"Clap, clap, clap!" Dutch's hands came together sharply, the sound cutting through the industrious hum, drawing every startled gaze.

"Girls, hold your horses for a moment! Gather 'round!" He gestured them closer, his expression suddenly serious, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "I have a few… instructions… to bestow upon you."

He paused for effect, letting the anticipation build. "Firstly, our clothing store doesn't just hawk clothes; more importantly, it sells service. So, beyond ensuring your own immaculate appearance, you must cultivate politeness, diligence, and a charm that could melt a glacier. Each store has three staff members. Your task is not merely to organize goods and sell garments, but to provide a level of service that will make our patrons question their very existence before us." Dutch straightened, puffing out his chest.

"Picture this: you'll see our esteemed guests through the glass before they even enter! So, one of you, with the grace of a startled gazelle, needs to proactively open the door and utter those sacred words: 'Welcome.' If several guests arrive, or if a patron has companions, then you must serve them a cup of our finest coffee. They can rest their weary bones while their associates shop, feeling utterly pampered."

He waved a hand towards the elegant tables.

"These tables here? They're not just for show. They're for guests, and for our… feminist enlightenment meetings. The coffee and hot water must be perpetually replenished, steaming and ready for anyone who desires a sip. Our clothing is the foundation, girls, but service is our channel for advancement. You're not just selling dresses; you're building a brand! You're serving our customers so well, they'll write ballads about you!"

He paused again, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. The girls were hanging on his every word, their faces a mixture of confusion and rapt attention.

"For this, I have specially prepared a rather… motivational… welfare benefit for you." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Starting from our grand opening tomorrow, for every piece of clothing you sell, I will give you a ten-cent(cent not percent) commission! This will be equally divided among the three of you in the shop.

Understand? This means if you can sell ten pieces of clothing in a single day, your commission for that day alone will be one dollar! And for a full month, that's thirty dollars in commission! Add that to your base salary, and each of you could earn an income of up to thirty-five dollars per month!"

Dutch threw his hands wide, a grand, sweeping gesture. "Girls, I have paved the path for you! Your glorious future, my dears, is now entirely forged by your own nimble fingers and charming smiles!"

His speech, initially met with polite nods, ended in an absolute explosion of raw, primal joy. The moment the commission was uttered, it shattered their composure. They lost their minds, shrieking, some even jumping up and down in frantic ecstasy.

"Oh, if we sell ten pieces a day, we can get ten dollars commission each month?" one girl gasped, tears streaming down her face. "Oh my God! If there is a God, then please protect Mr. Dutch!"

"Mama," another wailed, collapsing onto a chair, her shoulders heaving, "if I could have found this job sooner, you wouldn't have… wouldn't have…" Her voice dissolved into heartbroken sobs.

" Mr. Dutch! Thank you mr. Dutch!!!" a third cried, reaching out as if to embrace him.

Dutch looked at the girls below, their faces flushed, some openly weeping, others practically vibrating with an energy that threatened to make them spontaneously combust. He couldn't help but feel a profound, self-satisfied smugness.

Capitalists in this era were trying to exploit the poor into an early grave; when had these wretched souls ever been treated with such magnanimity? He leaned back, a small, knowing smile on his face. If someone wanted to kill Dutch now, these girls would be the first to form a living shield, absorbing every bullet!

The carrot and stick system, he mused, was always the most potent motivator, the clearest path to shaping employee behavior.

Before, they might have entertained thoughts of slacking off, but now? Not a chance. Not when every stitch, every smile, every polished button directly translated into more coin in their own pockets. And the shop rating commission?

That was the brilliant stroke. If one person slacked off, if their laziness dared to impact another's income, a furious internal policing would erupt. They'd report, they'd demand, they'd actively ensure everyone pulled their weight.

That, my friends, was the beautiful, brutal essence of competitiveness. Divide the profits, maximize initiative. Share them equally, ignite fierce competition. This was Dutch's particular brand of nurturing. And if anyone dared to cause trouble, to show dissatisfaction? Well, the Van der Linde Gang would ensure they got a belly full of lead. Simple as that.

"Alright, girls, back to work! Our clothing store opens tomorrow, and the other three stores will officially open the day after tomorrow, once we return." Dutch clapped his hands again, a signal.

Like a flick of a switch, the twelve girls instantly threw themselves back into their tasks, their movements infused with a newfound, almost desperate zeal.

Just then, the tightly closed door of the clothing store shuddered. A series of firm, deliberate knocks echoed through the silence. "Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock."

Dutch turned his head, a furrow of confusion creasing his brow. Hosea, John, and Charles were off helping Marko relocate his mad scientist laboratory. The O'Shea girls were with Ms. Dorothea, charming the breeches off Saint Denis's upper-crust women. So who in the blazes could it be?

His confusion, however, vanished the moment the door swung open.