Actor

From the initial, polite airing of grievances to the roaring, full-blown, table-thumping arguments, Dutch Van der Linde and his formidable female workforce were truly, spectacularly, at each other's throats.

A unified phalanx of female workers, their faces etched with desperate sincerity, clamored to slash factory expenses, all so that their beloved Mr. Dutch Van der Linde could somehow, miraculously, earn more! Their fervent hope? To prevent the factory's unthinkable closure, which would surely hurl them back into the desolate, unforgiving hell of their former lives.

However, Dutch, his own face contorted in a mask of outraged disbelief, vehemently, almost violently, argued against any notion of cutting expenses. "Shit!" he'd roar, clutching his head. This, after all, was his most brilliant, most effective means of winning over hearts and minds! He certainly wasn't about to dig his own glorious grave for such a paltry, short-sighted profit!

The two sides clashed with such furious intensity that even the burly gunmen, dutifully patrolling outside, were drawn in by the sheer volume of the fracas. They burst through the doors, bewildered but resolute, immediately joining the workers' chorus, demanding that Mr. Van der Linde lower wages! Cut factory expenses! Eliminate free meals, free drinks, and, God forbid, free cigarettes!

Dutch could only huddle with Arthur, both of them red-faced and yelling, desperately using their collective status as "bosses" to try and suppress these damned, bewildering troublemakers.

Mr. Rhodes Brown, meanwhile, stood utterly frozen at the doorway, a living statue of bewildered petrification. He trembled, clutching the doorframe with the desperate grip of a drowning man, feeling a profound dizziness, as if the very fabric of reality had come unstitched before his eyes.

Shit! he thought, his mind reeling. Are these people even speaking human language? Why are these perfectly familiar words… completely reversed in their mouths?!

Are you… are you really human?! In his decades of life, Mr. Rhodes Brown had only ever heard of workers demanding increased wages, of strikes for better pay, never, not once, had he witnessed such a grotesque spectacle: workers practically begging for wage reductions! Shit! What in God's name was happening here?!

He recalled the comforting, logical savagery of the world he knew: Pinkerton Detectives gunning down striking workers for daring to demand higher pay, a massacre so 'normal' it earned them a government ban. Then, Mr. Cornwall, a pillar of industry, personally traveling by ship to Annesburg to deal with workers striking for increased wages—how utterly normal! How deliciously familiar was the stench of those honest, exploiting capitalists!

This was the normal world, wasn't it?

Why, then, was everything completely inverted when it came to Dutch Van der Linde?

He listened, aghast, as these damned workers spewed utter nonsense! They were desperately demanding reduced wages and longer working hours! They were even ganging up, forming a unified, intimidating front to pressure their boss, threatening to secretly work overtime together if he didn't agree! Are you speaking human language?!

And that damn Van der Linde! He was a boss! A capitalist, even! How could he possibly utter words that brought absolutely no material benefit to himself?

Just as Mr. Rhodes Brown felt his very sanity slipping, questioning the fundamental laws of existence, Dutch finally ran out of breath, his face crimson, and roared furiously, "Shit! You insubordinate troublemakers! None of what you say will pass! Damn it, from now on, the factory shed will be utterly locked after closing time! Let's see how you'll manage to secretly work at night, then!" He slapped his thigh with exasperated force.

"Oh, you're infuriating me beyond measure, Arthur, let's go!" Dutch grabbed Arthur by the arm, then, with surprising gentleness, took a still-petrified Mr. Brown by the elbow and practically dragged them out, leading them to the relative sanity of the second-floor balcony of the Shady Belle villa.

Only the workers remained in the factory shed, sighing dramatically, then gathering in conspiratorial huddles, already plotting how to pry open the lock and sneakily work overtime that very night. After all, they would rather die a thousand agonizing deaths than abandon this kind, this generous Mr. Van der Linde, who was always like a doting elder, and such a magnificent factory.

Clearly, Dutch's utterly unique method of showering kindness was still profoundly effective in this cynical, grasping era.

Settling onto a chair on the second-floor balcony, Mr. Brown raised the coffee cup on the table, took a deep, fortifying sip, and slowly, visibly, calmed the seismic shock in his heart. Still, a hint of genuine awe lingered in his voice as he spoke to Dutch beside him. "Oh, it's truly amazing, Mr. Van der Linde," he confessed, shaking his head. "I've never, ever seen such an amazing factory, nor have I ever witnessed such an utterly amazing relationship. I feel like you bosses aren't bosses at all; instead, you're like actual, blood relatives to those employees! Damn it, I've never seen such proactive and enthusiastic employees! Today has truly been an eye-opener. I think this management method holds a great deal to learn from. If such workers can be created, the wealth they create will clearly be far, far greater than that created by coerced, forced laborers! I imagine even Ms. Camille herself might specifically journey to Saint Denis just to glean wisdom from this… this revolutionary management method!"

Dutch laughed heartily, shaking his head with a knowing smile, a glint of shrewd calculation in his eyes. "No, Mr. Brown, no. This 'management method,' as you so flatteringly call it, is only truly suitable for the specific type of workers we meticulously select, and frankly, it's only truly suitable for our Van der Linde Gang. Overall, while there is some learnability, its broader application is, shall we say, limited."

'People who have been poor for half their lives easily find satisfaction and instinctively know how to be content; this, Mr. Brown, is the first, crucial reason. Second, the Van der Linde Gang, as you may have noticed, is not exactly a charitable organization either; our very presence instinctively instills a healthy awe in these workers' hearts, thereby subtly preventing the cancerous growth of their inner desires.'

"Alright, Mr. Brown," Dutch said, cutting off any further managerial philosophy, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a serious, businesslike tone. "We can discuss these… fascinating issues later. Let's first talk about matters of resource cooperation. As it stands, I can frankly explain our current resource situation to you, without any pretense."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air, building anticipation. "During our recent, shall we say, 'Suppression campaign' against the various unruly gangs in New Hanover, we made some rather fortuitous discoveries. We found three significant ore veins: one of arsenic and selenium ore, another of iron ore, and a third, of highly valuable copper ore. The total output value of these veins has not been fully estimated yet, but I can assure you, it's not expected to be small; at the very least, it's comparable in scale to the rather infamous Annesburg coal mine."

Dutch leaned back, a casual air about him, yet his eyes were sharp. "And these three mineral deposits, with the current strength of our nascent Van der Linde Gang, are frankly difficult for us to fully exploit in the short term. So, Mr. Brown, I want to seek cooperation with you. Or rather, with the Morgan Family. We can jointly develop these three highly lucrative mineral resources."

Finally. Finally. When business, cold, hard business, was mentioned, Mr. Brown's meandering thoughts instantly snapped into sharp focus. Listening to Dutch's revelation, Mr. Brown was suddenly, viscerally, startled.

He hadn't expected New Hanover to hide so many mineral deposits, especially not of this scale. Although they were described as "small mines," this was still wealth that simply could not be underestimated. After all, they were on the scale of the Annesburg coal mine. And the entire city of Saint Denis, and indeed all the coal transported and sold outwards from this region, all originated from the Annesburg coal mine.

Just as the Howling Wolf Gang, a mere bandit outfit, had been elevated to a completely different class from other gangs simply by possessing a gold mine, these three new mineral deposits were more than enough to ensure the Van der Linde Gang a truly formidable stream of long-term profits.

Mr. Brown's fingers, almost unconsciously, began to tap a rapid, calculating rhythm on the table. His expression became suddenly unreadable, a blank mask over a furiously calculating mind.

"So," he asked, his voice low and carefully controlled, a glint of pure avarice in his eyes, "how precisely do you propose we cooperate, Mr. Van der Linde?"