Plan WW

At the booming command of Mr. Van der Linde, his voice a thunderclap that echoed through their very bones, the entire population of Jon City fell into a state of bewildering madness and ecstatic excitement, their collective spirit igniting like dry tinder.

This era, Dutch knew, was the very zenith of unbridled capitalism, a monstrous, insatiable beast that ruthlessly oppressed the lower classes without restraint, grinding them beneath its heel. This very oppression, this stark injustice, also inadvertently led to the subsequent emergence of the powerful Red forces, a growing tide of rebellion, and, crucially, it presented Dutch with his best, most opportune moment to strike, to reshape the world.

A transformative tide, a phenomenon now colloquially called "Mr. Van der Linde's Wave," swept through Jon City with overwhelming force, pulling everyone into its current.

Out of over 300,000 people in Jon City, a full 30,000 were willingly, eagerly, taken by Mr. Van der Linde, embracing his vision of a new life. And among the remaining, a staggering 100,000 immediately joined Mr. Van der Linde's various work teams, abandoning their former lives for his promise.

The massive reclamation team was quickly established, its ranks swelling with eager volunteers. Groups of people, their faces grim but determined, headed out of Jon City, marching towards the vast, untamed lands, beginning to reclaim and cultivate the arid ground, plant crops, and tirelessly contribute to Mr. Van der Linde's burgeoning food storage warehouses.

Around Jon City, a flurry of activity erupted as groups of skilled workers tirelessly processed and assembled the felled trees, transforming raw timber into sturdy wooden structures, raising houses for themselves to live in.

Everyone was impassioned, their movements fueled by a fierce excitement, an almost religious fanaticism. Their faces shone with a zeal that bordered on madness.

Although the crops they planted belonged, legally, to Mr. Van der Linde, a minor detail, they could still freely eat them, feeding their families! And, to their astonishment, they also received steady wages. Those building the wooden houses were even more excited, their hammers ringing with a joyous rhythm, because the very houses they built, plank by plank, nail by nail, were for them, for their families, to live in. Building their own homes and getting paid for it—who in their right mind wouldn't be happy, wouldn't be ecstatic?!

The lifeless, despairing Jon City, once a ghost of its former self, burst forth with new, vibrant vitality, a resurrection. And such massive construction was certainly a long-term plan, a grand undertaking, requiring at least half a year to truly get on track, to fully hum with efficiency.

And Mr. Van der Linde, of course, with his vast ambitions, could not stay here for half a year. He had a world to conquer.

"Buzzing…" Accompanied by the deep, resonant sound of the oil tanker's whistle, a mournful, yet hopeful, cry, Mr. Van der Linde finally embarked on his journey home, sailing towards Saint Denis with Mr. Arthur Morgan and Mr. John Marston, leaving Jon City transformed in his wake.

Bill and Javier, left behind, stayed in Jon City to follow Hosea in the arduous construction of Jon City, their boots sinking into the new earth, and also to learn a few things, to absorb the principles of this new order.

Arthur and John, however, returned with him to the opulent, bustling Saint Denis, a city now firmly under Dutch's subtle, unseen control.

"Choo Choo Choo…"

With the familiar, rhythmic sound of a train whistle, its steam hissing, a heavy coal train pulled slowly, ponderously, into the Saint Denis train station, its cars laden with black gold. And, with a newfound vigor, groups of laborers quickly stepped forward, their faces alight, to begin moving the coal from the train, their shovels glinting in the sun.

Compared to the exhausted, despondent laborers who had toiled there before, their bodies slumped with weariness, today's laborers, though doing the very same backbreaking work, all had genuine smiles on their faces.

Because compared to before, their meager wages had not only doubled, but they also possessed a clear, tangible hope for their lives, a future they could almost grasp.

"Hahaha, Jenny, my son got first place in his class on this exam, a real whiz!" a burly laborer, Robinson, beamed, elbowing his friend. "His teacher said that if he can maintain such grades, he will definitely be selected as a student for Mr. Van der Linde's Research Institute in the future! Can you believe it?!"

"Oh, sh*t! A student of the Research Institute?" Jenny exclaimed, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping. "Oh, Robinson, you've made it, buddy, you've truly made it! Damn it, the Research Institute pays at least two hundred dollars a month, and even students, I heard, get a fifty-dollar subsidy every month! Oh, sh*t! How old is your son, Robinson? He's only fourteen and he can earn fifty dollars a month, just for studying?!"

"Hahahahaha, oh, buddy, I haven't been able to sleep these past two nights, not a wink, I'm just too excited, too damn happy." Robinson rubbed the back of his neck, his face radiating pure joy. "If it weren't for Mr. Van der Linde, how could we have such a wonderful life now, eh?! It's a miracle!"

"Oh, I'm so jealous of you, Robinson." Jenny sighed, a wistful look on her face. She patted her own daughter's head. "My daughter isn't very good at studying, so I think I'll let her study medicine. That way, she can have an easier job when she follows Mr. Van der Linde, a comfortable life."

The workers' cheerful chatter filled the entire station, a symphony of contentment, and a simple, profound happiness seemed to permeate their lives. This was already the best life of this era, a true paradise, at least for ordinary people, for those who once had nothing.

The gas streetlights on the streets of Saint Denis were bright, casting a warm, inviting glow, and the streets were bustling with pedestrians, far more numerous and visibly prosperous than when Dutch and his gang first arrived in Saint Denis seven or eight months ago, a stark comparison.

Perhaps many people's clothes were not exquisite or luxurious, not the height of fashion, but they were still decent, clean, and well-mended. They might not have much money left after necessities, but the good life and their reliable monthly wages still made them willing to occasionally stop at a fragrant pastry shop to buy one or two small items, a sweet indulgence. Or perhaps they would enter a nearby billiard hall or an entertainment venue for a small indulgence, playing a couple of boisterous games of billiards or gracefully dancing a social dance, and enjoying a cheap yet fragrant cup of coffee, savoring the simple pleasures.

The beggars and paupers of seven or eight months ago, who had once haunted the streets, had completely vanished, as if spirited away by magic. The streets were clean and tidy, meticulously kept, with elderly or disabled sanitation workers occasionally passing by with brooms, diligently performing their duties, their faces content.

Gunmen wearing Van der Linde Gang uniforms, their rifles held at the ready, stood guard at every intersection, their presence a silent assurance of order. The streets were utterly devoid of lurking gang members and petty thieves. Everyone was visibly happy and healthy, and there were no problems even if they left their doors unlocked at night, their homes safe from intrusion.

Everyone could live a peaceful but hopeful and stable life through their own honest efforts, a profound change from the past.

This was Saint Denis under the benevolent, yet firm, rule of Mr. Van der Linde, and a living, breathing microcosm of Mr. Van der Linde's transformative will.

The poor people of Lemoyne and New Hanover, many of whom were illiterate, likely didn't understand the complex content of Mr. Van der Linde's Red Book or its underlying philosophical metaphors. They only knew, with a simple, profound certainty, that after Mr. Van der Linde arrived, they began to live good lives, prosperous and secure.

That was all they needed to know, yet it was a powerful, unifying consensus among everyone, an unshakeable belief in Dutch's benevolence.

Bright, welcoming lights illuminated the grand entrance of Van der Linde Manor, casting a golden glow, and the gunmen standing rigidly at the door were on high alert, vigilant of every movement around them, their eyes scanning the night.

The polished pocket watches on their chests reflected a metallic sheen under the lights, and Mr. Van der Linde's cherished, iconic wanted poster was well protected within a sturdy iron casing, so much so that even the heaviest rain could not penetrate it, a symbol of defiance.

The study on the second floor of the villa was brightly lit, a beacon in the night. Mr. Van der Linde, having meticulously put his glasses back on, perched on the bridge of his nose, had just finished writing his latest, ambitious development plan. He looked up from his papers, a weary but satisfied sigh escaping him, and called for his most loyal, most trusted servant.

"Arthur, Arthur!"

"I hear you, Dutch!" Arthur's voice sounded, a little muffled but clear, from downstairs, followed by the quick, familiar thud of his heavy boots on the stairs as he ascended.

"Click!" The door moved, swinging open, and Arthur, who had changed into a surprisingly flashy golden suit, its fabric shimmering, walked in from outside the room, a sight to behold.

He even wore a ridiculous monocle on his face, perched precariously, with a golden chain draped down to his golden suit, creating a bizarre style that was a bewildering mix of ruffian and gentleman. The first glance Dutch took made him curse aloud, a genuine outburst of amused exasperation.

"Oh, sh*t! Arthur, what kind of sh*t clothes are you wearing, you goddamn dandy?!" Dutch exclaimed, throwing his hands up in mock despair.

"These aren't my clothes, Dutch, these are Marston's! The idiot's!" Arthur retorted instantly, throwing John under the carriage with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "Oh, sh*t, I knew Marston's clothes were sh*t, always have been, and he didn't agree with me. See, now you think so too, the proof's in the pudding!" Arthur then proceeded to curse John fiercely, with a grand, theatrical flourish.

"Alright, Arthur, let's not talk about that for now, my boy." Dutch waved his hand dismissively, a small chuckle escaping him. He stood up from behind the imposing desk, walked over to Arthur, and patted him firmly on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie.

"Listen, son," Dutch began, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone, his eyes locking onto Arthur's, "although our previous plan, all our efforts, have been remarkably successful, it's far from enough. We need to keep working hard, keep planning, keep pushing the boundaries. The world doesn't stand still, my boy."

He leaned in, a conspiratorial glint in his eye, his voice filled with a quiet excitement. "Now I have a new plan, Arthur, a truly new plan! A grand design! I need you to continue to cooperate with my plan, to be my right hand in this endeavor."

Dutch pulled back slightly, his arms sweeping wide, encompassing the unseen world beyond the room. "Arthur, I have a plan, a big plan! A truly new plan, a vision that will shake the very foundations of this world!"

Sh*t! Arthur thought, rubbing his temple with a slight headache, a familiar throb starting behind his eyes, as soon as he heard Dutch's ominous words. The phrase "new plan" always signaled a fresh wave of chaos.

Damn it, he has a plan again! Arthur inwardly groaned. Why does he always have a plan? How did his brain even develop, the man's a bloody marvel of twisted genius! Why does Marston never have a plan, a simple, predictable fellow?

"Oh… alright, Dutch, alright!" Arthur sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping in resignation, then sat heavily on the plush sofa in front of Dutch's desk, bracing himself. "Let me hear your plan then, you mad genius!"

Arthur didn't actively resist Dutch having a plan now; he knew it was futile, a force of nature. But Dutch's plans were mainly just too goddamn crazy, too audacious, which made him increasingly alarmed, sending shivers of apprehension down his spine.

He felt the initial clothing sales plan was normal enough; although unexpected, it was understandable, a shrewd business move. But then, in a blink of an eye, Dutch was planning to seize the distant Guarma to manufacture weapons, a grand, colonial scheme.

Manufacturing weapons was fine, as it had been mentioned before, part of their natural progression. But then, in a blink of an eye, there was another crazy plan to build a series of impenetrable bunkers in New Hanover and Lemoyne, turning them into fortresses.

Building bunkers wasn't the end; as soon as the bunkers were built, they were preparing to militarily assault Saint Denis, the very heart of civilization, a blatant declaration of war.

This was still not the end; in a blink of an eye, he was planning to go to Mexico to forcibly sell weapons and take away the very people of Mexico, enslaving them for his grand design.

These various plans were linked one after another, forming a terrifying, relentless chain of events, but when unraveled, when looked at individually, each one was found to be exceptionally crazy, utterly insane! This level of madness far exceeded the relatively simple intensity of their previous bank robberies and train robberies. This was something far, far grander, far more dangerous.

This even made Arthur feel that Dutch might just be expressing his inner, untamed madness, his megalomania, rather than truly trying to stand at the forefront of civilization, to be a benevolent leader.

Arthur took a deep breath, mentally prepared, wondering what fresh, crazy plan Dutch would come up with this time. He braced himself for the inevitable.

Could it be that he was preparing to send troops to occupy West Elizabeth and New Austin, expanding his dominion even further? Or perhaps send troops directly to the American East, to challenge the very heart of the nation? Arthur felt a flicker of grim amusement; nothing Dutch said would truly shock him now.

Arthur felt that he was starting to become immune to Dutch's crazy plans, his senses dulled by the sheer audacity. And then, he heard Dutch, with a solemn, almost reverent expression, speak from behind the desk, his voice calm, utterly devoid of humor: "Arthur, we are going to start a world war, son!"

"Okay, Dutch, then… what? Dutch, what in the goddamn hell did you just say?!"

Arthur, who had originally thought he would no longer be shocked by Dutch's madness, that he had reached the peak of his tolerance for absurdity, abruptly came to his senses, his mind reeling, and realized, with a sickening lurch, that he was utterly, profoundly wrong.

How could Dutch not be crazy? This was beyond crazy!

Crazy, too f*cking crazy!

Arthur jumped directly from the sofa, his body jolting violently, his eyes never having been so wide, stretched to their limit, his face filled with pure, unadulterated terror. He stared at Dutch, who sat calmly behind the desk, with an utter dread that gnawed at his gut.

"What? Dutch, what the hell did you just say?! Start a world war?! Oh, sh*t! Sh*t! Sh*t! Dutch, do you know what you're talking about? Are you out of your goddamn mind? Oh, damn it, Dutch, listen to me, Dutch, I know our strength has indeed grown stronger recently, I know your plans always, inexplicably, succeed, but, but this time it's different! Dutch, a world war? Are you goddamn kidding me?! We can't possibly have that much power, that much influence! Oh, I mean we'll all die! Every last man jack of us will be annihilated!"

Arthur was so profoundly shocked internally that he almost peed his pants, a cold trickle of fear running down his leg, but his words, despite his terror, still meticulously maintained respect for Dutch, his loyalty unwavering even in the face of apparent madness.

He didn't even dare to say Dutch's plan was outright crazy, merely "extravagant."

Oh, sh*t, Arthur thought, a grim, self-aware chuckle in his mind, only Dutch Van der Linde could make the notoriously reckless Arthur Morgan have so many goddamn reservations, so many unspoken fears.

"Hahaha, Arthur, I know what you're thinking, son," Dutch laughed heartily, a booming sound that filled the room, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He stood up from his chair, a graceful movement, then walked over to Arthur and gently patted his shoulder, a reassuring touch.

"A world war, Arthur, how can that not be crazy? It's a concept that defies reason! But in reality, this is something we can truly achieve, something within our grasp, Arthur."

Dutch then strode to his desk and, with a flourish, took a large, polished globe from its stand, then placed it carefully in front of Arthur, spinning it slowly.

"Arthur, look here." Dutch's voice was calm, instructional, his gaze fixed on the spinning globe. "I know you might not understand what I'm about to say, my boy, but saying it, explaining it, will undoubtedly alleviate many of your concerns, and calm your racing heart."

He traced a finger across the European continent. "The contradictions between the various countries in Europe are already very deep, festering wounds, ready to erupt. Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Italy have already formed a formidable alliance, a pact of steel. Germany has long harbored aggressive ambitions, wanting to act against Britain, the global superpower, to gain more international and colonial interests, more wealth, more power."

Dutch's finger moved to a date. "Arthur, although we've been robbing and building our empire for the past few years, we've been diligently following international news, absorbing every whispered rumor. Many years ago, many shrewd people speculated that the countries of Europe were inevitably about to engage in a devastating battle; this is the only path for old capitalism to transform into a new, brutal empire! So, even without our instigation, this war would still happen, a natural progression, and all we need to do is strategically advance this battle by a few years, to accelerate the inevitable!"

He looked Arthur in the eye, his voice brimming with conviction. "Son, we now have Tanks, powerful armored machines, and soon airplanes will also be truly researched and invented, taking to the skies, transforming warfare forever. But technological progress is not just happening with us; the countries of Europe and the American East are also progressing rapidly, building their own arsenals! Our contradictions with the American East, their capitalist system, are irreconcilable; a capitalist country cannot tolerate our very existence, our revolutionary ideals! So we need to take the initiative when our firepower and technology have an undeniable advantage, to strike first, in order to completely take over the entire America, to claim it as our own!"

Dutch's voice dropped, becoming hushed, conspiratorial, yet filled with a chilling logic. "And the reason I want to advance this world war is simple: to take advantage of our strong technology and overwhelming firepower, and America's current weak national power, to directly take over America in one fell swoop, while cleverly using the world war as a massive, global cover for us, so that those damned Europeans will be too busy, too preoccupied with their own bloody conflicts, to manage American affairs, letting their attention be drawn completely by the war, thus minimizing the external impact we endure, the international repercussions!"

He patted Arthur's shoulder again, a final, reassuring touch. "Arthur, this is my plan, son, my grand design, but don't worry too much. We can first sell Tanks to Germany, that burgeoning military power, to accelerate his confidence inflation, to fuel his ambition, thereby speeding up the world war!"

Dutch spoke very vaguely, mainly because he couldn't be too verbose, couldn't give away too many details of his intricate long-term planning. Secondly, he knew that even if he explained it in more meticulous detail, Arthur, bless his heart, wouldn't fully understand the complex intricacies, the geopolitical nuances, because this group of outlaws simply didn't have that kind of strategic awareness, nor had they been trained in such matters since childhood.

So he only needed to tell Arthur that this was a well-thought-out, highly speculative, and meticulously detailed plan, a grand scheme, which would let Arthur know that his plan was not baseless or merely a terrifying sign of madness, but a calculated gamble.

Most importantly, he wanted Arthur to know that his plan had only one crucial point: to sell Tanks to Germany, not to participate directly in the world war itself.

Just that single point alone was enough for Arthur. Who cares who you sell weapons to? Arthur reasoned. Dutch said to sell them to Germany to accelerate the progress of the world war, so let him sell them! As long as he wasn't dragging them into a world war or taking on the world alone! That was the critical distinction.

So, as Dutch explained, Arthur nodded, half-understanding, his brow still furrowed in confusion, and frowned as he looked at Dutch, saying: "Alright, Dutch. I don't quite understand what in the blazes you're saying, you know, I don't pay much attention to international affairs. My head spins with all that talk. But since you already have a plan, and it sounds like what we need to do isn't very dangerous, not a suicide mission, then by God, let's go with what you said! Oh, a world war, you really scared the sh*t out of me a bit there, Dutch!" Arthur let out a shaky, relieved breath.