Meyer

A ludicrously luxurious carriage, emblazoned with a proud, gilded German eagle, hurtled down the very middle of the road, scattering lesser folk and their dusty wagons like frightened pigeons. Its urgent destination: the improbable grandeur of Van der Linde Manor, a testament to Dutch's audacity.

Inside, Grand Duke Meyer, a man whose very posture reeked of inherited arrogance and the stale air of European nobility, peered disdainfully out at the sprawling, humid chaos of Saint Denis. He occasionally deigned to converse, with an imperious tilt of his head, with his meticulously groomed assistant and general, Mr. Wolf, who sat rigidly beside him, a perfect picture of sycophantic obedience.

"Saint Denis," Meyer drawled, a sneer twisting his aristocratic lips into a thin, contemptuous line, "this city is simply too goddamn small and utterly dilapidated. Dammit, Wolf, this entire place, America, is practically a rural town! Oh no, it's far more ridiculous than a mere small town; it's a sprawling, unkempt barnyard, fit only for livestock!" He sniffed disdainfully, waving a gloved hand in the general direction of the bustling, vibrant streets, as if shooing away a bothersome fly.

Grand Duke Meyer's posture was a masterclass in inherited arrogance, a stiff, unyielding disdain that emanated from his very pores. If the troops led by Old Hitler in World War II were forged in a crucible of grim rigor and cold, desperate efficiency, then the troops led by Kaiser Wilhelm in World War I were marinated in a sauce of pure, unadulterated arrogance and condescending superiority. Their very marching seemed to imply disdain for the ground beneath them.

The fundamental, true reason they ignited that hellish inferno known as World War I was that their current, bloated development could no longer satisfy their insatiable needs, their boundless greed. They were like spoiled children demanding more toys. So, they yearned to launch a war, a grand, bloody adventure, to seize benefits from others' territories, to expand their coffers and their empires.

If the upper leadership of Germany hadn't possessed such colossal, blind arrogance, such a festering sense of self-entitlement, they wouldn't have harbored the sheer, unhinged audacity to even conceive of starting such a catastrophic war.

If World War I was a vulgar grab for benefits, a naked land-grab for the sake of plunder, then World War II was the grim, desperate resistance of an entire nation, fighting for its very survival. Therefore, Germany in World War II was rigorous, cold, and a terrifying convergence of the iron will of the entire nation.

And World War I? That was just a pack of warmongering fat cats wanting to make a bloody fortune, nothing more.

Thus, Grand Duke Meyer's monumental, utterly unquestioning arrogance was on full, glorious display, a monument to his class.

"Of course, Your Excellency Meyer," Mr. Wolf echoed, nodding vigorously, his eyes gleaming with sycophantic agreement, practically bowing from his seat. "The only conceivable value of this… place… is that so-called Tank. Even the researchers here wouldn't be on the same intellectual level as our glorious countrymen! They're mere bumpkins, fit to polish our boots!" He puffed out his chest slightly, a man convinced of his own, and his nation's, inherent superiority.

"And this Mr. Dutch Van der Linde," Wolf continued, warming to his cruel jest, a thin, knowing smirk playing on his lips, "according to the rather dubious information we've gathered, he was nothing more than a common wanted criminal before. The great, the only possibility that these provincial Americans could research a Tank is that when he was being chased by the police, running like a cur, a thought similar to: 'Oh, heavens, if only there was an iron shell that could protect my worthless hide!' came to his primitive mind, leading to the bizarre idea of researching a Tank. Hahaha…"

Mr. Wolf's sarcasm was a finely honed blade, remarkably skillful; his cutting wit, his aristocratic disdain, could even be compared to Arthur Morgan's own acidic style, though perhaps with less raw venom and more calculated, refined cruelty.

Mr. Meyer was genuinely amused by this cutting remark. He threw his head back and laughed, a booming, arrogant sound that filled the carriage. "Hahaha, Mr. Wolf, you truly are a talent! A diamond in the rough! Oh, heavens, if only there was an iron shell that could protect me, oh, heavens, what a perfectly brilliant, utterly American idea! I see… oh, damn it, Wolf, are those the people we brought with us?! Tell me I'm mistaken, for God's sake!"

Grand Duke Meyer was mid-peal of hearty laughter, his face creased with mirth, but as his eyes casually swept over the passing scene, his laughter abruptly caught in his throat, dying into a choked gasp. He had caught sight of a team of uniformed gunmen, rifles held steady, passing by the carriage.

A grim column of Dutch's gunmen in crisp uniforms, their rifles gleaming, were escorting five disheveled individuals who clearly appeared to be criminals, clapped in irons, crammed into a grimy carriage, moving in the opposite direction from them.

Just looking at this scene, there was nothing particularly noteworthy to the casual observer, but the faces of these five miserable 'criminals' were chillingly, unmistakably, the faces of the very high-level spies they had brought with them from Germany! Their best, their brightest!

Hearing Grand Duke Meyer's strangled exclamation, Wolf quickly looked over, his eyes narrowing with a dawning horror, and sure enough, his blood ran cold: all five people in the carriage were indeed the high-level, meticulously trained spies they had just deployed!

Mr. Wolf's face darkened, turning a mottled purple with barely suppressed fury. His jaw clenched so tight, it looked like it might snap.

He was the main person in charge of this critical espionage mission, its architect, and now the people had just arrived, barely stepping foot on American soil, and were already caught, exposed, humiliated. Wasn't this a blatant, undeniable slap in his professional face? A public mockery of his skills?

Mr. Wolf looked at Grand Duke Meyer, whose face was now livid with outrage, veins throbbing visibly at his temples, and quickly bowed his head, apologizing profusely, his voice tight with mortification. "I am very sorry, Your Excellency Meyer, a grievous error! Please rest assured, I will go and bring them back right now, retrieve them with force if necessary!" He made a move to open the carriage door, his hand trembling slightly.

Grand Duke Meyer, however, waved a dismissive hand, a sharp, imperious gesture, stopping Wolf cold. His eyes gleamed with a calculating, predatory light.

"No! Mr. Wolf, desist! We are about to discuss business, paramount business. If we bring them back at this very moment, if we show such weakness, we will be at a severe, undeniable disadvantage in the negotiations. It would be a foolish tactical error."

Meyer's lips curled into a thin, cold smile, devoid of mirth. "So, leave these imbeciles alone for now, and we'll talk about it after we meet Mr. Dutch Van der Linde. On the contrary, these five people can become a subtle asset for our negotiations this time. A rather useful bargaining chip, wouldn't you say?"

He leaned back, a glint of cruel amusement in his eye. "If Mr. Dutch Van der Linde dares to act against them, to mistreat them, then it will be our turn to take the initiative, to seize the upper hand. Hehehe, it seems that Mr. Dutch Van der Linde is also a person with some capability, a cunning fox indeed."

Grand Duke Meyer sneered, a harsh, humorless sound that chilled the air.

He didn't care at all about the miserable lives of these five captured spies; he cared far more about the strategic value these five expendable people could provide to Germany, their utility in a cynical game of power. They were tools, nothing more.

Although it was undeniably their fault for sending spies into Dutch's territory, international relations, Meyer knew, were not based on moral character or petty ethics. In a barbaric, uncivilized place like the American West, even if the bumpkins there caught their sophisticated spies from Germany, they would still have to treat them well, by God, and then return them properly, meticulously, lest they provoke a global incident, a diplomatic scandal.

If Mr. Dutch Van der Linde dared to use torture, dared to lay a single harsh hand on these spies, then they, Germany, would need to carefully observe the strength of Dutch's methods, to see how much insolence he truly possessed.

That's right, Meyer thought, a chilling truth: you caught my spy, but that's your fault for being too competent. This is the true, brutal reality of international diplomacy.

If it were Britain or France who caught the spy now, then killing him would be nothing; everyone would just pretend they hadn't discovered the issue, a silent agreement among gentlemen.

But if it were some pathetic, powerless African tribe who caught their German spy now, then sorry, it's entirely your problem if you don't treat him well, if you dare to touch him. Germany would flatten their entire village in retaliation, leaving not a trace.

And now, Mr. Van der Linde also has to face this uncomfortable, unspoken problem, this delicate balance of power.

Grand Duke Meyer's utterly unreasonable attitude was, in his mind, the most normal, most effective stance in international relations, a clear demonstration of imperial might.

Before long, the carriage, having navigated the bustling streets, slowly pulled up to the grand, imposing entrance of Van der Linde Manor.

Mr. Dutch Van der Linde was already waiting there, a lone figure of casual power, his silhouette framed by the setting sun.

"Hahaha, Mr. Meyer, welcome, welcome to Saint Denis!" Dutch boomed, a wide, charismatic smile on his face, radiating warmth. He stood at the entrance of the manor, dressed in a high-end, impeccably tailored black and white suit, a stark contrast to his outlaw past. Although his words sounded pleasant, even charming, his attitude was neither too good nor too bad; it was perfectly calibrated, a subtle display of controlled power.

Mr. Van der Linde, Meyer noted, was already showing a truly impressive, almost excessive, amount of respect.

Not only was he standing at the entrance himself, the Governor greeting them personally, but Arthur, John, Hosea, as well as Davey and Mac, had also come, forming an imposing, well-dressed reception line. All were impeccably groomed, their suits crisp, looking very imposing, radiating a quiet, confident authority that was unnerving.

Even Miss Camille, a delicate flower in their midst, her face a carefully blank mask, accompanied Dutch, standing demurely by his side.

Damn it, a jealous, unseen Ms. O'Shea must be thinking, crying bitterly in her room, her rightful position had been usurped by an outside hussy, a scheming flirt!

But there was nothing to be done about it, Meyer reflected; Ms. O'Shea, poor woman, had no brains for politics.

To be honest, Grand Duke Meyer had seen a portrait of Mr. Van der Linde before meeting him—yes, it was that rather unflattering wanted poster from Blackwater.

The Dutch in the crude portrait didn't give him any special feeling, nothing remarkable, but upon meeting him face-to-face, the feeling was profoundly different. The man exuded something tangible, a dangerous magnetism.

Grand Duke Meyer's greatest, most unsettling feeling was that this man named Dutch Van der Linde seemed to possess a strange, almost mystical charisma. It was palpable, a magnetic force that pulled at him.

Oh, this charisma was hard to describe, elusive, but it just made one feel that he had a natural, undeniable sense of leadership about him, a born ruler.

This unsettling realization made Grand Duke Meyer pay him a few more points of attention, a mental recalibration of the man's true power, a grudging respect.

"Hahaha, Mr. Van der Linde, hello, a sincere pleasure!" Grand Duke Meyer boomed, extending a gloved hand, his smile stiff, carefully practiced. "I am Zog Meyer, and it is a great pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Van der Linde, a man of such… reputation."

Meyer then paused, his eyes narrowing, a subtle challenge in his gaze, a glint of steel. "It is said that seeing is believing, and I originally didn't believe this quaint American saying, but now that I've met you, it is indeed true. I never expected Mr. Van der Linde to possess such charisma; this is certainly not the demeanor that so-called desperadoes, common bandits, could possibly possess!" His words initially sounded a bit polite, a veneer of civility, but the last sentence, delivered with a slight sneer, completely negated it, a pointed barb, even explicitly pointing out Mr. Van der Linde's inglorious identity as a desperado.

Grand Duke Meyer's eyes were fixed on Dutch's face, hoping to see a hint of anger, a flicker of outrage, on this seemingly charismatic face, in order to determine Mr. Van der Linde's true level, his breaking point, to gauge his self-control.

This is a very common tactic in high-stakes negotiations, a psychological gambit, and also the first tone-setter in what he intended to be a brutal verbal confrontation.

In Grand Duke Meyer's opinion, people like Dutch, who were once common desperadoes, would strongly dislike others mentioning their inglorious past, as this would undoubtedly be a profound offense to them and an indelible stain on their carefully constructed new identity.

It's like a prostitute returning to her hometown not liking to be called a 'seller'; it's the exact same, universal principle of human shame and pride.

Dutch, however, was utterly unfazed by Grand Duke Meyer's obviously provocative, insulting words. He merely stood there, a serene smile on his face, his eyes twinkling.

He even burst out laughing, a genuine, booming sound, tears almost streaming from his eyes with the sheer mirth of it. "Hahahaha, hahahahahaha!" he roared, clutching his stomach. His unexpected, boisterous demeanor brought a slight, self-satisfied smile to Grand Duke Meyer's face, who watched him with growing impatience.

In his cynical opinion, Dutch was probably about to give in, to capitulate under the weight of the insult, about to beg for terms.

However, the very next moment, Dutch's words rang out, clear and cutting, piercing Meyer's smug satisfaction like a poisoned dart.

"Oh, excuse me, Mr. Meyer," Dutch said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye with a flourish, his voice still laced with amusement, "this is simply too goddamn ridiculous! Oh, it's hard to imagine that you, such a high-ranking, supposedly sophisticated noble from Europe, would be as short-sighted and superficially arrogant as the common merchants here in America, who only care for quick profits. This is truly laughable, a profound disappointment! I had expected more, Meyer, much more!"

He shook his head slowly, a mock-sad expression on his face, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Oh ho ho, I originally thought you were different, Meyer, truly a cut above the rest!"

Dutch said with a charming smile, even casually patting Grand Duke Meyer's shoulder, a gesture that, in context, felt more like a patronizing pat on the head, as if addressing a misbehaving child.

Watching the smug smile slowly, painfully fade from Grand Duke Meyer's face, replaced by a mask of bewilderment and dawning fury, Dutch continued, his voice now devoid of humor, sharp as a razor, each word a deliberate cut: "Oh, you're absolutely right, Mr. Meyer. I, Dutch Van der Linde, used to be a damned outlaw, a common bandit, and to be honest, the current Dutch Van der Linde is still an outlaw! My past is not a secret, nor a shame. It is simply who I am."

He leaned closer, his eyes fixed on Meyer's, a chilling intensity in their depths. "And that means there are no so-called rules or courtesies, no polite society, in our communication and cooperation, Mr. Meyer. We're doing this arms business for one purpose and one purpose only: to make money, vast sums of it. We can sell to you, and of course, we can also sell to the French, the British, or even the goddamn Russians. We have no loyalty to any flag but our own, Meyer."

Dutch's smile vanished completely, replaced by a grim, hard line, his voice now a low, dangerous growl. "So I hope you'll think before you speak next time, Mr. Meyer, choose your words with extreme care. Otherwise, the glorious German Empire might find British soldiers driving our Van der Linde Tanks on the battlefield next time, crushing your forces. A rather inconvenient surprise, wouldn't you say?" He raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge.

Mr. Van der Linde was simply teasing Grand Duke Meyer, showing no genuine anger at all, merely a calculating amusement, a display of dominance. Instead, his eyes were fixed intently on Grand Duke Meyer's face, wanting nothing more than to see him lose his carefully constructed composure, to expose his underlying weakness.

Are you kidding? Dutch scoffed internally. Mr. Van der Linde had already exposed himself as an outlaw in Valentine, had publicly embraced his past. So who in their right mind could possibly use his past identity to threaten him now, to claim it was a dark spot, a hidden shame?

After Mr. Van der Linde exposed himself, that so-called dark spot completely transformed into a shining white spot, a badge of honor, a symbol of his unwavering honesty and power!

This was merely an attempt by Mr. Van der Linde to help the world, to shake it from its complacent slumber!

Mr. Van der Linde didn't care one whit about Grand Duke Meyer's petty words, they were meaningless. But Grand Duke Meyer cared immensely about Dutch's words, and was easily provoked by them, his imperial pride wounded beyond measure.

Being compared to a common merchant from the wild, uncivilized lands of America was one thing, a minor insult, but the subsequent remarks were a complete, in-your-face threat, a blatant challenge to imperial power.

This was practically trampling Grand Duke Meyer's face on the ground, grinding it into the dust! It even threatened the entire, glorious Second Empire itself, a direct affront to its dignity!

Damn it, Meyer thought, his mind reeling, when in God's name had Grand Duke Meyer ever endured such a damned, public insult?! Never!

However, Grand Duke Meyer, to his own bitter astonishment, endured it today! He swallowed his rage, his pride, forced a smile that felt like sandpaper.

Grand Duke Meyer's face turned from a mottled green to a stark, bloodless white, and finally, with a supreme, visible effort of will, he forced a grotesque, strained smile, laughing heartily, a strained, hollow sound devoid of any true mirth. "Hahaha, Mr. Van der Linde, Mr. Van der Linde, you are truly an… interesting person, hahaha, a fascinating character! This is the first time I've met someone as charmingly direct as you, I must admit, a refreshing change!"

In the first round of this verbal confrontation, Grand Duke Meyer was utterly, humiliatingly defeated, his strategy shattered.

"Alright, Mr. Meyer, we don't need to say so much, my friend." Dutch gestured dismissively, his face now a mask of calm professionalism. "Let's look at the Tanks first, shall we? I imagine the German Emperor is probably getting rather impatient, eh? He hungers for power."

Dutch motioned for the crowd to enter the pre-arranged carriages, their doors swinging open, which then pulled out towards the dusty outskirts of Saint Denis, a strange convoy.

Of course, they couldn't be taken directly to Mr. Marko's top-secret research base or the Tank production facility, its location a closely guarded secret. So, to allow them to see the Tanks, to witness their terrifying power, Dutch specifically had the Tanks transported by train to the outskirts of Saint Denis, a special, temporary demonstration ground, its purpose sinister.

Germany, Dutch knew, faced a critical shortage of oil resources, a crippling weakness that would haunt them. And during World War II, years from now, Germany would strategically use gasoline Tanks because diesel, a more efficient fuel, was prioritized for the powerful Navy and the burgeoning Air Force, leaving none for the Army. So the Army, crippled by resource constraints, could only use less efficient gasoline engine Tanks.

However, gasoline engine Tanks had a major, dangerous drawback: they were easily ignited, turning into fiery coffins at the slightest hit.

And now, Dutch was still going to give them gasoline engine Tanks, fueling their weakness, while simultaneously, and secretly, manufacturing large-caliber armor-piercing weapons on his advanced production lines, specifically designed to penetrate their new armor, to sell to Britain and France. A double-edged sword, cutting both ways.

The carriages sped out of Saint Denis, leaving the bustling city behind, entering the quieter, rural roads.

As soon as they reached the rough dirt road, Grand Duke Meyer and Mr. Wolff, who were seated side-by-side in the carriage, their faces grim, subtly changed their expressions, a flicker of unease crossing their features.

Numerous high, distant small mounds, like unnatural pimples on the landscape, came into their view, dotting the horizon.

Initially, Grand Duke Meyer and Mr. Wolff didn't pay much attention to these occasional small mounds, dismissing them as mere geographical quirks, part of the untamed American landscape.

But later, as more and more appeared, the two made some new, unsettling discoveries.

These small mounds seemed to be arranged somewhat neatly, forming a deliberate, unsettling pattern.

Yes, they were undeniably somewhat neat; they seemed to have their respective positions, never two or three mounds squeezed haphazardly together, but rather as if they had planned, meticulously measured distances between them, an uncanny regularity that bespoke of human design.

This thing, this strange landscape, seemed to have undeniable artificial traces, too perfect to be natural, too deliberate.

Grand Duke Meyer's anger from his failed, humiliating confrontation with Mr. Van der Linde gradually dissipated, replaced by a growing, cold apprehension that gnawed at him. His gaze was fixed on the carriage window, peering out, staring unblinkingly at each passing mound, his mind racing, trying to comprehend this unsettling mystery.

"Damn it, what are these things, Wolf?!" Grand Duke Meyer muttered, his voice a low, perplexed growl, tinged with a dawning fear. "Why do I feel a sense of unsettling familiarity?" He was utterly bewildered, his military mind struggling to categorize them.

These mound-like landforms were too strange, too peculiar! He had never seen such damned, unsettling landforms in his own country, in the carefully ordered, meticulously mapped landscapes of Germany.

General Wolff's eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp, meticulously observing each mound they passed, his eyes carefully scanning them, his expression growing increasingly grim, a dawning horror in his eyes. He leaned closer to the window, straining to see.

Finally, after observing more than a dozen consecutively, the pattern undeniable, he was at last certain, and immediately thereafter, he angrily exclaimed, his voice tight with disbelief and fury, a strangled gasp.

"Oh, my God! Your Excellency! These are damned bunkers! These are definitely bunkers! Your Excellency Meyer, this Mr. Dutch Van der Linde has built a continuous, impenetrable line of bunkers here! A goddamn fortress, right under our very noses!"

"What did you say, Wolf?! This whole area is bunkers?! Are you mad?!" Grand Duke Meyer shrieked, his face blanching, his eyes wide with disbelief, unable to comprehend the sheer scale of the undertaking. He gripped the edge of the carriage seat so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it, this is impossible! Are they building bunkers of this monstrous scale to defend against bloody aliens?! Against the very heavens themselves?! Damn it, this is simply a madman's idea! Our empire hasn't even built this many bunkers to date, not in all our strategic planning, not in a decade!" He pounded his fist on the carriage seat, his face a mask of utter shock and unadulterated fury.