Even as Dutch, with his silver tongue, meticulously spun tales of meaning and safety around the impending banquet, the old man, Hosea, remained a gnawing ball of worry all afternoon. His brow furrowed deeper with each passing minute, a subtle tremor in his hands as he fidgeted.
Hosea wasn't fretting over his own weathered hide; his concern, a raw, primal ache, was for the gang's girls, those vulnerable flowers in a field of thorns, and for Arthur, John, and Charles – his surrogate sons.
Hosea, already old beyond his years, often quipped that he'd lived long enough to see the world turn a few too many circles. His singular, consuming preoccupation was the future of the Van der Linde Gang, this ramshackle family that had been his home for half a lifetime. Arthur and John were, in his heart, his own flesh and blood, inspiring in him a constant, suffocating fear that they might stumble into danger.
And tonight? Tonight was undeniably their most perilous tightrope walk yet, eclipsing even the blood-soaked chaos of Blackwater. Tonight, they were plunging headfirst into the very maw of the lion's den. It was an terrifyingly real possibility that those council members, those self-serving vipers, had secretly deployed an army of gunmen, poised to burst forth at a silent signal and ensnare every single member of the Van der Linde Gang.
Dutch, in stark contrast, seemed utterly unperturbed. The mere fact that the authorities hadn't immediately dispatched them upon discovering their presence was, to him, a glaring neon sign that Saint Denis's high society harbored alternative plans for their particular brand of notoriety. For the upper echelons, "crime" was never a topic of genuine concern. Laws, after all, were merely pliable tools, crafted by them and for them; whether broken or upheld, the distinction was utterly meaningless in their gilded cages.
As Hosea continued his internal fretting, the afternoon slowly bled into evening. John, Charles, and a few of the girls hadn't yet returned, likely lost to the intoxicating allure of Saint Denis's dubious charms. But then, Arthur and Mary re-entered the courtyard, accompanied by a bewildered-looking middle-aged man.
"Dutch! I'm back!" Arthur bellowed, a triumphant grin splitting his face, his arm casually slung around the middle-aged man's shoulders, indicating a successful capture. "Mr. Marko Dragic is with me; he wants to talk to you about investment!" He then turned to the flustered scientist.
"Mr. Dragic," Arthur gestured with a thumb towards the second-floor balcony where Dutch and Hosea lounged, "this is our boss. He'll handle all the, uh, 'investment' negotiations you're looking for."
At that very moment, Dutch, a vision of beaming welcome, was already descending the stairs, his infectious, booming laughter preceding him like a herald.
"Ho ho ho, Mr. Dragic, hello!" Dutch boomed, his arms wide open in an expansive gesture of welcome. "It's a truly magnificent pleasure to meet you! My name is Dutch, Dutch Van der Linde. Please forgive my appalling lack of a proper, red-carpet welcome! Arthur, my boy, please fetch Mr. Dragic a soothing cup of tea, perhaps laced with something… stimulating! Oh ho ho, Mr. Dragic, I've heard so much about your groundbreaking work, and I've admired you from afar for a considerable time, especially your remote automation technology, which is truly renowned!"
Dutch laughed heartily, stepping forward with an almost predatory intimacy to grasp Marko's hands with both of his own, holding them tightly, practically refusing to let go. He fully conveyed to Marko a level of overflowing, almost suffocating, enthusiasm.
This was a move Dutch had, somewhat disturbingly, gleaned from observing Trump. When he witnessed Trump clinging to the hand of that poor soul who'd faced three gunshots, refusing to release his grip, Dutch realized the profound power: holding someone's hands with both of yours, for an uncomfortably long time, could unambiguously express your sheer, unadulterated enthusiasm.
Indeed, being held so warmly, so relentlessly by Dutch's grasp, Mr. Dragic's inherent reserve instantly evaporated. A sensation of pleasant surprise, almost of dizzying flattery, bloomed in his heart and blossomed vividly across his face.
What stunned him even more were Dutch's words; he actually knew about his remote automation designs! This, to Marko, was undeniable proof that this charming gentleman genuinely held him in immense admiration, otherwise, he wouldn't possess such profound insight into his work and hold him in such high regard.
At this particular juncture, Mr. Marko Dragic's life was a masterclass in profound misery. While he was a character derived from the legendary Tesla, the in-game Mr. Dragic lacked the real-life Tesla's fame and prolific patent collection.
His wireless remote-control technology was perpetually questioned, ridiculed, and even after valiant demonstrations, he failed to attract a single dollar of desired investment. His ultimate, tragic end – being inexplicably murdered – was truly lamentable. And this Marko Dragic, a man who genuinely entertained the notion of dominating the entire world with robots, perfectly aligned with Dutch's shrewd speculation about his underlying psychological state.
Why would a researcher, a man who existed solely in the lofty realm of academia and apparently lacked a lick of common sense, harbor such a grandiose desire to dominate the world? It had to stem from a profound dissatisfaction with his current reality. And why such dissatisfaction?
Combining it with his in-game tribulations, it was glaringly obvious: a life steeped in hardship, unappreciated genius, constant ridicule and mockery, and a festering bitterness with nowhere to escape, culminating in a mind teetering on the edge of psychological distortion. And this, Dutch knew, was his prime entry point for Mr. Dragic.
And, as expected, it worked like a charm.
Marko felt an overwhelming sense of profound gratification from Dutch's intense, almost devotional, attention. His life had been a bitter cocktail of unappreciated genius, fueling the indignation that made him scrawl those childish, world-domination fantasies in his basement.
Ultimately, he simply craved one thing: for the world to witness his abilities, to acknowledge his brilliance, to value him, rather than dismiss him with mocking laughter or glacial indifference. So, the sheer, unadulterated attention and fervent enthusiasm Dutch was showering upon him now were exceptionally, intoxicatingly gratifying!
"Oh, hello, Mr. Van der Linde, it's a genuine pleasure to meet you, friend!" Marko practically blubbered, his eyes wide, glistening with an almost childlike wonder.
"This society is truly… terrible; only you and I are true sages, friend!" Marko's excitement was a geyser of pure, unadulterated joy – the thrill of encountering a kindred spirit, the sheer ecstasy of being truly understood. In his euphoria, he unconsciously blurted out some of his deepest, most unfiltered inner thoughts.
Marko gripped Dutch's hands tightly, two grown men, still holding hands, utterly oblivious to the spectacle they presented. One radiated zealous enthusiasm, the other a mix of profound emotion and unbridled happiness, making for a truly memorable, if slightly awkward, scene.
"Of course, Mr. Dragic, of course!" Dutch's face was a mask of profound agreement, his head nodding vigorously. "Your words, my dear sir, truly resonate with the deepest chambers of my soul. In fact, I've always believed that most people in this world are, shall we say, intellectually… challenged, but their mere ability to live independently simply conceals the profound shortcomings of their intelligence! And I think, perhaps this is precisely why sages such as ourselves are often tragically overlooked, so utterly unacknowledged by the common rabble, Mr. Dragic."
Dutch's face was etched with a profound, almost melodramatic, expression of shared indignation. He spoke with even more vitriol than Marko himself, a look of deep-seated bitterness so convincing that even Marko felt a pang of sympathy, convinced Dutch had suffered untold injustices. Moreover, by expressing himself with such fervent indignation, Dutch deftly grouped himself with Marko, a silent, powerful categorization that instantly, irrevocably pulled Mr. Marko into Dutch's emotional orbit. This, Marko felt, was the sublime feeling of being "in the same boat."
This was Dutch's specialized tactic, his psychological weapon tailored specifically for Marko: speaking to people in their own unique language, employing the irresistible charm of words to forge an unbreakable bond, and then, effortlessly, drawing the other person into his own twisted, magnificent camp.
And now, Dutch had clearly, spectacularly succeeded.
For Marko, a man whose life had been an endless cycle of being unappreciated and constantly denied, the relentless inner suppression had inevitably twisted his personality into something… eccentric. But conversely, having confided in no one for so long, and possessing no true friends, his character had remained exceptionally pure, rendering him astonishingly vulnerable to genuine recognition. His heart, starved of camaraderie, was now wide open.
From the very outset, Dutch had showered Marko with exaggerated respect and overwhelming warmth. He'd maintained physical contact, holding his hand, and then, unleashing a torrent of carefully crafted words, shared what appeared to be their deepest, most intimate thoughts. This combined assault of psychological tactics brought Marko to the brink of utter capitulation.
Marko gripped Dutch's hand tighter, his face flushed, eyes gleaming with an almost manic excitement.
"Oh, Mr. Van der Linde, oh, Mr. Van der Linde!" Marko babbled, his words tumbling out in a joyful, almost nonsensical torrent. "I couldn't agree more with your profound sentiments! Oh, you truly, truly spoke my innermost thoughts, dear sir, oh, forgive me, sir, I am so excited I don't know what to say, dear sir, dear sir! You are like the finest cheese in my heart, precisely articulating every single one of my inner thoughts, oh, dear sir, you will be my best friend from now on! You will be my most trusted friend!"
Marko was utterly incoherent, clutching Dutch's hand with the fervor of a drowning man, desperately expressing his overwhelming inner emotion.
"Excellent!" Dutch thought, a triumphant smirk flashing across his face. These words somewhat fit Mr. Dragic's delightful "dementia" vibe. After all, a person who genuinely believes they can dominate the world with robots is either suffering from a severe case of dementia or has some… fascinating intellectual quirks. According to Dutch's current, rather cynical, thinking, it was highly probable that Mr. Dragic had been so brutally suppressed by life that it had rendered him foolish, leading to a profound hatred of the wealthy and a world-weary resignation.
A magnificent, predatory smile spread across Dutch's face. He hadn't expected Mr. Marko to be quite so sincere, so utterly pliable. If that was the case, then he could certainly bring him to tonight's illustrious banquet. He would introduce him to everyone he met – those snobbish socialites, the powerful politicians – as his closest friend, the greatest scientist of their age: Mr. Marko Dragic. Wouldn't that just completely boost Marko's fragile sense of honor into the stratosphere?
Imagine this scenario: you've toiled, studied relentlessly since childhood, worked your fingers to the bone for half a lifetime, developed various groundbreaking scientific achievements. But the people around you dismiss you, your neighbors mock you, the rich in society refuse to trust you, and even your fellow researchers actively suppress you.
So, despite your vast knowledge and brilliant inventions, you live in abject poverty, forced to perform your scientific marvels like a trained monkey by a desolate lake, desperately hoping to attract a modicum of investment. Yet, even then, all you receive is scorn and ridicule. Every single effort, every ounce of your life's work, viewed by others as a laughable joke.
And then, just at that soul-crushing moment, someone suddenly appears in your life. Not only do they treat you with the utmost respect and overwhelming warmth, they offer genuine comfort and unwavering support, firmly believe in your capabilities, see straight through your fragile, battered heart.
And then, as if that weren't enough, they bring you to a high-class banquet, introducing you to socialites you'd normally only glimpse from afar, proclaiming to everyone that you are his best friend, a great scientist, and that he will always believe in you! And finally, he sweeps you into a grand, loving family, where everyone treats you with harmony and affection. All the crushing hardships, all the agonizing loneliness of your entire first half of life, simply vanish into thin air...
Dutch felt that no living soul could possibly resist such a perfectly executed combination of psychological maneuvers. As the old saying goes, "a scholar dies for his confidant"; this, Dutch knew, was not just an empty phrase. It was a brutal, beautiful truth, and he was about to exploit it to its fullest.