"Hard tasks need hard ways."
—GOD EMPEROR, LETO II
The purloined jeep handled sluggishly, its suspension groaning under the added weight of salvaged weaponry and the inert, groaning form in the backseat. Paul drove with detached precision, navigating the rain-slicked streets away from the scarred coastline and towards the neon-bled glow of the Boardwalk district. Sirens echoed in the distance, a growing chorus converging on the lighthouse, but they felt remote, disconnected from the sterile bubble of the vehicle's cabin. His focus remained partitioned: one layer managing the mechanics of driving on unfamiliar roads, another monitoring the ragged breathing and muffled curses from his captive, a third processing the night's events, filing data points, calculating risk vectors.
He skirted the main thoroughfares, favouring shadowed service roads and alleys where the passage of a single, unremarkable vehicle would likely go unnoticed. The Boardwalk itself was quieter now, the late-night energy dwindling, leaving behind shuttered kiosks and the faint scent of stale popcorn and salt spray. He located a chain pharmacy whose lights still cast a sterile fluorescence onto the wet pavement. Parking the jeep out of direct line of sight in an adjacent alley, he exited, pulling the damp ski mask off and stuffing it into a pocket before smoothing his features into Greg Veder's accustomed anonymity.
The pharmacy door chimed softly upon entry. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, reflecting off polished linoleum floors and rows of neatly organized consumer goods. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and artificial fragrance. A single, bored-looking cashier glanced up from a magazine behind a plexiglass barrier, registered him with incuriosity, and returned to her reading. Paul moved with quiet efficiency through the aisles. Saline IV bags – two litres. Antiseptic wipes. Sterile gauze pads and surgical tape. A suture kit, basic but adequate. Broad-spectrum antibiotic ointment. Pain relief medication – selecting a non-opioid formulation to avoid unpredictable sedative effects on his captive. Finally, a large package of adult diapers. Necessary indignities for managing a crippled, hostile prisoner in rudimentary confinement. He gathered the items, approached the counter, and placed a sum of cash drawn from Liam Tanner's windfall onto the surface – an amount calculated to generously cover the cost. He offered a brief nod to the still-distracted cashier and exited as unobtrusively as he had entered, leaving no reason for his visit to be particularly remembered.
Back in the jeep, he stowed the supplies and continued the short distance to the storage facility. The automated gate granted access with the electronic key fob, the mechanism grinding in the damp air. He drove through the rows of identical corrugated steel doors until he reached Unit DF-12. Killing the engine, he sat for a moment in the sudden silence, allowing his senses to extend, listening for any sound out of place – a distant footstep, an idling engine. Nothing but the drumming of rain on the roof and the low hum of the facility's security lighting.
He disembarked, unlocked the storage unit, and rolled up the door. The interior smelled faintly of new canvas and concrete dust. First, he unloaded the salvaged weapons and ammunition, stacking them neatly against the far wall. Then, he returned for Bakuda. Hauling her dead weight from the jeep was an awkward, strenuous task. She cursed him incoherently through the gag he had applied earlier, her body limp below the point of spinal injury, adding unwieldy momentum to her mass. He maneuvered her inside, laying her carefully on a patch of floor cleared for this purpose.
Working under the unit's single, bare bulb, Paul addressed the immediate medical necessity. He unpacked the pharmacy supplies, laying them out on a clean towel. He cut away the section of Bakuda's costume around the entry wound in her back. The bullet had entered cleanly, likely tumbling upon impact with the vertebra. Probing gently with sterile forceps from the suture kit, he located the deformed slug lodged against shattered bone fragments. Extraction was delicate, requiring precise manipulation to avoid further nerve damage. His fingers moved with the steady, detached surety of a Bene Gesserit adept, though the tools were crude, the patient uncooperative even in her immobility. He retrieved the bullet, cleaned the wound thoroughly with antiseptic, and closed the incision with neat, economical stitches. He applied antibiotic ointment and a sterile dressing, securing it firmly with tape. Finally, he located a suitable vein in her arm, swabbed the skin, and inserted the IV needle, connecting the saline bag and hanging it from a hook on the cloth rack in the corner. He adjusted the drip rate, calculating fluid replacement needs based on estimated blood loss. A dose of pain medication was added to the saline line. Necessary for managing shock, and perhaps marginally reducing her capacity for focused resistance, should she possess unexpected reserves.
With the immediate medical concerns addressed, he turned to preparing her for longer-term confinement. He stripped away the remnants of her tinker-made costume – layers of segmented plating, wiring conduits, padded fabric. Beneath it, her body was lean, wiry. As he removed her boots, he noted metallic glints on her right foot. Two simple, unadorned toe rings. He paused. Adornment? Or function? Tinkers often integrated components in unexpected ways. He carefully worked the rings off her toes. They felt cool, dense. He set them aside for later examination.
He cleaned her skin with antiseptic wipes, then wrestled her into one of the adult diapers. A necessary degradation, dictated by the circumstances. Throughout the process, Bakuda, though unable to move meaningfully, continued to snarl muffled threats, her eyes burning with impotent fury. Paul worked around her hatred as if it were merely another environmental factor, like the damp chill of the storage unit. When her basic needs were attended to, he checked the gag, ensuring it was secure but not overly constrictive, and propped her head slightly with a folded canvas tarp to prevent aspiration. She lay on her back, staring up at the bare bulb overhead, a study in contained rage and helplessness.
Satisfied with her containment, Paul turned his attention to the cache of equipment. He carefully relocated Bakuda's specialized grenades, bombs, and her launcher from the jeep into the storage unit, arranging them alongside the salvaged conventional firearms. He handled the tinker-tech explosives with extreme caution, recognizing the inherent unpredictability. Each device was a potential puzzle box of exotic triggers and unstable effects.
His next task was disposing of the jeep. Leaving it near the storage facility was an unacceptable risk. He drove it several blocks away, into a decaying industrial area known for its high rate of vehicle theft and gang activity. He parked it in a poorly lit alley, wiped down the steering wheel, door handles, and ignition, and left the keys dangling. It would likely disappear before dawn, subsumed back into the city's criminal ecosystem. A loose end tied off, albeit imperfectly. The thought of the other stolen sedan, abandoned near the lighthouse, pricked at his consciousness – a traceable link back to his actions there. He hated it, but there had been no opportunity to retrieve the vehicle without exposing himself further.
He walked back to the storage unit through the renewed drizzle, the city's ambient noise a low hum around him. Inside, under the stark light, he began the methodical examination of Bakuda's captured gear. He laid out the tools of her trade: grenades of various sizes and colours, the multi-barrelled launcher, strange electronic components, and the two toe rings. He picked up one of the rings. Smooth, seamless. No obvious buttons or seams. He scanned it, probing its surface, applying minute pressure. Nothing. He set it aside with its twin.
He turned to the pockets of her discarded costume. Keys, loose change, a crumpled energy bar wrapper, and a cheap, disposable cell phone. He powered it on. The screen flickered to life, displaying a low battery warning and a single, unread message notification. He opened it. The sender ID was a string of random characters, but the message content was stark:
Lung free. Status? Why no signal? Respond.
Paul felt a cold sense of confirmation settle within him. His hypothesis at the lighthouse had been correct. Oni Lee. The attack by Purity, whether coincidental or manipulated, had served as a diversion for Lung's extraction during transfer. And Bakuda's role… the bombs. The unsent signal Lee queried.
The phone contained a simple interface, likely custom-coded by Bakuda. One prominent icon seemed designed for remote detonation sequences. Multiple target profiles were listed, coded with alphanumeric strings. He cross-referenced them with Greg's memory of Brockton Bay geography and known faction territories. Several corresponded to locations deep within the Empire Eighty-Eight's claimed areas. Others targeted civic infrastructure, commercial hubs, even residential zones with no obvious strategic value beyond sowing terror.
Curiosity, cold and pragmatic, dictated his next action. He needed more information. He walked over to the immobilized Bakuda and carefully removed her gag. Her breathing was harsh, ragged.
"The bombs," Paul stated, his voice pitched low, neutral. "Your associate expected a signal. Report."
Bakuda glared, then spat towards him, the saliva falling short. "Go to hell, freakshow! You think I'll tell you anything?"
Paul met her defiant gaze. He leaned closer, letting his voice drop into the resonant frequencies, the subtle harmonics that bypassed conscious resistance. The Voice. "YOU WILL DETAIL THE BOMBS. LOCATIONS. TIMERS. YIELDS. TRIGGERS."
Her eyes widened, pupils dilating not just from the dim light but from the infrasonic command scraping against her will. Words spilled from her then, disjointed at first, then coalescing into a stream of glass-eyed confessions. Locations across the city – warehouses known for E88 activity, power substations, bridges, a shopping mall, a crowded apartment block near the docks. Timers varied, some short, some measured in hours. Yields ranged from concussive force to incendiary devices, shrapnel bombs, and stranger effects he couldn't immediately classify from her descriptions. Most were set to detonate on individual timers, a cascading sequence of terror designed to paralyze the city, a parting gift should her initial plans fail.
Compulsion crumbled, replaced by a raw, primal fear. "No… how…?" Bakuda stammered, terror overriding defiance. "You are a Master?" Finding a kernel of defiance, or perhaps simply succumbing to hysterical terror, she suddenly laughed, a ragged, broken sound. "Doesn't matter… they'll go off anyway! Timers are running! Nothing you can do!" A desperate bid to reclaim agency through the inevitability of her own destructive legacy.
Paul applied the Voice again, demanding specifics, cross-referencing locations, refining timer estimates, extracting failsafe codes where available, until her confession was exhausted, leaving her shuddering, weeping, utterly broken by the realization of her own helplessness against his mental intrusion. Satisfied he had gleaned all he could for the moment, he replaced the gag, silencing her ragged sobs.
He stood, surveying the captured arsenal, the immobilized tinker, the data spooling through his mind. A crossroads. Option one: allow the detonations to proceed. Chaos would ensue, weakening existing power structures, potentially creating opportunities. Option two: contact the authorities, the PRT. Provide the data, prevent the destruction, maintain the current, unstable equilibrium.
He simulated the outcomes. Full chaos offered unpredictable advantages but carried immense risk, potentially disrupting his own efforts to establish stability and resources. Full prevention bolstered the very authorities he might eventually need to circumvent or oppose, while strengthening the city's resilience against the kind of disruption he himself might wish to employ later. Neither extreme served his long-term interests optimally.
A hybrid solution presented itself. Controlled chaos. Targeted disruption.
He made his preparations to depart. He changed out of his damp, torn clothing into a fresh set of the nondescript dark garments stored in the unit. He packed a new duffel bag, transferring only Greg Veder's mundane items, his wallet, and the cash acquired earlier. The captured firearms, Bakuda's tinker-tech, the camera, the toe rings – all remained secured within the unit. He pocketed Bakuda's disposable phone. Lastly, he double-checked Bakuda's restraints and the IV line, ensuring her basic survival needs were met for the immediate future. He locked the storage unit door behind him, the click of the mechanism loud in the pre-dawn stillness.
Walking several blocks away, ensuring he was out of sight of the storage facility and any potential surveillance, he used Bakuda's phone. He dialled the publicly listed number for the PRT Emergency Hotline. As the call connected, he subtly altered his vocal cords using prana-bindu control, pitching his voice lower, adding a layer of acoustic distortions, rendering it utterly unrecognizable.
"Information regarding Bakuda's imminent bomb threats," he stated flatly, without preamble, when a calm operator responded. He listed specific locations – the shopping mall, the apartment block, two specific downtown intersections known for high pedestrian traffic. He provided the estimated detonation times he had extracted from the villainess, subtracting the elapsed time. He gave no context, no source, only the raw data pertaining to the threats with the highest probability of widespread, indiscriminate civilian casualties.
He intentionally withheld information on the bombs targeting E88 locations and critical infrastructure like power substations or certain bridges. Let the city bleed a little. Let the established powers contend with targeted disruptions within the territories of their rivals. A measure of chaos, carefully curated, could weaken his potential adversaries and obscure his own activities. Conflict between the city's factions served his overarching need for instability during his period of consolidation. It was a calculated risk, a necessary balancing act.
"That is all," he stated, and ended the call before the operator could ask questions. He removed the phone's battery, snapped the cheap plastic casing in half, and deposited the pieces in separate storm drains blocks apart.
The long walk home was undertaken with the same measured pace as his departure. The rain had lessened to a fine mist. The first hints of grey were beginning to dilute the eastern sky. He reached the Veder apartment building as the neighborhood slept. The familiar route up the side of the building felt easier now, his body responding with less protest, already beginning to adapt, to strengthen. He slipped through the still-open window into the darkness of Greg's bedroom.
He landed silently on the carpet, senses alert. And froze.
A figure sat on the edge of his bed, silhouetted against the faint light filtering through the window. Tall, lanky, unnervingly still.
Tom.
Greg's older brother turned his head slowly, his expression unreadable in the dimness. He didn't seem surprised, merely expectant. After a moment of heavy silence that stretched taut between them, Tom spoke, his voice quiet but carrying absolute certainty.
"Greg… are you a cape?"