RWD: 5.09

The community center had the smell of floor wax, weak coffee, wilting floral arrangements, and the cloying sweetness of store-bought pastry.

5.09

“No more terrible disaster could befall your people than for them to fall into the hands of a Hero”

—PAUL ATREIDES, DUNE

The community center had the smell of floor wax, weak coffee, wilting floral arrangements, and the cloying sweetness of store-bought pastry. It was a low-ceilinged hall, painted a sterile off-white that did nothing to hide the scuff marks near the floor. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a flat, unflattering glare on the small gathering. Folding chairs squeaked when people shifted their weight. The bulletin board by the entrance still advertised last month’s bingo night under the sign-in sheet.

Paul stood with Lisa at the wall. The wall meant sightlines and exits, meant nobody could get behind him without walking through cinderblock. He watched the flow of people between the food tables and clusters of black clothes, a cup of the tepid coffee in one hand—a prop he had no intention of drinking. The quiet cacophony washed over him, a stream of data to be parsed. The slump of a cousin’s shoulders, the forced brightness in an aunt’s eyes, the way Brian’s father stood apart from his deceased ex-wife’s family—disinterested. 

Lisa wore a muted blazer over a dark blouse. Hair tucked. Name tag left blank. She had chosen her outfit well—conservative enough for a funeral, professional enough to support their cover story. Paul himself wore a pressed matte suit, just with only the waistcoat, having abandoned the jacket in his truck.

"Greg, wasn't it?"

Paul turned to Elijah Laborn who had abandoned his post in the corner to approach them, two paper cups of coffee balanced in weathered hands. His voice was a low baritone, devoid of inflection.

"Yes, sir. Greg Veder." Lisa accepted the offered cup, and Paul shook his now free hand noting the firmness of the grip that accompanied it.

"Elijah. Though I suppose Brian's mentioned me.” he turned to Lisa beside him  and managed a stiff smile, the expression unfamiliar. “I suppose you are ms. Lisa then?” 

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Lisa replied. 

The man turned his attention back to Paul. “I wasn’t expecting you to be this young,” he said. “Your father must be proud to have such an enterprising son. Logistics isn’t an easy business."

Paul met Elijah's measuring gaze without flinching. "You falter me sir, but yes, the job can be tedious at times; still we do the best we can." The lie flowed smoothly. "Brian's one of my best hands. Reliable, careful with details. It saddens me to see him suffer such a loss."

"Sounds like him." Elijah's expression softened fractionally. "Always was the responsible one, even as a kid. Had to be, I suppose." His gaze drifted toward his son, and Paul recognized the complex mixture of pride and regret that marked parents who had left their children to fight battles alone.

"He speaks highly of you," Lisa interjected, her voice pitched to convey appropriate sympathy, before adding with a wry chuckle. "That must mean something given its Brian we are talking about."

Paul observed the micro-expressions that flickered across Elijah's features—surprise, pleasure, and something that might have been shame.

"Well." Elijah cleared his throat, straightening shoulders that had never truly learned to bend. "I should circulate. People came to pay their respects, least I can do is acknowledge them." He paused, studying Paul with the intensity of someone accustomed to reading people under pressure. "Look after that boy for me, would you?"

"I’ll do what I can."

They watched him walk away, noting how conversations quieted as he passed—the man clearly wasn’t liked much by his ex-wife’s family. The feeling might have been mutual.

Paul sipped his coffee and continued his observation of the gathering.

"Kind of depressing," Lisa murmured, her voice pitched low enough that only he would hear. "All these people showing up for someone they barely tolerated or even cared about when she was alive."

"Death sanitizes the living's memories," Paul replied without looking at her. "It's easier to mourn an idealized version than confront the complexity of what actually was."

"Still seems fake."

"All rituals are performance. That doesn't make them meaningless." Paul's gaze tracked the subtle interactions around them. "Brian needs this closure, even if he doesn't realize it yet."

Lisa nodded, though her expression suggested she found such emotional necessities frustrating. 

Paul let the silence stretch between them, his attention divided between the social dynamics of the gathering and the more pressing calculations running through his mind. A familiar scent, however, pulled him from his thoughts.

"It's rude to spy on guests," he said conversationally, his gaze still focused on the crowd of mourners.

Lisa turned to stare at him, confusion flickering across her features. "What are you talking about?"

"Feeling better, I take it? Since you've gone back to snooping around."

 Beside him, Aisha reappeared fully in his perception as her power disengaged. Lisa jerked slightly, her hand moving instinctively toward the gun hidden under her dress before relaxing as she recognised the girl.

"How do you keep doing that?" Aisha demanded, eyes narrowed at Paul. She folded her arms defensively, purple-streaked hair catching the harsh fluorescent light.

Paul finally looked at her directly. She had dressed appropriately for the occasion—black jeans and a simple blouse that she clearly wasn’t comfortable in.

"Doing what?" he asked mildly.

“Finding me. You shouldn’t. It doesn’t make sense."

"Life rarely is." Paul sipped his coffee, before elaborating further on the matter. "You do remember I can smell you right. Perhaps you should consider that if you're going to eavesdrop, you might try approaching from downwind."

Aisha's scowl deepened. "I wasn't eavesdropping. I was just... checking on things."

"Of course." Paul's tone suggested he found the distinction meaningless. "How are you holding up?"

The question seemed to catch her off guard. She uncrossed her arms, some of the defensive tension leaving her posture. "I'm fine. I mean, it's not like..." She trailed off, glancing toward the small crowd surrounding Brian. "She wasn't exactly mother of the year, you know?"

Paul recognized the complex mixture of emotions beneath her casual dismissal—relief warring with guilt, anger at being abandoned competing with grief for what had never been. “I know.”

They stood in comfortable silence for several moments, watching the ebb and flow of conversations around them. Paul noted how Brian's shoulders gradually relaxed as the formal condolences gave way to genuine reminiscences from neighbors who had known the family for years.

"So," Aisha said eventually, clumsily pivoting to the discussion Paul knew was coming. "About the ABB, and the missile strike thing three days ago.  I read an headline calling it a terrorist attack, saying you guys killed a bunch of civilians."

"The media rarely concerns itself with accuracy when sensationalism serves better," Paul replied. "The targets were members of the Fallen, a parahuman cult. Hardly innocent people."

"I know that." Aisha's voice carried a note of impatience. "I'm not stupid. I saw the posts on the PHO. Also, I can tell the difference between real reporting and propaganda."

Paul turned to her. "Then why bring it up?"

"Because I want in." The words came out in a rush, as if she had been holding them back for days. "I want to join your group. The Peacekeepers. Like Brian did."

Paul heard Lisa sigh beside him, though she managed to keep her expression neutral. 

"That's not my decision to make alone," Paul replied, turning his attention back to the mourners.

"What do you mean? You're the leader, aren't you?" Aisha's voice rose slightly, drawing glances from a nearby couple. She lowered it again, stepping closer. "I have a good power. Really good. I could help with—"

"You would need your brother's consent." Paul interjected. "Brian is your guardian. More importantly, he cares about you too much for me to make decisions about your safety without his input."

Aisha's expression shifted from eagerness to frustration. "That's bullshit. I don't need his permission to make my own choices."

"Perhaps not. But I need his cooperation to maintain team cohesion." Paul watched her process this, seeing the moment when teenage rebellion met adult pragmatism. "Brian barely tolerated his mother, yet he spent years trying to help her. Consider what he might do if he felt I had endangered someone he actually cares about."

The words hit their mark. Aisha's aggressive posture deflated slightly as she contemplated the implications. Paul had learned early that the most effective leadership often involved helping others reach the conclusions you needed them to accept.

"While your power would indeed be valuable," he continued, "I would rather acquire it in a manner that doesn’t complicate already established structures."

"But—"

"Greg." Lisa's voice cut through Aisha's protest, her tone carrying urgent undertones that immediately shifted Paul's attention to the phone screen she was showing him.

The headline was stark against the white background: "PRT ISSUES KILL ORDER FOR BROCKTON BAY PEACEKEEPERS."

Paul read the brief article with the same detached interest he might show for weather reports. The language was predictably inflammatory—"unsanctioned military action," "threat to national security," "unprecedented escalation of parahuman violence." Acting Director Tagg had signed the order with what appeared to be considerable fanfare, complete with a press conference scheduled for later that afternoon.

"Well," he said mildly, handing the phone back to Lisa. "That was faster than expected."

"Faster than—" Lisa stared at him. "Greg, this is a kill order. They just gave every bounty hunter and psychopath in the country permission to hunt us."

"I'm aware of the implications." Paul sipped his coffee, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. Beside him, Aisha had gone very still, her breathing barely perceptible.

"Send a message to Brian after the reception," Paul continued, setting down his cup on a nearby table with deliberate care. "Tell him we have a mission tonight—he'll need to clear his schedule."

"...No," Lisa said, a wisp of realization colouring her tone.

Paul's smile was thin. "Yes. I always knew this day would come. While it's unfortunate that Tagg has decided to escalate our relationship, I believe it's past time we paid him a visit. After all, it's crucial for everyone's continued well-being—and safety—that we clarify who truly governs this city before this matter devolves any further into chaos."

He paused, letting the implications settle, his gaze turning to meet Lisa uncertain one.

"Don't you think?"