RWD: 5.04

Back in his city, some four hours later, a storage unit's metal door rolled upward with a grinding shriek that echoed through the empty park

5.04

"One must always keep the tools of statecraft sharp and ready. Power and fear—sharp and ready."

—BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN, DUNE

Back in his city, some four hours later, a storage unit's metal door rolled upward with a grinding shriek that echoed through the empty parking lot. Inside, the air was stale, smelling of concrete dust and neglect. From a cheap plastic footlocker, Paul retrieved a plain grey backpack. It was heavier than it looked.

He didn't inspect the contents. He already knew what was inside. His custom revolver, three moon clips, each holding three rounds of .50 BMG ammunition, and a simple black balaclava. Instruments. Tools for a specific task.

Dusting the pack, he slung it over his shoulder and left the unit, locking it behind him. Another bus ride, this one rattling and lurching towards the city’s industrial periphery. He stared out at the urban decay, the graffiti-scarred husks of forgotten buildings.

He got off two blocks from the derelict trainyard the Archer’s Bridge Merchants called their territory. The air here was thick with the scent of rust, decay, and the faint, acrid tang of chemical precursors. He walked with a steady, unhurried pace. He slipped into the shadow of a rusted-out boxcar, the transition from Greg Veder, student, to Hollowpoint, arbiter, as seamless and silent as the drawing of a breath. He pulled the balaclava over his head, the rough fabric scratching against his skin. The world narrowed to the grim theatre before him.

The Merchants' stronghold was a converted rail maintenance shed, its original purpose lost beneath layers of graffiti and improvised modifications. Paul approached from the east, using the derelict train cars as cover. His movements were calm, methodical. The Merchants had posted sentries—two emaciated figures who swayed at their posts, their attention scattered by whatever cocktail of substances currently flowed through their veins. Neither noticed the silhouette that causal passed between the rusted hulks of abandoned rolling stock. 

The main entrance was a corrugated steel door, its surface scarred by welding torches and chemical spills. The sounds from within were a discordant symphony of trashy rock music, loud, abrasive laughter, and the high-pitched whine of machine tools. Paul tested the door. Unlocked. Of course. They were unprepared. Unguarded. The Merchants had grown lazy in their isolation, secure in the assumption that their irrelevance provided protection. 

He entered without ceremony.

The interior was exactly what he had expected—a maze of salvaged metal and jury-rigged equipment, lit by the irregular flicker of welding torches and chemical flames. The air was thick with smoke and fumes, a cocktail that would have sent a normal person fleeing for fresh air. 

They were gathered in the central space, a rough circle of mismatched chairs and stolen shopping carts. Skidmark was in the centre, lounging on a throne of scavenged car seats, a cheap imitation of a king. His mask was tossed aside carelessly, a ruin of meth-ravaged skin and teeth like shelled pistachio nuts. Beside him, Squealer hummed along to the bawdy tune playing in the background with a power tool in her hand. Mush rolling up some weed a distance away. And there, off to the side, clad in his suit and lounging on a heap of scrap, was Trainwreck. Three other unpowered individuals lingered about the space, but they were unimportant, so Paul ignored them.

"Gentlemen. Lady." Paul's voice cut through the ambient noise like a blade through silk. "I believe we have business to discuss."

A long pause followed as multiple heads turned slowly to acknowledge Paul’s presence, the Merchants’ drug-addled senses slow to register the intrusion.

 “Who the fuck’re you?” Skidmark slurred, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Language," Paul said mildly, stepping fully into the light. The revolver hung at his side, its presence more threat than brandishment. "We're discussing business."

"...Hollowpoint." The name emerged from Trainwreck’s throat like a curse. Recognition spread like wildfire across the room at the announcement. Skidmark sat up a smidge straighter. 

"Shit, man, we ain't done nothing to you,” the cape said. “We've been keeping our heads down, staying out of your way. Whatchu’ you bothering us for?"

"You misunderstand the nature of this conversation," Paul replied, his tone conversational as he found one of the cleaner-looking seats and made himself comfortable. "This isn't about what you've done. This is about what you will do. As you must all know by now, I will not tolerate rivals in this city. I had previously considered simply putting hits on you all, but eventually decided against that as I believed it would be too wasteful. However, letting you lot operate without oversight on my turf is not something I am willing to tolerate.  Hence, here are my terms: First, you will immediately cease production and distribution of flakka, bath salts, and synthetic opioids. Second, you will remit one-third of all gross revenue to my organisation. Consider it a municipal tax for the privilege of operating in my city. Third, you will restrict your operations to the Docks and the northern Industrial District. The Trainyard, Downtown, and the Boardwalk are off-limits. You will make no moves toward the residential areas without explicit permission. Am I understood?”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, like an over-pressurised fountain, Skidmark erupted.

"Fuck that!" Skidmark snarled as he unsteadily shot up to his feet. "You think you can waltz in here, some masked fuck, and tell me how to run my crew? Fuck you, man. This is my turf.”

A long pause as Paul stared down the angry cape. “Is that your answer?”

“Fuck you!  We got powers too, motherfucker. We ain't some street gang you can push around."

The words hung in the air for a moment, suspended like smoke in still air. "I had hoped," Paul said softly, "for a more reasonable response."

The revolver came up fluidly, its barrel finding alignment with Skidmark's center mass in a movement so smooth it seemed choreographed. The reports were thunderous in the enclosed space, a sound that seemed to shake dust from the rafters and set the corrugated walls ringing like struck bells.

Skidmark's expression shifted from outrage to surprise to nothing at all in the space between heartbeats. The three .50 BMG rounds took him centre mass, painting the couch and Squealer in sprays of crimson. His body folded backwards over the improvised throne, gore spattering the chrome and vinyl with abstract artistry.

The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the settling of disturbed debris and the soft hiss of escaping steam from Trainwreck's suit. Squealer's breathing was rapid and shallow as she stared at the viscera dripping down her face. Mush had frozen mid-transformation, his partially absorbed debris held in supernatural suspension.

Paul lowered the weapon, his movements unhurried. Smoke drifted from the barrel in lazy spirals.

"Trainwreck," he said, his voice cutting through the shocked quiet. "You're in charge now."

The figure in the steam-powered suit slowly sat up, his movements creating small clouds of vapour as he rose. "Understood," came the mole’s gruff voice.

Paul turned to address the surviving Merchants, his tone returning to the conversational cadence of a moment before. "The terms I outlined remain in effect. Trainwreck will ensure compliance. Questions?"

Squealer stammered are words as she slowly backed away from the cooling corpse. "You... you just... he was..."

"He chose poorly," Paul observed. "Leadership requires the ability to recognise when negotiation has reached its natural conclusion. He lacked that ability."

"The northern Industrial District and the Docks," Paul continued, as if he were discussing the weather. "Those are your permitted areas of operation. You will be provided the specific boundaries at a later date and will find them generous, given the circumstances. The profit-sharing arrangement will be handled through established channels. You will be provided details on that at a later date."

Paul rose slowly to his feet, ejecting the spent casing with a flourish, the brass failing to the concrete floor with a musical note that seemed to hang in the air. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the ambient chemical stench, creating a new signature that would linger long after his departure.

"One final point," Paul said, his attention on the task of reloading the weapon rather than on the team. "Don’t try to act smarter than you actually are. I can be a very cruel person should I choose to, and angering me would wrought consequences that would make Skidmark’s fate seem desirable."

He flashed a friendly smile before turning toward the exit. The trainyard outside seemed bright after the smoky interior of the lair. In the distance, Paul could see the sentries that had been posted at the door literally running off into the sunset. 

Amused, he turned and walked in the opposite direction, removing his balacava a few blocks away. The revolver and mask found their way back to his backpack, and soon, Paul arrived at a bus stop. From there, he made his way to the Boardwalk, where he located another storage unit and deposited the backpack.

A final bus took him downtown. It was 6:23 PM when he walked through the door of the Veder apartment. The smell of roasting garlic and herbs filled the air. Martha was at the stove, stirring a pot.

"There you are," she called as he entered. "I was starting to wonder if you'd gotten lost somewhere."

“Just out,” Paul replied, his voice shifting effortlessly back into the quiet, slightly awkward cadence of his host. “Got bored sitting in my room.”

Martha turned, wiping her hands on her apron. She gave him a curious look, her eyes scanning his dark trousers and a charcoal-grey cashmere sweater over a simple white shirt. “You’re a little overdressed for a casual walk, aren’t you?”

Paul glanced down at his clothing and offered a small shrug. "Thought I'd see what it felt like," he said. "Dressing like an undergrad. Since I'll be at Cornell in a few weeks."

A snort came from the doorway to the hall. Tom leaned against the frame, a grin on his face. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, little brother. You have to actually get in first.”

"Optimism," Paul replied with an eye roll. "A rare quality in this household."

Martha laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Both of you, come help. And Greg, next time you decide to go for a walk, maybe let someone know? This city isn't safe, you know that."

“Alright, mum. Will do.”