RWD: 4.09 

4.09 

“Behold, as a wild ass in the desert, go I forth to my work.”

—PAUL ATREIDES, QUOTING THE ORANGE CATHOLIC BIBLE

Paul sat near the back, one arm resting on the window ledge, his gaze fixed on the grey blur of the city sliding past. Taylor sat beside him, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her shoulders hunched as she fiddled with a tassel on her backpack. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left her house, where Danny had again waved them off with a tired smile and a half-hearted reminder to “stay out of trouble.” Paul had nodded, the gesture automatic, meaningless. Trouble was the point.

A few minutes later, the bus wheezed to a stop at the intersection of Dock Street and Industrial Boulevard, its hydraulic brakes hissing like a dying animal. Through the grimy windows, Paul could see the skeletal remains of the city's manufacturing—rust-stained warehouses, walls streaked with graffiti, boarded windows, broken chain-link fences, and the perpetual haze of salt air mixing with industrial decay.

"This is us," he said, rising from the worn vinyl seat.

Taylor followed wordlessly. The bus doors folded shut behind them with a pneumatic sigh, and they were alone on the cracked sidewalk. The sky above was a washed-out grey, clouded and raw, a lid pressing down on all sound. Paul adjusted his duffel on his shoulder and they walked, sneakers crunching on broken asphalt, past weed-choked lots and shuttered factories.

Some more time passed until eventually, a warehouse loomed ahead, unremarkable in the city’s graveyard of industry. The building—a former textile plant—had been abandoned since the late 1990s. Good sight lines, multiple egress routes, and far enough from the main thoroughfares to avoid unwanted attention; attributes that qualified it to serve as one of Paul’s many forward operating bases, secured and repurposed for moments like this.

Inside, the air was cooler, the faint hum of a portable generator underscoring the silence. The Undersiders were already there, clustered near the centre of the open space, their makeshift costumes a jarring blend of their old, garish outfits and the tactical gear Paul had provided. Ballistic plate carriers sat awkwardly over Brian’s dark biker jacket and Alec’s white-and-gold ensemble. Rachel stood apart, her machete already strapped to her hip, her dogs seated obediently by her feet. Paige—Canary—hovered near Lisa, her yellow hair tucked under a ballistic helmet, looking out of place in combat overalls. Old costumes, now burdened by the stark, functional requirements of Paul’s design. 

Perhaps a visual metaphor for their transition.

“Morning,” Paige greeted as they entered, her voice chirpy. 

“Morning,” Paul replied, his voice calm, before turning to Lisa and asking in a more clipped tone. “Status?”

“Everything’s in place,” Lisa responded. “Mercs are positioned at the overwatch points—four snipers, two spotters, plus a drone operator. The Travellers are on standby, three blocks out. Genesis is prepping her construct now. Comms are clean. No unusual PRT activity. All assets at the target location as of zero seven forty-eight.”

“Good. Any issues?”

"Minor foot traffic increase—early shift workers heading to the functional parts of the district. Nothing that affects our timeline."

Paul nodded. “We leave in fifteen. Conclude prep as briefed.”

He didn’t wait for acknowledgement. There was an economy to motion: each step, each task, must be deliberate. He moved down the hall to the small back room—spartan, dust motes drifting in the shaft of light. Three pairs of hardcases and gun boxes, gunmetal gray, rested along the back wall, numbers stencilled in white: 027, 032 and 049. Two pairs were open and empty. One waited—032. His.

He knelt, unlocking the combination on the hardcase. The interior was precise, everything in its place: grey overalls, balaclava, helmet and integrated headset, eye protection, boots, gloves, elbow and knee pads, and the weight of the plate carrier. He slipped out of his civilian clothes and dressed in silence, the motions as familiar as prayer—garments layered, harness buckled, helmet adjusted, radio checked. The respirator, black and silent, would hang at his jaw until it was needed.

Accessories followed: custom oil-len monocular, tactical tablet, encrypted radio, bodycam, medical kit, IR beacon, flexcuffs, a compact multi-tool, a small can of red spraypaint, chemlights, spare batteries, a burner phone, grenades—containment foam and shrapnel. Each stowed in its slot, each item counted, weighed, remembered. He moved to the gunbox next, unlocking it to reveal the arsenal within: a tactical machete and a butterfly knife, paired as a kindjal and slip-tip, the machete sheathed horizontally at his lower back, the poison-laced butterfly knife on his left thigh. A custom bodkin rested in a wrist sheath on his left forearm. A slow-pellet stunner was holstered next to the Glock 19 on his right thigh. 

And the centrepiece. A custom-milled, three-round revolver chambered in .50 BMG. The weapon was a monster of steel, deliberately imbalanced, with an intricate muzzle brake designed to mitigate a recoil that would shatter an ordinary man’s wrist. It weighed nearly eight pounds loaded; unwieldy, brutal, and entirely fit for purpose.

He loaded the cylinder with Raufoss Mk 211 multi-purpose anti-materiel high-explosive incendiary/armour-piercing rounds, the massive cartridges sliding home with satisfying clicks. The weapon went into its chest holster, positioned for a cross-draw that would clear the plate carrier. Moon clips with more anti-material rounds went into the ammunition pouches, along with spare magazines for the Glock and stunner. 

The complete kit weighed just over ninety pounds, but the design of the gear transferred it efficiently to his hips and feet, leaving him unencumbered. He tested his range of motion, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers. Satisfactory.

When he emerged, he found the others ready. Taylor looked less burdened, her kit focused on mobility and the deployment of her swarm. Of the rest, only Brian and Rachel wore armour comparable to Paul’s. The others had lighter plates. Even they only Paul was as heavily armed as he was, with the others limiting themselves to the more familiar Glocks; their melee weapons were batons, save for Rachel’s machete and Alec’s taser-sceptre, the custom piece he’d insisted on keeping.

It was 08:47 when they finally moved out. Tattletale, Skitter, Bad Canary, and Grue climbed into an unmarked van, its engine rumbling as it pulled away to take position a block from the target. Paul lingered, watching as Rachel worked on her dogs. Brutus, Judas, and Angelica growled softly, their bodies rippling as her power took hold, muscles swelling, bones thickening. The transformation was grotesque, inefficient. When they were ready—monstrous, armoured, their hides studded with bony protrusions—Rachel mounted Brutus, Alec took Angelica, and Paul climbed onto Judas. The dog’s bulk shifted beneath him, a living tank.

"All units, radio check," Paul said into his comms.

"Tattletale, clear."

“Overwatch Alpha, clear.”

“Overwatch Bravo, clear.”

“Overwatch Charlie, clear.”

“Containment, clear.”

“Trickster, clear.”

“Genesis, clear.”

"Skitter, clear."

"Grue, clear."

‘Sundance, clear.”

"Bad Canary, clear."

"Regent, clear."

"...Bitch, clear."

"Acknowledged. Standby."

Paul turned to Rachel and nodded. 

“Go,” Bitch barked in response and the dogs surged forward, their claws digging into the pavement. The city blurred past, warehouses and empty lots blending into a grey haze. Lisa’s voice crackled through the comms, updating him on the operation’s progress.

“Kill team is in position,” she reported. “Genesis is ready to deploy… Stand by. Targets acquired. Hookwolf, Night, Fog, confirmed in the main structure. Crusader’s unaccounted for. Sniper teams have the green light?”

“Affirmative.”

“Confirmed. Phase one is a go.”

A moment of static-laced silence. The world narrowed in Paul's perception. Sound, movement, everything funnelled down to what mattered. The comms remained silent for another heartbeat, then the supersonic crack of high-power anti-material rifles echoed faintly in the distance. Lisa’s voice returned, tense. “Three shots placed. Checking efficacy… Genesis is moving in to confirm.”

Another pause, this one stretching for several tense seconds. The target buildings were coming into view now, jagged silhouettes against the overcast sky. Paul could hear the distant, popping sound of small arms fire. The unpowered thugs most likely reacting to Genesis’ presence.

“Tattletale, report.”

Her voice, finally: “One confirmed kill. Fog. Night is mobile and appears uninjured; she must’ve gone breaker in time to heal. Crusader’s still MIA. Hookwolf’s hit, bad, but he is entering his changer state. Genesis is engaging”—Tattletale’s voice crackled—“Stand by… she’s been intercepted. Crusader. He’s out.”

“Understood,” Paul said, his mind already mapping the battlefield. The dogs leaped the cinderblock wall surrounding the complex, their enhanced forms easily clearing the eight-foot tall barrier. They skidded into the compound, kicking up gravel and dust as they crashed into the earth. Paul dismounted in a fluid roll, his boots hitting the cracked asphalt and transitioning smoothly into a dead run toward the main building. “Bitch, find Crusader! Regent, with me!”

As Paul raced toward the main building, two forms exploded from a third-floor window in a shower of twisted steel and glass. Hookwolf, a writhing mass of blades and hooks, was locked in combat with Genesis’s construct—a lanky, hunched six-limbed creature, its leathery skin studded with keratinous thorns that snagged and trapped Hookwolf’s bladed edges. The two hit the ground in a tangle, the construct’s extra limbs giving it leverage, pinning Hookwolf’s shifting mass. In the distance, Sundancer materialised thirty feet away, replacing a fleeing thug in a flash of light as Trickster's power took effect. When she appeared, her hands already glowing with the heat of a forming sun, its heat immediately noticeable even at a distance. The air around the entangled combatants began to shimmer as temperatures rose.

Paul ignored them, stalking deeper into the building, Glock in his left hand, the hand cannon in his right. He slid into a hallway, Glock muzzle up, eyes darting. The interior was a maze of machinery and panicked men. He moved through them like a wraith, his Glock barking in controlled single-taps. Targets appeared, targets fell. Clinical, efficient and without hesitation.

Then, a stroke of luck. Footsteps thundered ahead. A man in civilian clothes, face twisted in a rictus of rage, was sprinting down a hallway toward Paul. Crusader. Paul’s left hand snapped up and he pulled the trigger once, the Glock barking. Crusader fell, dead weight sliding across linoleum. Paul stepped over him, continuing without pause.

Lisa’s voice: “Night’s dead. Bitch found her. Boss, status?”

Paul keyed the comms, “Crusader down. Clearing interior.”

✥✥✥​

The upper floor was a labyrinth of corridors half-collapsed by the years and Hookwolf’s last stand. Somewhere above, something huge tore through steel, the shriek of metal on metal. Gunfire flared and echoed—a handful of the Empire’s last men, defending the indefensible. Paul advanced with purpose, each footfall measured. The comms fed him fragments—Lisa’s terse updates, Snipers picking off pockets of resistance, attempting to coalesce.

Down the hall, a door shuddered and splintered. A shape moved behind, firing blind. Paul barely turned towards the threat, squeezing the trigger of his sidearm. The Glock’s bark was deafening in the close quarters.

Facing no further instances of resistance, Paul emerged into the courtyard to a satisfactory sight. The battle was, for all intents and purposes, over. In the centre of the yard, Sundancer’s miniature sun had engulfed the two brawling monsters. Genesis’s construct had held Hookwolf in place long enough for Sundancer to intervene, a willing sacrifice, as incandescent energy turned them both into a raging pyre that sent waves of heat rippling through the morning haze. 

Hookwolf, pinned, continued to howl—his voice lost to the fire as the flames rolled over him. Metal glowed, softened, and warped.

Paul came to a stop beside Regent, who was watching the blaze with a bored expression. He hadn’t been needed. Rachel’s dogs burst out of the building, landing heavily beside them, their hides streaked with blood. Lisa’s voice came through again, a nervous laugh in her tone. “Well, that was… quick. Anticlimactic, even. We sticking around for the heroes to confirm the kill? Hookwolf’s got a kill order—PRT’s gotta play nice for a bit.”

“No,” Paul said. “Too risky. We leave now.”

He approached the burning pile, Hookwolf’s human form now visible through the flames, charred and broken, molten metal pooling beneath him. In the periphery, Paul saw Sundancer, her hands clasped over her mouth, visibly horrified by the realisation of what she had just done. At that moment, Paul felt a pang of annoyance lance through him. Trickster had been instructed to recover her immediately after she was done. Why was she still here?

Sighing, he approached, his steps deliberate, softening his voice until he achieved the optimal lever and spoke. “You did what needed doing,” he told her. “We don’t have the luxury of gentle hands, but at least there is comfort in knowing this city’s safer for it.”

Paul could see the words land, the way she drew herself up, still shaking. Still annoyed, he raised his hand to the comms switch. “Trickster, exfil Sundancer. Now.”

A moment later, she vanished, swapped with the now unarmed thug she’d replaced earlier. The man stared frozen in terror at the bonfire for a long moment, then at Paul, before scrambling away when he realised Paul was ignoring him.

Paul’s attention returned fully to Hookwolf’s corpse. The flames were dying down. With another sigh, he drew the can of red spray paint from his rig and sketched the rough outline of the Atreides hawk emblem on the concrete floor, its lines sharp and deliberate.

Beneath it, he left the words:

JUSTICE DELIVERED—A GIFT FROM BROCKTON BAY’S PEACEKEEPERS.

Retrieving the burner, he took a photo of the burning corpse and the written message, sending it to Lisa. “Distribute this online, discreetly. Inform the PRT of the kill.”

“Got it, Boss,” Lisa said, her voice steadying.

Their task completed, Paul gave the order to exfil, mounting Judas as Rachel and Alec did the same. The dogs bounded off, leaving the smouldering compound behind.