RWD: 3.10

3.10

“When he wanted, he could radiate charm and sincerity”

—IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE BY PRINCESS IRULAN

When Paul finally returned to the Veder residence, his watch read 19:47. The space behind the front door exhaled a familiar scent of warmed food as the door swung open.

John was in the living room, ensconced in the worn contours of his armchair, the bluish glow of a laptop screen casting his face in angular relief. He looked up as Paul entered, the sound of the front door closing a small punctuation in the evening’s quietude. The lid of the laptop in his lap descended with a soft click.

"Greg," John acknowledged, neutral.

"Evening, Dad," Paul replied, his voice just as flat. He moved towards the kitchen. Martha, he knew, would have left him dinner. A Tupperware container, precisely as anticipated, sat on the counter.

"Day go alright?" John asked from the living room. "Had a good time with your friends?" The question was casual, yet Paul detected the subtle undercurrent, the batin of parental concern beneath the zahir of mundane inquiry. He had informed them earlier of a planned social engagement, a necessary fiction to account for his extended absence.

Paul placed the container in the microwave, the hum of the appliance filling a momentary silence. "Yeah, it was alright," he replied, turning to face his host-father. John’s gaze was steady, a troubled quality now more apparent in the set of his mouth, the slight furrow of his brow. The man was hesitating, wrestling with a thought he seemed reluctant to voice.

Paul preempted the awkward dance of parental circumlocution. "Something on your mind, Dad?" His tone was mild, inviting confidence.

John Veder sighed, the sound heavy with a weariness that seemed to emanate from his very bones. He ran a hand through his thinning hair. "It’s… it’s about school, Greg. Your mother and I… we’re worried." He paused, gathering his words. "I called Mrs. Knott today. Just to ask about… you know, the GED process. If that was something you would be willing to consider later." Another hesitation. "She mentioned you haven’t been in class much lately. Skipping. No notes, no explanations."

Paul retrieved the warmed Tupperware from the microwave, the aroma of reheated casserole – a mundane scent in a world of increasingly extraordinary complexities – filling the small kitchen space. He feigned a slight, almost boyish shrug, the gesture of a teenager caught in a minor transgression. "School’s boring, Dad. Seriously. It’s exhausting. They’re not teaching anything I don’t already know, or can’t figure out faster on my own. Why bother sitting there?" The excuse was flimsy, the reasoning petulant – perfectly in character for the disaffected adolescent he portrayed.

John’s expression didn’t change, the worry lines around his eyes deepening. "So where do you go, Greg? When you’re not in school, when you’re supposed to be?"

"Beach, mostly," Paul replied, his voice still casual. He moved towards the living room, his dinner in hand. "Boardwalk. Just… around. Taking in the sights." He offered a slight, disarming smile. The truth, or a carefully curated fragment of it, was often the most effective form of misdirection. He did, on occasion, for a few seconds at a time, observe the city’s rhythms from the boardwalk, a detached spectator of its endless, chaotic dance.

John’s gaze followed him, troubled. "You’re not… you’re not messing with drugs, are you, son? Or getting mixed up with any of those… gangs? The E88?" The fear in his voice was genuine, a father’s primal dread in a city rife with such perils.

Paul paused at the threshold of the living room. He allowed a small, incredulous laugh to escape him, the sound sharp, dismissive. "Drugs? Gangs? Seriously? You think I’m that stupid?" He shook his head. 

John sighed again, the sound a mixture of relief and lingering unease. He rubbed his temples. "Okay. Okay. But this skipping school… it’s got to stop, Greg. Your mother’s beside herself. Promise me. Promise me you’ll go to class."

Paul considered the request. A promise. Amanah. A sacred trust. To give his word, knowing it would inevitably be revealed that he would break it, was pragmatically an unnecessary complication.

He shook his head, a slow, deliberate motion. "Can’t do that, Dad."

John stared at him, surprise and a fresh wave of concern washing over his features. "Can’t? What do you mean, you can’t?"

"I mean," Paul said, his voice still holding that veneer of adolescent nonchalance, yet underpinned by an unyielding resolve, "we both know I’d probably end up breaking that promise. And I’d rather not be a liar, on top of everything else."

John Veder stared at his son, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The flat, almost logical refusal left him momentarily speechless. He let out another long, weary sigh and rubbed his temples some more as if to ward off an impending headache. "Alright, Greg. Alright. If you can’t… if you won’t promise that, then at least… promise me you’ll keep yourself safe. Your mother… this whole thing, you disappearing, her not knowing where you are… it’s worrying. Can you at least promise me you won’t do anything stupid? That you’ll stay out of trouble?"

Paul met his host-father’s pleading gaze. This promise, he could make. Hifz. Preservation. Self-preservation was a fundamental tenet. And "trouble," like "safety," was a term sufficiently malleable to accommodate his true activities. "Yeah, Dad," he said, his voice softening slightly, adopting a tone of earnest reassurance. "I can promise you that. I’ll keep myself out of trouble. Won’t do anything to worry Mom."

He was already halfway through settling into the sofa opposite John when the man finally noticed.

"You know," John began, though his voice lacked any real heat, his mind clearly still preoccupied. "there’s a perfectly good dining table not ten feet from here."

Paul glanced at the empty table, then back at him, before giving a half-smirk. "Since when was Greg Veder famed for his propriety? I think you got the wrong guy, old man."

A reluctant laugh escaped John’s lips, a brief moment of shared, almost normal, familial banter. "Smartass." The tension in the room eased a fraction. As Paul began to eat, the silence that resettled was less strained, more contemplative.

"That GED thing," Paul said after a few mouthfuls, his tone casual, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "Might not be a bad idea, actually. Highschool’s a waste of my time, but college… that could be fun." It was a concession, a strategic move to placate, to provide them with a tangible, acceptable focus for their anxieties regarding his future. It also offered a convenient avenue for eventually severing his ties to the inefficient, time-consuming ritual of Winslow High.

John looked up, a flicker of surprise, then cautious hope, in his eyes. "You think so?"

"Yeah," Paul affirmed. "Beats sitting through Gladly’s classes. We can check out the requirements. See what it takes."

They discussed the logistics of the General Educational Development test for some time then, John’s relief palpable as he latched onto this small island of apparent normalcy, of responsible future-planning, in the turbulent sea of his son’s recent behaviour. He really got into it, pulling up websites on his laptop, talking about test centres, timelines. For a few minutes, it almost felt normal. John being a concerned father, Greg being a son actually thinking about some kind of future that didn't involve casual murder or destabilising city governments. Almost.

Martha descended the stairs sometime later with a laundry basket on her hip, her expression softening as she saw them talking. "Greg, honey, you’re home," she said, her voice warm. She came over, fussing briefly, asking about his day, about his "friends." Paul offered vague, reassuring platitudes. Her gaze then flicked to John, a silent, questioning look – did you talk to him? About the school? John’s expression turned placating, a subtle nod, a silent assurance that the matter was being… addressed. Martha, sensing the fragile peace, or perhaps simply too weary to press the issue further, let it drop. With a brief comment about needing to sort laundry, she excused herself, attended to the machine before retreating back upstairs to their bedroom.

Paul finished his meal, excused himself shortly thereafter, and made his way to his own room. The sanctuary of its four walls was a welcome respite, a space where the mask of Greg Veder could be momentarily loosened. He powered on his desktop, the hum of the machine a familiar accompaniment to his thoughts. A quick check of his operational network revealed no new critical alerts. His algorithmic djinn, he noted with detached satisfaction, was already beginning its silent, profitable churn in the global financial markets.

Before retiring for the night – this borrowed flesh, though increasingly resilient, still required its measure of rest – he spotted a headline highlighted by one of his aggregators. The new PHO thread, pinned sometime in the morning, just after he left home, and rapidly accumulating replies, caught his attention. The title was stark: "COIL - THOMAS CALVERT - TRIAL TOMORROW?" He clicked. The initial posts confirmed it: the wheels of this world’s justice system, however flawed, were grinding onwards. Thomas Calvert’s court trial was scheduled to begin the next day. It was a rushed affair. Paul had expected a few more days at least before a date was decided. Someone really important must have gotten impatient for a conclusion to the matter.

That, or his most recent attacks on the E88 and the Herren Clan, spurred the need for more expedited actions.

Mizan. Balance. The scales were shifting. Paul absorbed the information, filed it within the intricate lattice of his strategic awareness as he drastically adjusted his plans for tomorrow. Frowning, he shut the PC down. The room went dark as he settled into his bed. Tomorrow was going to be… interesting. He still wasn’t sure whether this was a positive development or not.

Only time could tell.