RWD: 3.07

3.07

“Mankind has only one science… its the science of discontent.”

—Frank Herbert

Fifteen minutes. He had allotted them that span – a precisely calculated interval to allow for the immediate aftermath of the confrontation to settle, for adrenaline to recede, for the raw edges of defiance and fear to be somewhat smoothed by the mundane necessity of cleaning up the mess. When Paul re-entered, the great sliding door groaning open and then shut with a metallic finality, they were, as he had anticipated, engaged in the latter stages of this task.

The acrid scent of chemical solvent mingled with the damp concrete, a glossy sheen marking the area where Brutus had bled and the containment foam had dissolved. Mops and buckets, sourced from the janitorial supplies he had stocked, leaned against a nearby pillar. Rachel Lindt sat on an overturned crate, carefully bandaging a faint, shallow cut on Brutus’s forelimb– a sympathetic transference, Paul deduced, from the injury he had inflicted upon the dog in its enhanced form. 

Paul came to a stop a few feet from Rachel and the now-docile Brutus. The remaining Undersiders ceased their activities, their attention fixing on him, an uneasy tension immediately reasserting itself in the vast space. He offered no verbal acknowledgment of the previous incident, no commentary on their diligence in restoring order. His gaze rested on Rachel, then on the dog. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a sealed bag of beef jerky he had retrieved from the truck. Without a word, he tossed it underhand to Rachel.

She caught it reflexively, her eyes, still holding a trace of their earlier feral spark, now clouded with confusion as she looked from the packaged meat to him. He merely held her gaze, silent, expectant. Understanding, or perhaps a pragmatic acceptance of the unspoken gesture, slowly dawned on her features. She tore open the bag with her teeth and began to feed strips of the dried meat to Brutus, who accepted them with a grateful, if still cautious, tail thump. A small gesture. Hudna. A truce, of sorts, though the terms remained his.

Satisfied, Paul turned his attention to the assembled group. The air of the evaluation, momentarily disrupted, resettled. "The initial assessment of your capabilities is complete," he stated, his voice calm, devoid of inflection, as if the preceding confrontation had been a mere footnote. He paused, letting his gaze sweep over them. "Your individual powers grant you significant advantages, tactical options that can dictate the terms of an engagement. However, your ability to leverage these advantages through direct physical confrontation, to translate parahuman superiority into decisive martial skill, is… underdeveloped."

He began to pace slowly before them, his hands clasped behind his back. "Therefore, I will personally oversee your training in this domain. Particular attention," his gaze flicked to Brian, then Lisa, Alec, and finally Taylor, "will be given to your capacity to engage and neutralize opponents who may prove resistant, or entirely immune, to the primary effects of your abilities." He allowed a beat of silence for that implication to sink in. "Consider my own imperviousness to Brian's darkness, Lisa's predictive insight, Alec's neural hijacking, and Taylor's more potent entomological assets as… illustrative examples." The admission was delivered without inflection, a statement of fact, not a boast. "Sooner or later, you will encounter adversaries against whom your powers offer no easy solution. Preparation for such an eventuality is not merely prudent; it is essential."

“Before this, however, there was a more immediate concern. Your costumes," he continued, his tone shifting to one of practical assessment, "are inadequate. They offer negligible protection against ballistic threats, and lack features that could significantly enhance your operational effectiveness. This will be rectified."

Brian, who had been listening with a simmering resentment, straightened immediately. "Hold on. You’re not touching my costume." His voice was a low growl, a clear challenge. "We designed our own gear. It works for us."

Paul stopped his pacing, turning to face Brian directly. An eyebrow arched, a subtle, almost imperceptible expression of detached inquiry. "Is this the consensus of your group, Mr. Laborn?" he asked, his gaze then moving to encompass Lisa and Taylor, who exchanged uneasy glances, and Alec, who seemed more curious than confrontational. "Or merely your personal sentiment?"

Lisa and Taylor exchanged another uneasy glance. It was Taylor, surprisingly, who broke the silence, her voice hesitant but clear. "What… what kind of changes were you thinking of, Greg?"

Paul turned his gaze to her. Her fear was still present, a subtle tremor in her voice, but it was overlaid now with a burgeoning curiosity, a pragmatism that he had begun to anticipate. "The primary modification," he explained, his tone returning to one of clinical exposition, "will be an enhancement of their protective capabilities. Your current attire, while suitable for maintaining your chosen personas, offers virtually no defense against conventional firearms. Even small-caliber rounds would likely prove fatal or severely incapacitating. This is an unacceptable vulnerability. The upgraded costumes will incorporate changes, focusing on the protection of vital organs without unduly sacrificing mobility."

He paused, letting the implications of that settle before continuing. "Though unimpressive, I possess some aptitude as a Tinker," he stated, the admission delivered with the same detached neutrality as his earlier pronouncements. This, he knew, would be unexpected. The classification of "Thinker" was already a broad, ill-defined category in this world; adding another, even more esoteric classification to his perceived abilities would only deepen their uncertainty, a useful state of mind for those he sought to command. The surprise was evident on their faces – Lisa’s expression in particular faltered. "I have several concepts for achieving the required level of protection. However, Taylor," his gaze returned to the girl, "your abilities will be integral. I am to believe you made your costume yourself? With spider silk?"

Taylor nodded hesitantly.

"Good," he nodded before pivoting back to the original discussion. "In addition to enhanced durability there will be quality-of-life improvements, tailored to your individual powers and combat styles. Take Brian for example," a slight nod towards the older teen. "Given his predilection for close-quarters engagement, his gloves will be reinforced with hardened knuckle plating and trauma-dampening gel. For Taylor," he turned back to her, "we will incorporate specialized, protective containment units into your costume, designed for the safe and discreet transport of… more specialized entomological assets that I will be providing."

Taylor’s brow furrowed in genuine surprise. "Entomological assets? Insects? You… you’re giving me new bugs?" This was clearly news to her; he had given no prior indication of this particular avenue of development.

"Indeed," Paul affirmed. "Just as Lisa will be provided with an upgraded workstation to enhance her intelligence-gathering capabilities against hardened targets," he gestured vaguely towards the server racks and monitors at the far end of the warehouse, "so too will your own unique talents be augmented. I have already placed orders for multiple breeding pairs of specific species, selected for their potential utility in raising both your lethality and your operational versatility."

He began to list them, the names falling like dry seeds onto fertile ground, each one a carefully chosen instrument. "Asian Giant Hornets, Vespa mandarinia, for their mobility and lethality. Bullet Ants, Paraponera clavata, for their incapacitating stings. The Shaggy-Legged Gallinipper Mosquito, Psorophora ciliata, a robust species suitable for potent, but non-lethal engagements, tracking, and, in both adult and larval forms, as a sustainable protein source for other, more specialized predators within your swarm. South African Termites, Macrotermes natalensis, for their rapid construction capabilities – they will be instrumental in establishing and expanding off-site, auxiliary insect farms – and as a readily available food source for the rest of the swarm. Africanized Honey Bees, Apis mellifera scutellata, for their general utility in aggressive defensive swarming, reconnaissance, as well as for the wax they produce, which will serve as a food source for the wax moths you will be acquiring."

He paused, noting Taylor’s rapt, almost disbelieving attention. "Further, Darwin’s Bark Spider, Caerostris darwini, for its incredibly durable dragline silk; a much better substitute to the black-widow silk you currently employ. The Fringed Jumping Spider, Portia fimbriata, for its exceptional visual acuity and portability. The Common Green Darner, Anaxyrus junius, a dragonfly species, for its exceptional visual acuity and aerial mobility. The Greater Wax Moth, Galleria mellonella, for its extreme auditory acuity, capable of detecting frequencies far beyond the human range, offering unique intelligence-gathering possibilities. And, of course, various species of mealworms and cockroaches, Tenebrio molitor and Blattodea respectively, as a baseline sustainable fodder for the entire ecosystem."

He let the implications of this menagerie sink in. "I have also commissioned the fabrication of several mobile, containerized insect farming units, designed to support the specific environmental needs of each species. They, along with the initial breeding stock, are scheduled to arrive within the week." He gestured to an empty, demarcated section of the warehouse floor. "You will be allocated that space for the initial cultivation and expansion of these swarms. The objective will be to determine the upper limits of your control, the critical mass of biomass you can effectively command and coordinate. Consider it a… stress test of your full potential." 

Having laid out this part of his plan, he returned to the matter at hand, his gaze sweeping over the still-processing Undersiders. "We’ve gone off on a tangent a bit there. Apologies. Regardless, do you still object to the proposed modifications to your costumes?"

Brian, his earlier defiance now considerably blunted by the sheer scope of Paul’s revealed intentions, hesitated. "Do… do we get any say in how they look?" he asked, the question a grudging concession.

Paul offered a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. "They are your costumes. Your public identities. While I will provide the functional enhancements and offer recommendations based on tactical efficiency, the final aesthetic choices are yours. However," his voice took on a subtle edge of warning, "should you choose to prioritize cosmetic considerations over a design that maximizes your survivability or operational effectiveness, you do so at your own peril. I will not be held accountable for deficiencies born of vanity."

Paul allowed a moment for his pronouncements to settle, observing the mixture of apprehension, calculation, and dawning ambition on the faces before him. The offer of enhanced protection and tailored equipment, coupled with the undeniable display of resources, had effectively neutralized Brian’s initial, reflexive defiance. The others, already more inclined towards pragmatic self-interest or cautious curiosity, offered no further objections.

"If you wish for my assistance in these modifications," Paul stated, his tone brisk, signaling a shift in topic, "leave your current costumes in the truck. I will require them for analysis and as a baseline for the upgrades." He did not elaborate further, did not solicit their agreement. The choice, and its attendant consequences, was theirs.

He then turned, his gaze falling upon Lisa Wilbourn, who had been observing the preceding exchange with a focused, almost unnerving intensity, her mind likely racing to process the new variables, the revealed layers of his capabilities. "Lisa," he said, "accompany me. I have a task I need you to complete for me."

Without waiting for her reply, he began to walk towards the sophisticated workstation at the far end of the warehouse, its multiple screens currently dark, its server towers emitting a low, almost subliminal hum. Lisa, after a fractional hesitation, a quick, unreadable glance at her teammates, followed.

"What is it?" she asked as they crossed the demarcated lines into the workstation zone, her voice regaining some of its characteristic, slightly acerbic curiosity.

"My primary objective for your assessment is to ascertain the precise limits and operational methodologies of your… intuitive data processing. Specifically, I wish to observe first hand how effective your ability to extrapolate data is. Hence, today, you will assist me in identifying all other entities, aside from yourself and the PRT’s rather predictable efforts, who have been attempting to gain unauthorized access to, or extract information from, the secured financial and operational networks previously controlled by Thomas Calvert, and now under my administration."

Lisa stiffened almost imperceptibly behind him. Glancing back, Paul saw the flicker of apprehension in her eyes, the sudden tension in her shoulders. She knew. She understood the implication. He had detected her own clandestine excursions into his systems, her repeated attempts to subvert his control. Muraqaba. Vigilant awareness. No action within his domain went unnoticed.

Paul offered no direct accusation, no confrontation regarding her activities. He merely smiled as he continued, his voice even, "Your task is to analyze the intrusion patterns, the digital footprints, the methodologies of these unknown actors. Identify them, if possible. Determine their objectives. Assess their capabilities." As they arrived at the workspace, Paul activated the primary console, the large wall-mounted screens and the smaller desktop monitors flaring to life, displaying a complex, multi-layered interface. Sitting in one of the unoccupied chairs, he brought up a series of isolated data logs on one of the smaller monitors, highlighted strings of code, and anomalous access requests. "Begin here."

Hesitantly, she occupied the vacant seat beside him, and Paul began observing not just her interaction with the interface, but the subtle physiological cues that accompanied the engagement of her power – the slight dilation of her pupils, the almost imperceptible tremor in her hands, the faint sheen of perspiration on her brow. Each was a datum, a piece of the larger puzzle that was Lisa Wilbourn, Tattletale, his most potent, and potentially most volatile, information warfare asset.