RWD: 3.05

3.05

“The Baron could see the path ahead of him. One day, a Harkonnen would be Emperor.”

—BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN

When Paul turned back to the group, the faint scent of cordite and cleaning solvent lingering in the air from the returned firearms, Lisa’s patience had clearly frayed. "Alright, enough with the gun show, Greg," she said, her arms crossed, her usual sharp, knowing gaze now tinged with an undisguised annoyance. "You’ve made your point. We suck with guns. What’s next on the agenda? And are you ever going to tell us what your actual goals are?"

Paul regarded her, his expression unreadable. Her desire for information, for certainty, was a predictable constant. He chose to ignore the latter part of her question. Grandiose declarations of intent were the purview of fools and egotists. His goals would become apparent through his actions, in due time. "Melee evaluation," he stated, his voice echoing slightly in the vastness of the range. He gestured back towards the open locker. "Select a weapon you are familiar with, or one that complements your perceived strengths. Then follow me."

Lisa rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh but turned towards the locker. Paul himself selected a plain, utilitarian machete, its eighteen-inch blade honed to a razor edge, which he sheathed in a simple scabbard and strapped to his waist. He also picked up a short, weighted steel baton, its grip wrapped in textured rubber. Thus equipped, he turned and walked away from the shooting range, towards the large, empty expanse of concrete at the center of the warehouse.

The Undersiders, after a moment of hesitation and muttered exchanges, followed his lead. Lisa chose a similar baton to his. Alec, ever the showman, picked a medieval-style flared mace, its head a wicked arrangement of polished steel flanges. Rachel, surprisingly, also selected a machete, its crude, heavy blade looking almost like a cleaver in her hands. Brian, after a moment’s deliberation, took a baton and, from a separate compartment, a set of heavy brass knuckles, which he slipped onto his right hand. Taylor, her earlier apprehension still evident, hesitantly picked up a slender, telescoping baton similar to what she already used, its light weight seeming almost inadequate in the face of the more overtly brutal weaponry chosen by the others. They assembled in the designated empty space, the painted lines on the floor now defining their impromptu arena.

Paul surveyed them, his gaze lingering briefly on each. "This exercise," he began, his voice carrying the quiet authority that brooked no argument, "is to evaluate your physical prowess, your close-quarters combat capabilities. The rules are simple. There are only two." He held up two fingers. "First, for this initial assessment, powers are proscribed for all but one of you." His gaze shifted to Rachel. "Miss Lindt, your abilities present a significant risk of collateral damage to this facility. Your power evaluation will be conducted at a more suitable location, at a later date. The rest of you may utilize your abilities as you see fit, provided they do not directly threaten the structural integrity of this building." His eyes then swept over all of them. "Second, and this is paramount: do not damage the warehouse itself or anything inside. Any repairs will be deducted from your operational stipends."

He then singled out Lisa, gesturing with his baton. "Miss Wilbourn. You will be first." He held his own baton in his right hand, its tip angled towards the floor. The machete at his waist remained untouched. "Approach with the intent to neutralize. Lethal force is authorized, indeed encouraged, for the purpose of this assessment. It is only by pushing your limits that we can accurately gauge your capabilities."

Lisa’s eyes narrowed. "You want me to try and kill you? Seriously?"

"That is the most effective metric, yes," Paul replied, his tone flat.

She shrugged, then without further warning, lunged. Her attack was a swift, but clumsy flurry of baton strikes aimed at his head and torso. It was also telegraphed, her movements lacking the refined economy of a trained fighter. Paul moved with a fluid grace that seemed almost preternatural. He parried her initial strikes with contemptuous ease, his baton a blur, deflecting, redirecting. Her baton rose a final time. She lunged; Paul sidestepped, glancing at her strike’s arc. One fluid motion—a parry, a twirl—disarmed her, sending her baton clattering across the concrete. He stepped back, his own baton resting lightly on his shoulder.

"Your aggression is commendable, Miss Wilbourn," he stated, his voice calm. "Your technique, however, is… rudimentary. You overextend. Your footwork is imbalanced. You rely too heavily on telegraphed, high-percentage strikes. Deficiencies we will address." He dismissed her with a slight inclination of his head. "Mr. Jean-Pierre. If you please."

Alec ignored the jab and he sauntered forward, the flared mace twirling in his hand with a showman’s flourish. "Alright, boss-man. Let’s see if you’re as good up close as you are with that peashooter." He attacked with more cunning than Lisa, attempting to use feints and misdirection, his movements surprisingly agile for someone of his languid demeanor. But Paul’s defense was impenetrable. Alec’s power, the ability to subtly manipulate the nervous systems of others, to induce missteps, to disrupt coordination, found no purchase. Paul’s prana-bindu control, the absolute mastery over his own physiology, rendered him immune to such crude biological puppetry. Each flicker of Alec’s power was met by an internal counter-adjustment, a realignment of neural pathways that neutralized the effect before it could manifest. The mace, for all its wicked appearance, was easily evaded, its swings wide, its recovery slow. Within moments, Alec too was disarmed, his mace skittering away, his smirk replaced by a look of frustrated disbelief. Paul offered no commentary this time, merely a curt nod of dismissal.

He then gestured towards Taylor, but before she could respond, Brian stepped forward, his face a mask of grim determination. The earlier humiliation at the shooting range clearly still stung. "My turn," he growled, his knuckles white where he gripped his baton and the brass knuckles. He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. He charged, and as he did, a wave of absolute, sensory-deadening darkness erupted from him, engulfing the central portion of the warehouse, plunging them into a void where sight was useless.

Paul stood unmoving within the sudden blackness. The tactic was sound: disorient, overwhelm, strike from an unseen quarter. Against a lesser opponent, it would have been devastating. But Paul’s senses were not limited to the visual spectrum. His Mentat training, the ability to process information from myriad subtle cues – the shift of air currents, the faint vibrations in the floor, the infinitesimal sound of Brian’s breathing, the very temperature changes caused by his proximity – painted a precise, three-dimensional map of his opponent’s position within the artificial night. He could ‘see’ Brian, not with his eyes, but with the nafs, the perceiving self, honed by disciplines that transcended mere biology. Brian’s movements, though cloaked in his power, were as predictable as any other physical body adhering to the laws of motion and intent.

When the darkness finally dissipated, receding like a tide, Brian was on his knees at Paul’s feet. His baton lay several feet away. His right hand, the one clad in brass knuckles, was locked in Paul’s left grasp, the fingers bent back at an unnatural angle, held in a wrist lock that elicited a silent rictus of pain on Brian’s face. Paul’s right hand, still gripping his own baton, dangled loosely at his side. He had not needed it.

He released Brian’s hand. The older teen cradled his throbbing wrist, his face a mixture of agony and shocked disbelief. "Your utilization of darkness is a potent tactical advantage, Brian," Paul commended, his voice betraying no hint of exertion. "Your technique in its application, however, reveals a reliance on its disorienting effect, rather than a true mastery of combat within its confines. Your aptitude for physical combat, though, is the most pronounced among your group. There is potential here. Well done."

Paul turned his attention to Taylor, who had watched Brian’s swift, silent defeat with a mixture of awe and dawning apprehension. He gestured towards the center of the informal arena. "Taylor. Your assessment."

She approached hesitantly, her slender baton held loosely in one hand, her eyes darting from Paul to her teammates and back again. She took a position opposite him, her stance uncertain, her shoulders hunched. The weight of his scrutiny, the unspoken expectations, seemed to press down on her. He waited, his own posture relaxed, hands dangling loosely at his sides, the baton held with an almost careless grip. The silence stretched, broken only by Brian’s pained breathing as he nursed his wrist near the edge of the training area.

When it became clear she was not going to initiate, Paul spoke, his voice quiet but carrying. "What is the matter, Taylor?"

She swallowed, her gaze dropping to the concrete floor. "I… I don’t have many non-lethal insects with me right now," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "This place… it’s too clean. Sealed. Fumigated, probably. I can’t call on anything like cockroaches or flies." As if to emphasize her point, a low, menacing buzz emanated from beneath the collar of her hoodie. Two dozen large, iridescent wasps, their bodies banded in black and yellow, emerged, hovering protectively behind her head. Simultaneously, the indistinct, darker shapes of what Paul recognized as Latrodectus spiders – Black Widows – crawled into view on her shoulders, their movements deliberate, predatory. "All I have… they’re the dangerous ones."

Her unspoken concern was palpable: the fear of accidentally causing serious harm, perhaps even killing him, should she unleash the full, lethal potential of her swarm. A flicker of amusement touched Paul’s internal awareness. The potent neurotoxins of a Black Widow, the agonizing sting of a wasp – these were trivial threats to a body conditioned as his, to a metabolism that could identify and neutralize such poisons with contemptuous ease. But this knowledge was his own, a hidden variable. He allowed none of it to show on his face.

"Your reluctance is noted," he said, his expression unreadable. "For the purpose of this specific evaluation, then, you will engage without the use of your swarm. Rely solely on your physical capabilities and the weapon you have chosen."

Taylor looked relieved, if still profoundly uneasy. She nodded, took a shallow breath, and then, with a visible effort of will, launched her attack. It was, as he had anticipated, a clumsy, hesitant affair. Her movements were uncoordinated, her strikes telegraphed, lacking both power and precision. She possessed a certain wiry agility, but it was an untrained, reactive quickness, not the disciplined grace of a true combatant. Paul disarmed her with a single, almost dismissive parry, her baton skittering away. He offered no critique, merely a slight inclination of his head, a silent dismissal. She retreated, her face flushed, her earlier fear now mingled with a fresh layer of inadequacy.

He then turned his gaze to Rachel Lindt, who had remained a silent, glowering presence throughout the evaluations, her hand resting possessively on the hilt of her crude machete, Brutus a low, rumbling sentinel at her side. "Miss Lindt. You are last."

Rachel did not move. Her eyes, narrowed and hostile, were fixed on him. She radiated a feral, untamed aggression that the others, for all their posturing, lacked. It was a primal animosity, rooted in distrust and a fierce, protective loyalty to her companions. She ignored his summons.

Lisa, ever attuned to the shifting dynamics of the group, and likely sensing the potential for an explosive confrontation, stepped forward slightly. "Rachel," she said, her voice placatory. "He means you."

Rachel’s gaze flicked to Lisa, then back to Paul, her lip curling in a silent snarl. Slowly, deliberately, she drew the heavy machete from its sheath before allowing the scabbard to drop to the ground with a hollow sound. The blade was unadorned, brutally functional. She gripped it in a two-handed hold, her knuckles white. Then, without warning, she charged.

There was no finesse in her attack, no discernible technique. It was a raw, untamed onslaught, the heavy machete whistling through the air in a series of powerful, if predictable, chops and slashes. She fought like a cornered animal, all instinct and brute force. An untrained individual might have been overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of her assault. But to Paul, her movements, for all their chaotic energy, were as transparent as glass. Each swing was telegraphed, each shift of weight a clear indicator of her next intent. He met her attacks with his baton, deflecting, parrying, his movements economical, precise. He did not draw his own machete; against such unrefined aggression, it was an unnecessary escalation. The clang of steel against steel echoed in the cavernous space, a harsh, rhythmic counterpoint to Rachel’s guttural snarls and Brutus’s rising growls.

She was strong, her blows carrying considerable weight, but her lack of skill made her vulnerable. After a brief exchange, Paul saw his opening. A feigned stumble, a deliberate overextension on her part, and he moved inside her guard. A swift strike with the baton dislodged the machete from her grasp, sending it spinning across the concrete. Before she could recover, a precisely aimed kick to her sternum knocked the air from her lungs and sent her sprawling backwards, landing heavily on the unforgiving floor.

Brutus, who had been circling the periphery of the fight, let out a deep, warning bark, his hackles raised. Rachel, gasping for breath, pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, her face contorted in a mask of pain and incandescent rage. Her eyes, when they met Paul’s, burned with a furious, almost murderous light. He understood the source of her anger: the perceived threat to the current hierarchy within her own small, human-centric pack, and perhaps, a deeper, more personal resentment at his intrusion into their precarious existence. He could have defused the situation then, offered a placating word, a gesture of de-escalation. But fitna, once ignited, often needed to burn itself out, or be decisively quenched. Allowing her resentment to fester, to smolder beneath the surface, would only create a more dangerous problem later. This needed to be resolved. Now.

Paul narrowed his gaze, meeting her fury with a cold, unwavering stillness. "What?" he asked, his voice quiet, yet carrying an unmistakable undertone of challenge, the single word an invitation to escalate, a drawing of a line in the sand.