RWD: 3.04

3.04

“When strangers meet, great allowances should be made for differences in custom and training.”

—FROM ”THE WISDOM OF MUAD’DIB” BY THE PRINCESS IRULAN

The journey north from the Boardwalk was yet another descent into the city’s decaying industrial heart, a landscape of rust-stained concrete and skeletal gantries silhouetted against a sky the color of tarnished pewter. The air grew heavier here, laden with the ghosts of forgotten industry and the pervasive dampness that crept in from the nearby bay. Paul navigated his through a labyrinth of potholed service roads, the Undersiders a restless, mostly silent presence behind him. He parked the vehicle before a vast, featureless warehouse, its corrugated metal façade streaked with grime, its sheer scale dwarfing the neighboring structures. Without a word, he cut the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the distant moan of a foghorn. He alighted, the crunch of his boots on the gravelled apron the only sound.

Behind him, the truck doors opened with a series of metallic groans and clicks. Brian Laborn emerged from the front passenger seat, his posture a study in contained resentment. From the rear, Lisa Wilbourn, Taylor Hebert, Alec Vasil, and Rachel Lindt untangled themselves from the slightly cramped confines of the bench seat. Brutus, Rachel’s scarred rottweiler, hopped heavily from the truck bed, landing with a soft thud, and padded silently after his mistress, his yellow eyes scanning the desolate surroundings.

Paul moved to the massive, sliding front door of the warehouse. A heavy-duty padlock secured it. He produced a key, the tumblers yielding with a well-oiled click. With a grunt of effort, he slid the immense door sideways, revealing a cavernous, artificially lit interior. He stepped inside, the Undersiders trailing behind him, their footsteps echoing in the sudden vastness.

The interior was halfway through its nascent transformation. Soft, even fluorescent light banished most shadows, illuminating a space that stretched away into a distant haze. The air was cool, clean, with a faint, lingering scent of new construction materials. One entire wall, stretching perhaps two hundred feet, was already covered in dark, sound-absorbing acoustic tiles, their geometric pattern a stark contrast to the raw concrete of the other walls and the high, arching ceiling, where similar fixtures were clearly planned. Tools – power drills, caulking guns, stacks of uninstalled tiles – lay where they had been last used, evidence of ongoing refurbishment.

At the far end of the rectangular expanse, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards distant, Paul could discern the distinct setup of an indoor shooting range, its backstop a dark, imposing barrier. Closer, and to one side of the range, a sophisticated workstation was taking shape. Several large display screens were mounted on a section of wall, cabled to a formidable array of server towers that hummed quietly on the floor. Two ergonomic chairs sat before a wide, uncluttered desk that supported four smaller, high-resolution monitors.

Opposite this technological nexus, on the other side of a painted line demarcating the zone, lay what was clearly intended as a lounge area. A regulation-sized pool table, its felt a deep burgundy, sat on a plush, dark Turkish rug. Nearby, a cluster of oversized beanbag chairs formed a semicircle around a blank section of wall, clearly intended for the ceiling-mounted projector that hung silently above. A bar, refrigerator and a sleek water dispenser stood in one corner.

Closer to the entrance through which they had just passed, another demarcated zone housed a workshop. A massive workbench dominated the space, littered with schematics and tools. Heavy machinery – a metal lathe, a drill press, a CNC milling machine – stood alongside DIY welding equipment, carpentry tools, and what appeared to be the specialized printer, Paul had purchased for fabricating the acoustic tiles.

The central expanse of the warehouse, a vast swathe of polished concrete, remained deliberately empty, its boundaries marked only by painted lines on the floor. The sheer scale was impressive; a total floor space of some one hundred and fifty thousand square feet.

Alec let out a low whistle, his usual smirk tinged with genuine surprise as his gaze swept across the facility. "Holy shit, boss man. You must be loaded."

The other Undersiders were similarly affected, their expressions a mixture of astonishment and, in Brian’s and Rachel’s cases, a deepening suspicion. Taylor looked overwhelmed, her eyes wide as she tried to take in the sheer size and scope of the operation.

The unit was constructed to service the port’s commercial operations before the industry collapsed. It was one of the better-maintained structures. The climate control systems, though dated, remain functional. The electrical infrastructure was also sound. Given the current economic climate and the absence of significant demand for industrial space of this scale, Paul found the acquisition cost favorable and was quite pleased with the purchase.

Lisa, her initial surprise already giving way to her characteristic analytical sharpness, moved to walk beside him. Her voice was low, pitched for his ears alone, though in the vastness of the warehouse, even whispers seemed to carry. "Alright, Greg. Are you going to finally tell us why you dragged us out to your new secret clubhouse?"

Paul didn’t break stride. "An evaluation," he stated, his gaze fixed on the distant shooting range. "I need a more… hands-on assessment of your capabilities. Given, you will be functioning as my primary enforcers, it is prudent that I fully understand the limits, and the potential, of your powers before deploying you against adversaries you may be ill-equipped to handle." Qudra. Power. Its nature, its application, its limitations – these were constants that demanded rigorous understanding. To command effectively, one must first know the instruments at one’s disposal.

They reached the far end of the warehouse, the distant sounds of the city now completely absorbed by the increasing density of acoustic tiling. The shooting range was a self-contained unit, its side walls constructed of heavy-duty ballistic panels, the backstop a layered assembly of steel and sand designed to swallow bullets without ricochet. Paul produced another key, this one for a massive, reinforced steel locker sitting by the side wall of the range. The door swung open with a well-oiled hiss, revealing an arsenal that made Lisa’s eyes widen and drew a low grunt from Brian.

Racks of firearms – pistols, shotguns, assault rifles of various calibers and origins – lined one side. Shelves overflowed with ammunition boxes, cleaning kits, and an array of tactical attachments: scopes, suppressors, laser sights. The other side of the locker was dedicated to less lethal options and protective gear: body armor, riot shields, tear gas canisters, containment foam sprayers, and a selection of melee weapons.

Paul ignored the unspoken awe of his subordinates. He reached into the locker, selecting a simple nylon carrying rig. He donned it over his plain shirt, the straps cinching snugly. From the shelves, he took two spare pistol magazines, slotting them into the rig’s pouches, followed by a nondescript grenade which he clipped to a loop. His hand then moved to the pistol rack, selecting a Walther PDP, its polymer frame and sculpted grip feeling balanced, functional in his grasp. From a tray of attachments, he chose a matte black suppressor, its threads mating smoothly with the barrel of the pistol. 

Armed, he turned and walked to the firing line, a series of partitioned stalls facing the distant targets. He took the center stall. Without a word to the Undersiders, who had gathered a respectful distance behind him, he raised the pistol. His stance was relaxed, almost casual, the Walther held in a single, steady hand, his other arm dangling loosely at his side. He sighted down the barrel, his breathing slowing to an almost imperceptible rhythm. The target, a standard paper silhouette, was set at one hundred and fifty feet. A considerable distance for a handgun, especially fired one-handed.

The suppressor coughed, a muffled exhalation, once, twice, then a rapid, controlled sequence. The slide locked back on an empty chamber. Paul lowered the weapon, his expression unchanging. He pressed a large red button on the console beside his stall. With a quiet whir, the target retrieval carrier began its journey, reeling the paper silhouette towards them.

When it arrived, the Undersiders leaned in, their curiosity piqued. Every single one of Paul’s fifteen shots was clustered tightly within the half-inch diameter of the bullseye. A perfect group.

Alec let out an impressed click of his tongue. Taylor stared, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Lisa’s gaze was narrowed, analytical, her own formidable ability trying to deconstruct the display of seemingly effortless skill.

Paul ejected the spent magazine, retrieved a fresh one from his rig, and seated it with a precise click. He then turned, offering the pistol, grip first, to Brian. "Your turn," he said, his voice devoid of challenge, a simple statement of fact. He gestured with his head towards the firing line. 

Brian stared at the proffered weapon as if it were a venomous snake, his earlier resentment now mixed with a clear reluctance. He glanced at Lisa, who met his gaze with a subtle, warning frown – don’t be an idiot. Grudgingly, his jaw set, Brian took the pistol. Paul moved to the target carrier, replacing the perforated silhouette with a fresh one. The carrier whirred, dispatching the new target back to the 150-foot mark.

Brian stepped into the stall. He adopted a more conventional two-handed Weaver stance, his brow furrowed in concentration. He sighted, adjusted, then began to fire. His shots were slower, more deliberate than Paul’s, the suppressed reports echoing slightly in the enclosed space. After a tense ten seconds, his magazine, too, was empty.

Paul pressed the recall button. The target journeyed back. Brian’s attempt was… less impressive. Only two of his fifteen shots had even struck the paper. Neither was anywhere near the bullseye. The rest were scattered misses, lost to the backstop. An embarrassed flush crept up Brian’s dark neck. He handed the pistol back to Paul, his annoyance palpable.

Without comment, Paul swapped the magazines again. He offered the Walther to Lisa. She took it, her eyes narrowed in a calculating stare. She stepped up, her stance more fluid than Brian’s, her focus intense. Five minutes later, the results were tallied for all the Undersiders who were willing to try, excluding Rachel, whose disinterest in firearms was well-known. Lisa had managed three shots on target, none on the bullseye. Alec and Taylor had failed to hit the paper at all.

Only then did Paul speak, his voice calm, analytical. "Your collective accuracy requires… significant improvement. In the future engagements, the ability to neutralize a threat swiftly, precisely, at range, could be a determining factor in your survivability." He paused, letting the assessment settle. "Therefore, we will incorporate regular marksmanship training into your regimen."

He then outlined the incentive. "You will have the opportunity to repeat this exercise in one week. For every three additional shots you place on target, compared to your previous baseline, you will receive a bonus of twenty thousand dollars. Should any of you manage to place five additional shots on target, the bonus will be fifty thousand."

Alec whistled again, a genuine grin spreading across his face this time. "Fifty K? For target practice? Seriously?"

Taylor, who had remained mostly silent, her expression troubled, finally spoke, her voice hesitant. "Why… why so much? Just for shooting better?"

Paul turned his gaze to her. The fear was still there, but beneath it, a flicker of something else – a cautious curiosity, perhaps even a reluctant understanding of the brutal pragmatism that underpinned his actions. "The business of parahuman conflict is inherently dangerous, Taylor," he explained, his tone softening almost imperceptibly. "The stakes are… absolute. If I am to deploy you, my subordinates, in pursuit of my objectives, to place you in harm’s way, then it is my responsibility to ensure you are as prepared, as capable, as lethal as it is possible for you to be. Your enhanced survivability directly benefits my operations. The remuneration reflects the value I place on that increased efficacy, and on your lives." He held her gaze for a moment longer. Al-Haqq. The truth, or a version of it, tailored to the listener. In this world of masks and deceptions, even a carefully curated truth could be a potent tool.

The vast warehouse fell silent, the only sound the faint hum of the ventilation system. Paul unscrewed the suppressor from the Walther PDP, his movements precise, economical. He returned the pistol, the silencer, and the spent magazines to their designated places on the racks within the locker, restoring order. The tools of violence, neatly arrayed, awaiting their next purpose.