"What is important for a leader is that which makes him a leader. It is the needs of his people."
—PAUL MUAD'DIB ATREIDES
Paul stood beneath the corrugated awning that jutted from the warehouse row like a rust-tongued prayer flag, letting the rain strike his coat in patient intervals. The call with Trainwreck had been transactional enough. The cape understood more than anything the language of continued payment. His loyalty, such as it was, transferred with the flow of money. Chariot, the younger Tinker, had been more hesitant, his voice tight with unease, but the promise of resources and protection from the inevitable PRT probes had secured his reluctant compliance, for now. Two minor assets secured. Loose ends tied off.
In the lee of the loading bay, Paul crushed the burner, dumped it in the storm drain, and watched as the current carried its pieces away. He retrieved another burner from his pocket, identical to the last. Disposable tools for disposable communications. He thumbed the single number Coil had assigned the Travellers' liaison. Francis Krouse. Leader, after a fashion, of the displaced parahumans. A group of friends ripped away from their homes without warning or an obvious way back. Paul could sympathise.
The phone rang twice, then connected. A male voice, cautious, carrying an undercurrent of tension. "Yeah? Who's this?" Paul did not identify himself. Names were anchors, concessions. He projected calm authority, a voice accustomed to command finding resonance even through the cheap phone's speaker.
"Trickster. Are you there yet?"
A pause on the other end. Calculation. Suspicion. "At the base, like you asked, yes. Who is this? Are you… the new boss the guards were talking about?" Krouse's voice held a forced casualness that failed to conceal the strain.
"Put me on speaker," Paul instructed, ignoring the question. "Ensure all members of your team, especially Noelle, are present and can hear clearly." Control the flow of information. Control the environment of the exchange. Another pause, longer this time. He could almost hear the silent communication, the exchanged glances on the other end. Then, a faint click.
"Okay. You're on speaker. What is this about?"
"Your future," Paul stated plainly. "Consider me the successor entity to your former employer's interests. Thomas Calvert, known to you as Coil, has been neutralised. His capture by the PRT was facilitated by certain actions I initiated." He let the implications settle. He was the force that had broken Coil. "I am aware of the arrangement Calvert maintained with you regarding Miss Meinhardt's condition. The promise of a cure, yes?"
He heard a sharp intake of breath, quickly stifled. Noelle, likely. Hope and uneasy, inextricably intertwined. "That prior arrangement," Paul continued, his voice even, detached, "carried the implicit flaw of relying on a compromised individual. Calvert, facing incarceration, will inevitably attempt to bargain. Your identities, Noelle's existence and location – these are his most valuable remaining assets. To him, you are now expendable liabilities." He painted the stark reality. Fitra, their innate disposition, would lean towards survival, towards protecting their monstrous member.
"I offer an alternative. Continued employment under my direction. In return, I assume the responsibility previously held by Coil regarding Noelle." He sensed their scepticism, their fear. He preempted it.
"This is not coercion," he said. "It is an offer predicated on mutual necessity. However, understand this: whether you accept my terms or not, Calvert's capture means the PRT will eventually learn of your identities, your origins. Your current location is compromised. Your future, uncertain."
He let the silence stretch for a beat, allowing the weight of their predicament to press upon them. "My offer includes immediate provisions. Secure, untraceable relocation for Noelle to a temporary, dedicated facility – outside Brockton Bay – while a more permanent solution is prepared or you pursue other options. New documentation for your entire team. A preliminary operational stipend of twenty thousand dollars, transferred upon acceptance, to cover immediate necessities." He paused. "Are there questions?"
Hesitation on the other end. Then Krouse's voice, stripped of its earlier bravado, tight with hesitation. "This… cure. For Noelle. Can you… Can you really do it? Coil promised, but…" The unspoken doubt hung heavy. Paul considered the truth.
"The condition is complex," he said in the end, his voice carrying absolute conviction based on his assessment of the probabilities. "But avenues exist. Cape abilities, technological pathways unexplored by your former employer. The possibility of success is… not insignificant."
He offered no guarantees, only calculated probability. It was the truth. A long silence followed. Paul could visualise the scene: the huddled group, their faces grim, centred around the monstrous, unseen presence of Noelle, weighing desperation against the unknown. Finally, Krouse spoke, his voice strained.
"We… need to discuss this. As a group."
"Understood," Paul replied. "A transport team will arrive at your current location within ninety minutes to relocate Noelle to the temporary holding facility I have arranged. This action proceeds regardless of your decision regarding employment. Consider it a gesture of goodwill, and a necessity given the compromise of your current position. A secure communication channel will be provided to you by the transport lead for your eventual answer."
He ended the call before Krouse could respond further. Snapped the burner phone, removed the battery and SIM, and dropped the pieces into the flowing storm drain. Another thread addressed. Another set of potentially useful, dangerously unstable assets brought tentatively into his orbit.
He checked his pockets. Right: the last burner phone, house keys, a small, utilitarian pocket knife. Left: the smooth, cold cylinder of one of Bakuda's grenades. He walked towards the nearest bus stop, the city's weary pulse echoing in the soles of his worn sneakers.
The bus ride to the Docks was uneventful, a passage through urban decay. He disembarked into the familiar scent of salt, rust, and neglect. Walking the remaining distance, the red brick edifice of the abandoned Redmond Welding factory loomed ahead, an anonymous scar on the industrial landscape.
The Undersiders' lair.
He stopped across the street, beneath the meagre shelter of a derelict loading bay awning. Retrieved the final burner phone. Dialled the number – Tattletale. It rang. Four times. Five. Then, connection. Lisa Wilbourn's voice, sharp, wary, distinct even through the phone's distortion. "Who the hell is this?" Paul allowed a moment of silence, letting the implied threat build. Then, softly, into the receiver: "You know who I am. Come outside." He ended the call. Pocketed the phone. And waited.
Seconds crawled by. Then, movement in an upper window of the factory. A flash of blonde hair. Lisa Wilbourn, Tattletale, peering down, her face pale, eyes wide with alarm, a glimmer of horrified recognition fueled by her power. Slowly, other faces appeared beside hers. Grue, his posture tense. Regent, bored, left brow arched in curiosity. And… Skitter. Taylor Hebert. Her expression was a mixture of confusion and apprehension, large glasses framing eyes that seemed to search the street below. Paul stepped out from the shadows of the loading bay, into the weak afternoon light. He looked up, directly at the window, at the cluster of faces staring down at him. He met Taylor's gaze. A faint smile touched his lips. He raised a hand in a slow, deliberate wave. "Hey, Taylor," he called out, his voice carrying easily across the quiet street, calm, casual, before he turned his attention back to Lisa who was seemingly frozen in place.
"...So," he drawled, "are you gonna invite me in, or not?"