"A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct. This every sister of the Bene Gesserit knows. To begin your study of the life of Maud'Dib, then, take care that you first place him in his time: born in the 57th year of the Padishah Emperor, Shaddam IV. And take the most special care that you locate Maud'Dib in his place: the planet Arrakis. Do not be deceived by the fact that he was born on Caladan and lived his first fifteen years there. Arrakis, the planet known as Dune, is forever his place."
—FROM "MANUAL OF MUAD'DIB" BY PRINCESS IRULAN
The terminal screen cast a pallid glow in the pre-dawn stillness, its phosphorescent text stark against the darkened room. Headlines scrolled with the measured gravity of pronouncements etched in stone: Hookwolf Evades Capture Following Lethal Engagement with PRT Forces, Kill Order Issued, City-Wide Curfew Implemented by National Guard. Information, distilled and disseminated. Another failure logged in the PRT's public ledger, another tremor shaking the fragile edifice of order in this chaotic city. Predictable outcomes from predictable systems.
With a final click, the screen went dark, plunging the room back into shadow. The silence deepened, broken only by the house's quiet respiration—the sigh of plumbing, the faint electrical hum from downstairs. Paul rose, moving with the fluid economy that was gradually claiming this borrowed flesh. He paused before the mirror above the tidy dresser.
His reflection stared back, a familiar unfamiliarity. The sharp angles of the Atreides lineage were absent, replaced by the softer, less defined features of the Veder boy. The hair, however… He ran fingers through it. The harsh, grease-cutting soap he purchased the other day had stripped away most of the temporary brown dye he used to disguise his features, but the original blonde lacked its lustre, dulled by the chemical intervention. A residue remained, a faint muting of the colour. Another wash would restore it fully. He considered the necessity, weighed the minute deviation from his original appearance against the effort required. Unimportant, he decided in the end.
Dressed in unremarkable clothes, chosen for function over the fleeting dictates of adolescent taste, he descended the stairs. The aroma of brewing coffee and frying bacon—mundane scents grounding the extraordinary circumstances—thickened as he reached the kitchen doorway. John Veder sat at the table, phone held aloft, his brow furrowed, lips tight as he scrolled through the morning's litany of disasters. Martha moved between stove and counter, her motions carrying the practiced rhythm of routine, yet underscored by a tension in her shoulders.
"Morning," Paul offered, the single word pitched for neutrality.
John grunted a response, gaze fixed on the screen. Martha turned, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Greg. Sit down, breakfast is ready."
He took his usual place. A plate appeared before him – eggs, toast, bacon arranged with maternal care. He began to eat with deliberate, measured bites, all the while observing the micro-expressions flickering across his host-parents' faces. Worry etched lines around John's mouth; Martha's movements were too quick, too brittle. They knew disruption, tasted fear in the air. The events of last night worried them greatly.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, heavier than usual. Tom entered, pausing in the doorway. His typical companion, a book, was absent. His eyes, sharp and assessing, found Paul immediately and locked onto him. He nodded a curt greeting to his parents, slumped into the remaining chair, and accepted the plate Martha offered. But he didn't eat. Arms folded across his chest, he simply stared at Paul, an unnerving, focused intensity radiating from him.
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the clink of cutlery on ceramic. Martha glanced between her sons, frowning. "Tom? What's wrong? Aren't you hungry?"
Tom didn't break his gaze from Paul. "Greg has something he wants to tell you." His voice was flat, challenging. The confrontation, delayed but not averted.
Paul chewed slowly, swallowed. He placed his fork carefully beside his plate. The moment had arrived, anticipated, calculated. Their suspicions, seeded by the subtle and not-so-subtle shifts in 'Greg's' behaviour since his arrival, had clearly coalesced. They anticipated a Trigger event, the clumsy term this world used for the traumatic blossoming of parahuman ability. It explained the changes, the absences, the newfound composure, the unsettling silences. It was a convenient narrative, fitting the patterns they understood.
He met Tom's stare, then turned his gaze to John and Martha. Their emotions were palpable. John lowered his phone; Martha came to stand behind her husband's chair, hands resting lightly on his shoulders, a subconscious gesture of mutual support. He saw their worry, their thoughts flickering to possibilities, their uncertainty about how to navigate the perilous, but likely certain reality of having a parahuman son in a city actively tearing itself apart.
"Yes," Paul stated calmly, letting the word settle in the suddenly thick air. He held their gazes, projecting quiet confidence. "It seems I… triggered." The lie was smooth, functional. It aligned with their expectations, provided a framework they could comprehend. And yet, beneath the label, lay a kernel of truth. His abilities—Mentat ability, the intricate mind-body control of Prana-Bindu, the weight of ancestral memory—far surpassed the limitations of their current understanding, transcending the definitions of this culture. Cape? He was no Cape. But then again, who could claim otherwise.
Surprise registered on their faces, quickly followed by something akin to weary resignation. Not shock, but the confirmation of a dreaded possibility. Tom, however, remained visibly skeptical, his eyes narrowed. Paul recognized the pattern: the older brother had anticipated evasion, denial. This calm admission, this lack of resistance, felt wrong to him, incongruous with the brother he thought he knew.
"Triggered?" John repeated, the words heavy. He leaned forward slightly. "When?"
"Recently," Paul replied vaguely. "The specifics aren't important."
Tom leaned forward too, suspicion sharpening his features. "What kind? What can you do?"
Paul sighed, but indulged in the end. "My classification would likely be Thinker," he stated, turning his attention back to his meal. "My cognitive processes are… significantly enhanced."
John waved a dismissive hand, his concern fixed elsewhere. "Never mind the powers. Greg, I hope you haven't… have you been going out? Doing things? Cape things? Vigilantism…?" His voice trailed off, worry colouring his tone.
"No," Paul lied again, smoothly. Vigilantism implied adherence to some local moral code, some altruistic drive. His actions were driven by imperatives far removed from the petty squabbles of this city's costumed factions. Survival. Assessment. The acquisition of resources. The path back to Arrakis. Those were what truly mattered. "I have engaged in no such activities."
"He's lying," Tom interjected sharply. "Last night. You weren't here. Where did you go?"
Paul turned his gaze on Tom, a flicker of cool calculation in his eyes. "I required a discreet location to assess the parameters of my abilities without risking collateral damage or undue attention," he stated, cutting off further argument. "An abandoned industrial area provided suitable conditions."
Martha gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "You snuck out? Greg! What if something happened to you?" Her maternal fear surged, overriding other concerns.
John's expression hardened. "Martha's right. Wandering around at night, especially now… That was profoundly reckless, Greg. Irresponsible. You could have been hurt. Or worse."
Paul inclined his head slightly, accepting the censure without defence. Arguing would be counterproductive. Let them vent their parental anxieties. It was a predictable, manageable reaction.
Tom, however, brushed aside the safety lecture, his focus returning to what he considered the core issue. "So, what now? Are you going to sign up for the Wards? To be a Hero?"
The suggestion hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome. John reacted instantly, physically recoiling. "Absolutely not! The Wards? No. Out of the question." The fear in his voice was raw, visceral. Paul saw the underlying conviction: his memories of the man painted a picture of someone who was at best on fence regarding the Ward's program, and at worst distrustful of it inherently, seeing it as exploitation, child soldiery masked by bright costumes and PR spin. Gallant's gruesome, public death had possibly only helped to cement that latter conviction into absolute opposition.
Paul gestured in a consolatory manner. "Don't worry, father," he said. "I have no intention of associating with the Wards, or the PRT in any capacity." The declaration was stated firmly, his gaze sweeping across the three of them. Martha looked surprised, perhaps having assumed enrollment was the path he would have defaulted to, especially given Greg's past passions and obsessions.
"You don't?" she asked hesitantly.
Paul allowed a moment of silence, letting the weight of his next words gather. "My abilities," he began, invoking the convenient lie of his Thinker power, "allow me to perceive patterns. To see things more clearly than I ever have before. Hence, I have come to understand a truth most would suppress: Centralized power structures like the Protectorate and the PRT inherently foster corruption of all sorts. It is unavoidable then that they would concentrate authority, limit dissent, and ultimately serve their own perpetuation above the interests of those they claim to protect. Trusting such an organization is frankly… unwise." He paused, letting his gaze linger on each of them in turn, his voice dropping slightly, imbued with a cold, quiet finality. "If I would be honest with you, had I perceived any serious consideration on your part to enforce my enrollment into the program or report my… condition… to them, I would have made arrangements to disappear. Permanently. I still would. Not because I do not understand your love for me, but because I understand the cost that comes with such association."
The air turned thick with unspoken tension. John looked stunned into silence; Martha's face was pale, her earlier fear replaced by a dawning realization of how close they must have come to losing their "son". Breakfast concluded in a heavy, sullen silence, the fragile illusion of normalcy shattered beyond repair.
✥✥✥
Winslow High School remained a monument to institutional mediocrity. The same scent of stale chalk dust and adolescent anxiety clung to the corridors. The same cliques clustered by lockers, their social dynamics as predictable and brutal as any animal hierarchy. Taylor Hebert was absent again, Paul noted dispassionately.
He moved through the day like a ghost, attending classes, performing the necessary rituals of participation without genuine engagement. He kept to himself, a quiet eddy in the turbulent stream of high school life, attracting no undue attention, inviting no conflict.
When the final bell signalled release, he bypassed the usual route home, boarding a bus heading towards the industrial outskirts near the Boardwalk. The storage facility waited. Upon arrival, he keyed himself in, the heavy corrugated door rolling up with a familiar metallic groan.
Inside, the air was cool, still, smelling faintly of concrete and the antiseptic wipes he'd used. Bakuda lay where he had left her, immobile on the canvas tarp beneath the single bare bulb. Her eyes, wide and hate-filled, tracked his movements as he approached. The gag muffled any sound she might make, but the fury radiating from her was almost palpable.
He worked with clinical detachment. Checking the saline IV drip, replacing the nearly empty bag with a fresh one. Removing the soiled adult diaper,and cleaning her body with antiseptic wipes, he applied a fresh diaper, wrestling briefly with her inert limbs. She offered no physical resistance, only the impotent burning of her stare.
He uncapped a bottle of water and carefully tilted a small amount past her lips, ensuring she swallowed, to wet her lips. He followed this with a small amount of nutrient paste – a bland, easily digestible substance he'd mixed from the supplies in the corner. Maintaining the basic function of her digestive system was crucial if she were to remain at a reasonable level of health. Her glare intensified, but she swallowed reflexively. Finally, he unfolded the warm blanket he had brought from the Veder house that morning – a simple, patterned quilt – and draped it over her nakedness, tucking it loosely around her shoulders. He checked her restraints, replaced the gag securely, and surveyed his work. Stable. Contained.
He locked the unit behind him, the click of the mechanism echoing briefly in the cavernous building. Outside, the afternoon was fading, the sky bruised with the colours of impending evening. The city-wide curfew would take effect soon. He needed to return to the Veder apartment.
As he walked towards the nearest bus stop, the sound reached him first – a low murmur growing into a distinct buzz of human voices, drawing his attention towards the Boardwalk's main plaza a few blocks away. A crowd had gathered, necks craned upwards, faces a mixture of awe, excitement, and apprehension. Curiosity, a controlled intellectual impulse rather than genuine interest, prompted him to divert his course.
He moved through the periphery of the crowd, his leaner stature allowing him to weave easily between onlookers until he reached a vantage point near the front. He followed their collective gaze upwards.
Floating high above the plaza, silhouetted against the darkening sky, was a figure radiating palpable power. Green costume, a flowing cape and hoodie catching the wind, an aura of contained energy shimmering around him. Even without Greg Veder's obsessive knowledge of capes, the sheer presence, the projected authority, was unmistakable. A focal point of immense capability.
Eidolon.
Paul turned to a man standing nearby, whose eyes were fixed rapturously on the figure above, a cheap souvenir pin bearing the hero's symbol affixed to his jacket. "What is happening?" Paul asked, his voice neutral.
The man turned, his face alight with fervent admiration. "It's Eidolon! Can you believe it? Eidolon, here in Brockton Bay! They say he came to help out, you know, with the bombings and… and everything. To help stabilise things." The man's voice trembled slightly with awe. A True Believer.
Paul's gaze returned to the figure in the sky. Eidolon. One of the Triumvirate. A name synonymous with overwhelming power, a pillar of the established order. Here. Now. An intervention of significant magnitude. He processed the implications: what situation was deemed critical enough by the highest authorities to warrant such a deployment?
He watched for another moment, observing the way the crowd reacted, the blend of hope and fear directed at the figure above. Power personified. Worshipped. Feared.
Then, Paul turned away. The cape's presence was a significant variable, altering the strategic landscape, but his immediate objective remained unchanged: return to the Veder residence before the curfew locked the city down. He walked towards the bus stop, the excited chatter of the crowd fading behind him. The image of the floating figure remained imprinted on his mind's eye.
A god among mortals, the thought surfaced, unbidden, resonant with echoes from his memories of a different struggle. He considered the concept, turning it over with detached, mentat precision. How does the mortal scheme against the divine? How does the finite contend with the seemingly infinite? The question hung in the damp evening air, not seeking an answer, but acknowledging a fundamental pattern woven into the fabric of existence, as true here, in this strange water, as it had been beneath the twin moons of Arrakis.
How does one kill a god?