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Chapter 8 - 1.07​

"A process cannot be understood by stopping it. Understanding must move with the flow of the process, must join it and flow with it."

—FIRST LAW OF MENTAT​

Paul stepped out of Fugly Bob's and let the door click shut behind him. Grease-laden air clung to his clothes for a heartbeat, then the harbor wind carried it away and left only salt and diesel. He paused, making a small ritual of stillness: one breath to clear the lingering taste of charred meat, a second to count the beat of his heart, a third to let noise and motion pass around him until he felt as unmoving as a post driven into sand.

Purpose settled over him once more: a checklist, spare as a blade. He shouldered his duffel and joined the afternoon throng. Ahead, the market stretched along two intersecting streets, kiosks jammed shoulder-to-shoulder: discount shoes, souvenir mugs printed with hopeful skylines, simmering vats of chowder whose steam braided with exhaust. Paul threaded the arteries without urgency. Each storefront window became a mirror in which to gauge pursuit; each vendor's banter, a sample of cadence and dialect that filed itself into the growing dossier of Brockton Bay's underculture.

A narrow grocery displayed, amongst other things, utilitarian detergents. He selected a squat bottle of grease-cutting dish soap, noting volume, viscosity, and surfactant mix. At the register he exchanged small bills and a bland smile before quickly moving on.

Cosmetic shops followed—three of them, spaced across blocks to avoid drawing suspicion. In each he was a different customer, asking simple questions in unremarkable words, paying with small bills. In each he drifted like quiet weather, lifting bottles, eyeing descriptions, and inquiring on the efficacy of each brand. A yellow-leaning foundation went into a paper bag; a matte bronzer, two shades warmer, into a second followed quickly by a small tub of finely milled translucent powder. He added eyelid tape, micellar water, petroleum jelly, a can of dark-brown temporary hair spray, and dull-labeled contact lenses. Again, cash changed hands and Paul moved on.

When the duffle rode heavier against his shoulder he turned inland, away from the tonic glare of the Boardwalk and towards his rental. Sodium lamps jittered overhead; their amber glare made the pavement look wet even where it was dry. Unit DF-12 greeted his key with a clean click. Corrugated steel rolled up; he slipped inside, drew the door down, and let darkness envelop him.

There he changed back into Greg Veder's faded hoodie and scuffed shoes, slipped through the opening door, and walked to the bus stop. The ride home was quiet. Streetlights smeared across the window; row-house silhouettes slipping by, their windows glowing like low-powered diodes behind rain-dappled glass. John's sedan was absent from the curb, but Tom's bike was chained outside. As expected, no one was home, save for his brother.

Inside, Paul let himself settle into the apartment's cramped strata of familiar scents—laundry powder, burnt coffee, paperbacks. In his room, by his desk, he logged onto Parahumans Online and let bulletin boards scroll under half-lidded eyes. Page after page yielded only the predictable detritus of the internet: memes, rumours and speculations. Nothing concrete. Nothing reliable. Nothing new.

Time passed; key rattling at the door announced the Veder couple's return. Polite questions, muffled television, routine clatter. When Martha came up to greet him, Paul offered correct nods, gave answers of suitable length, and she withdrew.

Minutes later, the summons came. Dinner, then an evening shower. Lamps dimmed; rooms went dark one by one until none remained. And when the last floorboard ceased creaking, Paul rose.

✥✥✥​

A muted desk-lamp painted his face in amber as he assembled the disguise. Foundation first, stippled then feather-blended down the neck; its warmth submerged the undertone of northern blood. Bronzer darkened planes of cheek and brow until bone structure suggested a different heritage. Powder followed, a translucent hush binding pigments where sweat might grow treacherous.

With precise fingers, he taped his eyelids—skin creased, folded—until the mirror returned a shallow monolid. Contact lenses floated into place, blue irises now a soft umber. Petroleum jelly mixed with crushed liner slicked brows into darker, subtler arches. Finally, the hair spray: towel tucked, aerosol hiss, strands drinking pigment until gold blonde surrendered to utilitarian brown. He examined the whole: pores, lash-roots, the joining at the jaw. Imperfect—no amount of makeup could change the lines of his skull—but sufficient. In half-light, in hurried glance, he would pass as Asian; to any who looked closer, a mongrel.

Satisfied, Paul changed from his pyjamas in a set of nondescript greys and cracked the window before easing outside. A block away, he stole a parked sedan, picking the door lock before jump-starting it and easing the vehicle out of the driveway. He kept the headlights off until he merged with the emptied thoroughfare, then guided the steel beast down toward the docks. Rain began, stippling the windshield in slow alchemical patterns.

The drizzle had ceased when he arrived. Killing the engine two blocks from his destination, Paul allowed the car to coast into a recessed alley behind a seafood warehouse. From there, he closed the remaining distance on foot.

The night market announced itself by smell first: frying batter, stale cigarettes, the damp of untreated lumber. Strands of colored bulbs sagged overhead, their filaments pulsing in corrupt rhythm. Narrow aisles thrummed with Japanese, Cantonese, Mandarin, Korean, Vietnamese, English—all under-spoken, urgent. Booths hawked knock-off sneakers, pirated DVDs, cell-phone cases, glittering knives whose quality ended at hilt polish. Under every counter, rumor promised heavier merchandise.

Paul allowed his posture to soften, shoulders rounding, gaze restless. In merchant's argot, he inquired after electronics, after discount cologne, after a certain Korean brand of pocket warmer. Exposure seeded familiarity. A gaunt man with trembling hands and fever-bright pupils intercepted him.

"Friend! Good price, you like Dream, yes?" English fractured inside rotting teeth. A small plastic bag materialized, its contents pastel and crystalline. Ah, a drug dealer…

Paul tilted his head, considering. He needed to gather information and had yet to decide on how best to begin. "Sample first," he said moments later, his accent hewed toward Hong Kong's harbor slang. "Maybe business later."

The gaunt nodded eagerly and turned. Paul followed. Moment's later, an alley offshoot swallowed them. Under a single bulb the peddler laid out capsules, powder packs, blotters printed with cartoon chimeras. Paul selected at random, broke a capsule on tongue, let the burn of cheap stimulants prickle palate—discipline already isolating the chemical, redirecting bloodstream to liver shunts. Casual nod.

"You know where?" he asked as he sampled another. "Need steel. Good steel." Fingers sketching a pistol's squared silhouette.

The peddler scratched at track marks on his neck. "Call Wen. He fix you." He scribbled two numbers on matchbook cardboard, added a grin that split parchment skin: one line of digits for guns, the other for more drugs. Paul paid fifty dollars for a pint of the first sample, pocketed the cardboard and turned to leave.

Back in the thoroughfare, he continued his investigation, then noticed something odd some fifteen minutes later:

Tension.

The civilians in the crowd were all high-strung, their wariness pitched too high, conversations clipped at the sight of lingering men in ABB colors. They were afraid. Not fear of the E88 as he had expected—rather, fear inward, of their own supposed guardians. Paul followed the ripple until pattern coalesced into something more concrete. Yet, even then the data points were insufficient for any reliable analysis.

He needed first-hand testimony.

✥✥✥​

He chose his informant carefully: a middle-aged woman lounging at a doorway whose red lantern cast revealing warmth across weathered silk. Her smile, clock-work automatic, faltered whenever the gangsters sauntered by. Beneath rouge and mascara lay exhaustion.

Paul approached with lowered gaze. "How much for room and bath," he asked in Mandarin.

"One hundred," she said as she slipped into professional flirtation, palm strolling along his arm. Paul nodded and she turned to the guard before announcing in stilted English, "Customer want room."

The guard eyed Paul, then sneered with a hand extended. "Fifty upfront," he said, tone dripping disdain. Wordlessly, Paul counted out the notes—unremarkable tens—and followed the prostitute inside.

Past beaded curtains lay stucco corridors perfumed with humid roses. In a tiled chamber, she set brass spigot to roar into a claw-foot tub, shoulders rolling to seduction's tempo. He accepted the pantomime only long enough for door bolts to settle. The silk robe slid from her; steam rose; a basin's quiet splash layered atmosphere.

His questions began oblique as she slowly undressed: You seem stressed? Business slower than usual? Then nudge by nudge, he sharpened—The thugs take too much? How you manage? She answered first from habit, then from the relief of being heard, speaking of the new taxes, the new rules, the new boss. Bakuda. She spoke at length as she slowly began to help Paul undress, but awareness dawned the moment she admitted to the kidnappings. Words snapped shut. Panic dilated pupils.

Paul tried again, but knew then that his window had closed. "They will kill me," she whispered, begging. "Please, tell no one I spoke." A frown twisted Paul's features as he realised what must be done. His tone shifted. The Voice unfurled—resonance that bypassed fear, seeding compliance.

"WHO WAS TAKEN? WHY? WHERE?"

Her resistance shuddered, collapsed. "All kinds—shopkeepers, students, a dentist's wife. Gunmen come, say Bakuda needs helpers. Sometimes, they don't talk at all; just take. Sometimes, people just disappear. Anyone who sees says nothing or family also go." She clasped arms to chest, horrified by her own speech. "They carry to north tower…old lighthouse. I never go there. Don't know." Tears welled in her eyes as the compulsion faded. "Please."

Paul sighed. He pressed two folded hundreds into her palm.

"For silence… Me no Master you, no?"

She shook her head, wordless.

Satisfied, Paul donned his discarded clothing and stepped out of the room. On the threshold outside, humidity traded for ocean-salt air, he encountered the guard from earlier—broad shoulders, buzz cut, mocking smile carved thin.

"That quick, ah?" the fellow said with a guttural snicker. "Tortoise boy."

Paul ignored him as he slipped into the crowd, cross-referencing the supposed lighthouse with his memory of the city's map. Minutes later, he returned to his stolen sedan and began a quiet drive north.

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