"Science is made up of so many things that appear obvious after they are explained."
—SUK DOCTOR YUEH
The dawn crept through Brockton Bay like diluted iodine, thin and vaguely toxic. Paul sat before his monitor in that amber hush, the soft rasp of a toothbrush echoing from the hall where Martha readied herself for work. News threads scrolled beneath his fingertips. No mention of masked killers, no leaked forensics hinting at the lies he'd stitched into Liam Tanner's apartment. Only the expected tremors: word of Purity's incandescent strafing runs against ABB stash‑houses, police scanners crowded with small‑arms fire along the coast‑road, a dozen armchair analysts predicting full gang war before the week's end. Noise.
Good, he thought, shutting the browser. Noise covers tracks.
He dressed in neutral layers, accepted toast and perfunctory questions from Martha—"No, I feel fine…Yes, I have cash for lunch"—and parted with a promise to be home in time for dinner. Tom muttered a distracted farewell from behind yet another book(he always seemed to have one on him). Paul stepped into that morning chill, already mapping the day's necessities.
School did not factor. A different curriculum claimed his attention: compartmentalisation. Every clandestine act committed from the Veder apartment risked linkage to Greg's civilian face, and Martha's maternal curiosity had the corrosive patience of seawater. In time, she would stumble upon something Paul would rather remain secret. Hence, he required new ground—sterile ground, empty of memory.
The bus hissed south, weaving through districts where brick row‑houses surrendered to glass storefronts. The Boardwalk's bustle offered anonymity; Paul disembarked into the scent of roasted nuts and diesel, found the restaurant where a balding proprietor waited with a manila envelope of rental contracts. The man was surprised to see someone so young, but he was easy enough to convince, his concerns swiftly brushed away. Forty minutes later, Paul walked the dim aisles of a climate‑controlled storage warehouse, fluorescent lights flickering like fatigued stars. Unit DF‑12—twelve hundred cubic feet, interior latch, concealed ceiling camera disabled by corrosion—felt sufficiently unremarkable. He paid six months in advance from Liam's windfall, received a pair of stamped brass keys, and locked the future behind a corrugated door.
Acquisition followed. A bedroll, a collapsible clothing rack, uniform dark cotton hoodies devoid of logos and jeans of similar mundanity, a set of ski masks, a set of sunglasses, a compact trauma kit, antiseptic powders, packets of electrolyte salts. Each item chosen for modularity, stored with deliberate layering so no single glance would reveal total function. When the final item was stored away and the unit's lock clicked, the shed smelled faintly of new canvas and metal.
By early afternoon, Paul prowled the market stalls again, adding two prepaid cell phones and a pocket knife whose carbon sheath should elude casual metal detectors. The Sig P322 rode in his duffel, magazine downloaded to nine rounds—enough. Hunger stirred. Fuel the flesh; starved tissue breeds hasty judgment. Fugly Bob's neon grin beckoned from across the parking lot.
Inside, fluorescent glare bounced off chrome and ketchup bottles. Again, he ordered the Challenger, drew a ripple of curious laughter from kitchen staff who remembered his previous conquest. While the burger assembled—monstrous strata of meat, cheese, and proprietary sauce—he selected a corner booth. Two young men occupied stools at the counter nearby: one tall, dark‑skinned, posture unhurried but coiled; the other shorter, lank-haired, a perpetual half‑smirk tugging his mouth. Their conversation bled toward Paul in amused fragments.
"Hundred says he pukes before the last bite," the smirker drawled.
"Make it a grand," the tall one replied without inflection, as though money weighed no more than air.
…Curious.
Paul offered no acknowledgement; he listened with practised neutrality. First bite, second—he folded rhythm into mastication, breath, swallow, controlled peristalsis. At the restaurant's threshold, the bell jingled. Two girls entered, shrugging off wind‑stung cheeks. One Paul hadn't expected. She moved with a familiar, careful tension: Taylor Hebert, hair tucked behind one ear, eyes scanning reflexively for predators. The companion—blonde, quick‑smiling—steered her toward the betting duo.
Taylor's glance met Paul's mid‑chew; panic flashed, raw and involuntary. She looked away too swiftly. In that startled flicker, Paul's suspicion grew. Instantly, his mind opened diagrammatic pathways: Taylor's recent absences, the reckless wager at the counter. The silhouettes were familiar, he noted. Paul reviewed his memory for matches. Only one emerged: a CCTV echo of a Kid Win hurling concussive spheres, a girl riding a nightmare hound, a black mass swarming Browbeat—
The Undersiders.
The word clicked into place like a blade seating in bone. Taylor took a seat beside the blonde—beside Brian and Alec, whispered names overheard minutes earlier. Five conspirators orbiting a single cheap table, heavy with an intent they pretended was casual lunch.
Paul lowered his eyes to the burger, measuring variables. Confrontation now would rupture every lattice he'd begun to weave. Better to observe, absorb cadence of speech—their courtesy, inside jokes, the pattern of glances toward exit routes. Each datum a thread; threads awaited the loom of future use.
Soon, he raised the final wedge of bread and beef—one last proof of disciplined digestion—while the smirking boy handed cash to his taller friend, having apparently lost the wager. Bills changed hands with careless ease. Villainy pays, Paul remembered.
He swallowed, wiped his mouth, and signalled the waitress. "Finished," he said simply. Applause scattered from a distant booth; another camera flash immortalised victory for the diner's wall. He counted out the amount for the burger and dropped it despite the waitress refusing to accept payment.
As he shouldered the duffel and slipped into the afternoon light, he tracked the Undersiders' reflection in the window glass: five silhouettes discussing, laughing at some inside joke.
In the mirror, Taylor's gaze caught his as he walked away.