"Don't sit with your back to any doors."
—GURNEY HALLECK
The world returned as a suffocating pressure, a liquid weight crushing lungs accustomed to air, however thin or polluted. Cold shock jolted through limbs still echoing with the phantom concussion of the blast. Water—dark, churning, filled with the grit of pulverized brick and the acrid tang of chemical residue—flooded mouth and nostrils. He fought the instinct to gasp, the primal reflex that would drown him faster than any enemy. Discipline, forged in trials far more profound than most would ever experience, asserted itself. Control the breath. Control the body.
Paul forced his limbs into motion, the sodden weight of clothing and the duffel bag conspiring to drag him down. Kicks became sluggish, arm strokes ponderous against the resistant fluid. Above, the faintest glimmer suggested the surface, a boundary between drowning and mere survival. He drove towards it, muscles burning with oxygen debt, the roar of the recent explosion still a physical presence in his ears, a pressure against the skull.
He broke the surface with a desperate heave, gasping air that tasted of smoke, brine, and something metallic, unnatural. Debris fell still, gritty pinpricks against his face, mingling with the brackish water sluicing from his hair. Disorientation threatened—the legacy of the blast wave that had hurled him from the bridge like a discarded doll. He blinked water from his eyes, treading clumsily, searching for purchase in the chaotic aftermath.
One of the bridge's support pillars loomed nearby, a dark mass of weathered concrete and rusted steel rising from the murky canal. He swam towards it, each stroke an effort against fatigue and the chill seeping into his bones. His hands found rough concrete, fingers slipping on algae-slick surfaces before finding a firmer hold. He clung there, head pressed against the cold stone, lungs labouring, drawing breath in ragged, controlled gasps. The pain was a dull, pervasive ache—bruises blooming beneath the skin, joints protesting the impact—but it was manageable. Prana-bindu awareness catalogued the damage, isolated the worst of it, began the subtle work of redirecting blood flow, managing the inflammatory response.
Urgency gnawed at the edges of his recovery. The situation ashore remained unresolved. Purity. Bakuda. The ABB. He could not afford the luxury of rest. Ignoring the trembling in his arms, the fire in his calves, he began to climb. The pillar offered scant purchase—rusted maintenance rungs spaced too far apart, patches of crumbling concrete, slick veins of moss. He ascended with grim deliberation, finding leverage where none seemed apparent, using the ingrained lessons of balance and grip, techniques honed on rock faces far more treacherous than this urban decay. Each upward movement sent jarring protests through his battered frame, but he locked the pain away, compartmentalizing it. Function was paramount.
He neared the bridge deck, the sounds of the inferno across the water clearer now—crackling flames, the groan of stressed metal, perhaps distant sirens, though it was hard to be certain over the ringing in his ears. He reached the level of the railing, gathering himself for the final heave over the edge.
Then—a new sound. The guttural growl of an internal combustion engine, tires hissing on wet pavement, approaching fast. Paul froze, plastered against the side of the bridge abutment, a shadow amongst shadows. Headlights swept past, illuminating the rain-slicked road in transient cones of white. A jeep, battered and utilitarian, roared onto the bridge, heading towards the ruined lighthouse. Figures clung precariously to its sides and rear, shapes bristling with the familiar silhouettes of firearms. More ABB. Reinforcements, or perhaps a dedicated retrieval team.
He watched them pass, tracking their trajectory. The jeep didn't slow, crossing the bridge and pulling to a halt near the periphery of the devastation on the far side. Doors slammed. Figures dismounted, moving with purpose into the flickering, smoke-choked landscape. One figure stood out, shorter than the rest, moving with an air of command despite the chaos. Even at this distance, through the rain and smoke, the outline of the stylized mask, the demonic motif, was recognizable, as was the armour outlined by the fire-glow in sharp vermilion edges: Bakuda. The tinker's gait was a child's parody of confidence—too jaunty, too certain. She carried a rocket launcher across one shoulder as though it were a parasol.
Paul assessed the situation, the Mentat-trained part of his mind sifting possibilities, calculating vectors of opportunity and threat. Bakuda was present, her attention focused on the wreckage—likely searching for confirmation of Purity's demise. Her forces were arrayed around her, forming a loose perimeter. An opening. A narrow window, predicated on their distraction and his own stealth.
He remained pressed against the stone, water dripping from him, forming a small pool at his feet. His duffel bag, still slung across his shoulder, felt heavy, waterlogged. He checked its contents by feel, fingers identifying the cold, hard shape within. The Sig Sauer P322. Still there. He withdrew it carefully, shielding the motion with his body. The weapon felt slick, alien in his grasp. Beside it, his fingers brushed against fabric—the ski mask. He pulled it out, a sodden lump of dark wool with crude eyeholes cut into it. He wrung out the excess water as best he could, the material cold and unpleasant against his skin as he stretched it over his head, settling it into place. The world narrowed to the view through the damp eyeholes, the smell of wet wool sharp in his nostrils.
Masked, armed, Paul hauled himself the rest of the way over the railing, landing silently on the walkway. He moved immediately, melting into the deeper shadows near the bridge's edge, beginning his approach. He stalked forward, keeping low, using the bridge's structure and the night's poor visibility as cover. His movements were fluid, economical despite the stiffness in his body.
As he drew closer to the canal's edge, the full panorama of destruction unfolded. The lighthouse tower was a shattered husk, flames still licking greedily at its upper reaches, black smoke boiling into the rainy sky. The air was thick with the stench of burnt materials, ozone, and the peculiar, sharp scent of explosive residue; nitrated slurry and fragments for exotic resin. Rubble lay strewn across the ground—shattered brick, twisted metal, chunks of concrete—creating a chaotic, treacherous terrain.
And amidst it all, movement. Gunfire erupted—short, controlled bursts from assault rifles. Muzzle flashes briefly illuminated ABB thugs taking cover behind debris, firing towards a specific point deeper within the wreckage. A responding flash of pure, white energy lanced out, impacting near one of the shooters, sending shards of concrete flying. Purity. She was alive.
Paul paused behind a large block of dislodged masonry, observing. He felt a flicker of surprise, quickly suppressed. Greg's memories, supplemented by Paul's own rapid assimilation of publicly available data on Parahumans Online, suggested Purity possessed potent energy projection but baseline human durability. Surviving a direct hit from one of Bakuda's signature detonations seemed improbable. Perhaps the initial blast hadn't been perfectly symmetrical, or her power offered some resilience not documented in public records. An unknown variable.
She was clearly injured, her movements sluggish, the usual incandescent aura that surrounded her flickering, diminished. She clung to cover, returning fire sporadically, her blasts lacking their usual devastating focus. Her position was untenable; pinned down, wounded, facing superior numbers and a hostile tinker. Retreat seemed her only logical course.
As if anticipating this, Bakuda stepped forward, shouldering the bulky launcher. She aimed, fired. A muffled explosion followed the projectile's launch, followed by a wet, splattering sound, like an overripe fruit striking a wall. Where the projectile hit Purity's right side, a black substance erupted, expanding with alarming speed. It flowed like thick tar, clinging, swelling, engulfing her arm, her torso, anchoring her to the rubble she used for cover. The substance possessed an unnatural blackness, a void that seemed to drink the ambient light with monastic devotion, even the flickering flames nearby seemed dimmed where the edges of the expanding mass touched them. It pulsed once, twice, then rapidly hardened, acquiring the dull sheen of obsidian-like concrete.
Paul watched, analyzing. Light absorption. Rapid expansion and solidification upon exposure to… air? Or perhaps a catalyst reaction triggered on impact? Tinker-tech, unpredictable, defying conventional physics. Purity confirmed its properties moments later. She turned her trapped body as best she could, unleashing a blast of energy directly at the hardened black mass. The light simply vanished into it, absorbed without effect. No explosion, no ablation, nothing.
Trapped, half-immobilized, Purity seemed to redirect her remaining energy towards deterring her attackers. She fired blasts towards the periphery, forcing the ABB thugs to keep their heads down, but her awkward position prevented accurate targeting. Bakuda and her men remained largely in Purity's blind spot, shouting taunts Paul couldn't quite decipher from his distance, though their smug postures and Purity's visible frustration and fear spoke volumes. One thug held up a camera, recording the scene—evidence, or perhaps material for propaganda.
Paul continued his advance, weaving through the debris field, silent as drifting smoke. He circled wider, using the noise of the sporadic firefight and the general chaos to mask his approach. He found a position closer to Bakuda's group, behind a jagged shard of the lighthouse wall, affording him a clearer view. Bakuda was reloading her launcher with another of the black-goop projectiles, her back partially turned towards him as she addressed the trapped Purity. Her thugs remained focused on the struggling heroine, save for the cameraman.
The moment was ripe. Delay risked discovery. Paul rose smoothly from cover, the Sig Sauer held steady in a one-handed grip. He did not rush. He strode forward with quiet purpose across the uneven ground.
His sudden appearance from the smoky chaos drew Purity's eye first. Her head snapped around, her visible eye widening in shock beneath the grime and blood. He met her gaze, saw the flicker of confusion, then hope, then fear. He raised his left hand slightly, index finger pressed to where his lips would be beneath the mask. Silence.
Then the Sig Sauer bucked in his hand. The report was a sharp cough, swallowed by the surrounding noise. Bakuda stiffened, a look of abrupt surprise crossing her posture, then crumpled without a sound, the launcher clattering beside her. She landed awkwardly, spine clearly compromised.
Before the surrounding thugs could fully process their leader's collapse, Paul shifted his aim. The camera swung; astonishment widened a gunman's face just as Paul's next rounds cored it.
Pop-pop-pop. Paul didn't spray; each shot was deliberate. Headshots. Neural disruption. Swift, efficient termination. The cadence of the shots was steady, methodical. Brass clinked against rubble, a metronome of endings, bodies unspooling into the ash. One, two, three… eight thugs fell in rapid succession, their attention caught between the fallen Bakuda and the sudden, lethal threat. The Sig's slide locked back on an empty chamber.
Two remained, reacting a fraction slower, perhaps positioned further out. They whirled, raising their rifles. Paul didn't wait. He dropped, sliding behind a mound of broken brick and twisted rebar just as bullets chewed the air where he had stood. The staccato roar of automatic fire filled the night, kicking up dust and debris. He heard the distinct click-clack of magazines being swapped.
He surged forward during the lull. Ignoring the screaming protests of his bruised body, he covered the distance in seven long strides. His knife, drawn during the sprint, was a dark gleam in the firelight. The first thug looked up from his rifle, eyes wide with panic. Paul's hand snaked out, deflecting the weapon as the blade slid under the man's jaw, severing arteries. The second managed to bring his rifle partly to bear, but Paul was already inside his guard, a palm heel strike shattering the man's nose, followed by a swift, deep thrust of the knife into the side of his neck. He withdrew the blade, letting the man collapse gurgling beside his companion.
Silence descended, broken only by the crackle of flames, the distant sirens, and Bakuda's ragged whimpering. Paul stood amidst the bodies, breathing steadily, assessing. His clothing was torn, his body a tapestry of new aches, but he was functional. Unscathed, relatively speaking.
He turned his attention to the two capes. Bakuda lay on the ground, twitching, curses now spilling from her lips in Korean and English, promises of skinless eternities – barely coherent sounds of agony and terror directed at the masked figure she couldn't identify. She was crippled from the neck down. Purity remained trapped in the black, hardened goop, silent now, her back still mostly towards him. The diminished glow around her pulsed weakly. She was still a potential threat, her power capable of causing significant damage even in her current state. He considered the launcher Bakuda had dropped, the second goop-projectile still loaded. Reinforcing her bonds? A waste of a potentially useful resource. Crippling her further served little purpose; removing the substance was likely beyond his means, and safely detaining her was impossible. She was immobilized, vulnerable to the elements or eventual PRT capture. Her fate was not his concern.
Bakuda, however, represented a different calculus. Crippled, yes, but a source of valuable tinker-tech, information, and potentially a bargaining chip. He made his decision.
He walked over to Bakuda, ignoring her renewed string of curses, and efficiently dragged her limp form towards the jeep the ABB had arrived in. He bundled her into the backseat, noting a cache of spare ammunition for the launcher already stored there. Good. He returned to the site of the brief conflict. He gathered Bakuda's launcher and the remaining specialized projectile. He methodically stripped the dead thugs of serviceable assault rifles, sidearms, and ammunition, adding them to the growing pile near the jeep. He retrieved the camera the one thug had been using, tucking it securely into his duffel. Resources were paramount.
"Wait." The voice was strained, rough, but recognizably Purity's. She had managed to twist her head enough to almost see him. "Help me. Please. Get me out of this."
Paul paused, glancing back at the trapped figure, a silhouette against the licking flames, encased in unnatural darkness. He considered her plea for a brief, cold instant. A liability. An unknown variable. A drain on resources he could not afford. He offered no reply, no acknowledgement. He finished his sweep of the area, ensuring nothing useful was overlooked, then loaded the salvaged weapons and equipment into the jeep beside the groaning Bakuda.
He climbed into the driver's seat, the keys conveniently still in the ignition. The engine turned over with a protesting roar. Without a backward glance at the trapped cape or the carnage he had wrought, Paul put the jeep in gear and drove away from the burning lighthouse, leaving Purity to the mercy of the coming dawn and whoever might find her.