(A BLUE BEETLE IN BROCKTON BAY) CHAPTER THREE

Starting over from nothing was never easy. In any normal city, one not still reeling from such a battle, it would have been a difficult task even for someone with powers. But Jaime Reyes had never lived anything resembling a normal life, and the sentient alien artifact fused to his spine ensured that normality remained a distant, abstract concept. When a person carried a device capable of communicating in every digital language ever invented, rewriting encryption protocols in less than a second, and overriding everything from bank servers to international databases with the same ease other people scrolled through social media, the usual hurdles involved in building a new life became significantly smaller.

And so, within a single day, Jaime Reyes—technically homeless, lacking identification, and legally nonexistent in this universe—was officially a resident of Brockton Bay. According to the shiny new records Khaji-Da had woven into place, he even attended high school here. Winslow, if he was interpreting the scarab’s update correctly.

Not that any of those details mattered much. Most surviving students had already fled, their families unwilling to remain in a city Leviathan had torn apart. Entire districts still had no power, much of the downtown area was submerged, and thousands of displaced people were scattered across hastily constructed shelters or camped out in whatever structures remained standing. School, in any meaningful sense, was a theoretical possibility rather than a functional reality.

Khaji-Da had been characteristically blunt about it. “Based on available data, Brockton Bay’s educational system will remain non-operational for an extended period.”

Jaime had only shrugged. “So much for attending class.”

He understood why. The aftermath of Leviathan’s attack had left the city in a state worse than many disaster zones he had seen on the news. As he walked through what had once been the urban center, even though he was not from here, he could feel the weight of loss everywhere. Homes, schools, and government buildings had been destroyed, and communications networks were spotty at best. Emergency crews were doing their best, but there were not enough of them.

Khaji-Da’s careful infiltration of PRT servers confirmed how dire the situation really was. The Protectorate had lost some heroes, and the Wards, already overburdened because of said loss, were stretched thin. The villain population had always been larger than the hero population in Brockton Bay, but the imbalance had rarely been laid bare so clearly. Leviathan’s arrival had tipped the scales further, and now, with the city reeling, the PRT had been pushed into a purely reactionary stance.

“Crime levels have increased by forty-seven percent,” Khaji-Da reported, projecting a translucent map in front of them as they walked. “Several villain factions have begun expanding their territories. Others are attempting to recruit survivors.”

Jaime stared at the map for several moments. It looked like someone had carved the city up into different pieces, each one claimed by a different group eager to seize whatever was left. He recognized many names from the scarab’s earlier data dump. The PRT. Empire Eighty-Eight. ABB. Merchants. Coil. Parian. Faultline’s Crew. The Undersiders. More still, all carving out spaces as though the city were little more than unclaimed territory to be divided.

“This place has… problems,” Jaime murmured.

“Affirmative. Probability of hostile engagement is high.”

Jaime sighed, glancing around. The empty street reverberated distantly with shouts and the occasional gunfire popping in short, uneven bursts. Somewhere out of sight, a car alarm wailed endlessly. Birds were nowhere to be found.

He had originally intended to wait. His plan had been simple: learn everything he could after landing in this world, figure out how the local heroes operated, get a sense of their structure and priorities, and then—once he had enough context—approach them and offer to help, establishing trust carefully. That was how things were done back home. That was how teams were formed.

But this world was not home. This world did not have the luxury of time. Its heroes were deeply overwhelmed, trying to maintain the illusion of order for the sake of the civilians who had nowhere else left to run. And the people… they were scared in a way Jaime recognized immediately. It was the fear of those who had learned, repeatedly and oftentimes bloodily, that help might not arrive. The fear that kept them glancing toward the bay as if expecting something else, and maybe even worse, to rise from it.

He remembered hovering above the ruins earlier that night, looking down at streets where even the bravest moved with caution, and he had felt, deep in his chest and in Khaji-Da’s clinical assessments, the heavy yet simple truth of it.

Waiting was not an option.

“Well,” he said softly, “we both know what comes next.”

“Affirmative,” Khaji-Da replied. “You will seek contact with the local hero authority. The PRT will require verification of identity and abilities. Their suspicion is statistically guaranteed due to our earlier actions, so be prepared.”

“I mean, yeah, but maybe it won’t be that bad.” Jaime rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Do they have a front desk or something, or am I supposed to land dramatically on the roof and hope they don’t blast me out of the air?”

Khaji-Da projected the internal layout of the PRT headquarters. It was a tall, nondescript building, damaged yet still standing. The lobby was operational, though dimly lit and staffed by personnel who looked exhausted rather than outright hostile or paranoid.

“The PRT Headquarters remains open for survivor aid and coordination,” Khaji-Da noted, “but it is currently closed to the general public.”

“Well, I’m definitely not a civilian,” Jaime muttered. “So I just… walk in?”

“That is the recommended option.”

He stared at the building before him, considering the scarab’s words carefully. He knew better than to underestimate the kind of reception he might get. He had been listed as an Endbringer-level anomaly. People did not forget that kind of label easily, even when the person wearing it was trying to help.

But the alternative was doing nothing. And doing nothing had never been in his nature.

“Alright,” he said, releasing a slow breath. “Let’s go sign up.”

He walked toward the building, his shoes splashing lightly through the puddles left from the storm. The windows of the PRT headquarters glowed a faint gold in the evening light, and several exhausted PRT officers lingered just inside, speaking in low voices. The doors slid open slowly with a mechanical groan and hiss.

Jaime stepped inside.

People turned. Some were uniformed personnel, others in creased suits and ties, so probably administrators. None of them seemed immediately hostile, but every one of them became very still the moment they saw him. The tension was palpable. 

“Caution advised,” Khaji-Da said. 

Jaime raised his hands slowly, palms out, the universal gesture for Please do not shoot me, I promise I’m friendly.

“Hi,” he said, trying for a reassuring tone. “I’m here to register.”

For a moment, no one responded. Then, just before things became awkward, a woman behind the counter, looking as though she had not slept in days, cleared her throat.

“Name?” she asked.

It was a simple question, but the effect was not subtle, something in the atmosphere shifting. The tension was still there, but it was tempered by something closer to acceptance. Something cautious and practical and necessary.

Jaime let his shoulders ease a little.

“My name is Jaime Reyes,” he said, speaking clearly. “I’m the Blue Beetle, and I want to help.”

And just like that, in the lobby of a battered building, the next chapter of his life began.

He could only hope he was ready for it.