(THE BLUE BEETLE OF BROCKTON BAY) CHAPTER SIX

Orientation did not go the way Jaime had imagined it would, though, in hindsight, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected in the first place.

They met in a briefing room that still wore the aftermath of recent damage. Hairline fractures traced their way through reinforced concrete walls, and temporary lighting fixtures cast a muted glow where permanent ones had yet to be replaced. Folding chairs formed a loose semicircle, some occupied, others left empty as people drifted in and out, pausing only long enough to pass along reports or receive instructions before moving on again.

There were no speeches, no formal welcomes, and no dramatic declarations of any kind. Instead, introductions were exchanged quickly—names paired with handshakes, nods, and the occasional tired smile—everything carried out with the quiet urgency of people who had too much to do and nowhere near enough time to do it.

The Wards were there, most of them close to his age, yet they carried themselves with a seriousness that went far beyond their years, leaving him feeling decidedly off-kilter. Some watched him openly, curiosity plain on their faces. Others made a point of looking anywhere but at him, as if holding eye contact might invite questions none of them were ready to ask.

Jaime caught impressions more than conversations: a woman adjusting her gloves while listening to a report, a boy in armor leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his attention fixed somewhere distant, and another Ward offering him a quick smile that looked practiced but genuine.

Still, someone cracked a joke about paperwork. Someone else mentioned patrol rotations. It was light, almost normal—a complaint about missing coffee supplies here, a dry remark about sleeping arrangements there—and that surprised him more than anything else, though he found himself grateful for it.

The city had lost enough without adding solemnity for its own sake.

Jaime wished there had been more time. Time to talk, to learn who they were beneath the uniforms and masks, and to bridge the gap between stranger and teammate properly. Especially with the Wards who lingered nearby and felt like they might have been friends under different circumstances.

Instead, the moment stretched just long enough for familiarity to almost take hold, and then it slipped away. Officers were called back to duty, conversations cut short, and the room slowly emptied, leaving him with the sense that he’d arrived just as everyone else was being pulled in a dozen different directions.

Not long after, a pair of PRT officers escorted him through a service corridor and out into the open air, where a van waited with its engine already running. They passed through streets still scarred by the battle, boarded windows, sandbagged doorways, and intersections marked with temporary barriers and caution tape. As they drove farther inland, the damage became less noticeable. Buildings stood straighter, and debris had been cleared away from the streets, though the mood remained subdued. Pedestrians kept their heads down, whatever conversations they seemed to be having muted and brief.

The building they stopped at was unassuming, its concrete exterior intact, and its windows glowing with internal lights as evening settled in. Inside, the hallways were narrow but clean, the scent of disinfectant mixing with old carpet and recycled air.

The apartment they led him to was small and plainly furnished, with a couch that had seen better years, a kitchenette stocked with functional appliances, a bedroom just large enough for a bed and a dresser, and a bathroom already filled with fresh towels. It felt lived-in without feeling personal, clearly prepared in advance for someone who needed a place on short notice.

One of the officers handed him a set of keys and a phone, explaining where to find the relevant contact numbers and assuring him someone would reach out when he was needed. Jaime mentioned that communication wasn’t strictly necessary given the capabilities of his suit, but the officer only smiled politely and insisted he take it anyway. Jaime accepted without further protest. It was easier that way, and there was no reason to refuse something offered in good faith. 

When the door closed behind them, the apartment settled into a quiet that felt almost unreal after everything else. Jaime locked the door, set the phone on the counter, and stood there for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the building around him. Footsteps echoed faintly from somewhere below, and a television murmured through a wall, life continuing in small, ordinary ways.

He moved through the apartment slowly, taking in the space as if to convince himself it was indeed real, then sat down on the edge of the bed. With nowhere left to be and nothing demanding his attention, the tension he’d been carrying since his arrival finally began to ease. 

When he lay back and closed his eyes, sleep claimed him almost at once.

He had earned it.