(THE BLUE BEETLE OF BROCKTON BAY) CHAPTER SEVEN

The briefing room still smelled faintly of disinfectant, dried sweat, and ammonia.

The screen at the front displayed a paused aerial shot of Brockton Bay’s Dockside, blocks of warehouses and half-flooded industrial lots highlighted in overlapping red and yellow zones. Each area was tagged with timestamps, casualty estimates, and scrolling risk assessments that passed too quickly for Jaime to read without help.

Khaji-Da, of course, had no such problem.

“Cross-referencing current data with local criminal network activity,” the scarab murmured in the back of his mind. “The faction known as the Merchants has expanded its territorial control by approximately forty-two percent since the Leviathan event.”

“The collapse of the ABB and Empire Eighty-Eight created a power vacuum in the Docks that the Merchants have capitalized on,” Armsmaster confirmed, clicking to the next slide.

The image shifted to drone footage of a crowd packed into a warehouse lit by harsh floodlights. People stood pressed together in a rough circle around a makeshift arena marked out with overturned crates and shipping pallets. Some were screaming. Others were cheering. Most looked strung out. All of them were focused on the scene before them.

Two figures were fighting in the center.

They were neither trained nor coordinated. Just desperate.

“The Merchants have begun organizing underground gladiatorial events,” Armsmaster continued. “Their objective appears to be twofold. First, to bolster their numbers and income. Second, to intentionally induce trigger events.”

YJaime’s jaw tightened. “They’re trying to force people to get powers?”

“Correct,” Miss Militia said. “They place civilians in situations of extreme stress, violence, and psychological pressure, then offer protection, drugs, or supplies to anyone who manifests abilities.”

“Which is about the most unethical recruitment strategy imaginable,” Velocity muttered.

“Unethical is not their primary concern,” Piggot replied. “Power is.”

On screen, one of the fighters went down hard. The crowd surged forward, noise swelling as bodies pressed in around the fallen pair.

“That was obviously bad,” Assault said.

A few people in the room snorted, tired and humorless.

The footage shifted again, zooming in on a group near the edge of the crowd. One of the Merchants’ capes, easily identifiable by her patchwork clothes and matted long hair, held up a metal container about the size of a lunchbox.

“That is believed to contain the so-called ‘powers in a can,’” Armsmaster said. “According to Skidmark, they acquired it recently. How he is able to identify their function remains unclear. We suspect an external force is involved.”

Clockblocker leaned forward slightly, staring at the screen. “So either they’re lying really well… or someone figured out how to make powers and decided to hand them over to the worst possible people.”

“Either scenario is unacceptable,” Piggot said.

Jaime didn’t disagree. New powers meant new capes, and new capes meant new conflicts, especially in a city that was already barely holding itself together after the worst possible thing happened.

“Especially since they’ve started targeting what little infrastructure remains,” Piggot continued, “and seizing medical supplies and food as they came in.”

Another slide appeared, showing images of smashed storefronts, burned-out delivery trucks, and a looted hospital wing.

“Which means,” Miss Militia added, “every remaining gang in the city is trying to get their hands on whatever is in those cans.”

“It cannot be allowed to continue,” Piggot said.

The room shifted into operational mode as a specific location was highlighted on the map: an old dockside warehouse, scheduled to host another ‘match’ within forty-eight hours. Expected turnout was high, which meant a higher concentration of Merchant leadership.

“We intervene here,” Armsmaster said, pointing at the display. “Disrupt the event, secure the box, and extract any parahumans involved.”

Jaime’s name appeared on the screen next, highlighted at the top of the deployment list.

Brockton Bay’s PRT Primary asset.

“You’ll be the spearhead,” Piggot said, looking directly at him. “The Merchants lack the resources to pose a serious threat to you, and your presence should discourage interference from third parties.”

Backup assignments followed. Because the Merchants were the only confirmed hostile force, the Wards would accompany him, along with a senior Protectorate hero and a PRT containment team for the non-powered members.

The entire briefing lasted less than ten minutes.

And then it was over.

Chairs scraped softly across the floor as people stood. Some headed for the locker rooms, others for communications, and a few lingered behind, exchanging quiet words and half-hearted jokes.

Jaime lingered too, though he didn’t join in.

For a moment, he wasn’t entirely sure why. He was a Ward now. Part of the team. Still new, still out of place, but no one had given him any reason to think they would brush him off if he spoke up.

And yet, he stayed where he was.

Khaji-Da noticed.

“Observation,” the scarab said, with a tone that was entirely too amused for an alien superweapon. “You are not engaging with your peers.”

“I’m fine,” Jaime muttered.

“Statistically, initiating social interaction improves team cohesion.”

“I am not having this conversation with you.”

He fixed his attention on a speck of dust drifting through the air, illuminated by the overhead lights. “I would rather count dust.”

“You are currently alone in a room full of potential allies.”

“I am currently minding my business.”

“Statistically, saying hello would increase—”

“No.”

He focused harder on the dust, watching how it fractured into tiny shimmering patterns as it floated past.

“Dust motes,” Khaji-Da noted. “Fascinating. Would you like me to enhance your perception?”

Jaime didn’t respond.

From the hallway outside the room, someone laughed.

Then someone else joined in.

Khaji-Da paused, then added, far too smugly, “They might be laughing at you.”

Jaime didn’t look up, but he did sigh at the obvious lie, ignoring the ensuing laughter.

Sometimes the scarab acted far too much like a troll for his liking.