(THE BLUE BEETLE OF BROCKTON BAY) CHAPTER NINE

The first impact came from his left, a body slamming into his side hard enough to shift his footing, followed by another and then another until the pressure became constant, a tide of people throwing themselves forward with a desperation that had nothing to do with courage and everything to do with survival. Hands grabbed at his armor, fingers scrabbling for purchase against smooth blue plating, while others swung whatever they had managed to hold onto, splintered wood, bent metal, and bare fists striking with more force than coordination.

Jaime held his ground as the armor compensated automatically, distributing force, stabilizing his stance, and reinforcing his balance while the mass pressed inward from all sides.

“Recommendation,” Khaji-Da said, its tone calm and clinical despite the chaos. “Deploy localized concussive field at forty percent output. Estimated incapacitation rate: ninety-two percent. Estimated fatality rate: acceptable.”

“No,” Jaime replied immediately, his jaw tightening as he reached out to catch a man’s wrist before the jagged rebar could come down. Then, he redirected the strike into the ground gently, bending the metal on impact as he guided the man past him rather than throwing him back.

Another rushed him from the front, younger, eyes wide and unfocused, swinging wildly. Jaime stepped into the motion, caught the arm, and used the momentum to turn him aside, lowering him to the ground instead of letting him crash.

He was swallowed up within seconds.

“Define acceptable,” Jaime muttered under his breath.

“Collateral loss within operational parameters,” Khaji-Da replied.

“That’s not happening.”

The crowd surged again, pressing closer, bodies colliding with him as more joined from behind, drawn by the promise that had been dangled in front of them. Survival had been reduced to something transactional and cruel.

Jaime’s thoughts strained under the weight of it.

They weren’t villains. They weren't even bad people, at least not in the way he was used to. There was no grand plan here, no ideology, and no desire for domination or destruction. Only hunger, fear, and the kind of desperation that stripped people down to their most basic instincts.

A woman clawed at his arm, trying to pull herself closer, as if proximity alone might secure whatever promise had been made. Someone else stumbled into her, knocking them both sideways, and the ripple of motion nearly took Jaime off balance.

“Hostile engagement is escalating, Jaime,” Khaji-Da noted. “Our current approach is ineffective.”

Jaime exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think through the noise, through the press of bodies and the rising panic threatening to seep into him.

“Then adjust,” he said. “Non-lethal only.”

“Non-lethal options reduce efficiency by—”

“I don’t care.”

The armor responded anyway, shifting as it reconfigured. A low hum built beneath the surface as Jaime raised his hands, palms outward, and released a controlled pulse that spread through the immediate crowd, staggering those closest to him and forcing space open where there had been none.

People fell back, some dropping to their knees, others losing their footing as the pressure eased for the first time since they had rushed him.

It lasted only seconds, then they came again. This time faster, more frantic, as though the brief reprieve had only reminded them of what they stood to gain or lose. A man latched onto his shoulder, another onto his leg, their weight dragging at him while others pushed forward to take their place.

Jaime clenched his teeth.

There were too many of them.

“Escalation recommended,” Khaji-Da said again, more insistent now. “Lethal force will resolve engagement immediately.”

“No,” Jaime said, more forcefully this time, even as another blow glanced off his side and a second set of hands grabbed at his arm. “There’s always another way.”

“Current data does not support that conclusion.”

“Then get better data.”

For a moment, the world narrowed to movement and reaction, to the careful application of strength as he disentangled himself from one attacker only to redirect another, to the constant effort of staying upright without hurting anyone more than necessary. It was exhausting in a way that had nothing to do with physical strain.

He could feel it in the way his movements slowed by fractions, in the way the crowd filled every gap faster than he could create it. The math did not favor him, not like this.

So for a brief, dangerous moment, he hesitated.

All he had to do was stop holding back.

Every movement required restraint, and that restraint was costing him. He could end this in seconds if he allowed Khaji-Da to act as it was designed to, if he stopped filtering its solutions through his own sense of right and wrong.

Just one command.

His mouth twitched.

Then he saw her.

He did not see her as part of the crowd or as just another body pressing forward, but as a person. A teenager, dirt streaked across her face, fear written plainly in her eyes as she swung at him with all the strength she had and none of the skill. There was nothing behind it but hunger and the fragile hope that maybe this would be enough.

He stilled.

“Jaime?” Khaji-Da’s unspoken question went unanswered.

And then, before anything else could happen, the distance between him and the civilians stretched in ways that defied sense, the crowd pulled apart without anyone realizing it at first. Those closest to him stumbled as the ground beneath them seemed to lengthen, their forward momentum carrying them into empty space that had not been there a moment ago. 

Vista.

Seconds later, nebulous blobs of light swept through a cluster of attackers. The impact carried little force, yet those it touched stumbled as strength bled from their limbs, aggression dissolving into confusion and disorientation.

Gallant.

And finally, on the far side, small floating drones deployed with a mechanical whir, launching nets that expanded midair before snapping tight around groups of struggling bodies, tangling limbs and dropping them to the ground.

Kid Win.

Working in tandem, the three of them did what Jaime couldn't. And within minutes, it was over.

He stood at the center of it, his chest rising and falling as the last movement stilled around him. Bodies lay scattered across the warehouse, some unconscious, others bound, none of them still a threat.

For a moment, he simply stared.

The adrenaline drained away, leaving something heavier in its wake as he took in the aftermath. Then the feeling shifted, becoming something hotter, something far less noble.

Anger.

His gaze lifted, sweeping over the remnants of what had been orchestrated here, before settling on the empty space where Skidmark had stood.

“Khaji-Da,” he said, his voice quieter now, but edged with something hard. “Find him.”

“Scanning,” the scarab replied instantly. “Energy signature identified. Target is in motion, exiting the building at high speed.”

A direction formed in his mind.

Behind him, a voice called out commandingly. “Blue Beetle, hold position. Wait for backup.”

He did not turn.

Panels along his back were already reshaping into the familiar structure of wings.

“Jaime,” Khaji-Da noted, “directive from allied unit—”

“I heard him.”

The wings ignited, and in a burst of blue light, he launched upward, tearing through the air above the warehouse as he followed the fleeing signal toward the one responsible for all of it.