(THE BLUE BEETLE OF BROCKTON BAY) CHAPTER ELEVEN

The cuffs clicked shut one after another, a sound that carried across the docks like punctuation, merging with metal on metal, doors slamming, and engines idling low. PRT officers moved with the kind of efficiency that came from doing this too often, guiding people into the vans with firm hands and commanding voices that didn’t invite argument.

Skidmark went in last.

He didn’t look at Jaime when they hauled him up, just kept his head down, shoulders hunched in on themselves as if he was hoping no one would pay him much attention. The hard case was already secured, passed off between gloved hands and locked away within a tinker-made box without ceremony.

It was over.

At least, the part that could be detailed in paperwork and transported elsewhere was.

“You did well.”

The voice came from his side, close enough that Jaime felt it before he fully registered the words. A hand landed briefly against his back, patting once against the armor, then lifted away just as quickly.

He glanced over. Gallant stood there, helmet reflecting the flashing lights from the vans, and stance relaxed. 

Jaime nodded once. 

“Thanks,” he said, the words coming out automatically. 

Gallant lingered for a second, like he might add something else, then seemed to think better of it. He gave a small nod and stepped away, drawn back toward the others as they spoke with the PRT officers and compared notes in low voices.

Jaime stayed where he was.

The warehouse behind them had gone quiet. The kind of quiet that felt wrong after everything that had happened earlier. The floodlights still burned overhead, washing the cracked concrete and scattered debris in harsh white, but the energy was gone. What remained looked smaller somehow. Emptier, too.

He could still see it if he let himself: the rush of bodies, hands grabbing at him, and faces that blurred together until they didn’t, until one stood out and refused to fade. The moment where it had all narrowed down into something simple and ugly and easy.

His jaw tightened.

He had been about to stop holding back, to give Khaji-Da the go-ahead and let it handle things its way.

“Analysis,” Khaji-Da murmured, quiet enough that it felt like a thought. “Engagement concluded with minimal civilian injuries. Outcome aligns with stated objectives.”

Jaime let out a breath through his nose.

“That’s not the point.”

“Clarify.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Across the lot, one of the vans pulled out, tires crunching over loose gravel as it merged onto the road. Another followed, green-and-white lights flashing against the walls and the wet pavement, painting everything in brief, shifting streaks of color.

He watched them go.

“If they hadn’t shown up,” he finally said, voice low, “this would’ve ended differently.”

Khaji-Da didn’t argue, or try to correct him. It let the statement sit there between them.

Jaime dragged a hand over his face, the motion stuttering slightly when he remembered the helmet and let it drop back to his side.

He had done this before. Worse, even. He had dealt with situations where everything was chaotic and people were one bad second away from making things worse for themselves and everyone around them.

He knew how to handle it.

He was supposed to know how to handle it.

“I should’ve had that,” he muttered.

There was no one close enough to hear him now. The others were occupied, their attention elsewhere, giving him space without making it obvious.

“I shouldn’t have even… thought about it.”

The admission sat heavily in his chest. After all, it wasn’t just that the thought had crossed his mind. Thoughts happened. They came and went, sometimes ugly, sometimes worse, and you let them pass.

This hadn’t passed. It had dug its heels in, started making sense in a way that scared him more the longer he looked at it.

They were going to crush him eventually. There were too many of them. The math didn’t work. One command and it would’ve been over.

“It was acceptable,” Khaji-Da said.

Jaime’s mouth twisted.

“Acceptable to you,” he said under his breath.

“Affirmative,” Khaji-Da replied without hesitation. “Probability of mission success increases significantly with reduced operational constraints.”

Jaime huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it had carried any humor.

“Yeah. That’s the problem.”

He shifted his weight, boots scraping lightly against the concrete, and forced himself to look away from the empty warehouse.

He had always drawn a line in the sand and did his best to keep his distance from it. Today, he had walked right up to it and leaned over the edge. And if the timing had been just a little worse, if the Wards had been a little slower, if that moment had stretched just a little longer…

He didn’t finish the thought. Didn’t need to.

A door slid open nearby, the side of their transport van unlocking with a soft mechanical click. One of the PRT officers glanced over, then gestured toward it.

“Transport’s ready.”

Jaime nodded again, because that seemed to be all he could manage right now.

He started toward the van, steps calm, the armor moving like it always did, responsive and precise and completely unconcerned with anything going on in his head.

Behind him, someone said his name. He didn’t turn.

The inside of the van was dim compared to the floodlights outside. Cooler, too. Quieter. He stepped up, ducked slightly out of habit, and moved to the far side before sitting down.

The door slid shut a second later.

For a moment, he just sat there.

Then he leaned back, turning his head toward the window as the engine rumbled to life. The glass caught the last of the flashing lights outside, smearing them into streaks of green and white that faded as the van pulled away from the docks.

He didn’t look at the others as they climbed in. Didn’t say anything. He just watched the city slide past, shoulders set, jaw tight, and let the silence settle in around him as he drowned in his thoughts.