The next few days settled into a routine.
It wasn’t an exciting one though, which was probably why Jaime liked it so much.
He would wake up, eat breakfast, shower, answer whatever bizarre observation Khaji-Da had decided was important enough to share before noon, and then head for the PRT headquarters. From there came patrols, briefings, paperwork, more patrols, and occasionally helping with relief efforts whenever manpower ran short.
The work wasn’t particularly glamorous most of the time, but after everything that had happened since arriving in Brockton Bay, Jaime found he genuinely didn’t mind.
A boring day was a good day. It meant nobody was trying to attack a part of the city, nobody was forcing starving people to beat each other bloody for a chance at survival, and that the worst thing he had to deal with was a pair of looters arguing over a flat screen TV neither of them could power.
But that didn't mean the city was quiet.
Everywhere he looked, people were trying to put things back together. Businesses operated out of temporary locations, relief centers appeared in schools, churches, and community centers, and gyms became supply depots. Even construction crews worked from dawn until long after sunset beneath portable floodlights, patching roads and replacing utility lines while everyone else slept.
There was something reassuring about it all.
Humans had an incredible talent for adapting even in the worst of situations. Give people a disaster and enough time, and eventually someone would start selling food out of a cart next to the rubble.
One afternoon, while helping unload bottled water near a temporary shelter, he found himself listening to an elderly woman berate a city worker over a set of replacement benches recently installed in a nearby park.
The park itself had spent most of the previous week underwater, but the woman clearly felt that was beside the point.
“Those benches are an eyesore,” she informed the exhausted-looking worker.
“The old ones got washed away.”
“Then get prettier ones.”
Jaime quickly retreated around the corner before he started laughing.
“Human priorities remain fascinating,” Khaji-Da observed.
“You’re just figuring that out now?”
The scarab hmmed at that, but remained silent.
Patrols with the Wards became easier as the days passed. Familiarity helped. Jaime was learning how they worked, and they were learning how he worked. The awkwardness never completely disappeared, but it became manageable, and at some point he stopped feeling like a visitor.
That wasn’t the same thing as feeling at home, but it was closer than he’d expected to get.
One evening found him sitting on the roof of PRT headquarters beside Vista while the rest of the team finished dealing with reports downstairs. The sun was setting over Brockton Bay, painting the rising scaffolding in shades of orange and gold.
She sat right at the edge of the roof, legs dangling over empty air with the casual confidence of someone who either couldn’t fall or wasn’t worried about it.
Probably both.
“You know,” she said suddenly, “most people are way more annoying after they join the Wards.”
He looked over. “Should I be offended?”
“It was a compliment.”
“I’ll treasure it forever.”
She rolled her eyes, then pointed toward the city. “See that?”
Jaime followed her finger.
A few blocks away, people were unloading supplies from several trucks.
“Okay.”
“Guess whose territory that is.”
He already knew the answer. “The Undersiders.”
“Yep.”
The workers continued unloading crates while residents formed orderly lines nearby. Nobody seemed particularly nervous, nobody was running, and nobody looked like they expected violence to break out at any moment. Which was admittedly unusual for a criminal organization.
Later that week, the topic came up again during a briefing. Try as they might, they couldn’t avoid talking about it.
Maps covered one wall of the room, territory markers covering most of them. Unfortunately, a growing percentage of those markers belonged to the same group.
“The Travelers continue coordinating with the Undersiders in the northeastern districts,” one analyst said.
Another clicked through several photographs. “Food distribution remains active.”
The next slide appeared.
“Local crime rates remain below projected estimates.”
Another slide.
“Community support continues increasing.”
Nobody looked happy about any of it.
Eventually Jaime understood why.
The problem wasn’t that the Undersiders were failing. The problem was that they were succeeding. A criminal gang wasn’t supposed to be handling food distribution. They definitely weren’t supposed to be coordinating reconstruction projects or building enough goodwill that ordinary people started treating them like a legitimate authority. Yet every report said they were doing exactly that, and every day that passed made the situation harder to untangle.
He heard footsteps approach, and a moment later Miss Militia stopped beside him as he lingered near one of the maps. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then she sighed.
“You’re wondering why we don’t simply move against them.”
“Honestly?” Jaime admitted. “A little.”
Miss Militia studied the map. “So are we.”
That wasn’t the answer he’d expected.
She must have seen it on his face.
“The city is fragile right now,” she continued. “More fragile than most people realize. Every decision has consequences.”
Jaime looked back at the map. “Even if they’re criminals.”
“Especially because they’re criminals.”
They had murdered people, extorted businesses, and controlled their territories through force. But at the same time, they were feeding neighborhoods, keeping order, providing stability, and people depended on them now.
The contradiction sat uncomfortably in Jaime’s head.
Back home, things had never been this simple. Or maybe they had been. Maybe he had just been lucky enough to work alongside heroes powerful enough to prevent situations like this from happening in the first place.
As he flew home later that evening, the city loomed below him in a patchwork of darkness and light. Generators illuminated some streets, others remained black. Construction crews worked under portable floodlights, people lined up outside shelters, and others sat on rooftops watching the sunset.
Life continued, messy and complicated as usual.