"Did you hear what happened yesterday?" one of the students next to Jaime said - some guy on the soccer team named Jesse - to his friend. He didn't wait for an answer, though, and kept talking. "Wait a sec, I gotta show you!"
It was Friday morning, 08:13:12, to be precise, and students were just starting to fill their seats before class started. It had been fairly quiet when he came in, early as usual. Now, though, everybody was talking so loudly, and he felt the pain behind his eyes intensify a thousand-fold. It wouldn't be so bad, if only people would shut up; or even if they whispered. But no, everybody had to talk loudly, like some apes in a screaming contest. He could hear the conversation on the other end of the room, for god's sake!
He felt like he was eavesdropping on everybody. Hell, he knew Brad had cheated on Sadie with Rebecca, but she hadn't known he was in a relationship and now the two girls were trying to get back at him. Jaime didn't even know a Brad! Seriously, who named their children Brad in this day and age? did the parents want their kid to grow up to be an asshole, or something?
Anyway. Jesse's friend had apparently not seen whatever Jesse was yammering on about. If Jaime had been able to, he'd tune out their conversation (and the rest of the class') and go to sleep. Seemed he had to settle with laying head down on the desk, screwing his eyes shut. Not that it did much, and even covering his head with his arms did little to muffle the sound. He could almost feel Stacy's heat signature, five rows ahead, as she gossiped with her friend Hanna about some new movie.
Was this his life now?
"Here. Lemme show you," Jesse said, sounding both exasperated and excited. Without looking, Jaime could tell he lifted his phone for the other to see, and as the audio began playing, Jaime blanched.
Oh no. It had made it all the way to social media? He'd expected a five-minute segment on the six o'clock news, maybe, and some YouTube videos with maybe a few hundred views each while the comments were littered with complaints over the quality. But, really, he should have expected better, being a sort-of-local-celebrity and all. Obviously Blue Beetle would not go unnoticed around here.
"She's not his cousin, she's my friend!" He heard a girl's voice coming from the speaker. A few students turned around to look; the scrape of chairs on the floor indicating a few had come to see.
While everybody wanted a look at what was happening on-screen, Jaime wanted nothing more than to forget. Or maybe erase the entire thing from existence; but that was nothing more than a pipe dream.
As Jesse had said, it happened yesterday. It had been pretty late, where regular teens came back home for curfew and young adults started going out clubbing; 23:17:25, his inner clock supplied, is when it officially began. Jaime had been patrolling overhead the city, just high enough that the wind covered the ruckus of the streets, but low enough that he could easily tell what was happening with a simple scan. He had been looking for some action, the prior weeks' events tightening a coil in his core that needed release; but what he found was somehow both more, and less, than what he expected. Or needed.
While towns like El Paso didn't really have a "Red Light District" anymore, needless to say that some areas were seedier than others, even if not by much. Jaime had been patrolling the part of town were most bars and clubs were located; at that time of night, thrumming with life and booze. Trouble was bound to happen.
It really started, as his clock had indicated, when a certain man came out from a club - Karma blazed in bright blue neon (which actually uses Argon to make the blue light). He had a girl on his arm, though she wasn't very responsive; Jaime wasn't sure what made him glance in that direction, at that time; but he'd been spending all night thinking about it (and what happened afterwards). He'd been tempted to keep on flying; after all, many people came back home with drunken friends, but he saw another girl - the one in the beginning of Jesse's video - come out the club after them.
He touched down. People stared, the girl stopped - although he had been heroing for over a year now, people still pointed and stared wherever he went. Though sometimes the stares were less than pleasant, to say the least. Jaime approached the man in what he believed to be a casual manner.
"Everything okay?" he asked, genuine concern lacing his words. He offered a hand to the man, who refused, taking the time to launch a micro-beetle onto the girl - a little trick Nightwing had taught him. Not the micro beetles - he found out about those when he tried to remove the scarab from his spine; no, sending trackers on people.
"Hm? Oh, uh, yeah! Yeah! It's just, my cousin-" he motioned to the nearly blacked-out girl hanging on his arm- "she's just had a bad break-up and I wanted to help her feel better. Well." He chuckled nervously. "You can see how it went." His heartbeat was elevated, as well as his body heat - probable side-effects of seeing a real-life hero, and being in a crowded place. From his breath, he could tell his blood alcohol level was pretty low (between 0.03 and 0.05, he hadn't actually given the guy a Breathalyzer, and had just analyzed the air coming from his mouth).
"Yeah... It just looks suspicious, okay? A guy, leaving the club with a drunken girl," Jaime replied, raising a brow. An alert came up in the armor's HUD; the girl had been drugged with roofies. "Especially when she's been drugged."
The man didn't have the decency to even pale when Jaime revealed he knew.
The other girl, who Jaime would learn her name was Emily, came forward. "She's not his cousin, she's my friend!" she told Jaime.
Now, the man had look affronted. "Lady, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. And, Mr. Beetle-"
"- Blue Beetle, actually," Jaime interrupted him.
The man continued as if he hadn't said anything: "I know exactly how it looks, and trust me when I say that if I find who drugged my cousin, I will personally smash his face in with a bat!' Had Jaime not been monitoring the man, he'd be tempted to believe him. "And are you seriously going to believe this stranger, here, dressed like a cheap whore? For all you know, she's trying to drag my cousin back to some pimp!"
"Why, you!" Emily ground out. She looked through her purse rapidly, pulling out two driver's licenses - she had been carrying her and the drugged girl's wallets it seemed - and nearly shoved them in Blue's face. "See! That's her, right there: Shelby Joneses. And that's me: Emily Rolfe! She's my friend, and I-"
"I know, I know," he told her. He'd been trying to give the guy a chance, but it seemed he was unapologetic in what he was doing. Jaime took a few steps towards the man, who, finally, grew pale. Finally, some damn respect; did he really think I'd let him get away with this? Jaime grumbled mentally. "Alright, listen..." he paused, as facial recognition software scanned the man's face. It didn't come up blank, unfortunately for him: Philip Holt, a government employee, with an expunged criminal file - Jaime didn't quite know why it had been expunged, because the couple of sentences were related to sexual misconducts. "Listen, Mr. Holt, if I were you I'd let Ms. Joneses go before this gets any worse for you."
Philip Holt looked around rapidly, seeming to weight his options. He must've known he couldn't run, because the next thing he did was say, in whispered tones: "Let me cut you a deal, Blue Beetle... I can get you a lot of money, more than this tramp is worth. No need to make so much fuss about a nobody like this."
Jaime saw red.
The next thing he knew, he had his hand clutched around the man's throat. Philip was clawing at Blue's armored arm and hand uselessly; Blue gently plucked the girl from his side and pushed her into Emily's arms. "Go." he told her, as he threw the man to the ground. His elbow shattered upon impact with the concrete.
"I know scum like you, Philip Holt, who think they're entitled to everyone and everything. You think you can buy someone? That you somehow have the power, or the right to do something like that?!" Jaime grabbed Holt by the collar and yanked him up, his feet dangling above the ground. "You don't even care how much you can destroy one person's life, do you?"
"I care, I really care! Please, let me go!" Philip whimpered. His suit was rumpled, and his otherwise handsome face was stained with tears and blood. He'd bitten his lip as he landed and broken his elbow. "I-I swear I won't do it again! P-Please!"
Blue growled, disgusted with him, and tossed him into the nearest dumpster, several feet away. Final diagnosis had revealed to Jaime that Philip Holt had suffered a shattered elbow joint, three cracked ribs, a concussion, and a twisted ankle from being thrown into - and having tried to get out of - a dumpster.
"You," Blue pointed to the person who had filmed the video Jesse was showing his classmates. "Call an ambulance, and the police, okay?"
Blue Beetle left the scene.
"Holy shit, is that dude okay?" Jesse's friend, Max, said; pulling Jaime from his memory. "I mean, he deserves it, but damn-" he whistled- "I never heard of ole' Blue going postal like that."
A few of the surrounding students, who had crowded around Jesse to watch the video, nodded and mumbled their agreements. Jaime sighed inwardly, he'd worked hard at carving out a good, nice reputation for himself - he wasn't like Batman, all scary-like. Jaime was just a young man, trying to do good, and make people feel better. Not scare them; Jaime had just been out of patience, on edge.
At least he took care of the crime; and let off a little steam, even if he made the news in doing so.
There was still more or less ten minutes before the class would start, and Jaime spent it actively trying to tune out the chatter around him. Being reminded one time of yesterday was enough for him.
8:30 am finally came around, and he was sitting in class in the back corner where he could look out the window as well as keep an eye on the door located at the front of the room.
11:45 am he ate lunch outside - Friday meant ham sandwich - his back pressed up against the northern brick side of the school, where the least number of students hung out.
3:05 pm the bell rang releasing him from the torture of the day that he forced himself to endure day in and day out because he was still trying to find some normality; and failing miserably at it.
As soon as he got home, Jaime went immediately into his "prep time" portion of the day. Jaime had been as obsessive with his cleanliness and organization as ever, but even now he felt he could go over things again. and again, and again, and...
Supper was going to be ready in forty-five minutes or so. He should stop. He should go up to his room and make sure nobody went through his stuff; that's what he should do. And then he should pretend to sleep, because that's what normal people did to rest - sleep, though, not pretending to sleep - and Nightwing had told him to rest up.
Which Jaime had not been doing; he'd been patrolling and putting criminals in jail (or the hospital).
The rest of the evening went mostly according to plan - actually, it went completely according to plan, because Jaime had learned to include some variables in his at-home life, like Milgaro knocking a glass off the table by accident. He hadn't expected his reaction to the noise, though.
Gasping, he stood up so quickly it almost threw back the chair he had been sitting in. "I'll go get the broom," he quickly said, heading for the broom closet just under the stairs. Once out of sight, he let out a shuddering sigh. He took a few seconds to steady his breathing; it was safe. It had just been Milagro dropping a glass - he'd known it could happen, and there were no other lifeforms in the house but his family - so calm down, he told himself, finally grabbing the broom and heading back to the kitchen.
He ignored the somewhat concerned looks his parents threw him as he swept the shards into the dustpan. Eventually he sat back down, and finally allowed himself to face them.
"What? I was worried she might cut herself," he said, and shoved a forkful of lasagna into his mouth.
Saturday morning came soon enough, and by then Jaime had organized all his outfits for the week - assuming he wouldn't fuck up on patrol or on a mission (he wouldn't) and spent a few nights in the infirmary. He put on jeans, an old shirt and his hoodie on before heading downstairs to tell his father.
As usual, he was sitting at the table, up before the rest of the family, drinking his black coffee and reading the paper. Jaime had barely been downstairs for a minute or two when Milagro came barreling into the kitchen - completely shattering the calm, quiet atmosphere, but he had been keeping an eye on her, and he was able to brace himself against the sudden noise and stimuli.
He prepared himself for the usual morning conversation of "Dad, I'm going to a friend." "Which friend?" "Connor." (or Bart, or Cassie, or whoever else). "You have your phone?" "Yes." "Have fun."
But of course, Milagro only listened when Dad said "Have fun," as if she didn't already know Jaime was leaving.
"Where're you going?" she asked, much too loudly; he cringed. How could she have so much energy in the morning, and why was she being so damn noisy?
"To a friend's," he replied.
"Who?"
"Connor's," he replied quickly. Did it matter? All his friends were in the same place!
"Can I-"
"No."
"Aw! Bu-"
"No."
"Come on!" she whined. "I haven't seen any of your friends in forever, they never visit!"
I don't invite them over. "Maybe next time," he told her, patting her head quickly and exiting. "Later!"
"Have fun at Connor's!" his father called back, even though he'd already said that.
Jaime was beginning to have deja-vu. Which, all the better; it just meant his routine was taking hold. It made him feel better a bit.
He headed out, and as soon as he was out of sight from the few people out and about this time of day, he armored up. The zeta beams quickly transported him to the Watchtower - somehow being both the safest, and the most dangerous places he knew of.
"B-Twenty-Two: Blue Beetle," the digitized voice announced, as he felt his atoms scramble back together.
Blue let go of a breath he hadn't been aware he had been holding. Here, he could finally do some good, and didn't have to watch his back 24/7 - he still did, mostly, just for peace of mind.
Jaime stepped off the entrance pad, waved at one of the technicians - Laney, her nametag read; employed at the Watchtower for three years, her online file informed him - and walked the mostly silent halls towards the Team's quarters. It was funny to Jaime, how much the tower resembled a school: most people were either in the cafeteria, the gym, or doing work (which he equated to studying for the sake of his mental simile).
And so, the halls were mostly empty and quiet, but that didn't stop Jaime from sidling the wall nearly the entire way. He just couldn't stay too close to the windows looking out into space; he'd been thoroughly terrified of the vast expanse of nothingness ever since Arsenal had opened the doors when he went under Reach control. It squicked him to be in the Watchtower halls.
He knew someone was around the next corner before he turned, seeing their heat signature. Jaime slowed to a stop when he saw Nightwing standing there with his arms crossed. He didn't look too pleased, though it was always hard to tell with him unless he was smirking.
"Hey," Jaime said, with a quick nod. "Everything okay, or are you just waiting on someone?"
"He just showed up," Nightwing replied, and Jaime was both relieved that he didn't sound angry, and worried that Nightwing had been waiting for him.
Checking his clock, Jaime noticed he was early as last time. "Oh? You wanted to spar again? I guess I could use the exercise..."
Nightwing smirked. "No, actually, I already mopped the floors today," he replied teasingly, before sobering up. "I wanted to talk to you about something, come with me." He motioned for Blue to follow, and led him to one of the meeting rooms.
The lights flickered to life, and the console by the door started blinking red; it was recording.
"Computer, cease recording. Delete recording. Access code Nightwing B zero one." Nightwing said, as the door slid closed behind them.
"Voice recognition confirmed: Nightwing B zero one. Recording stopped. Recording deleted." the digitized voice of the computer replied.
Jaime was immediately on his guard. Not because he was worried Nightwing would try anything - he was tense, but from stress. his brain was producing cortisol. Whatever it was, it must've been serious enough, to stress Nightwing.
"Sit with me," Nightwing said, taking a seat and making a stellar job of appearing relaxed.
Jaime sat, noticeably less relaxed.
"I heard you went out patrolling," he said casually.
"I did." And Jaime already knew what this was about.
Nightwing nodded, seeming to understand. "You stopped what could've been something terrible."
"Just doing my job."
"You didn't need to hospitalize him, Jaime," Nightwing replied, cutting to the chase. "And since you're not someone who's usually so... physical."
Jaime had the urge to smack him; what was the problem, again? He'd stopped a rape, and sure, he sent the guy to the hospital a little; but Jaime was already beating himself up for it. He hadn't stopped thinking of the guy - Philip's - bones crunching under his grip. Jaime shuddered.
With a suffering sigh, he simply said: "I know, I just... saw red. He tried to pay me, you can't say he was making it easy to not hit him."
"Oh, I'm not saying he didn't deserve it. I was just so surprised when Artemis showed me the video. You're usually so... nice. Is everything okay?"
That was a loaded question, with a deceptively simple answer: no. "Yeah...?" he instead replied. "I just... don't have much compassion for people who try to take your ability to choose away from you."
Nightwing nodded somberly; Jaime was hoping he believed him - he hadn't exactly lied, just had omitted to say how exhausted and constantly on edge he was. He hoped Nightwing believed him, but couldn't be sure, who could be when he had been trained by Batman himself?
He stood up, Jaime following suit. Once outside, he told Jaime to meet up at the usual time and place for briefing.
Walking away, he added, "Just be careful, okay? You're a sweet kid, Jaime." don't change that, Jaime could imagine him saying.
Maybe Nightwing hadn't believed him after all.
Needing to clear his mind a bit, Jaime headed to the Team's designated training areas, taking care to make the long way around. He didn't feel like talking to anyone else, especially if there was a chance they knew about his overzealous intervention Thursday night.
After all, Artemis had known. As a matter of fact, she'd been the one who showed Nightwing the video - why was she following his hashtag on Instagram anyways? Maybe she followed the #streetjustice one. If she knew, then maybe the rest of the team knew, or they could find out.
He'd rather do something productive and relax before that discussion came along. But it seemed he wouldn't get a chance to, even before he reached the gym.
Artemis was in the training room. She seemed to be waiting by the door; for someone or something to come in, he could see her heat signature, still hot from her training.
Jaime entered and the armor (almost) moved on its own. He had allowed it a few key protocols to work with, but he was always to be in control, no matter how much the Scarab tried to sway him. It even made Jaime puke once, to stop him.
Jaime's arm was raised, pointing a light canon at Artemis. Her sword swing had only just missed him. Here it goes, he thought, the reprimand.
"Good." she told, a look of approval within her eyes. "Keep doing what you're doing."
"Do you mean me dodging," he paused, "or about what I did Thursday night?" he asked, lowering his arm, despite the sudden spike in pain from his headache.
Artemis didn't reply, and as she sheathed her sword the look of approval disappeared under professional indifference. "Gym's all yours."
She left him.
"What the fuck was that about?" he asked to no one in particular, turning to face the empty room. Jaime kept looking back at the entry points on instinct.
He quickly realized that when he was wearing the armor, there was little here that could offer anything interesting for him. Since he wasn't very acrobatic - usually relying on flying instead of acrobatics - and he didn't feel like running, Jaime settled on doing some weightlifting. He could definitely work on his "heroic silhouette", if not his strength. Besides, right now, he just needed to do something, anything.
He'd worked up a nice sweat in no time flat, and by the end of his improvised workout session he was feeling the burn in his muscles. Jaime never experienced the "high" so many runners and gym-rats professed to get, but he definitely got the feeling of work well done, along with the blood pumping through sore muscles; that, if anything, did more to satisfy him than any high could.
Heading to the showers, he took one of the spare outfits there: sweatpants, and a plain navy shirt to change into.
Finally, the time to meet up came around. Jaime had by now been sitting in his usual corner chair, paying attention to anything and everything, for about fifteen minutes; half-replying to Megan's morning chatter, half-trying (and failing) to tune her out. Nightwing walked in, followed by Artemis. The room fell silent.
He recapped the failed mission weeks prior, explaining whatever new information they had uncovered. Such as the chemical composition of most of Deathstroke's weapons, his explosives, spray, and anti-speedster foam; all of which Jaime had been kept in the loop on, and the information had been safely stored in the armor's databanks. He was certain that next time he'd be able to detect, and counteract, them.
Then, they discussed protecting the other targets. Perhaps Deathstroke's employer might want the additional tech, except one thing troubled Nightwing about that.
"Jaime's antennae." he told the team. "Slade's not the type of man to take souvenirs like that. There had to be a reason for him to take it."
"And until we figure that out," Artemis continued for him. "Jaime will always be teamed up with at least one team vet" By that she meant the original members of the team. Her tone broke no arguments.
As the room filled with silence, Jaime resisted the urge to sneer. He wasn't a glass figurine, or a fuck-up; and he did not need to be babysat by his teammates. He wouldn't fuck up; and Artemis had told him he'd been doing good, so what was the problem?
Nightwing spoke up, breaking both the silence and the tense atmosphere. "Artemis and I will lead two squads each on separate missions. These aren't related to the thefts. "Jaime, Connor, and I will be Alpha squad. Robin, La'gaan, and Kid Flash, you're on Beta squad. The rest are with Artemis. Move out."
As Jaime and the others left, they could hear Artemis' fading voice dividing the other squads. However, as he left, Jaime could have sworn Artemis had been staring right at him.