I was sitting at the kitchen table in the Wards' quarters, enjoying a light evening snack and coffee together with Missy, when Carlos entered the area and joined us at the table with a defeated air about him.
"What happened to you?" asked Missy, nibbling on her cookie.
"Stalker," he replied curtly, slumping his head onto the table.
Missy hummed knowingly. Carlos, seizing the opportunity to vent, continued, "It feels like she's growing even more out of control lately! She pivoted to the Docks ten minutes after starting patrol with Kid Win. When he tried to follow her, she blew up on him, kicked his hoverboard out from under him, and stormed away!"
"Bitch," Missy muttered, equal parts resentment and resignation. "You gonna file another useless complaint?"
"Going to," Carlos corrected automatically, then sighed. "What's the point? It's not like it'll do anything." He accepted a mug of coffee from Shirou without looking.
Knowing my brother well, I shot him a warning glare to prevent another unnecessary jab. He shrugged and put on mittens to get another batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. It was a much better use of his time. That chocolate was expensive, and it wouldn't do to let Dean's generosity go to waste just because Shirou wanted to needle people.
Although, on some level, I could understand my brother's frustration with Carlos. During my time in the Wards, I realized Aegis was an inexperienced commander—the recent change in leadership occurred not long before our induction into the organization. He was diligent and motivated but lacked the ability to bring someone like Shadow Stalker to heel. Perhaps it wasn't entirely his fault; Triumph, the previous leader, should have given his replacement proper training. Given Rory's background, I'd almost suspect nepotism-induced incompetence if not for the structure of Wards' leadership.
Still, it was troubling. The general idea was to give every Ward a chance to experience leadership positions, gaining vital experience and identifying future candidates for Protectorate leadership. But Carlos, Dean, and Dennis were similar in age, meaning we would soon face a rapid succession of inexperienced commanders occupying the position for mere months before graduating to the Protectorate. And then Shadow Stalker would inevitably end up in charge. Chris was older and had seniority, but given his standing with the PRT, I doubted he would be trusted to lead.
Carlos drained his coffee in a few gulps. "I just... I don't understand," he held out his hand, silently asking for a refill, "She quieted down recently; I thought putting Shirou on punishment duty finally made her respect my authority. She didn't cause trouble during your patrol, right?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle," Shirou shrugged, placing fresh cookies on the table, much to everyone's delight, and pouring fresh coffee for Carlos. "Then again, I didn't really try to rein her in."
"There has to be a way to make her listen," Carlos insisted.
"There's always a way. I just don't think you'll be able to do it," Shirou said calmly.
"I have to agree, Carlos," I joined in. He shot me a betrayed look, so I was quick to clarify, "You simply lack the necessary tools. You've done everything officially expected of you—filing complaints, logging patrol violations, making reports—but clearly, that hasn't been enough. Certain types of people only respond to direct consequences, and given the lack of any meaningful action from the Director, Sophia isn't likely to change her behavior anytime soon. Words won't help you here."
"What, am I supposed to beat her up?" Carlos asked bitterly.
Shirou hummed; Missy looked intrigued.
"That's not what I'm suggesting. Consider this," I leaned forward, choosing my words carefully. "The PRT might actually have their own reasons for tolerating her behavior."
Carlos frowned deeply. "What do you mean?"
The thought had gradually solidified in my mind. Brockton Bay's rampant gang violence, the PRT's conspicuous lack of enforcement on Sophia's patrol violations, constant resource shortages—all reminded me far too much of my own experiences within the Empire. Despite the Empire's famously rigid and bureaucratic structure, I had personally found that independent initiative—particularly in ambiguous or urgent situations—was quietly tolerated and even tacitly rewarded if the results justified it. It wasn't official policy, nor openly encouraged; in fact, breaches were carefully overlooked or explained away after the fact, maintaining plausible deniability.
"The PRT isn't acting on your complaints because they benefit from her actions," I explained slowly. "Officially, they can't openly endorse aggressive behavior from minors—taxpayers would never accept that. But unofficially? Sophia delivers results they desperately need but can't explicitly order you to achieve. As long as the outcomes justify the means, they'll look the other way, quietly rewarding such behavior by not punishing it."
Missy's eyes widened in realization. "So the worst she'll get is a slap on the wrist?"
"Exactly," I affirmed, feeling confident in my theory. "Sophia knows the boundaries are flexible. She understands the PRT values tangible victories over strict adherence to protocol, especially given how desperate things have become."
Carlos seemed conflicted. "I don't know, Tanya. I mean it does make sense. It explains why nothing ever happens when we complain. But still..."
Missy on the other hand looked intrigued. "So as long as we produce results, the PRT will look the other way?"
Shirou glanced sharply at Missy. "That's not a good takeaway here."
"But it makes sense!" Missy argued. "If Sophia can get away with this, so can we. The PRT can't openly tell us to fight gangs, but they won't punish us if we do it on our own initiative."
I hesitated, suddenly uncertain. "That's a risky interpretation. I'm just theorizing. But the logic is sound. The PRT values results, and Brockton Bay desperately needs results right now. Shadow Stalker might just be the symptom, not the problem."
Shirou interjected with a grim cautionary tone. "The ends justify the means—until you're at the wrong end of those means. It's a dangerous game."
Missy shook her head defiantly. "If Sophia can do it, why not us? It's not fair if only she gets away with it."
Shirou's voice became sharper, carrying alarming intensity. "Fairness is irrelevant. If you follow her example, you'll eventually face consequences you aren't prepared for."
An uneasy silence fell over the table.
Carlos sighed, finally breaking the tension. "I don't know, Tanya. Your theory makes sense, and I honestly have no better explanation for Sophia's behavior. But I'd rather be wrong than find out the hard way."
"Agreed," I nodded firmly. "It's a dangerous hypothesis. One we should keep in mind, but proceed cautiously."
Missy nodded slowly, eyes gleaming. "Right. Cautiously."
***
Later in the evening, after Carlos and Missy departed for the day, I was doing my homework when Shirou's phone pinged. He put the mop down, checked the phone, scoffed, and pocketed it.
"What was that?" I asked. It was his Ward phone, not his personal one.
"Armsmaster wants a new halberd. I told him not to disassemble the last one."
"Make sure to take a mask from the bin."
"I'm not going."
"It's a direct order from our superior, brother."
"It's half past eight. If he wants a new halberd, he can come to pick it up himself. I'm pretty sure we're off shift for today."
"Technically, being on the premise is enough to be considered on duty. The Protectorate members can call on us as long as we at the Wards quarters."
"We live here," Shirou gave me a deadpan look.
It was something of a bureaucratic loophole, yes. Most likely those rules were written with the assumption that the Wards and the Protectorate members operate from the same building, which was not the case in Brockton Bay.
"Doesn't matter. It won't kill you to do Armsmaster a favor. Let's go find you a transport."
Not giving him a chance to object, I took his hand and led him out of the quarters.
Walking through the halls of the PRT building, we came across a trooper listening to a tired looking man in a suit.
"I have already sent my recommendations to Director, Jerry, but their retaliation will likely come soon. We pushed too deep into the Empire's territory, and they won't leave that without a response. Kaiser may be willing to wait a bit longer, but our profile of Hookwolf suggests that he won't be so patient after recent encounters. And whatever agitated Lung..." the man paused upon noticing our approach.
"Argent, Armiger," he greeted us, a polite smile highlighting dark circles under his eyes, "Going somewhere?"
"Yes, Mr...?"
"Thomas Calvert, PRT consultant," he gestured at the door of the nearby office. Indeed, there was a plaque with that name.
"A pleasure," I nodded at the man, "We a looking for a transport, Armsmaster called my brother to the Protectorate HQ."
Calvert's face took on a thoughtful expression. "Hm, I have some business there myself. I can give you a ride if you are willing to wait until I'm finished with Jerry here," he nodded his head towards the trooper, "It will only take a minute."
"Thank you, Mr Calvert. We appreciate that."
I led Shirou to the side and made sure to hold his hand so he didn't wander off.
Ten minutes later, we were at the parking lot in front of Calvert's car. Tanya's gaze lingered on the Audi. A6, recent model. Polished, understated, expensive — but not rich. Government salary, upper bracket. So… he's either been here a while or he's very good at what he does.
"Well, hop in, kids," Calvert said unlocking the car with a chirp of his keys
I shook my head, "Ah, I wasn't actually going to go with you. Only Shirou was called to the Rig."
"Come now, I imagine Armsmaster would appreciate both of you showing up. What father wouldn't want to spend time with his daughter?" Calvert smiled genially, opening the back door for me before circling around to the driver's seat
I nearly corrected him. Only Shirou was Armsmaster's real progeny and my own status was mostly a fiction propagated by the PRT as a PR move. It looked like this fact wasn't widely known even within the organization itself.
However, perhaps Calvert's words held some merit. So far, I hadn't had the chance to establish meaningful contact with the Protectorate leader. Him being my legal guardian offered me potential advantages in the organization, but it was important to cultivate interpersonal relationship to provide incentive for Armsmaster to leverage his position for my benefit.
Naturally, the same went for Shirou. He had already got the man's attention with his ability to replicate tinkertech – a huge increase for his value in the organization that went beyond his status as a legacy hire – but it was equally important to have a backing among higher ups that will make sure my brother is being adequately compensated with opportunities and not simply taken advantage of.
Also, Armsmaster was swamped with work. From what I heard, his position required him to work insane hours, with a barely a window in his schedule. Tinkers naturally had to work more than other capes in order to innovate and maintain their equipment, but together with Armsmaster's leadership role, training regime required to maintain his physique, patrol schedule and the general state of the city, my rough estimations of his working hours would put the blackest of black companies to shame. As in, I was genuinely confused when the man was supposed to sleep.
It was no wonder he hadn't had the time to meet with Shirou yet. I was surprised he had the time to show up for the fallout of my disastrous encounter with Vict... Glory Girl.
Shoving the unpleasant memories to the back of my mind, I climbed in the car. The insides were immaculately clean and smelled faintly of fresh vinyl and something vaguely citrus.
Calvert slid into the driver's seat with a smooth, economical motion. As the engine purred to life and we pulled out of the lot, I found myself watching the way Calvert moved—fluid, efficient, no wasted moves. He adjusted the mirrors, signaled, and merged into traffic with the same smoothness I'd seen in practiced field operatives. Not quite casual, not overly formal either—just deliberate.
"Military training?" I asked, breaking the silence.
He gave a small, almost amused smile. "Not quite. PRT training. Though depending on the instructor, the difference can blur."
"That explains the way you handle the controls. Efficient."
"You learn to move like this when your survival depends on not hesitating," he replied. "And when you spend enough time double-checking gear and protocols, some habits just stick."
That rang true. I'd seen that kind of muscle memory in veterans—never showy, but unmistakable.
"Ellisburg reinforced a lot of that," he added, quieter now. " When you've stared down survival, you start to truly appreciate the edge that preparation and thoroughness can give you."
Ellisburg. The name carried weight, even for someone like me. A civilian city turned warzone, not by armies or rebels, but by a single man who tore it apart from the inside out. A place where the rules failed, where the chain of command bent and nearly broke under the pressure of the unstoppable tide of monsters.
I remembered reading the articles and digging up leaked reports during my research into this world. Sanitized, redacted, clinical. But you didn't need full clearance to understand what kind of chaos it had been. For someone like Calvert who was right there, on the ground... You didn't volunteer for Ellisburg. You endured it.
And the way he spoke of it—calm, precise, without bravado—made me think he had learned the same lesson I had long ago: that heroism, real heroism, wasn't fire and speeches. It's about making the hard calls, surviving them, and moving forward like nothing happened. Even if someone else didn't.
"I can imagine," I replied. "That kind of pressure... it sharpens people."
"It does," he agreed. "Or breaks them. Sometimes both. After a while, I realized my skills were better used behind the lines. Coordinating, analyzing, working on strategies and logistics. Different kind of battlefield, but just as important."
The car coasted down a slope as we passed Lord Street. Streetlights flickered overhead.
I could read between the lines. After surviving such an ordeal, he took the first chance for a safe posting in the rear. A sensible decision, really. If only I had such luxury during the war.
"I run a construction firm now, too," he lightened his tone. "Keeps me engaged with the civilian side of things. Not glamorous—mostly patchwork contracts, infrastructure shoring. But real work. Grounded."
There was a modesty to the way he said it. No boasting, just fact.
"It's good to hear someone still cares about the basics," I said.
"I try," Calvert smiled. "In the end, buildings hold people up, just like strategy holds up an operation. Forget one, the other crumbles."
He gave us space after that, letting the quiet settle. Shirou had leaned back slightly in his seat, arms crossed, unreadable. I took the moment to look out the window at the hazy skyline.
Turning back to Calvert, I once again noticed how tired he looked. In the flickering lights of passing traffic, the shadows falling on his haggard, if smiling, face made him look almost sinister.
"Do you duty takes lot of your time? I would imagine combining consultancy work with your business is very time consuming."
The man must be exceptionally efficient at managing his time to perform at both. Unless he does sloppy work, but he didn't seem to be the sort. Too meticulous.
"Oh, I manage. It's just lately, there's been a push into the gang territories, so I have to prepare recommendations and contingencies for the inevitable push back. Not to mention, Emily's recent storm of performance reviews identified quite a few gang informants within the PRT, so everyone has to deal with that as well."
I frowned. The PRT was a large organization, so some level of corruption was expected. But I didn't like that the gangs were so powerful, that they could run intelligence operations against a government agency with the PRT's resources. That was frankly disturbing.
At least they were cleaning house now. Even if by the sound of it, the cleansing is undergoing during the large operation against said gangs.
The conversation quieted after that, and soon we crossed the forcefield bridge that led to the Protectorate HQ.
"Well Argent, it's been a pleasure," he stopped the car to drop us off front of the entrance, "Don't hesitate to find me if you need an advice. You are a bright young lady, and I see you going far in the Protectorate. Perhaps one day you will be the one to pay my consultancy rates," he said in good humor and pulled from the gates.
I smiled at that. Mr Calvert made a good impression on me as well.
"What a pleasant man," I commented, turning to my brother, "Take notes Shirou, this is how to establish good working relationship with colleagues."
"He smiles too much," Shirou replied petulantly, eyes tracing the car's departure until it vanished around the corner, "Reminds me of a certain priest."
My smile froze, "Since when are you consorting with their kind?" I immediately demanded.
"Consorting?" he gave me a side eye.
"Religious fanatics are dangerous—especially for impressionable boys! Who knows what kind of fire-and-brimstone nonsense he tried to feed you?"
"Relax, sister." Shirou rolled his eyes. "After spending five minutes in the same room as Kirei, I am spiritually cured for life."
Good. I let out a breath. I would have to express my gratitude to this Kirei if I ever met him. He must be one of the good ones.
"Although there was this nun," he added, voice softening. "Ciel. She liked my curry."
A few calculations run through my mind.
"Was she pretty?" I narrowed my eyes.
"...I don't see how that's relevant."
It was relevant. If an old man couldn't convert my brother, perhaps a lovely, innocent-seeming girl could. Curse you, Being X, you always adapt your vectors!
I may need to research this Siel. And maybe start screening Shirou's spices for divine interference.
A/N
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