Every attempt was rebuffed at every turn. Sane people would have given up a long time ago. Sane people don't put on a technologically suspect armor and go out to fight crime. Dean Stansfield was not sane people. They say the definition of insanity was doing the exact same thing repeatedly expecting different results.

Dean preferred to call it insistence, persistence and perseverance. It sounded nicer to himself when he thought about it like that.

It was the only way he could make himself feel better after every failure. Especially with regards to the latest member to join the Wards.

"Geez, what's her problem?"

Missy, however, was a lot less charitable than him about the issue.

"It's like she doesn't even care that you're making an effort, what a bitch."

"Language, Missy," Dean responded automatically, "you never know when we're being recorded."

Looking like she had tasted something sour, and feeling embarrassed, Missy sucked in her further complaints. Dean wasn't blind to her little crush, but it's not like he could turn off the personality that had made Missy develop that crush in the first place, nor was he willing to just be an asshole to her... and truth be told, he had trouble just making it clear to her that he had no interest in Missy as a girl either.

At these times, it did come in convenient, though, as she would listen to him just because she thought it'd make her look better to him as a romantic prospect. Her emotions shifted as soon as his attention shifted to her, even to scold her... what a mess.

"Anyway, she's still- that," Missy said, looking at the departing back of Weaver, the newest member of the Wards. A forced conscript into said Wards, in fact. Dean wasn't privy to ALL the details regarding her, but he had been made aware of enough to have something of a soft spot for her. "We've all been trying to be nice to her, and she just hates us all for some reason. She's worse than Stalker!"

Dean couldn't help his face scrunching up. That was the very source of the problem. Weaver obviously knew who Stalker was, and they did not like each other. Considering the rumors of Stalker's behavior, it was entirely possible that the two hated each other, either for meeting on the field as enemies, or-

"I don't think so. She doesn't hate us," Dean said. Oh, she disliked them, she disliked them plenty, but even more than that, the girl was freaking terrified. Weaver was a probationary Ward, much like Stalker, and as such, was not required to unmask for them, nor were they supposed to unmask for her in return. Simple procedures and protocols meant for the worst case scenario, as Probationary Wards simply weren't trustworthy.

"Coulda fooled me," Missy huffed. "Anyway, I've got the next console shift," she said. "You can go now, I guess."

Dean had been assigned to mentor Weaver through her first console shift, and indeed, it had just ended.

But Dean wasn't satisfied. "Alright, have a good one, remember the mute Clockblocker hotkey was changed to Alt Shift C," Dean said, waving his hand.

Missy gave him a thumbs up, sat down before the console, and that was that.

Dean followed what felt like a trail of bad vibes and a negative attitude, Weaver had a talent for souring the moods of the people she came across. For all that she was timid, the girl had a tongue sharper than Halbea- Armsmaster's halberd. Eventually, Dean caught up to her as she got to a rather secluded corner of the Wards' allowed areas. The library wasn't used very much, none of the Wards were big readers, and even if they were, about three quarters of its contents were either Kid Win's reference material or educational books.

Dean caught Weaver, seated on a couch, reading a book he couldn't quite recognize... it wasn't from the Library. He knew, however, that pretending to be a big reader now would just alienate her. She was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them.

He sat himself before her. He was wearing the undersuit that his armor interfaced with and a rather basic domino mask, wouldn't do much for AI face recognition software but would fool the human eye quite nicely.

"Gallant," Weaver greeted. Cold as ever. She wore a domino mask and a facemask to cover her mouth as well. She really hated the idea of her identity becoming known to them. Even the thought terrified her, her reactions were muted but her emotions betrayed her distress. She could hide physical reactions but not mental ones.

She was mostly draped over the side of the couch meant for reading that was sometimes used for naps, while Dean himself was using one of the desk chairs no doubt dragged over here by Weaver herself.

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The bookcases served as a nice backdrop, a little corner that looked a lot more normal than the futuristic look of the Wards' habitation areas or the gray concrete of the PRT's practical building design around them.  "Hope I'm not interrupting."

"You are," she responded. "I was enjoying myself."

And now she was not, he didn't need his emotion sensing abilities to know that. Dean frowned, closed his eyes and reached for his domino mask. He was sick of this bullshit already. He had become a hero to help people, and yet here he was, agonizing over a single girl he could do nothing for. She was suffering right in front of him, a ball of fear and anxiety, and it felt like nobody was really doing anything for her.

"I'm done with this," Dean said, pulling the domino mask off of his face, the glue only resisting for a few moments before it peeled off. "The name's Dean. Dean Stansfield. Yes, those Stansfields," he said. "Nice to meet you," he said, offering his hand to her.

She looked at it as if it was covered in snot. "You don't expect me to-"

"No, I really don't," he said, "this isn't about making you do anything you don't want to do. Look - Weaver," he said, "I get it, alright? You don't like us," he said, sighing, "and I can see why. You don't want to be here, and you're expected to trust people who refuse to give you their identity," he explained, "so here it is, I'm putting all my cards on the table."

"Why?" Weaver asked.

"I just told you, I can't ask you to trust my motives if-"

"No," Weaver said, and Dean saw her focus sharpen, both on the visible parts of her face around her eyes, forehead and the upper part of her cheeks... but he could see it even in her emotions. Weaver always paid attention, but when she focused, it reflected. "Why are you so insistent on this?" she asked, gesturing between them. "I hate you. All of you dislike me just as much as I dislike you," she said. "I don't want any of you to be my friend. I just want to finish my probation and get out."

Closing his eyes, Dean sighed, bringing a palm to his face and rubbing the right side of it a little. She was more than a little bit of a headache. "Because I care," he said, as simple as that. "Because I became a hero to help people, and you're right in front of me, and I can't help you, and it's killing me that nobody's even trying."

She huffed. "You expect me to applaud you? You expect me to get on my knees and worship the ground you walk on?" she asked, bitter and angry. Her emotions swirled. "Grow up, Stansfield, this isn't some fairytale where you can just sit down to chat and then everything's fixed," she said. "You don't even know what you're stepping into here."

"Then tell me. The Protectorate won't tell me much, even though I'm supposed to manage your case when Aegis graduates," Dean explained, "and the PRT barely even saw it fit to tell us that you're here on probation, let alone why," he said. "We literally don't know anything about you except your name and powers," he said.

"Why should I tell you, then?" Weaver responded. "What's in it for me?"

"What do you want? Do you want money, is that it?" Dean asked, but from the souring of her emotions it was obvious that this wasn't what she wanted. "If that was the case you'd probably just be selling Spider silk, hell, the PRT would probably pay you millions for a contract," he said. "Fortune's out, clearly you don't care about Fame - so what?"

"What if I want all of you to just leave me alone?" she challenged.

"Then give me a chance. Just one shot. One opportunity. Whatever you want to call it. Give me one chance to prove that I'm worth the time it takes to talk to me," Dean said, "and if I fail, I'll leave you alone and never bother you again. I'll even convince everyone else to leave you alone, as well. How about that?"

She was tempted. Anxious and afraid, but entirely too enticed by the offer of peace to fully deny him. Dean was also starting to discover that she didn't even really want peace, melancholy and bitter sadness surrounded her when the thought of being alone was in consideration. She mulled it over for a good minute before finally deciding.

"Fine then," she said, finally. "If it's finally gonna make you leave me alone and not bother me anymore," she said, "then I'll tell you. I'm here because your teammate shoved me in a school locker filled with shit, rotting period blood and other refuse she could find in a dumpster and locked it, leaving me to stew inside it for several hours. By the time I woke up I was already in the hospital, where I learned that the school had covered it all up, and I had to take a deal to shut up and not press charges against anyone involved because otherwise I wouldn't be able to afford the medical bills. And to make matters worse, your hero of a teammate decided that it wasn't enough so she tried to kill me, again, this time by locking me into a dumpster, and when I defended myself with my powers, she called the PRT and Protectorate on me and now I'm the criminal that smells like trash while she came out of it smelling like roses."

Dean was stunned. That was... pretty fucked up, all things considered. He almost felt bile rise from his stomach up his throat. It wasn't because of the things she said entirely, it was because she was obviously reliving the moments in her head even as she spoke of her trigger event. It made him feel guilty. It made him feel horrible that he couldn't even commiserate.

He wanted to be someone whom she could share some camaraderie with, but he was in way over his head. He wasn't ready for this to be so heavy. Nonetheless, he wasn't known as a quitter. "I see... that's-" he couldn't find the words. "I don't think me apologizing does anything for you."

She snorted. Of course.

"Apologies don't fix things," Dean said, simple and easy.

Weaver was... a practical sort, he surmised. She didn't waste time and she clearly saw the benefit in the advantages of the Wards program. This pragmatism might actually be his key, an in with her that would get her to, if not consider him a friend, then at least... an useful ally. That would be what he needed.

"But what I can do," Dean said, "is tell you that I'm... almost entirely confident that what the school did is in absolutely no way legal," he spoke. "And I can also tell you is that I know a good lawyer that would absolutely love to take your case, and while he doesn't do pro bono work, he does work on contingency, if he's certain he can win a case," he explained. "You definitely won't get even with the school with just that, but you can hurt them... It'll set the gears grinding, and eventually, you might even get justice."

She stopped, stunned.

"I- you sound..."

"Not gallant at all, do I?" Dean admitted, chuckling. "A knight in shining armor can save a damsel from a dragon," he said, "but only the most crooked of lawyers can save you from the system. Hi, my name's Dean, I'm hoping to pursue a law degree in the future."

He offered his hand to her again.

Weaver closed her book.

"Alright. You get this one chance," she said, finally. Appealing to her pragmatism was the only way this was going to work, it seemed. She took his hand and squeezed it firmly. "But why? Why go so far to help someone like me? I can't believe someone would just..."

Dean shook his head. "I know," he said, standing up as soon as they were done shaking hands. He thought about how to explain it, but, well, Weaver was still Weaver, the best way to do it would be to make her feel it herself. "A spider silk undershirt makes the difference between a trooper coming back home with bruises rather than coming back in a bag," he said, simple and easy.

And there it was. A sort of burst of warm colors and a fuzzy feeling.

"That. That's why I do it," Dean said.

Truth be told, Dean was actually starting to like Weaver a little. Now that he understood why she was so goddamn angry all the time, and now that he somewhat understood her perspective...

It would take some time and effort. But he was a hero. He had chosen to name himself Gallant. He would help her, even if he couldn't be a knight in shining armor.

Besides, he did look good in a suit and tie.