The problem of Stature had been the cause of a dull ache in Sitwell's gut. Most other heroes ('vigilantes', on official S.H.I.E.L.D. record, excepting friends of Director Hammer, and 'capes' over official S.H.I.E.L.D. communication lines) had the good sense not to go out in full regalia. Not that this was in itself a crime (some of the outfits Sitwell saw on regular pedestrians would be criminalized, in his opinion, and he didn't really understand why anyone would make themselves look like that), but in civilian dress they at least stood the chance of not being spotted arguing their way out of an arrest by posing as an innocent bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time. That happened with surprising frequencies these days. The people of New York City were simply incredibly unlucky and chivalrous.
Stature, on the other hand, seemed in need of a guardian angel. During long nights while Sitwell was on duty scouring the city for unlawful goodness, she made herself hard to miss. Tonight, Sitwell dropped his head in his hand with a squint of frustration praying to anyone who still had mercy enough to listen to him to throw him a bone finally. He made another mark on his map of Stature's developing comfort zone-- notably outside of the usual paths-- and considered his options. He could, as he had been, conveniently lose the feed or sight line the moment it seemed she was about to get herself in trouble, which meant losing her for the rest of the night and missing once more where it was she returned to bed. Eventually, he might have enough marks on his map to start canvassing streets to find her-- unless she moved, and he was back down to one. Or he could slip out and put an end to this before someone else followed her home.
"Coffee, anyone?" he asked the agents on task with him, who weren't really listening, laughing at their card game and missing his quiet departure. He was going to have to be fast.