Calderon keeps to no faction and works The Yard as a Terrier who is made of wire, snacks, and very confident bad ideas. Friends learned long ago not to interrupt Calderon near the rooftop kennels, especially with a rusted key that fits no door anyone has found in hand. There is a corner of the flooded market halls where Calderon is unofficially assumed to be in charge of nothing in particular. Calderon would rather collect quiet wins over a piece of stitched fabric tooth than loud ones that nobody understands.