Alfred POV

  I stabbed another mouthful of greasy eggs, fully convinced they were at least 40% sawdust, and 60% regret. Still, after days of surviving on raw fish and dubious-tasting purified seawater (thank you, Blue-Sea Dragoon Spirit), even the most questionable diner fare tasted like a Michelin-starred meal.

  Or maybe my taste buds were just that desperate. I hadn't ruled it out yet.

  The diner itself was a relic straight out of a noir movie, complete with flickering neon lights, chipped porcelain mugs, and waitresses who eyed patrons with a weary suspicion earned from years of graveyard shifts. It was exactly the kind of place someone on the run from half a city's heroes would pick for breakfast.

  Incognito, thy name is Alfred.

  My hand trembled slightly as I raised the mug of bitter, burnt coffee to my lips. The shaking was new, a nice little parting gift from my nocturnal adventures in grand theft mugging. I grimaced as the acidic sludge assaulted my taste buds, wondering if the cook out back hated the world or just his customers.

  I mean, I couldn't really judge. Given the past week, I was starting to develop a pretty contentious relationship with the world myself.

  Last night replayed in my mind: three idiots in a dark alleyway, smirks plastered across faces that probably wouldn't win any awards for intelligence, threatening me with knives as if I hadn't already faced worse. Why had I chosen to go through the obviously dubious alleyway? Trying to avoid attention as much as possible, obviously.

  Look, the most experience I had of sneaking around before coming here was playing Assassin’s Creed, okay? And accurate stealth simulations, those were not.

  In any case, I didn’t even get the chance to consider my options when something new happened. Hindsight tells me that I should have expected it, but hindsight can eat a bag of dicks.

  As for what happened, I’m still not 100% sure, but it seems pretty obvious given the results.

  The three goobers ended up on the ground or slumped against the alley walls in various states of agony. All I remembered was moving on my own accord, slipping, sliding, striking, parrying, throwing, and kicking.

  Not necessarily in that order.

  My current theory? Haschel's battle-hardened muscle memory kicked in.

  How? Fucked if I know. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if the old pervert’s ghost was riding my ass the whole time.

  From the few flashes that I consciously retained, though, it had been beautiful. Poetry in motion. Except for the part where one guy’s tooth embedded itself in my knuckles, leaving me frantically shaking my hand to dislodge it.

  The upshot? Fifty bucks richer and emotionally scarred for life. Good times.

  After swallowing another forkful of "food," I glanced at the diner’s grimy window. Outside, Brockton Bay was moving in nervous fits and starts, paranoia practically sweating off every pedestrian.

  The city was on high alert, with hero patrols, PRT vans, and cops lurking on street corners like overly attentive mall security guards. My fault, naturally. It was both humbling and horrifying how quickly I’d gone from an anonymous nobody to holding the top of Brockton Bay’s Most Wanted list.

  Fantastic.

  Still, despite the near-constant threat of discovery, slipping back into the city had been easier than expected. A hoodie pulled low, an air of casual misery, and eyes fixed firmly downward had transformed me into just another anonymous teenager.

  Nothing to see here, officer, definitely not the flying arsonist you’re looking for.

  It helped that Brockton was filled with nervous, shifty people who all looked slightly guilty by default. The city provided ample camouflage.

  After polishing off the eggs and pushing aside a half-empty cup of liquid disappointment, I leaned back in the cracked vinyl booth, letting my eyes drift shut for just a moment. My mind buzzed with snippets from the internet binge I'd just finished at a grimy internet café down the block. My first digital connection since my baptism in dragonfire, a storm of chitins, and self-imposed finger wagging over my own bad decisions.

  I’d nearly cried tears of relief at seeing that ugly, blinking screen.

  Top of my search history:

  Lung. Captured by Armsmaster the night of my little bonfire. That could be good or bad, depending on whether Bakuda responds as she did in canon or not. So, there’s THAT to look forward to. But hey, silver linings. One less homicidal dragon man roaming the streets was a net positive, right?

  The second intriguing discovery was the surge of anonymous crime reports to 911: short, clipped messages from a young-sounding girl. That had Taylor’s fingerprints (or rather, her swarm’s tiny bug-feet-prints) all over it. The thought made something inside me ease slightly. At least she was still fighting the good fight. Maybe there was still hope for salvaging my disaster of a first impression.

  Then there was the gut-punch: Glory Girl and Shadow Stalker in comas. The New Wave’s golden girl reduced to a helpless victim because of my uncontrolled powers. My guilt wrestled with the memory of Victoria Dallon’s arms crushing my ribs like a hydraulic press. Sure, she’d tackled me first, but coma-inducing electrocution still wasn’t exactly proportional retaliation.

  I could blame Violet for that one, but, would it even really matter at this point?

  Shadow Stalker, though...less sympathy there, if I were brutally honest. It didn't escape me that her bodycam mysteriously turned itself off, according to what I’ve read. Convenient, that. Still, putting teenagers in the hospital wasn't exactly hero behavior. I had a lot of work ahead if I wanted to avoid permanently becoming the villain of this story.

  That the PRT and the Protectorate were being raked over the coals for letting it happen was also adding to my growing mountain of guilt.

  Shaking my head clear of morbid thoughts, I shifted in my seat. The Dragoon Spirits were at the center of all this chaos.

  The Violet Spirit had unlocked Haschel’s martial prowess without me even transforming, hinting at a depth of power I hadn’t anticipated. It begged the question: What else could they do?

  Could I draw from Rose’s agility without transforming fully into Dark Dragoon form?

  Could Dart’s swordsmanship manifest spontaneously?

  Could Meru help make me a better dancer?

  That last one isn’t exactly all that relevant to my current predicament, but it would be nice. The one and only time I tried dancing made Commander Shepard look downright graceful.

  What’s that? You don’t know who that is? Well, look it up, you uncultured swine!

  Moving on, my hand drifted subconsciously to my chest, fingers brushing over the thin fabric of my shirt. Beneath my skin, the Spirits pulsed faintly, their energy an uncomfortable reminder of my responsibilities and limitations. Their glow, currently hidden under layers of cloth, was shining through the rather thin fabric. Note to self: buy thicker shirts.

  For now, I’m keeping my hoodie zipped.

  More urgently, how was I going to approach Taylor? I couldn’t just stroll up and say, “Hi, remember me? The flying nightmare that gave you a panic attack? Waddup!” No, subtlety was needed. Careful planning. A gentler touch.

  Which means, no using Dragoon Spirits that may or may not have Master components. Sadly for me, I couldn’t completely rule out the other Spirits, either. For all I know, Red could make other people shouty and Violet could make them uber aggressive.

  Food for thought.

  My head throbbed as I considered my options. Maybe I could leave an anonymous note somewhere she’d definitely find? No, too creepy. Maybe a coded message on PHO?

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Tattletale did that and it seemed to work, but that was in the story. I have absolutely no guarantee that doing the same thing would work out for me. Heck, knowing my track record, posting on PHO might just lead to an Endbringer attack. Or a visit from “Mrs. I Win,” herself.

  Better to play it safe.

  I huffed in frustration. There are just too many ways that anything I decide to do could spiral out of control. And spiraling out of control was something I was rapidly becoming an expert in.

  The waitress shuffled by, dropping the bill on the table with the resigned sigh of someone who knew her tips rarely covered her soul’s daily cost. I tossed the stolen money onto the bill, tipping generously. Thief and arsonist I might be, but stiffing the waitstaff was just bad form.

  I stood, pulling my hood up, prepared to slip back into the nervous anonymity of Brockton Bay’s streets. The city was tense, a powder keg waiting for the next spark.

  It was time to figure out how not to accidentally light the fuse. Again.

  --------

  Leaving the diner, my belly pleasantly full for the first time in what felt like a century, I stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk and glanced around the street.

  Brockton Bay had always been described as a city hanging by a thread in the fanfics I’d binged, but seeing it in person was another matter entirely. It was the sort of town that made Detroit look like Disneyland, and the fact that it had fallen even further since my disastrous arrival filled me with a blend of guilt and mild horror.

  As I ambled down the street, I couldn't help noticing the increased patrols. Police cruisers rolled past every few minutes, their occupants scanning the sidewalks with narrowed eyes. PRT vans idled ominously at corners, officers in tactical gear glaring out windows, and above me, every so often, a cape zipped by, silhouetted against the leaden sky.

  “Great. Just what I needed—heroes with twitchy trigger fingers,” I muttered.

  The fact that all of this was my fault is promptly ignored, for the time being.

  I ducked my head, hoping the cheap baseball cap I’d picked up would shield my face from any prying eyes. Not that it’d matter much if someone got too close. The crystals embedded under my skin still glowed faintly. My hoodie was doing a decent job of muting their lights, but I still needed thicker clothing.

  That was my mission, right now.

  My current ensemble also reeked of seawater, sweat, and desperation. A charming combo that probably made me stand out like a neon sign advertising trouble for anyone with a functioning sense of smell.

  A few blocks over, I spotted a Salvation Army store, the windows smudged and the paint peeling in strips. The interior wasn’t much better: racks of clothes sagged beneath the weight of garments that had clearly seen better decades. An elderly woman watched me suspiciously from behind the counter, her glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose.

  I rifled through the bargain bins, pulling out faded t-shirts and jeans, checking tags with a critical eye. Eventually, I settled on a couple of decent outfits and a worn but sturdy jacket. After paying, I counted out the last of the cash I’d taken from the muggers, sighing inwardly.

  Back to being broke. Wonderful.

  I exited the store, clutching my new acquisitions in a battered plastic bag, and wandered through increasingly deserted streets. Boarded-up buildings loomed on either side, their graffiti-covered walls silently screaming Brockton’s despair. Alleys overflowed with garbage, rats scurried openly, and distant sirens seemed a constant soundtrack to the city’s decline.

  Finding a quiet corner, I changed quickly, dumping my old clothes into an overflowing dumpster. As I stepped out again, feeling marginally more human, my thoughts turned practical.

  I needed money. Money for food, shelter, maybe even information. Information was crucial now.

  In the fics I’d read, the standard response to money troubles in Brockton Bay was to rob the gangs. Raid their safehouses, take their stashes, rough up drug dealers. You know, classic vigilante fare. But the idea of transforming into a Dragoon again filled me with dread. The memories of flames and lightning, screams and destruction, haunted me enough without adding more fuel to the fire.

  But then I thought of what happened last night, when I’d knocked out those muggers without transforming. Somehow, I’d accessed Haschel’s combat skills without any visible transformation. That seemed promising. At least, until I realized I had no idea how it had happened or how to replicate it reliably.

  Frustration twisted in my gut.

  Yet another experiment to run, I thought bitterly. Like I didn’t have enough mysteries already.

  I wandered aimlessly until I found an abandoned building that looked structurally sound enough to be livable. It was an old tenement, the windows shattered and doors missing, but the bones seemed intact. I crept inside, stepping carefully around piles of broken plaster and splintered wood.

  Inside, I found a relatively dry corner on the second floor, overlooking an alley. I dropped my bag of clothes and surveyed what would serve as my home for the next (hopefully) little bit. Making the place comfortable was never going to happen.

  So, I spent the next few hours making it habitable, at the very least.

  This really just meant clearing up a small space of junk that I could trip over. I did see a cushion that looked like it used to be part of a sofa set, but I didn’t even try to pick it up. Just looking at it risked contracting Hep-C or something.

  In the end, I had a corner that I could lay my back against that would hide me from the main entrance and most of the windows.

  With that done, I turned my attention to my next problem: How to be a martial arts badass.

  Crossing my leg on the cleared floor, I considered the issue. Last night was the first time that it happened. Why? What made that situation different?

  Obviously, I was getting mugged. So, maybe I feared for my life?

  No, that didn’t sound right. I don’t remember being afraid.

  Was it the presence of a threat? If that was the case, why didn’t it happen at any other point?

  …

  …

  …

  Right. Because all those other times I was in danger, I was either running away or in a Dragoon form. Was it always supposed to happen, then?

  God damn it, I wish I’d asked more questions before coming here.

  Ah, whatever, spilled milk and all that.

  Coming back to the point, though. How do I use those skills? Do I just go out there, punch the first gang member I see, and hope for the best?

  Yeah, not doing that.

  Raising my fists to eye level, I try to imagine using them to fight. But, after conjuring different scenarios in my mind, I wasn’t any closer to feeling like I could pull off the same moves as last night.

  Dropping my arms with a floppy slap on my legs, I groaned. Why am I so bad at this?

  Using the Dragoon Spirits took practically no effort. During that first night, I just thought of using Dark and that was it. I had wings, armor, and a sword that I could throw.

  The whole thing was almost a matter of instinct.

  So, why was this so hard? I’d already done it last night. Why couldn’t I do it again?

  Was putting myself in danger really the only way?

  Taking deep breaths, I focused inward, trying to sense the presence of the Dragoon Spirits. Blue was quiet, a comforting presence that remained steady. Red felt dormant but ready, like an ember waiting for fuel. Violet hovered at the edge of my awareness, restless and alert.

  “Alright, Violet,” I murmured aloud. “Got any tips on how to pull off what happened last night?”

  In response, a surge of images rushed into my mind: blurry scenes of Haschel practicing, his movements swift and precise, striking at imaginary foes. The clarity increased, revealing the old master surrounded by faceless students while he talked about techniques, stances, punches, and kicks. It was like watching grainy footage of a martial arts class.

  With a mental command, I could exert some control, as well. It wasn’t as convenient as a Netflix or YouTube video interface, but I’m not about to complain. This is more than I could have asked for.

  The potent mix of gratitude and shame made my head swim. Gratitude because Violet actually responded and gave me the perfect solution. Shame because I should have thought of asking sooner.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, surprised and relieved.

  While not a direct download of Haschel’s prowess, it was enough for me to practice.

  Standing up, I tried to mimic the images I’m seeing. My movements were awkward at first, limbs unsure and clumsy. But gradually, muscle memory kicked in, guided by Haschel’s distant expertise. Hours passed in repetitive drills, sweat soaking my new clothes.

  As night fell, I sat back down, breathing heavily but satisfied. I was far from a martial arts master, but at least I knew the basics. Relying on these inherited abilities to save my bacon again in moments of danger is unsustainable. Mastering them or, at least, getting good enough at using them through training will help me avoid unintended consequences.

  My previous overreliance on the Dragoon forms had resulted in catastrophic destruction. I couldn’t let that happen again.

  That means that I now need a plan. I couldn’t risk becoming a Dragoon publicly again yet, but perhaps I didn’t need to. In The Legend of Dragoon, the characters didn’t actually fight while transformed all the time.

  In fact, most of the encounters in the game required mostly mundane methods. Dart and Rose had their swords, Shana and Miranda had their bows, Lavitz and Albert had their spears, Meru had her hammer (or mallet), Kongol had his axe, and Haschel had his fists.

  As I had just proven today, it was possible to access and then train those skills. Haschel’s was just the first because it was the most available. I also had no weapons on hand, so unarmed combat made the most sense.

  Considering my goals, this was also a lucky break. The memories showed plenty of ways to take down opponents without actually killing them. I just needed to learn and then master those moves.

  And having Haschel in my corner would make this a lot faster than it otherwise would be. In a lot of ways, the practice is like reviewing things you only kind of remember.

  From there, maybe I could forge a new identity, a vigilante persona distinct from Seraph.

  Something simpler. Something more grounded.

  I smiled faintly, liking the sound of that. I could rob gang hideouts, take their dirty cash, and do it all without turning into a flying disaster. I could operate in the shadows, avoid PRT attention, and slowly gather resources. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt safe.

  “Alright,” I whispered to the empty building. “Let’s try it your way, Haschel.”

  In the silence that followed, I swore I felt the Violet Dragoon Spirit pulse faintly with approval.

  This was a start. A cautious, but sensible start.

  And in Brockton Bay, cautious and sensible was exactly what I needed.