Three hours ago, I crawled out of the ocean like a soggy cryptid, clutching nothing but a ruined hoodie and a vague sense of existential regret. Now, I was perched on a grimy rooftop across from Winslow High in a wet t-shirt, jeans, and trainers, trying to dry out in the morning sun like a particularly broody piece of laundry.
Let me back up.
Last night, I made what I thought was a heroic entrance—stabbed Lung with a magic sword, performed a mystic heal on Taylor, and then got chased across the sky by a swarm big enough to blot out the moon. Long story short, I scorched half the insect population of Brockton Bay with a fireball and swan-dived into the bay to escape the consequences.
Yay me.
Now, my shoes squelched with every step and I had exactly zero idea what the internet was saying about me. I didn’t have a working phone, working data, or, frankly, a working brain. What I did have was a rough notebook (don’t ask where I got it from), some half-baked theories, and a bruised ego.
I’d picked this rooftop because it gave me a clean view of Winslow’s front entrance. It was also three stories up and half-hidden behind a broken AC unit, which made it ideal for stalker-adjacent loitering. Which, yes, sounds bad. I know. But look—when you drop into a cape universe with eight semi-sentient crystals lodged near your heart, you don’t exactly get a moral onboarding seminar.
I crouched low, cracked my notebook, and tried to focus.
First page: a diagram. Eight interlocking circles orbiting a star. Each labeled after one of the Dragoon Spirits. Darkness. Flame. Water. Wind. Earth. Lightning. Light. Divine Dragon. I traced the lines with my pencil like they held answers.
They didn’t.
Underneath, I’d scrawled three big questions:
- Did Astral Drain cause Taylor’s power surge?
- What the hell happened to Lung?
- What am I missing about how these Spirits work?
The last question haunted me. In the game, they were simple—charge meter, press X, blow things up. Here, though? I used Darkness on Lung, and Taylor nearly had a breakdown. I used fire to clear the swarm, and the air lit up like Judgment Day.
I thought I understood these powers. Turns out, I don’t.
My fingers tapped the notebook rhythmically as I stared out at the school. Students were trickling in for fourth period—some chatting, some glued to their phones, probably watching shaky cam footage of last night’s swarm tornado. None of them looked like the Taylor I remembered. Then again, my only image of her was a bug-covered silhouette and a very angry scream.
Note to self: first impressions matter. Getting chased by millions of bugs? Not ideal.
My stomach grumbled. I rubbed my face, felt the salt crust still clinging to my jaw. I looked like I’d lost a fight with a fish tank. Still, I stayed. Because Taylor mattered. Because if I was right—if the energy from Astral Drain overloaded her power—I’d caused last night’s panic. I had to fix that. Somehow.
I flipped to a new page and started a fresh draft.
“Hi Taylor. You probably remember me as the guy who scared the absolute shit out of you. Sorry about that.”
I scratched it out immediately. Too honest.
“Hey, I’m not a villain. I swear.”
Also bad. No one who says “I’m not a villain” is ever not a villain.
I groaned, dropped my head onto the notebook, and mumbled into the paper. “Smooth moves, Alfred.”
By hour four of rooftop loitering, I was starting to suspect that recon missions were less "cool cape work" and more "urban camping with bonus tetanus risk." I’d shifted positions six times to avoid hot patches of tar and bent metal, and I was pretty sure one of the air vents was leaking mold directly into my sinuses.
Still, no sign of Taylor.
I chewed the inside of my cheek and went back to my notebook, flipping past sketches of Spirit symbols and rough range diagrams. I'd started a new section labeled "Unexpected Problems That Could Kill Me Later"—a growing list, helpfully sorted by "Probably Magical" and "Definitely My Fault." Astral Drain was top of both.
Honestly, I thought I’d been doing her a favor.
She hadn’t thanked me.
Okay, fair. I might’ve also scared the living hell out of her, though I still wasn’t sure of the cause. Was it my face? My wings? The sword?
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More things to test. Add that to the list.
I sighed and looked up from the page. The students had shuffled back inside, the courtyard quiet except for a lonely leaf skittering across concrete. A couple of gulls flapped by overhead, one of them eyeing me like I was made of crumbs.
“No, I’m not food,” I muttered, and the bird squawked back like it disagreed.
Another check of the street below. No thing. Did she decide to skip the day altogether? If she did, it would be a wise move, given the chaos last night.
Still, was she okay? The bugs hadn’t reappeared. Her range might’ve snapped back to baseline. Or maybe she was suppressing it intentionally, scared of losing control again.
That thought nagged at me.
I hadn’t meant to hurt her. If I could just talk to her, get one clean conversation without insect bombardment, I could explain. “Hi, I’m Alfred, I accidentally turned you into the biblical end times. Let’s be friends.”
Flawless opener.
Except for the part where I had no idea how to even find her outside of school hours. I hadn’t memorized her address—huge oversight. Not like I could just walk into the front office and say, “Hi, I’m a concerned citizen with glowing chest crystals and several legally ambiguous swords. Can I get Taylor Hebert’s file?”
No, this had to be clean. Ethical. Respectful of privacy and canon.
I leaned back against the wall, closing my eyes for a second. The wind tugged at my hoodie, brushing sweat off my brow. I needed a plan that didn’t involve stalking teenagers or breaking the Unwritten Rules.
One more page in the notebook.
New Plan:
- Wait for dismissal
- Approach calmly in public
- Lead with apology
- Do not use the Dark Dragoon Spirit
- DO NOT use any of the Dragoon Spirits, seriously
- Offer answers, no pressure
I tapped the list with my pencil, underlined the last point twice.
The seagull came back.
Same ratty gray feathers, same one-legged hop, same expression of judgment as it pecked around the rooftop edge like it owned the place. I watched it, slumped against a rusted ventilation pipe, chewing the inside of my cheek and willing it to leave me some dignity.
It didn’t.
In the end, I tossed it a chunk of crushed protein bar wrapper. Empty, obviously, but the motion made me feel vaguely generous. That counted, right?
My stomach growled. Again. Loud enough to echo between rooftop ducts. I took that as a sign to refocus.
Notebook, page five. New heading:
"Ways This Could Still Be Salvaged"
I stared at the phrase for a solid minute, pen in hand, waiting for divine inspiration. What I got instead was the dull throb of exhaustion curling in behind my eyes like a migraine wearing wet socks.
Focus. Okay.
- Taylor probably didn’t tell anyone what happened. I mean, maybe. I hadn’t seen any black-ops squads repelling down from helicopters to drag me in for cape malpractice, so that was promising.
- Lung’s out of commission. That had to count for something. Even if he wasn’t dead (and wow, did he look it), he’d definitely be sitting out the next few gang wars. Probably with a hole in his resume and some awkward questions for HR.
- No casualties. I think. The PRT hadn’t launched a manhunt or declared a citywide emergency. At least not one I’d seen before I swore off public wi-fi like it was meth. That was something.
I tapped the pen against my lips again and crossed out “salvaged.” Replaced it with “less of a disaster.” More honest.
Still, I couldn’t stop replaying it.
The sword. The drain. That moment where I pushed the excess energy into Taylor because she looked like she was about to crumple into a trauma sandwich and I panicked.
That was it. That was the moment it all got away from me. I’d meant to help. I really, truly did. But instead of a quick heal and a grateful nod, I turned the entire city into a horror movie and got myself barbecued for the trouble.
And then—poof. Gone. Like a coward. No, not like. I was a coward. I didn’t even try to explain. Didn’t wave. Didn’t leave a note. Just bolted into the sky like I’d lit a bag of poop on her porch and heard the door unlock.
I buried my face in my hands.
“I’m so bad at this,” I muttered.
My voice bounced off the metal ducting and came back twice as pathetic.
I looked down at the sketch of the Spirits again. The Darkness module sat at the center of my diagram—unblinking, unknowable. What did it actually do? Was it fear aura? Psychological suppression? Emotional bleed?
I wrote, in all caps: TEST THIS SOMEWHERE SAFE, IDIOT.
And under that: Also, get real food before you hallucinate a boss fight that isn’t there.
I closed the notebook and laid back against the rooftop, arms folded behind my head. The sky was turning that pale afternoon color that meant time was running out if I wanted to catch Taylor before the school day ended.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’d approach her. Talk. Explain. Fix this.
Probably.
Maybe.
A seagull pooped six feet from my elbow.
Right. First: food.
Then: heroics.
Then: catastrophically awkward apology tour.
Maybe not in that order.
And that’s when I heard it.
A single, sharp word from behind.
“Freeze.”
…ah, crud.