~Immediately after the battle~
The bay swallowed me for the second time in as many days, and I let it.
Salt stung the cuts on my face; cold numbed everything the Red Spirit’s heat hadn’t scorched raw. I kicked down until the world went dark and pressure ached behind my eyes. Only then did I force myself to focus: switch—Blue-Sea.
The red plates peeled away like scabs and sleek cobalt grew over them, cooler, smoother, and purposeful.
A long exhale bubbled past my lips. I angled east, following a murky ribbon of silt. The Blue-Sea Dragoon Spirit made the water clear and bright, making the journey toward deeper waters easier.
With a flex, my wings propelled me forward at high speed, leaving Brockton Bay behind.
Minutes later, my fingers grazed sand. I staggered up a rock shelf into air that smelled of kelp and rust. Moonlight revealed a battered sign half buried in dunes: “Carron Cove. Keep Our Beaches Clean!”
The lettering was cracked, the exclamation point twisted like it had tried to flee the slogan. Ahead, a husk of a boardwalk tilted seaward, and beyond it sat a scatter of sagging rooftops. Not a single window lit. Perfect.
I slogged across damp planks that squelched under armored boots. Every footstep reminded me I was still wearing dragon skin. The borrowed and probably dangerous dragon skin.
I whispered a ‘thank you’ to Blue for staying calm, more as a reflex than anything. That’s why it surprised me when the Spirit answered with a faint pulse, neither friendly nor hostile, acknowledging my choice, maybe.
At least this one waited to be asked.
The first shop I found had collapsed inward, signage unreadable. I pushed through warped boards, half expecting alarms or squatters. Nothing, only dusty air and the hush of tide beneath floorboards. Moonlight poured through a hole in the roof, silvering broken glass. I eased the door shut behind me, braced a chair against it, then finally, finally let my muscles unwind.
My legs folded. I sat amid sea-rotted shelves and tried to keep my breathing steady. Images battered me anyway.
Violet lightning arcing over a rooftop.
Lady Photon’s shield cracking like ice.
Armsmaster’s blade hissing red.
My own hand releasing that fire.
Splinters of memory drilled deeper each time I blinked.
How had everything spun that far out of control? I’d chosen Red because fire felt simpler, but the longer I wore it, the louder its anger grew.
The Violet Spirit had been worse, leaping out before I even thought. One Spirit acting on its own was bad enough. What if the others started making decisions for me?
My stomach knotted.
I tried to tally casualties but had no numbers, only flashes. Heroes dropping like flies, alarms wailing in practically all directions, windows shattering and causing who knows how much damage.
Were they alive? Injured? The bay had echoed with too many cries to sort out. I pressed gloved fingers to my temples.
Stop. Think.
I’m not getting any answers right now. Too much is unknown and I’ve done enough damage by acting without the right information. I’d learn more at dawn. If I lived to even see the dawn.
I peeled off the headgear. Cold air slapped sweat-soaked hair to my forehead. I expected the Blue Spirit to retract automatically, but the armor stayed. Quiet but vigilant, like a tidal pool waiting for the moon.
I remembered the way Violet had overridden me, forcing its roar through my bones, and a tremor ran up my spine.
“I let that happen,” I whispered, voice rasping.
If I’d kept my head. If I’d switched to Dark right after and fled, maybe no one else would’ve been hurt. Instead, I’d escalated. It wasn’t all me. There was Red’s anger, Violet’s hunger, but what did that matter? I’d opened the door. Me.
A plank creaked overhead and I froze, heart hammering. Just the wind? It groaned again, longer, almost like breathing. Probably the building settling. Still, my pulse wouldn’t slow. Armor or not, I was alone in a skeleton town hours from help, probably already on every hero’s most-wanted list.
Rain started as a fine mist, worming through roof holes. Water spotted the dusty floor and steamed off my pauldrons. The sea calling her child home. I almost laughed.
A dragoon spirit that loved the ocean, go figure.
Focus. Shelter. I limped deeper, found a back room where half the ceiling still clung. A toppled vending machine leaned against the wall, solid enough to hide behind. I wedged myself between it and a stack of soggy boxes, cradling knees to chest. Armor scraped concrete; aches flared where plasma had kissed me.
Red burns under blue plates. Oh, the irony.
Night stretched. I counted heartbeats, tried to catalogue what I did understand:
- Only Violet has acted on its own. At least, so far.
- Red amplifies aggression but waits for permission. Or, maybe loosening the chains?
- Blue follows orders when chosen. But, it could have issues I don’t know about.
- Unknowns: Dark did something to Taylor. Not sure what the hell the rest I hadn’t used yet would do.
Fuck!
Five mysteries, each big enough to drown me if I guessed wrong.
My “meta-knowledge” felt like tissue paper now. Dragoon Spirits weren’t button prompts, not anymore. They were wills made manifest. Maybe wounded wills. Could they feel my fear? Did they only obey masters strong enough to tame them?
If so, what did that make me? A half-hearted thief wearing eight angry crowns?
A shiver cut through me so hard I clamped my teeth to keep them quiet. Fire would’ve been nice, but lighting a campfire with Red risked calling search teams like moths.
I hugged myself tighter, brow resting on cobalt vambraces. Blue’s calm tried to seep upward, soothing. I let it, pictured tide pools filling and draining, moon pulling waves in gentle rhythms.
In, out. In, out.
My thoughts drifted back to Taylor. Her trembling form, backing away as far as she could. Did Dark do that? I knew it could induce fear, but that was tied to one of its abilities. An ability I sure as hell didn’t use!
So, how the fuck did it happen?!
I moaned into my hands in frustration.
I need to apologize. I need to make this right, somehow.
But that’s going to be tricky. I couldn’t even step into Brockton without sirens after what happened today.
And what apology covers “Sorry I hijacked your nervous system”?
Another roof drip splattered my shoulder. Dawn would come, but it wouldn’t matter now.
I’d still be a walking war crime.
Yet I couldn’t abandon this world. I’d set it on fire. I had to stay and put it right… if the Spirits even let me.
A final wave of exhaustion crashed over me. My eyelids sagged, mind swimming between waking and dreams. In the border haze, I thought I felt a presence. Eight dim heartbeats around my own. Not menacing, not friendly. Just there. Watching.
“I’m listening now,” I whispered. Half promise, half plea.
No reply came, but Blue’s steady pulse slowed to match my breathing, and for a moment the wind outside lulled like a lullaby.
I didn’t sleep. Not exactly. But I drifted in shallow water just shy of dreams, ready to snap awake if Red growled or Violet stirred.
Somewhere beyond the decaying ruins, Brockton Bay burned and heroes licked their wounds. And Taylor, wherever she hid, remembered a monster with glowing wings.
Morning would demand answers. Tonight, I had none, only fear, regret, and eight murmuring dragons I had to understand before they burned anyone else.
-----
Morning crawls in on a strip of grey cloud, and I greet it like an apology I’m not ready to accept. The air inside the abandoned store smells of mildew, but outside it’s clear and salt‐sharp, so I slip through the broken doorway and breathe deep.
My body aches where Dauntless’s spear clipped me, where Lady Photon’s lasers welted my shoulders, where Armsmaster’s blade scraped my ribs. But hunger is louder today.
Hunger and thirst.
The Blue-Sea Spirit hums against my sternum, alert but unthreatening, like a tidepool waiting for the moon.
“Breakfast first,” I mutter, because talking keeps the fear from echoing too loudly.
The dunes are empty except for wind‐etched gull tracks. Carron Cove’s boardwalk groans behind me, every plank whining at my footsteps. At the waterline, the surf curls in lazy sheets. I wade calf‐deep, testing the Spirit’s range.
Slivers of sapphire light ripple across the waves, as if Blue is painting currents only my eyes can see: shoals of fish flicker like silver commas, kelp ribbons sway slow as dream dancers.
I crouch and let gauntleted fingers pierce the surface. The water parts around my hand as though the Spirit is smoothing friction away. I concentrate on a cluster of sardine-sized fish swirling twenty meters out. I don’t know if Blue can actually command them, but the moment I focus, the school pivots toward me in a tight helix.
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Was it due to instinct or my will? Hard to tell.
Either way, they spin closer. At the edge of my reach, I thrust one arm like a spear and Blue hardens the gauntlet into an arrowhead. I rake upward. When I retract, three fish flop against metal palms.
“Sorry,” I whisper, because guilt tastes weaker than starvation.
I carve fillets on a splintered railing using sharpened water blades (because those were apparently a thing), rinse them in brine, then glance inland. No firewood, no Red Spirit, no cooking.
Fine. Sashimi breakfast it is.
The raw flesh slips down easier than expected. The armor vents a gentle warmth that keeps me from shivering.
Water next. I kneel where waves lap the sand.
“All right, Blue. Let’s see if you can pull the salt out.”
I cup seawater, raise it to my lips. Mid-sip, the taste changes. Brackish sting flattening to something like river water. It’s not perfectly fresh, but it’s drinkable. I down two palmfuls, stopping only when my stomach cramps.
Sated for now, I hike back up the beach to a half-collapsed lifeguard tower. From its platform, I can see the whole ruined town and the hazy smudge of Brockton Bay on the horizon.
Smoke still crawls from the docks. Helicopters buzz like flies around a wound. Even here, miles away, the world feels smaller. I sit on rotting wood and hug my knees, Blue plates clinking.
Time to think.
What I know so far:
- Violet acts first, asks never.
- Red obeys but pushes.
- Blue obeys and soothes.
- Dark… I flinch remembering Taylor’s terror.
I rub the Blue crystal.
“Why are you the quiet one?”
A pulse of cool affirmation answers. Does Blue crave anything? Maybe tranquility. I can give it that.
A gull circles overhead, screeching. For a second, I expect an aura surge, some instinct to hunt the annoying buzzards, but Blue stays calm. Good. If each Spirit’s nature shapes me, maybe I can shape them back?
That means testing one at a time. I can do that. I have to.
I step off the platform and walk down the main street. Rusted cars sit on flat tires. Storefront glass crunches underfoot. Each door I nudge swings wide; nothing but warped displays and dust. Looters cleared the town years ago.
Fine. I don’t need supplies as much as information.
I find a cracked asphalt lot where weeds poke through tar like green knives. Good practice ground. I roll my shoulders and breathe.
“All right, Blue. Show me your limits.”
I spread my arms. Liquid sigils ripple across my vambraces. I picture pushing water the way Red pushes fire. A wide arc, harmless but tangible. A jet of shimmering spray snaps from my palm, carving a trench in the weeds. The blast lasts three seconds before ebbing. I don’t feel drained, just damp.
I try again, sharper, imagining a high-pressure scalpel.
This time, the stream slices clean through a cinder block and hisses into dust. Blue’s hum rises, a gentle song, not the furious drum of Red. Control feels... easy. Relief loosens my chest. Maybe not every Spirit wants slaughter. But the relief curdles fast.
If Blue cooperates, why didn’t I start here?
The answers came easily.
Because I wanted to beat Lung quickly. I stacked the deck and chose the easy path. Never thinking for a moment that there could be unintended side-effects from using a Dragoon Spirit – any Dragoon Spirit.
At the time, I thought it only made sense. And look where that got me.
As for the rest?
Because combat forced my hand. I let crisis steer which dragon spoke, always reacting and making the wrong choices. And if another crisis hits?
Will Jade or Gold decide my worth mid-fight? Will White-Silver judge me unkind? Will Divine just laugh and refuse?
My knees buckle and I catch myself on the cracked pavement.
My breath rattles, vision tunnelling to that rooftop again. Shadow Stalker convulsing, electricity dancing across her suit. That wasn’t Blue. That was Violet, eager to kill. And I let it ride me.
I slap my own cheek. Focus. New spiral: What do I not know?
- How long can one Spirit stay active before fatigue sets in?
- Can I suppress an auto-transformation if another Spirit tries to hijack me?
- Do the dormant Spirits hear my thoughts? Are they judging? Plotting?
I pace, mumbling questions to the empty street. Blue whispers calm but offers no answers.
A distant siren wails across the sea. Maybe a coast-guard cutter patrolling the wreck zone. My pulse spikes. Blue’s glow dims, as if shrinking from the sound.
Instinctively, I think Red could blast them if they found me. A flicker of heat ignites in my core. I shove the thought down.
“No,” I hiss. “I’m not calling you.”
The heat subsides, but the fact that it answered at all chills me.
I hike back toward my makeshift shelter, fishing a hand into abandoned mailboxes for anything useful. No food, but I find a cracked mirror shard. I hold it up. Blue eyes stare back.
Who am I kidding, walking around with eight warlords on a chain? I used to like power-fantasy fics where SI readers speed-run the plot. Now I’m living proof that speed-running destroys the level design and could lead to catastrophic results.
At the storefront, I snap the chair aside and duck in. Rain patters through the roof hole, splashing the floor where I’d sprawled last night. I sit cross-legged and lay the mirror in front of me.
“All right, Blue. I’m listening. What do you want?”
The crystal vibrates faintly, steady and tidal like a calm sea. Peace, maybe. Then an intrusive memory: kelp forests, light filtering in columns, dragon eyes watching schools of fish. Not hunger, but curiosity.
“I can work with that,” I murmur.
If each Spirit has a mood, I’ll learn to speak it. Blue is inquiry, that was enough to deduce. Red passion, which isn’t really a surprise. Violet’s domain seems to be wrath, causing me no small amount of discomfort. And finally, Dark is fear.
Maybe Jade will be duty. Gold, pride. White-Silver, mercy.
Divine… well, let’s not summon the final boss until I’m ready.
Of course, these are untested theories. More like thought experiments than facts. Even so, they’re a good enough starting point.
Thunder growls then, signalling yet another shower to come.
I pull two overturned crates into a rough bench and think of tomorrow. I’ll keep exploring town, test my range and stamina with Blue in the open sea. Salvage dry wood for a small fire. Only after dark and once I know I’m hidden from air patrols.
Step by step. No more heroic speed-runs.
Wind whistles through the cracked window.
I sip another mouthful of mildly brackish but drinkable water and let Blue’s calm settle deeper. For the first time since the rooftop, I feel something close to steady. I’m still a monster in the headlines, but maybe I can become a scientist in the margins.
Night creeps again.
I rest my head against a crate, armor cool and reassuring, and whisper to the silent street.
“Tomorrow, we learn.”
-----
The third night drapes Carron Cove in pewter fog, and the town looks more a corpse than a ruin. Rotting boardwalks, sagging roofs, one crooked streetlamp frozen mid-lean.
My breath ghosts the air. Blue’s armor won’t let me feel cold, but it doesn’t warm me either. The crystals under my skin keep their own counsel, eight heartbeats drumming out of sync. Thin cotton stretches over them; each beat flashes faint color through the fabric like bioluminescent bruises.
Food and water are handled. Blue sees to that. A filtered jug sits by the diner counter, half full, tasting almost fresh. Fish strips dry on a clothesline of ethernet cables. Not ideal, but I’m not complaining either.
I settle into my usual booth, hinge creaking.
On the table was a chipped saucer and three seashells, makeshift markers for tonight’s lesson. I close my eyes and breathe.
First heartbeat: Blue is steady, gentle.
Our rapport feels natural now. Focus on hydration and it siphons salt from seawater. Focus on speed and it’s a torpedo. Blue’s whispers are curiosity, nothing sharper.
Second pulse: Red is hot, impatient.
Two days of practice taught me boundaries. I picture a campfire and Red flares, but it stays contained. Picture an inferno and the urge to turn the world into cinders climbs my throat like bile. I back off and let Blue’s cool tide wash the ember. Red obeys, as long as I set the line first.
Third thrum: Dark is slow thunder.
I let its cloak unfurl to arm’s length. Air chills, hair on my neck prickles. Gulls screech outside, stirred by something they can’t see. I whisper enough and the dread folds tight again. A sign of improving control. Not mastery, but that will come with time.
Fourth heartbeat: Violet is silent until provoked.
No combat stimuli here, so it sleeps. Better that way. Every time my pulse spikes, I feel it twitch, hungry for violence.
The remaining four? Still stone-quiet. Gold, Jade, White-Silver, and Divine do nothing but sit in my chest, crystals shining through my skin. I suspect they require demonstration. Strength, honor, compassion, worth.
Those tests can wait.
I open my eyes to the empty diner. Rain taps the roof like someone drumming a warning. I drag a fingertip across the table, drawing lines in the dust: Carron Cove’s main strip, the cliff road, and Brockton Bay’s jagged skyline. My next steps.
Recon first.
I need information untouched by panic or PHO hyperbole. List of injuries, PRT patrol patterns, but most importantly, Coil’s latest moves.
Fanfics painted Coil as a spider with timelines for legs. If that’s half true, he’s already charted my flame signature. I have to assume he’s watching.
A glow under my collarbone brightens, Red responding to the thought of a mastermind adversary.
“Easy,” I mutter.
The glow dims. Blue answers with a pulse of calm.
Coil. He’s supposed to be a schemer and a monster. So, I need to plan accordingly: never meet him alone, never let him see the full Spirit set, never sign away leverage.
Taylor. Having the Dread Cloak/Aura under control means I can risk approaching… eventually.
She’s terrified. She deserves distance, a proper apology, and proof I can stand near her without overriding her nervous system. That means more Dark practice in isolation. One meter radius, then half a meter. Until I can hug someone without inducing fight-or-flight.
I rub the Violet crystal and it pulses faintly.
“Not your kind of hug,” I tell it. No response.
Midnight creeps past. I grab a dried fish strip and do my best not to gag. Not the tastiest fare, but better than nothing. While I gnaw, I review the day’s Spirit drills:
- Blue stamina test: Four hours underwater, no fatigue.
- Red precision test: Flame-cut a beer can in half – success at 20 percent output.
- Dark radius test: Shrank the cloak to fist radius before the dread tried to bite back. That’s the current limit. The actual range of effect is still hard to measure, though.
Tomorrow, I’ll go inland scouting.
I’ll use Blue for the swim north. Once there, it's just plain clothes and keeping my head down. Maybe salvage a radio and scan PRT channels. Avoid scanners, avoid hero patrols. If Coil’s mercs show, it’s back in the water with Blue...again.
The diner windows rattle, wind gusts off the sea. I rise and crack my joints. The crystals shimmer a brief aurora beneath the shirt, then they settle.
Lightning flashes far out to sea, painting clouds magnesium-white. An echo of Red snarls for storm-fire. I quell it with steady breaths. Blue hums in appreciation while Dark recedes. Balance by inches.
I move to the door and peer across the parking lot. Rain sheeted the cracked asphalt, pooling around my supply buckets. I step outside, shifting into my armor quietly to repel water, and tilt my face to the sky. Droplets hiss on Blue’s plates, then slide off like quicksilver. I feel strangely clean.
I walk to the cliff’s edge, sand gritting under my boots. From here, I can see Brockton Bay’s distant glow guttering behind the curve of the headland.
Somewhere in that broken skyline, Amy Dallon is overextending herself in Mercy General, Panacea-mode.
Somewhere, Danny Hebert paces, waiting for his daughter to come home.
Somewhere, Lisa is trapped under Coil’s thumb.
All pawns of a story I pretended to know.
Not anymore. New plan: collect facts first, act second, powers last. If the silent Spirits demand proof, I’ll choose my test on my terms, not theirs.
Rain slackens. I turn back toward the diner. Blue’s calm beats steadily. Red thrums softer, like it, too, understands patience. Dark broods but obeys. Violet? No sign. Good.
Inside, I wring rain from my shirt, the glowing nodes beneath my skin fade to dull sparks. I settle on the booth seat, legs folded, palms up, and breathe in rhythm with the tide.
Tomorrow, I’ll swim the north headland and scout the highway. The day after? Locate a working radio. After that? Maybe leave a note where Taylor will find it. Someplace safe, neutral, and dread-free.
One step at a time.
I close my eyes. Rain drips through the roof in a slow metronome. For the first time since the fight, I feel something like direction. Not safety nor redemption. Just a vector.
I’m still a disaster in the making. But I’m learning.
With that thought curling warm inside my chest, I let the night edge toward dawn. No dreams. Just tidal breathing, eight heartbeats, and a fragile, necessary plan.