The Daring Dragoon was folklore. A legend passed down through the generations of Palau Palau, and twisted by time, the Dragoon became a being of magic. Something inhuman. And yet, a beacon of hope that burned in the hearts of all who believed the tale, believed that there was such a being watching out for them, one who would come out from the shadows when their greatest time of need arrived to drive back the evils that would seek to take everything good and pure from those it touched.

When Napoleon's rule reached the island, they believed that time had come. The Daring Dragoon would come to free them from his rule.

And the Dragoon did come. He fought for them. He protected them. He undermined the governor at every turn. But he did not drive the evil back to whence it had come--France.

Still, hope did live on and, even as belief that their Daring Dragoon was nothing but an imitation grew, their faith in him remained strong.

Few remembered the true story.

The Walla Walla Bing Bang tribe had been the first the receive the prophecy, and they continued to await its fulfillment in secret, for the promised Daring Dragoon would drive back the coming Evil from the island.

Or else all that was Good would be tainted and warped, and the world would fall.

1803

The Daring Dragoon bounded through the recently bustling market, attempting to put distance between himself and his pursuers, only to spot another group of soldiers pushing through in front of him.

This was a trap. The realization had the Dragoon clenching his teeth, and darting towards the wall of stalls.

As the French troops closed in, he worked the setup to his advantage: leaping and ducking under the tables that had been abandoned by their sellers, and leaving the swords to gouge the wood and break the products as he struck back.

The Dragoon growled, ducking and deflecting the soldier's blade before kicking him away. It had been a while since Brogard came at him this hard. But now wasn't the time to wonder about what had pissed off the captain. It had been a while since Jack had been in a fight that actually pushed him. His heart was pounding and he beginning to grow short of breath. Which, he was sure, was exactly what Brogard wanted.

He kept moving. Only to be yanked backwards as someone got the bright idea to snag to his cape. He whirled, sword slashing. The hand released as the soldier cried out.

"Word of advice, you don't tug on the Dragoon's cape." Jack jumped sideways as another sword swung through the space he had just occupied. And the constant exchange of attempted blows, parrying and dodging, and moving to avoid being cornered began again.

He was really getting tired.

His back hit the wall of a stall, his head snapped to the other side but more soldiers were already filling the gap, and Jack took half a second to consider his options before raising his hands. Even with his sword gripped tightly, it gave an appearance of willing surrender. He let his chest heave with the gasping breaths he desperately felt he needed but hadn't allowed himself. The soldiers were cautious as they closed in, cutting off easy escape but keeping a weary distance. Now would be a good time for a witty comment but he wasn't feeling it. Instead, he pressed his empty hand against the wall above his head and waited until he could see Brogard coming.

It gave him time to regain with breath. He had done this before but it had been a while, and it was under very different circumstances.

Jack shot into motion, leaping and using the nearest soldier's chest as a springboard as he twisted himself upwards and backwards into a flip. He hit the roof. Felt it start to give under his weight, it was designed to block the sun and rain, not hold a full-grown man. But he wasn't there long enough for it to be an issue. The positioning of the stalls blocked the view of him as came down on the other side.

By the time the soldiers got around them, he was already gone.

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Jack, stripped of his Daring Dragoon disguise and returned to the simple cover of American attaché to Emilia Rothschild, made his way home. He could feel blood slipping down his leg, soaking into the hem of his pants. The wound was minor but, unless he wanted to use his mask, he was without something to bind it. He hadn't even noticed that he'd been cut during his little stunt until he was well away from the scene.

It stung, but he'd walked on worse. He'd done more than that on worse. Emilia had questioned him about the deep scar running down the back of his shin once. He'd managed to brush her off, it was from a lifetime ago.

He'd been a different person then.

He entered Emelia's home--his home for the past two years and who knew how many more--with the plan to head to the secret lab and patch himself up.

The plan was dashed when he found Emelia down there already, sitting quietly at her workbench. There was a letter clasped in her hands. Her head turned slightly at the sound of his approach, expression unusually blank.

"Everything okay, Em?"

"No." The word was clipped. "I've received a letter from my father."

A tinge of unease stirred in his gut. "Is he alright?" Jack had worked against her father during the war, and despite trying to undermine each other, they had developed a mutual respect. During the man's brief time on the island, they'd formed a sort of friendship. And, well, even without that, he'd hate to think of something bad happening to Em's old man.

"He is fine. However, he has sent his condolences."

Jack perched on the end of the table. Normally such a move would get him at least a slight glare of reprimand, but she was strangely unresponsive to it. "Who bit the big one?"

That got a hint of heat in her eyes, and it settled his nerves. Slightly. "You, so it seems."

Him? But that-- Oh. Jack swallowed. So much for calm nerves. He laughed, fighting the sick twisting of his stomach. "That's--That's a good one, Em."

She stared at him a moment before dropping her gaze to the letter. "Father claims to have identified your body himself. I do not believe he would stoop to such lows as a joke."

"No," he spoke the word softly. "But unless you're proposing I'm a dead--uh, man walking, in the most literal sense..."

"I don't know what I'm proposing, Jack." She offered him the letter without looking.

He took it, eyes scanning the page quickly, heart sinking with each word. Damnit. He closed his eyes. "He said the body was mutilated."

"And that he had your scar."

"Lots of people have scars." He resisted to urge to touch his face, to trace the one running along his chin. He had plenty, but that one had only seemed to grow more prominent with age, the others lining his face had faded to the point of only being visible when the sun hit them just right or someone came at him with a magnifying glass. He didn't know why anyone would but stranger things had happened to him. "It's a coincidence."

Emelia finally looked at him. "Consider that it's not, what if someone was impersonating you?"

"To do what?" His gaze flickered to the floor as he gave her the letter back, and he winced at the small drops of blood gathering near his foot. "I know I'm amazing, but I don't think anyone'd have much to gain from pretending to be me over in Jolly Old England. It's just a coincidence, Em."

She stared at him, and he stared back.

Blood continued to drip to the floor. He needed to tend to that. He'd been hoping to do so without Em knowing he'd gotten hurt but desperate times and all that. Jack hissed out a breath of annoyance and reached for his leg.

Emelia followed the movement and: "Oh, Jack! You're bleeding!" Distraction successful.

As she went to fetch the bandages, he sighed, eyes drifting back to the letter. Well, Jack, I hate to say it, but... I told you so.