The next morning found me strolling through Ranoa's backstreets with my hands in my pockets and an uncharacteristic smile tugging at my lips. Truth be told, I had precious little to smile about these days. My father was dead, and my own people—once so fiercely devoted to freedom—refused to take up their cause again. Yet George and his ragtag group had given me a spark of hope, or at least, the faint possibility of it. If the old heroes insisted on sleeping through oppression, maybe the next generation could rouse them all—or replace them entirely.

I stopped at a rickety stand and laid a few bills on a wooden table. Alki, the fishmonger behind it—someone I'd known since I was young—jumped at the sound. He was thin and wore his hair cropped short, just like his father before him.

"What do you want, Roderic?" he asked warily. He'd been at the bar yesterday, among the many who heard my call to rebellion.

I scoffed at his caution. "Bluetail salmon," I said, flicking a finger at the money. "As much as this'll get me."

Alki exhaled a tight breath and began packing fish into a paper bag. He didn't meet my gaze, and the set of his shoulders made it clear he wasn't entirely comfortable with my presence.

I watched him work, noticing just how many salmon my money could afford these days. The weight of the bag was considerable, but I hardly cared. A stray thought jumped to mind as Alki finished up.

"You know George, right? Terry's kid?" I asked, then kept talking without waiting for a response. "He and his little posse came by yesterday. Practically demanded I teach them how to fight."

Alki lifted an eyebrow, but he kept stuffing fish into the bag. He was never one for subtlety; I could see curiosity eating away at him.

"Train them, huh?" he mused. "How'd that go?"

I shrugged. "They were terrible. Couldn't throw a punch worth a thing. Hard to believe, considering Terry's a war hero."

Coins rattled as Alki counted my change. He tilted his head, clearly sharing my confusion. "Maybe the boy's just a bad student," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Then he cast me a sidelong look. "If Terry could train you, he could train anyone."

I felt my jaw tighten, but I let it slide—there was always that hint of jest in Alki's tone. It was familiar, a memory of a golden time. However, that time had passed, and the Alki I knew died years ago, when he didn't stand up at my call to arms. "Funny. But that's not the real problem."

Alki smirked and handed me my coins. "Oh?"

"He didn't know anything," I said flatly. "Not about the revolution, not about his father's role in it. Nothing. The boy was clueless."

Alki's brow creased. "That's ridiculous. Terry was a commander," he said, voice rising. "How could his own son know nothing about that?"

"Exactly." I scooped up my coins from the table and gathered the salmon. "We're sparring again this afternoon. Why don't you swing by, for old time's sake," I added, stepping away. Alki stood there looking torn between disbelief and the faint glimmer of old memories.

We'd once been close—almost brothers in our own little 'squadron' of kids back during the war. We'd trained relentlessly, convinced we'd be needed one day. Few of us ever got that chance, and fewer still made it through. Now, everyone was scattered, battered by the humdrum routine of daily labor, content to let old wounds fester in silence. Seeing them stand aside when the nobles sneered at us, day in and day out, felt like watching old friends betray everything we'd believed in.

All the while, I trudged on, refusing to let go of what we fought so hard for, even if I seemed to be the only one. Perhaps, with the right amount of prodding, some of them would remember who they used to be.

I spent the next hour collecting other staples: potatoes from Fanny, corn from Richter's little "Farmer's League," a bit of garlic. Everywhere I went, another reminder of how we'd been forced into these cramped side-streets, out of noble sight—and therefore out of noble mind. Our businesses and homes were forced into these alleys, away from noble eyes. Heaven forbid they catch a glimpse of us in the nicer parts of town.

I was unlocking my door, arms full of groceries, when I spotted Ludnica down the street, leaning against a building. That red hair of hers was too distinct to miss. She stood talking to a man I didn't recognize—some puffed-up dandy from the look of his satin shirt and polished boots.

"—think about it," he was saying, gesturing like a fool. "If you become my mistress, you'll never want for anything again. Not like this rabble." His voice practically dripped condescension.

My nails bit into my palms. Even after forcing us out of the main districts of the city, they still wanted more? I clenched a fist and strode forward, intending to put it through his arrogant face. But just as I lashed out, Ludnica dove between us, slamming into my side and yanking me back by the collar.

"Stop it, you fool!" she hissed.

The noble scurried back a few steps, stumbling over loose cobblestones. Panic widened his eyes, and he flailed, nearly toppling over. "Y—you dare?! I'm a noble!" he shrieked.

I just glowered, giving him all the silent contempt I had. He swallowed hard and staggered backward, clearly terrified I'd come at him again. His face contorted in wounded pride. "Think about my offer, Ludnica," he bit out, before spinning on his heel and stumbling away. I snorted at the sight.

Ludnica let go of me at last. I whirled on her. "Why did you stop me? You realize they'll keep coming, right? Nobles like him aren't going to leave us in peace. There'll be more—worse ones, too."

She just glared. Then, without a word, she stomped off.

Just like the rest of these fallen heroes, she did not respond. She did not fight back.

~oOo~

That afternoon, George's fist came at my temple just as Nate—the blond boy with the teardrop tattoo—lunged to grab me from behind. Despite their poor form, I had to give them credit for attacking in tandem. I jumped up, drove a fist into George's face, and at the same time slammed my foot back into Nate's chin. Both of them crumpled onto the packed dirt.

I rolled to my feet, expecting Horace and Ray—the other two from George's gang—to charge. Instead, they stood frozen, staring like they couldn't believe what they'd just witnessed.

Horace gaped at Jay. "Pinch me," he muttered. "No way that really happened."

Jay just copied the motion I'd done, swinging a phantom punch through the air, kicking his opposite leg behind him and losing his balance. It was laughable enough that I almost felt sorry for them.

"You're going a bit hard on them, aren't you, Roderic?" someone called, a voice I hadn't heard in a while. The teasing lilt, however, was unmistakable.

I turned to see Alki approaching with another familiar face beside him—Carlos, leaning back with his hands folded behind his head. If Alki was my old friend, Carlos was a step up from that. He was the one person whose skill came close to my own when we were children.

"You're the last person I expected to see," I remarked. Then I caught sight of George staggering to his feet, wobbling but game for another round. His friend, Nate, tried to raise his fists again, though his stance was all over the place.

"Who are those guys?" Jay asked, casting a sideways glance at Alki and Carlos.

I scoffed. "Focus on yourself first, unless you enjoy tasting dirt." I shot forward, hands loose and ready. In a panic, Jay tried to get into a guard, but fear and adrenaline made him clumsy. He threw a pre-emptive kick, but it was pitiful; I caught his ankle easily. He managed to shield his chin from my follow-up punch, but his block was weak, and all of his weight was on one leg. I swept his standing leg in a single fluid motion. Before I could introduce him to the helpless feeling of being grounded by a superior opponent, an arm flashed around my neck.

A rear choke. Skilled, too, but only slightly. Carlos, obviously. My instincts flared, and I slid a hand beneath his elbow, gripping tight and leveraging his weight forward, throwing him just before he could lock it. He gasped as I flipped him clean over my shoulder, sending him crashing into Jay. They went down in a pile of limbs, then Carlos rolled away, dragging the kid up with him in a fluid motion.

I couldn't help but grin. So the old dog still had a few tricks. George and the others scrambled upright, evidently not ready to give up.

"The audacity," I said softly, letting my words ring across the makeshift arena. "But I like the spirit."

Carlos shook his head, bracing himself. "You sure haven't lost a step," he replied, still rubbing his bruised side. I crooked a finger at him, inviting him in.

"Rusty?" I taunted. "Let's see if you remember how to move that lazy carcass, Carlos."

He laughed, and we squared up. His stance just as I remembered—higher guard, watchful eyes, quick on his feet. I shifted my weight onto my back leg, half-smiling as we carefully approached each other.

It was not new to me, this particular match-up. We'd been captain and vice-captain of our old childhood squadron, and fighting each other had always been the best way to sharpen our blades.

One step out of my reach, Carlos dashed. A smooth, beautiful maneuver, a kick off of his back foot with his front foot onto his front, a clean transfer of weight traveling all the way up his body. His jab came in fast and strong. I slapped it aside, stepping inside his range to deliver a straight to his chest. He blocked it with his elbow and snapped up a knee aimed at my ribs.

I met his knee with my own. He was the one who jolted back in pain, and I punished his weakness with impunity.

I stepped in between his two feet. Even on the backfoot his foot placement was solid. He tried to catch me off guard with a vicious downward elbow onto my shoulder, but it was too slow to reach me. I hammered my leading elbow into his liver. Air burst from his lungs, and he went down, left reeling, and gasping for breath on the ground.

"A quick bout," I commented. However, it was elegant and clean. I liked it. I walked over to the struggling long haired brunette, and hoisted him to his feet. Carlos clutched his side, glaring half-heartedly. I smirked in return.

Alki, who'd been watching with his arms crossed, whistled low. "Haven't slacked off a bit, have ya?"

I huffed a breath. My eyebrows narrowed and the corners of my lips tugged down, I locked eyes with him. "You should know as well as I do that we can't afford to slack off."

He glanced off to the side. Coincidentally, they landed on George and his group. They thought they were subtle as they turned away, pretending not to listen in. Well, except for George himself, whose determined gaze weighed heavy on me.

For a moment, the clearing stewed in silence, if you could ignore the groaning Carlos. Alki sighed and said, "Maybe you're right." Then, with a faint, almost self-deprecating smile, he spread his feet and raised his hands, ready to fight. "Let's see if I've still got it."

As he approached, and I sunk back into my stance, I felt a funny feeling bubbling up from within. For so long, it was as if I'd been bashing flint against metal, hoping a spark would finally catch. Watching Alki and Carlos—and those fearless kids—come together for this makeshift training session, it was like seeing embers begin to glow.

For the first time in recent memory, the spark had caught on to something.

I would be damned if I did not fan this spark into a raging wildfire.

Alki lunged, and I met him halfway. The grin that bubbled onto my face could cut a diamond.

~oOo~

This was not actually how this chapter was meant to go in my mind.

The plan I had was to have George about to be executed in the street, Roderic would see this, step in, try to fan the flames of revolution, and fail, deciding that going at it alone would be the only option.

It would fail, he would fail, he would abandon the island, yada yada.

Now it seems like we have a plot on our hands, instead.

Like I mentioned in the last author's note, I will post at least 2 chapters a week from now on.

Feel free to leave a review. Negative or positive, I don't mind.