Chapter One: Persuasion

Andre grinned. In the way that beasts do when they try to imitate humans.

Tonight the dragon was feeling delightfully cruel. And as it often followed, the blonde-haired boy who was sitting in his office would be spared no ounce of the usual torment.

"Let's find out if you're getting paid this year—" There was a pause in the dimly lit room. The boy leaned forward causing his chair to creak with indignation.

"Let's find out if your tongue would cover my salary,"  he returned coldly.

"Caah," scoffed Andre. "You're too noble-nancied for that sort of market." He spat into a dusty clay pot at the corner of his work desk.

"And you're too filthy to fetch a decent price," the boy doubled down, regaining an air of grace. Two beings sitting across from each other. Sitting in a room no bigger than a cow pen. Two eyes scorning each other through the orange smolder of an oil lamp. Petra hadn't come to his employer's office in the dead of night to be reminded that the world was full of Dragons. Some good, some bad—some who put naive children to work in order to take full advantage of their circumstances.

"Shall we get started? Unless of course you believe you have something better to be doing."

"Resting after an eleven hour patrol?" Andre took a sip of something murky from his over-sized flagon.

"Mmm, yes, well, it's a good thing I saved you from such an—" his lips curled— "uneventful evening." Petra sunk back in his chair. In no time at all the fight in him had died away.

"Just tell me what I'm doing wrong then."

"Wrong? The contrary, Mr. Vingarde. You're doing such a superlative job that I've called you in for a special proposition."

"One that couldn't have waited until morning?" Andre said nothing as he pulled out a book from his shelf. A faint smile lingered on his dry lips as he began flipping through the pages. "Your silence tells me it's something illegal." The dragon's eyes shifted to meet Petra's.

"Nothing out of the ordinary, for you."

There it was.

The snide remark that would force Petra to recount the bitter irony of his past and present life. He had seen it coming, of course. It was only a matter of waiting for Andre to reveal what dreadful task he would exploit Petra with next.

"Brass Hellsing, Crimson Crowne, Inglebert Mason—or Ironsnout Mason as he insists to be called," Andre traced his claw over a section in the book titled: Priority Targets.  "You're acquainted with our resident 'terrorist clowns' are you not, Vingarde?" Petra folded his arms.

"The Mortal Masons? Yeah, we've crossed paths a time or two."

"Then I trust you've witnessed their crimes first-hand?" Petra thought back to the prior month when he had caught Mason scribbling rude gestures on the governor's horse. And another time when Brass had illegally used his fire breath to warm up a turkey leg.

"They get up to their daily antics, but I don't think it's anything to scuff a scale over."

"Don't play me for the fool, boy. You may have acquired a soft spot for the miscreants, but public report is far more damning. Dracians have been voicing their complaints for years now over the band's criminal mischief, and with the construction of the town's new jailhouse finally wrapping up, the time for action is now." Petra gave his tussle of golden hair a shake as if he feared sitting motionless too long might cause the dust to turn his locks the color of Andre's skin.  It was a shame that Andre didn't know what he knew:

—That the timing of the new jail and the sudden blubbering over public safety was no coincidence,

—That the dracians of Cresswoven were in reality, far too lazy to take up civil complaints with town officials,

—That a string of gambling debts was the real motivator in all this.

All these gutterings were acquired from the guttering capitol of the world, the Red Kettle Tavern. And between every passed plate and polished glass, Petra grew more enlightened to the corruption that Andre couldn't help from stewing in. Petra had heard it himself amidst the drunken howling of Mr. Hellsing and Mr. Crowne.

Andre was on a deadly Poker losing streak, and Mason intended to soon collect that debt in, as they'd put it: "the most violent ways imaginable."

"See here, Petra," Andre piped up. "Surely you must understand your obligation to protect this town, rummy-shacked as it may be."

"Ramshackled, sir." Andre grimaced and rested his chin on one paw.

"You know I love you, boy."

Petra was growing tired of this game. The dragon loved being a nuisance, that much was true.

"Tell you what—" he tapped a clawed finger upon a mess of grimy documents he hadn't bothered to read. "Just bring me the sorry hide of even just one of the, err—Mortal Masons, and maybe I can put a little pressure on the Kettle to increase your wages."

"Tempting, sir, very tempting." In disinterest, he traced a smiley face onto the dusty chair arm. "Too bad its illegal." Andre's tail thrashed.

"Bletchny, boy! What do you me—"

"Article 295: Detain only."

"What!"

"Ah, how strange—can you imagine, someone in this town actually knowing how to do their job? Uncanny! Next you'll have me believe that dragons can fly too!" Petra snapped his finger and pointed to Andre's shelf before the dragon had a chance to react. "Could you please pass me that green book on the top shelf?" Andre made the guttural noise in his throat that dragons used to express agitation. He pawed the book out and tossed it at Petra, who managed to locate the relevant page in just a few breaths.

"Right here: 'Human officers of patrol may at any time operate under a "DETAIN ONLY" protocol. At the point of detainment, a Whiteflame Enforcer must be summoned to proceed with the transportation of the detainee to a local designated holding cell.'"

Andre wrinkled his nose.

"Look sir, I was put in this position to serve Cresswoven with all due integrity. I may have started off on the wrong foot, but I've grown up now. I'm not here to fight one crime with another." Andre's tail had stopped moving, but the tip continued to quiver as he tried to restrain his temper. He wasn't getting his way.

"Then it's simple," he said through clenched teeth. Detain them until the Whiteflame arrives. Allow the Whiteflame to escort them to their cell. Receive a generous," he raised his right brow, "and desperately needed reward." Dragons were so good at hitting you where it hurt.

"Nothing’s ever so simple, boss." Petra pressed his clasped hands to his bottom lip in contemplation. The dragon had begun to drone on about "gratitude" and "duty." Of course Andre needed someone like him to take out the trash. The ratty old Drake couldn't win a fight with a bubblebath, much less a back-alley brawler like Ironsnout Mason. Little did Andre know, the Mortal Masons actually respected Petra. Not another soul in Cresswoven had achieved such a title. Not that he had consented to it. Or was particularly thrilled with the power of having the town delinquents as members of his fan club.

But on thankless nights like tonight when sleeplessness and hunger mingled with the hot breath of his tormentor, the temptation tugged at his conscience—if he really wanted to, he could put an end to this all. And walk the long road home eating an ice cream cone.

"Are you listening to me you ungrateful little fleshling?" Petra's eyes shifted back to the unsightly dragon across from him. He wasn't listening. He was thinking about ice cream cones. And whether or not the change in his pocket would be enough for one. Andre opened his mouth to hiss another string of profanities from across his desk, but was quickly silenced when Petra stood up.

"Where the bleeding bletchny do you think you're going?"

"Out."

Andre bristled. "Out where?"

Petra finished counting the coins in his hand and agrievedly shuffled them back into his pocket.

"Out of this room cause it's skivving hot in here."

"You're not going anywhere until you hand me last week's patrol records!" the dragon snarled. Petra blinked in disbelief. "You're kidding me. I dropped those off this morning. They’ve been on your desk the whole time!"

Andre glared at him. He turned to squint at the disheveled papers crying for air under his giant reptilian paws. He inhaled and gave a long puff to clear the layer of soot that was resting upon them. For a moment, he looked relieved when the paperwork all but seemed to appear before his eyes. Regrettably for the both of them, the cloud of soot rose and waft through the air, circling its way back into the nose of whom had disturbed it.

Andre sneezed.

The rest was history.

Petra stood at the door watching one sleepless night of work and a balsa wood desk kindle in a steady flame. He said nothing as he slipped his way outside.

The night air was cool and peaceful, aside from the echos of Andre's cursings as they faded behind him with each step. When he had reached the warm, familiar awning of Crumpettail's Bakery, he purchased a blackberry bun and left it behind the door of Andre's office building. He could hear the dragon inside shuffling around and sulking to himself about his many misfortunes. Petra's own anger had already dissipated. He wouldn't have dared brought it with him into the little brick, bun-hovel where Lucy Crumpettail stood over her oven, lovingly filling her pies with a "frilly" sort of teenage passion. Passion that tasted like none of the ingredients that dragons found to be palatable. Generous helpings of sugar or nutmeg—perhaps a drop of snot from a recent breakup. Her father, Tom, didn't protest to his daughter's earnestness to please human customers. He did tell her to blow her nose. Next he would tell the drake that broke her heart to shove a morningstar up his "Great Red" hind parts.

"You know about these things, Vingarde. Right?" Tom had once asked him. Behind the counter, Petra stood polishing a glass from some customer's sixth or seventh shot of swamp-colored whiskey.

"Can't say I do, brother."

"You're a celebrity aren't you?"

"The knitting club down the road seems to think so."

"Ohh I'm talking about the youth, son! What's going on with it? I can't make a spit of sense of Lucy anymore." Petra withheld a smile of pittied amusement.

"Well, humans have become trendy these days, Tom. I guess, maybe more than usual." He kept his eyes downcast on the glass he was polishing.

"But Lucy—it must be a phase," the dragon reasoned with himself. "She says she's given up altogether on marrying a drake. Know what she told me?" He put on his best daughter voice. "'I'd rather live alone in a toolshed, reading books about fairy tale princes before I waste my life on another idiot drake!'" Tom put his large head down on the counter and covered his brow with his paws. "Where did I go wrong," he moaned. Petra slung his drying cloth over his shoulder and eased himself down on folded arms.

"You're doing fine, Tom. You're probably the most reasonable father I know. Maybe when Lucy's older she'll realize that human guys have their own issues. Tom blushed, which Petra was not aware that dragons could do.

"You're a good kid, Vingarde."

From around the corner, a woman wearing a button-down uniform, that resembled Petra's own, approached with a serving tray. The dragon's sulky face brightened as the waitress unloaded two large plates piled high with steak. "One Mountain Meal  with a side of Kettle Crackles," announced Petra's co-worker dryly. She reached a hand into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a little flag on a toothpick. Sticking it into the very top of the meat pile, she begrudgingly slid it down the counter to the salivating customer. Tom smiled at the tiny green and gold replica of their own country's Parparrean flag.

"How cute! Shame they didn't have such nice toys when I was a kindling." Petra wondered to himself if Tom had intentionally ordered from the kid's menu. "If you're done polishing off those glasses, Petra, you should polish off a steak or two with me." Petra's heart felt warm. He couldn't accept Tom's offer. But regardless of his stubbornness, he knew the beefy blue dragon would have Lucy bake the leftovers into a meat pie for Petra's breakfast the next morning.

Dragons.

Good dragons.

Souls that made Andre's insufferable scheming worth putting up with. Petra shook his head to push aside his thoughts. The pleasant memory had nearly conjured the very smell of dragon smoke and dripping steak. His stomach spoke in a very persuasive voice at the least helpful of times. But it mattered not. Paychecked or penniless, he was here to protect the dracians of Cresswoven. All of them. Yes—even sooty old bastards like Andre.

As Petra lifted one sore boot in front of the other, the usual brisk walk home suddenly felt longer than ever. The streets of Cresswoven were scarcely lit. Truth be told, he wasn't the only patrol officer that was hired to traipse about every inch of the town's four corners. While Petra oversaw Day Patrol, there also existed a Night Patrol. And it was a man named Osmond Caswell's job to keep the road lanterns burning until daybreak. Petra never saw much of Osmond. Aside from their opposing shifts, he seemed to make himself as scarce as possible. Petra chewed the bottom of his lip. Everything was just so backwards—Naturally, all the social work was done during the day. The surveillance, the problem solving, the de-escalating of proverbial "hotheads"—the hardest tasks fell upon Petra's shoulders, and he bore them with an otherworldly patience. In contrast, the night hours remained so uneventful it was insulting. With his thoughts beginning to blur and clutter, Petra's foot caught a dip in the path that sent him teetering sideways into one of the metal lanterns. "Bletchny—" he swore under his breath. He took it as a sign to sit and rest for a moment. Closing his eyes, Petra tried to focus on nice things: like leftovers and his own warm bed. Instead, an image of Andre and Osmond shaking hands over a stipend "well-earned," barged in where the nice things were supposed to be. He pressed his head into his knees. What was the use—

Fugitives didn't get paid.

Not when working for free was what allowed one to remain a fugitive.

As Petra sat, mustering the strength to carry the weight of his own body down the lampless path, he heard the sound of a familiar caterwauling somewhere close by. It echoed through the dense woodlands and aroused a distant chorus of primitive "bird-cackles" in its wake. This was, of course, a common sound in Cresswoven. Just the local fauna preparing for their nightly hunt. It wasn't long before one finally showed itself.

A Cockatrice.

Sordid, scrappy little opportunists, bearing a rooster's body and other such downgrades. Dragons recoiled at the idea that themselves and such a creature shared even a speck of common ancestry. Yet cockatri had no interest in humans. Petra was perfectly safe as he watched it strut about, pecking at the dirt. He noticed something though—something stuck to this one's foot. A piece of cloth that flapped and dragged in the dust as the creature walked. Petra stood up slowly. He began to move towards the cockatrice, staying within its blind spot. When he had gotten too close, the creature gave a start. Beating its scaled wings, the cockatrice took off into the underbrush, leaving its strange scrap of cloth behind. With the road lanterns neglected there wasn't enough light to see clearly, but Petra recalled having a box of matches in his pocket. He struck one, smoothing the cloth in his fingers while the flame revealed its colors. They were blue.

And red.

Another bird shriek pierced through the quiet air, this time, startling Petra and causing him to drop both the match and the cloth. Few things ever frightened Cresswoven's hero of patrol—and here he was: pulse racing, dirt turning sticky as it clung to his sweating palms—the cloth too was wet. Still wet. And that was what made the blood in Petra's own body grow cold.