A/N: No, I haven't gone crazy. Couldn't resist doing a 'hitman' AU-because I can just see our hero as an embittered marksman with a dark past and a burning need for revenge. There will definitely be some romance in here (eventually). I've rated it M because I'm a little cautious about the level of violence that may creep in. Updates are planned to be weekly but we shall see.

As ever: Disclaimer-I don't own How To train your Dragon. Rights remain with Cressida Cowell and Dreamworks.

One: At Dragon's Edge

The sign over the dilapidated bar was flickering irregularly and the sickly yellow 'N' was blinking in and out, changing the name of the bar to 'the Drago's Edge'. Special Agent Astrid Hofferson peered up at the garish letters and sighed. Dragon's Edge Bar was in the worst end of the town of Berk, with narrow streets, few lights and absolutely no police patrols. Everyone knew the place was a byword for trouble, the refuge of the worst of the worst, scum who would be kicked out of other troublesome bars for being too bad even for them. No self-respecting law enforcement officer would be seen within four hundred yards of the place and Astrid knew she certainly wasn't welcome here. Except it was the only place their target was known to frequent so it was literally their only chance to find him.

She sighed and stepped towards the peeling door, casting an irritated glance at her two companions, hanging back in the shadowy alley. The stench of rotting trash wafted on the cold breeze as they warily walked forward.

"Any time today, mutton-heads!" she hissed, glaring at them as they sheepishly wandered forward. As mission leader, she had her choice of agents though these were the only two available, meaning it wasn't so much a choice but an exercise in stopping Snotlout imagining she had chosen him for his looks rather than his largely-limited skills. Speaking of which, Snotlout Jorgensen was a stocky young man, with a broad face, blue eyes and black hair, his buff shape swaggering forward. His inflated opinion of himself was an irritation to the serious and accomplished special agent. His companion, Fishlegs Ingerman, was taller and much more husky, though the blonde man with the roundish face and blue-green eyes moved with much less confidence. He was gentle and studious by nature, an analytical and observant man who was better suited to the surveillance suite than the field.

She rolled her eyes at her team and then turned back to the door, walking confidently in, eyes flicking over the inhabitants of the bar. The noise level dropped appreciably as she entered, for a beautiful blonde, blue-eyed woman entering any bar would catch the eye. Astrid ignored the covetous eyes indecently sweeping over her lithe frame and walked confidently in, flicking her blonde braid over her left shoulder. Dressed functionally in jeans, blouse, leather jacket and boots, she walked confidently forward to the bar, her eyes locked on the big bartender, who was wiping a glass casually. She smiled and laid her hands flat on the bar.

"Bourbon, straight up," she said firmly and he nodded, his blue eyes critically appraising her. He was a big man, tending to fat round his middle and was missing a hand, replaced by a very old-fashioned hook. His bald head was covered with a 'Vikings' cap and his long blonde moustache was braided extravagantly, swinging as he moved.

"Here yer are, lass," he said in a broad Scottish brogue. "Yer a little out o' yuir neighbourhood, I'm guessing." She nodded and smiled, sipping the bourbon. It tasted like metal polish but she managed to swallow it with a grimace. "How's the whiskey, lass?"

"It's...good..." she choked, slamming the shot glass on the bar. "Got anything...smoother?" The barman relented and reached under the bar for a twelve year old single malt from the Highlands and poured her a proper measure.

"Yer've got guts, lass," he complimented her. "Are yuir friends here tae make meh bar look untidy or are they here tae drink as well?" She glanced over her shoulder and scowled at them. Reluctantly, they came forward and accepted glasses of the house bourbon. The stocky man managed to swallow it though the husky man coughed and almost choked.

"Are you crying, Snot?" Astrid asked the black-haired man and he shook his head, though he had to pause to wipe the tears from his face.

"Shut up, Astrid. It's...dust," he rasped. "It's good..." The barman poured them both sodas, realising neither were drinkers and rolled his eyes.

"Okay-I can tell yuir none o'ye the sort I usually get in meh bar so spit it out," he sighed. Astrid leaned closer.

"We're looking for Night Fury," she said in a low voice. The barman looked at her for a long moment and then burst out laughing, the sound lost in the sounds of the rock playing on the juke box. He shook his head.

"He'll have spotted yer three the second yer walked through the door," he scoffed. "Yer'll never find him if he doesnae want tae be found." Astrid sighed.

"We have a job for him," she said determinedly. "And we'll pay top dollar." The man scratched his big chin with his hook and looked thoughtful.

"Yer realise he doesnae deal wi' government spooks," he told them bluntly. "It's one o' his rules." Astrid grinned.

"So you do know him!" she said triumphantly. The barman muttered a curse under his breath and shook his head.

"I know of him-because he has been in meh bar and caused all species o' chaos ere," he grumbled. "Look-tek a seat in that corner and I'll get word tae him. If he wants tae come tae talk with yer, he'll come. If he doesnae come within an hour, yer leave." He looked them up and down. "Not that yer not easy on the eye, lass-but yer bad fer business!" Astrid glanced around at the incredibly rough patrons and sighed: there really was no chance she could pick out the man from the potentials in the dark, smoky and loud bar so she nodded.

"Accepted," she said heavily. "Can we have three more of the good stuff?" The man leaned closer and grinned.

"Fer yer, lass-anything," he said and filled the glasses.

Parked safely and discreetly in the furthest corner, Astrid's cool blue eyes swept over the bar. It was a dim space with poorly painted board walls, no windows and the single heavy bar dominating half of the back wall. There were a couple of groups of bikers and thugs, huddled over tables of cards, gaming and cussing at the far side of the room. The juke box against the back wall continued to blare a selection of heavy rock hits and the bar was propped up by men with various scars and tattoos. The floor was made of flagstones, some stained with brownish stains of old blood and in the corner of the bar nearest to Astrid's table, a pool table was being set up by a trio of heavyset biker types who were sneering at another man.

"Okay-fifty!" the leader of the trio growled. His ugly face had a scar down one cheek, bushy brows shadowing mean eyes and a disgusting and straggly beard. His buff leather-clad form was heavily tattooed, bare arms covered with skulls and pagan symbols. His friends-who looked similar-all grunted in agreement. The man facing him was almost his opposite-a tall, lean youngish man with casually messy dark auburn/brown hair and a pale, sharp-jawed face. There was an exasperated look on his face as he nodded, toying with the cue. Unlike his opponent, he wouldn't have looked out of place in an artisan cafe, dressed in black jeans, deep red shirt and brown tweed waistcoat.

"Are you sure you want do this?" he asked impatiently, his light, slightly nasal voice just audible in the ruckus of the bar. The biker nodded and the young man leaned forward, his right hand flat on the baize and cueing off left handed. "Red," he said as the tip slammed into the first ball and three red balls vanished. Emerald eyes focussed like a laser, he straightened up, walking round the table and picking off ball after ball until he gave a smile. He leaned forward and pulled his cue back. "Eight ball in top left pocket," he said, not even looking as he made the shot. The ball vanished and he straightened up. "I win!"

"You cheated!" the man roared and lunged for him. He back-pedalled, just missing the punch aimed at his head.

"Fair and square," he protested calmly. "You owe me fifty."

"Over your dead body!" the man growled, nodding to his friends. All of them grabbed their beers and smashed the bottles on the edge of the pool table, coming at the hustler. He rolled his eyes.

"Oh, Gobber is going to be furious at the mess. Are you sure you want to do this?" he sighed, grabbing the pool cue.

"Oh yeah-you won't like your pretty face all cut up for messing with the Sons of Odin..." the leader of the trio sneered and the young man gave an incredulous laugh.

"What? You're the Sons of Odin? You're supposed to be the toughest in the Archipelago...not a bunch of drunken, squint-eyed losers!" he scorned. Astrid's eyes widened at the insult, calculated to make them angrier-and less in control. And he was rewarded as the first one lunged at him, the broken bottle missing his arm by an inch-but the cue swirled round and whacked the man across the face and then spun round to slam across the back of the man's head as the flew past, landing stunned on the floor. The next one was already moving as the young man grabbed his tee-shirt and slammed his head onto the pool table, seeing him bounce back and collapse in a heap on the floor.

But the third man was already moving, lunging at the hustler with a knife in one hand and the broken bottle in the other. Backing up, the hustler saw three more men join his attacker and realised his opponents had more friends than he had calculated. He gritted his teeth and snapped the cue across his thigh, ending with a half-length in each hand.

"Bastards. That was my favourite cue," he muttered as he blocked both weapons with deft, accurate strokes, the wood slamming round to impact on the man's already-ugly face. The stunned biker spun round and collapsed across the pool table as two more came at him, one receiving an uppercut from the broken cue while the other piece blocked a heavy knife. The third man wrapped his arms around his lean shape from behind. Without missing a beat, the pool player slammed his head backwards, ignoring the pain in his own head as the man holding him released him and staggered back. His leg slammed back, throwing the man against the wall. As he bounced forward, his arm arched back and a half-cue cracked across his attacker's face, knocking him out.

Even as the man was folding, the pool hustler dropped to a knee, the other half-cue mercilessly cracking into the next man's knee and as he screamed and folded, the other half-cue swinging up to catch a roundhouse on the point of his jaw, sending him flying to land limply across the pool table. The last man stared as the young hustler spun round, both half-cues cracking across the face. He stood for a moment, wavering and then fell backwards like a felled tree. Breathing hard, the young man looked around: only the leader was moving but without hesitation, he grabbed the man's head and cracked it hard on the pool table, knocking him senseless.

"Fifty," the hustler said, breathing hard, his hand slipping in the man's pocket and pulling out some crumpled notes, He frowned and put a ten back in, then grabbed his own wager from the table and turned to the bar keeper. "Sorry, Gobber," he announced, tossing the remains of the cue onto the table as well then walking towards the bar with an apologetic smile. "I tried not to get any blood on the baize."

"Honestly, lad-can ye never play wi'out getting intae any trouble?" the barkeeper scolded him, his blue eyes twinkling. He handed over a glass of the good whiskey which the young man drained in one gulp.

"You know, if they just paid up, it wouldn't turn out like this," the young man grumbled. "And I always ask them if they're sure they want to do this and they always carry on. Can't stand sore losers-or people who don't pay their debts." He slammed his glass on the bar and Gobber, the barkeep refilled it without complaint. Then he waved to a couple of large men-one wearing a bucket on his head and the other half as tall but just as wide and incredibly hairy-and they cheerfully clambered up from their corner table to begin to drag the beaten-up bikers out into the alley at the back.

"I'm charging yer fer the cue," Gobber warned the young man and he gave a sheepish smile.

"Yeah-well, I wasn't too happy in having to break my favourite cue-but better it than me," he admitted with a lopsided smile. "In the end, they're only things. They can be replaced: people can't." Gobber nodded, saying nothing because there was nothing to be said. They both knew the story too well.

"In the corner, there're three people looking fer Night Fury," he revealed as the young man leaned forward, his emerald eyes focussing on the reflections in the mirrors behind the bar and picking out the shapes.

"Spooks," he sighed. "Did they say who they were?"

"Nah-but yer can spot them a mile off," Gobber confirmed. "Yer can always leave 'em. I gave them the usual deal: one hour and then they go." But the emerald gaze trailed over the image of the blonde who was staring at him, her piercing azure eyes echoing that so-familiar gaze. He straightened up.

"I'll have a word," he sighed and forced the amiable smile onto his face. Gobber automatically refilled his glass.

"Call if yer need help, lad," he said in a low voice.

"What's the worse that can happen?" the hustler asked dryly and walked easily over to the three agents. He looked down at the determined-looking blonde who had been watching him and her companions-a stocky black-haired young man and a large husky round-faced blond man. "Is this seat taken?' he asked in a friendly voice, indicating to the fourth seat at their table.

"Yeah!" the black-haired man snapped, scowling.

"Shut up, Snot!" the blonde girl growled then looked up into his face. She gestured to the vacant seat. "Please," she invited him, her voice brisk. He slid in and sipped his whiskey as he inspected the three agents carefully.

"Did your tourist bus get lost?" he asked them directly, his emerald gaze calculating. "This isn't on the beaten track and you certainly aren't the usual kind of scum that frequents here." Astrid's eyes widened as the man condemned himself by his words.

"Actually, we heard this was the place to visit," she tried, mesmerised by his piercing gaze.

"You know you have 'spook' written all over you," he told them, sipping his drink.

"I-er-not sure what you mean..." the husky guy said, his voice a little timid and lacking confidence.

"We were looking for Night Fury," the woman said, offering her hand while gesturing to the others. "My companions are Snotlout Jorgensen and Fishlegs Ingerman. I am Astrid Hofferson." The man sat back in his chair.

"He doesn't deal with spooks or military," he said coolly, his expression flat. "Been betrayed one time too many. Door's that way." She leaned forward.

"Does he live in the Archipelago?" she asked directly, her eyes blazing. "We need his help because there is a threat to the safety of everyone here and without his help, there is a real risk we will lose our freedom." The man arched an eyebrow.

"So despite the thousands in the army, the resources of the intelligence division, the secret service not to mention the conventional police, the safety of the entire Archipelago rests on the skills of one assassin? Boy, we're all in trouble now!" he commented sarcastically. As he expected, Astrid leaned forward, her face twisted in anger.

"Thousands of men and women risk their lives to protect you and him," she hissed. "But sometimes, we need access highly specialised skills that others possess! And we need to deal with a man who is threatening the stability of our society, a terrorist who has no conscience, no hesitation to kill men, women, children, the old, the young, service personnel or civilians! But Night Fury is the best and we need the best. He's better than we are in dealing with such...problems."

The man sat back and toyed with his glass, apparently staring at the amber liquid sloshing in the smeared glass.

"You need to get better people," he commented and was rewarded by the flash of anger in her face.

"We've tried," she hissed. "Agents have died. Friends...have died! But the man is almost impossible to get close to. And there is no real prospect of getting him to a point where we can extract him and lock him up. Our only hope is to eliminate him-and we need someone with the skills to exterminate him."

"And how is that supposed to work?" he asked dryly. "If you can't get close to him, how is Night Fury supposed to?"

"Hey-why are we talking to you anyway?" the black-haired man, sneered. The hustler gave a calculating look.

"Snot, was it?" he asked pointedly. "Because I know Night Fury and I know he won't talk to anyone without more information."

"Why?" the husky guy asked. Cool emerald eyes swept over him.

"Assassins tend to be unpopular with the authorities," the hustler pointed out. "Been a few cops and secret service agents here looking for him. Helheim, there were even a few Interpol agents thinking they could catch the famous Night Fury here!"

"I don't know why," Astrid commented, her piercing azure gaze locking with his. "You can certainly take care of yourself. And no one here would make anyone from the law-enforcement services welcome!"

"True," the hustler admitted. "I..."

The door slammed open and four bulky shapes stalked in, wearing the black leather with the white skrill marking of the Berserkers. The hustler immediately tensed, his head snapping round to shoot a warning look at Gobber the barkeep. The big man was already reaching under the bar for his gun when the Berserkers raised their pistols-and in one case, a submachine gun-and covered the bar.

"No one move," the leader growled. He was a man with a mean face, cold dark amber eyes and a sharp nose. "We want Night Fury!"

"Boy, popular today," the hustler muttered, knocking back the last of his drink and leaning lazily back in his chair.

"This ain't a lost and found," Gobber replied grumpily. "This is a bar. Are yer ordering?"

A hail of bullets surrounded his motionless shape, smashing the mirror, half the glasses and a host of bottles of spirit. Everyone in the bar winced and Gobber scowled in anger.

"Yeah-one Night Fury!" the leader growled. "Hand him over!"

"He doesnae live here!" Gobber growled. "Now git oot o' meh bar!"

The leader lunged forward, pressing the muzzle of his pistol hard under the barkeeper's protruding chin. He grabbed Gobber's stained shirt and hauled him hard against the bar, leering into his face. "Night Fury...now...or you're dead!" he threatened, a wild look in his eye. "Dagur wants him dead and what Dagur wants, Dagur gets..."

The hustler went rigid and the good humour faded from his emerald eyes, leaving them looking like chunks of green ice. He leaned forward in his chair, his left hand closing round the glass. "Stay here and keep your heads down," he said in a low growl, his left arm swinging round and flinging the glass like a missile straight into the back of the head of the man holding Gobber hostage. The man went down like an unstrung puppet, the unfired gun skittering from his limp hand as the hustler moved like lightning, diving forward and grabbing the nearest man, wrestling with him for his gun. A knee slammed up and in the moment, he reversed the gun as the man's comrades were still turning to face him. Three shots rang out and the Berserker jerked, his eyes wide as all three shots went through his heart. The agents looked up in shock as the man ducked, spinning away and dropping to a knee as shots zipped over his head. His left hand swung up and the report of bullets sounded harshly in the bar over the strains of ZZ Top. The two remaining Berserkers jerked back, each shot hitting them right between the eyes.

The bar patrons stared at the kneeling shape, breathing hard, his expression cold and angry, before they turned away. Astrid got the impression this wasn't an infrequent occurrence as Gobber gave a grudging smile.

"Thanks, laddie," he said gruffly. "Thought I was a goner there. Shame about meh best liquor. Some o' those bottles have bin there since I opened this bar!"

"Thor, they should be charged with destruction of our cultural heritage," the man quipped automatically, thumbing the safety on the weapon.

"Who is this guy?" Fishlegs asked Astrid from behind the table where they had hidden, his mind processing the way the man had reacted. She stood up with a smug smile on her face.

"He's Night Fury," she said in satisfaction. The young man stood up, his posture wary.

"Busted," he commented sarcastically.

"Look-do you have a name or...?" Astrid asked.

"Night will do just fine," the man said, his emerald eyes never leaving her face. She took a quick breath.

"I can tell you really don't like Dagur and his Berserkers," she said.

"Understatement," the assassin admitted.

"Aye-she's got yer there," Gobber grinned, fishing out an intact glass and pouring the man another drink. He turned to the bar and grabbed the glass, tossing it down his throat immediately. Astrid counted he had finished three in a very short space of time: it was valuable information. She stared boldly into his emerald eyes.

"Would you be interested to know that the terrorist we're after is Dagur the Deranged?" she asked him and saw him stiffen. His fingers tapped on the edge of the glass.

"'Fraid I don't trust spooks," he said tonelessly. "You people have let me down one time too many..."

"But..."

"Leave!" he growled, nodding to Gobber. But as the one-handed man was bending forward to fish out the bottle, there was a muted shot and Fury flinched, feeling the impact of a stun dart. He reached for his gun but his legs crumpled underneath him as his vision suddenly skewed and blurred. As he slammed to the ground, he saw Snotlout lower his gun before everything went black.