CHAPTER 2: DRAGON SPOOR or AMIDST THE ALIEN CANE

Strider stares at the ceiling.

It's not a particularly nice ceiling. There's nothing extraordinary about it. It is, however, the most interesting thing in his life right now.

It's been a mild, drizzly summer and the weather is getting to him. He hasn't been on an interesting mission in a month, and the monotony is getting to him. He'd love to be on a sandy beach somewhere, cold beer in one hand and tanned saronged chick in the other, getting a nice sunglasses tan going. He coasts on this fantasy for a little while. After five minutes, he's taking the idea of a vacation seriously. He's only used a few of the dozens of paid leave days he has saved up, after all, and London summers are pretty much bullshit.

The anonymous island girl is teaching him some Latin dance steps on the warm sand when he's yanked from his vision by the buzzer on his desk. In a crisply rehearsed, befittingly secretarial voice Aradia speaks. "Sir, the chief operations officer to see you."

"Oh. Sure, tell him welcome," replies Strider, keenly aware that on the other side of the heavy oak door Aradia is wearing a low-cut maroon V-neck and if you dropped a penny down her cleavage you wouldn't hear it hit the bottom for a good fifteen seconds. She has her hair in a bun today but the few wayward curls that have escaped torture him and she knows it. In fact, torturing him has sort of become her MO. She knows she's beautiful, and she knows he's noticed, and she just loves to remind him of this fact.

Dave stands as the boss walks in, unlit pipe already clenched in his teeth and jacket apparently collected by Aradia somewhere along the way. The other agents have taken to calling this man "Dad" in a way that vaguely unsettles Dave, so he just calls him "Sir" out of a mixture of respect and reflex.

"I've got some good news!" he begins.

"Please tell me I'm being transferred to our Jamaican branch. I'd settle for the south of France, or hell, even the middle." He reaches for a lighter emblazoned with a Royal Navy fleet logo that he keeps in his desk.

"Well, you're on the right track- suffice to say you will be doing some traveling. I have a mission that's got your name all over it, and I do mean your name." He accepts the lighter and breaks his speech to get his pipe going. "It seems a certain international troll law enforcement agency knows as 'The Legislacerators' has become aware of your involvement in the Eridan Ampora case and asked for you by name to assist one of their best in a certain case concerning a former subordinate of his. A certain Sollux Captor. You know of him, yes?"

"Er, vaguely sir. Only what I've seen on the news. He seemed much less concerned with attracting attention than Ampora did."

"Yes, well. Bit of a computer genius, this one, and apparently well-connected enough to have a worldwide network of supporters. We're looking into a possible, though unlikely, connection between him and Feferi Peixes. It'll take an organization like The Legislacerators to take him down, without a doubt," He frowns. "Anyhow, you'll get that sunshine you've been wanting, your first rendezvous is in Madrid."

"Is that where I'm meeting my new partner?"

"Oh, dash it all, I forgot! She's actually here right now! What was your new secretary's name again?"

"Aradia," says Dave, pressing the button on the intercom, "could you send in the other visitor please?"

The door swings open silently and a small figure enters. Dave's wildest expectations do nothing to prepare him for what he sees; up to this point he's only seen traditional troll clothing in historical photos, the vast majority instead opting for human clothing with minor modification. But when he sees the Legislacerator for the first time, everything suddenly clicks into place. For the first time since they came to earth all those years ago, he really feels as though he's looking at an alien.

She's wearing a sort of tailcoat-dress ensemble in turquoise and red, some parts sweeping and some form-fitting, and in one hand she holds a white cane, the handle of which is fashioned after a dragon's head. Her eyes are concealed by a pair of ruby sunglasses, thin and wide and flared dramatically, and her hair is short and relatively well-kempt. Only about five feet tall and thin as a rail, she still manages to look imposing, not unlike naval officers he's known in the past. She's frowning as she steps into the room, seemingly not relying on her cane for much more than bravado, but once she's in the middle of the office his head tilts to one side and she grins and Dave's never seen teeth this sharp on a land-dwelling troll. She's not looking at him- more looking past him- as she speaks.

"So you're Dave Strider," she begins, inhaling through her nose, "the hired gun who took down Ampora." Her accent is Spanish, the twang of her speech sharp and smoky like guitar notes.

"Yeah, that's me. Terribly sorry, I wasn't given your name- I don't even have a case dossier yet," says the agent.

"No, I don't expect you would. This case will be unique in a variety of ways, chiefly in that it will be handled by my office. Your engineers are reconfiguring your personal captchalouge system to our servers as we speak, and for the duration of this mission you will not contact anyone associated with this office for any reason, with a couple of key exceptions. We've given your secretary a special phone and she'll be accompanying us to Madrid, where she will stay at headquarters.

"We have some of the very best people in the field- present company excluded," she gives the chief a curt nod but misses actually facing his direction by a few degrees, "But this is one of the biggest cases we've ever handled on Earth. We were preparing to move on Ampora even as the Americans moved first, but upon hearing of the single agent who was crucial to the success of that mission, we thought why not add one more to our ranks? We are an organization of justice, Dave Strider, and we do what it takes to get justice. You may call me Legislacerator Terezi Pyrope."

Dave is impressed by the troll woman's speech, not that one could tell by his expression. Somewhere during her last few sentences it hit him that she's blind as a bat, but for some reason that doesn't really bother him. "Sounds like my kind of place. So the three of us leave for Madrid… When, exactly?"

"This evening at half past eight, I have a ride arranged. That should give you time to pack and read the rules."

"Rules? I rather don't like the sound of that."

"Oh, don't worry. It's nothing bad." She twists around and calls through the office door, "Aradia, love, could you bring the contract in please?"

The secretary walks in holding one two-inch-thick three-ring binder. She places it on the desk's surface, gives Dave a cursory tight-lipped smile, regards Terezi with discomfort, and beams at the boss all in the space of a second or two, and is gone a moment later.

"Think you can have it read by then?" the Legislacerator cackles, pointy-toothed grin gleaming cruelly.

Strider glances at his boss' impassive expression, decides against his first choice in responses, and opts instead to say, "...I'll get the highlights from Aradia. In the meantime, have you had lunch? I'd like to get to know you a bit before we set out, and I know just the best grill around here with an Alternian specials menu."

"Yes, that sounds very nice." The short troll adjusts her sharp red glasses. "You will drive?"

"Er, yeah, of course," Dave is suddenly aware he's been standing up this whole time. He gives the chief a solid nod, says, "If that's all, sir," and cross from behind his desk over to Terezi, proffering an elbow. She glares at it- or more through it- and frowns.

"What are you doing, human? I'm blind, not retarded."

The chief just smiles at them. "Try not to get into too much trouble, kids. Oh, and Strider?"

"Sir?" Dave stops in his tracks, elbow still helplessly suspended.

"I'm so proud of you."

O+O+O+O+O

It's a fantastically shitty day out, so Strider leaves the soft top of his convertible Aston Martin DB9 up. He'd bought the convertible upon being promoted to Senior Agent, liking the irony of owning one in London of all places, but unlike his ostentatious Swiss clock and his intricately carved mahogany bed he's not too happy with his decision in retrospect. Driving with the top up is loud and drowns out the crucial midrange of whatever music he's listening to, and putting it down is out of the question the vast majority of the time.

Settling into the driver's seat, he keeps one eye on Terezi, who sort of positions herself in such a way that momentum and gravity allow her to fall into the leather bucket seat to his left. She gives a little puff of satisfaction and smiles broadly. "This chair smells like moobeast skin!"

"It's leather, yeah," says Dave resignedly, long ago having stopped finding humor the the ridiculous names trolls call Earth's fauna. Terezi busies herself sniffing various components of his dashboard, even giving a startled coo when the satnav screen flashes on. As long as she doesn't try to lick anything-

"Aw, hey! What are you doing!" demands Dave, as Terezi draws her pointy tongue across the LCD screen.

"Makes it easier to smell," grins the small woman.

"Er, well, sorry but could you please not lick my car? I can describe it to you if you want." He pushes his shades up the bridge of his nose.

"No thanks, Dave Strider, I think I've got a clear enough picture," she replies, and then begins to cackle quietly to herself.

The five-minute drive passes uneventfully, and without any particular preponderance of speech; Dave is aware that his hunger is affecting his temper and Terezi is shaping up to be a serious liability to his cool. He finds himself unable to help glancing at her every time he checks the mirrors prior to a turn, her expression rotating through a kaleidoscope of smiles and frowns for no discernible reason. As he arrives at the restaurant, pretentiously named fourthirteen after the street address, she begins to "look" around by tossing her nose to and fro.

"What is it?"

"This place, this restaurant. It's called four thirteen?"

He circles the parking lot, looking for a space. It seems full.

"Yeah, why, have you heard of it?"

"These numbers are very important for trolls. We call them the Numbers Of The Blind Prophets." She settles her head in a thirty-degree slant away from Dave, exposing the smooth curve of her jaw to his appraisal. He finds a spot facing the street, pulls in, cuts the power.

"Huh. Might be a troll-owned place, I don't know. Not a lot of restaurants have a menu of Alternain dishes, so it would-" he's interrupted when she claps a hand over his mouth with a pap.

"Ssh!" Her sightless eyes narrow as her nostrils flare. "Something's about to happen!"

And then something happens. Around the corner comes speeding a windowless white Ford Transit at about 70 mph. It takes the corner so sharp it almost flips over, then crunches back down on all four wheels and begins speeding down the street against traffic, causing several cars to skid out. One hits a postbox; an explosion of envelopes catches an updraft and wings skyward like startled doves. Pyrope faces right at Strider and yells "Go!"

So he goes.

Dave turns the key, shifts into neutral, mashes the pedal until the engine screams up to 4,200 revs, then pounds into first gear like it killed his dog. Leaving a cloud of burned-up tire in his wake, he bounds over the divider and across the sidewalk and jackknifes onto the street in pursuit. He's up to sixty in a matter of seconds and soon the white van is back in sight- or smell, where Pyrope is concerned- and weaving thorough traffic like a maniac he closes in. The small troll shouts in his ear, "Pull alongside and match his speed!"

Dave complies quickly, drawing up the bonnet of his Aston to match the Ford's front bumper. The van is still to his left, in the oncoming lane of traffic. Miraculously, he's able to keep it steady for a few seconds, which is all Terezi needs. To Dave's dismay she swipes the pointed snout of her dragon head cane across his soft-top roof, cutting a sizable hole, which she proceeds to jump through.

Strider had been trying to keep his eyes on the road but at this, he fully turns to look out the passenger's side window to see her on the side of the van, anchored by her cane stabbed through the side of it. She swings herself atop the speeding vehicle and lands on her feet, remarkably steadily, cane in hand. With a flawless sweep of what must be one of the sharpest blades Earth has ever knows she slices the roof of the Transit clean open and jumps inside.

At this point Dave can't follow her actions anymore but rather than try to rationalize the ridiculousness of what he's just seen he decides not getting into a traffic collision seems like a better idea. He avoids rear-ending a crappy 80's Prelude and notices the Transit is sowing to a stop. He yanks the car onto the shoulder- striped for parking, mercifully- leaves it running and leaps out, crossing to the van in a matter of seconds.

He's already drawing his Walther PPK when he gets to the driver's side door, but before he can get there the side door slides open. An unconscious body flies out of it, followed quickly by two more. Lastly, Terezi Pyrope exits with a little hop. A good eight inches shorter than the shortest thug, she's holding her cane like a sword and giving the first authentic frown Dave's seen from her.

"Dave Strider. What do you do with people like this in Human England?"

"People like what? What did they do? 'Human England!'" Dave keeps his gun ready, but his adrenaline levels are falling and reason is returning to his mind, along with a growing frustration.

"There were several bags of your paper money and one human female in a compromised state. I deduced she is not a criminal because she is not wearing any clothes," Terezi explains, grinning. "My skills of deduction are second to none."

"Okay, so they're bank robbers. We call the police and let them handle it. I'm starving," Dave suggests, knowing there's no way it'll work.

"There's no time for food, Dave Strider, when justice has yet to be done. How shall we execute them?"

Dave has a bit more trouble staying cool than usual at this. "Execute them? Christ, no, no executing! The police will take them to a station and they'll go to prison, they're not going to kill them!"

"Oh," Says Terezi. "I see."

She looks a little bit disappointed.

Dave can hear sirens approaching. "Look, just- can we just go get some fucking lunch?"

"Very well. I'm pretty hungry too," Terezi begins walking back toward the DB9, still grumbling where Dave left it, then stops and turns around. Looking vaguely towards Strider, she frowns again. "Can't I just execute one of them?"

"No!"

O+O+O+O+O

Here's what Dave learns about Terezi Pyrope at lunch between savage pointy-toothed bites of the prohibitively raw and/or rotten constituents of her Alternian meal:

-She's a lawyer

-She's also a bounty hunter

-Bitch be crazy

And that's it. They arrive at the restaurant at about 11:30, and by the time they leave at 10 to 1 Dave's exhausted. He drops the small troll off in the parking lot, where a nervous-looking young male troll in a similar teal-blue suit picks her up in a Bentley and coasts away.

He drifts back to his office and opens the door to find Aradia reorganizing the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet in the corner. She's bent over at the hip, cream-colored pencil skirt drawn taught against her shapely rear, and she makes no move upon Dave entering the room save withdrawing a manila file and reinserting it in a different place in the drawer. Surreptitiously, she looks behind her. "Oh. Good afternoon, sir. Pleasant lunch?"

It takes Dave a couple seconds to respond. "I may be needing some assistance in updating my will. In the meantime, did you make any headway on that binder?"

"Please, sir, you've really gotta start having a bit of faith in me." Her American accent reminds him of Jade's with a little twinge, but not in his heart. She stands, making a little display of turning around before drawing a typed sheet off the desk and handing it to Dave. "Here's the short version. Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure," and she slowly, slowly bends over to continue her filing.

Dave makes his way back to his office, glancing over the bulleted list of directives. It's simple stuff, if not a bit demanding- The Legislacerators aren't an elite organization for nothing- and none of it strikes him as particularly egregious. He folds it in quarters and tucks it into his jacket's inner pocket. The intercom buzzes and Aradia informs him she'll be heading home to pack, having completed her voluntary filing endeavor. She reminds him he "really oughta too" and wishes him a good afternoon. Gathering up his various paperwork and small electronics, he heads out to the parking lot. Gritting his teeth as he lays eyes on the long tear in the soft top of his DB9, his anger flares as he pictures Pyrope's cackling face and vows to somehow, someway...

Keep himself from ever bringing it up.