Cdr Dave Strider, RN, Ret., was never what most would consider to be the military type. Sure, he could get the job done, but stiff upper lip and all that? Forget it. His file was littered with demerits for everything from fraternization to uniform violations, and after a brief 10 years at the rank of Commander he was encouraged to retire. His commanding officer at the time, a pleasant enough fellow, even arranged him an interview at a security agency frequently contracted by the Royal Navy, to cushion the blow. Not that there was much of one: he never bothered telling anyone, but he wasn't planning on renewing his commission anyway. Frankly, he was fed up with the whole thing.

After landing the new job, he was relatively satisfied to sit at a desk and do the same work he had been doing for the last several years, with less annoying rules and cuter secretaries. However, there was something missing, something he hadn't expected to miss in the slightest. The Navy was demanding, obnoxious, unreasonable and at the time had seemed immensely dull. But at his desk, going over surveillance data or translating communications for 8 hours a day, he missed the excitement he had completely failed to appreciate. He wanted to smell the sea air, not piped-in air conditioning. He missed his ridiculous service hat, and the rest of the bloody uniform, for that matter. He even missed standing in formations and greeting the seamen on Monday mornings, and hearing them shout their replies in unison. Even moreso than on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic, he felt boxed in.

He began to become more and more of a pain. He stopped bothering to wear suits, opting instead for T-shirts and jeans, throwing a jacket on if he knew the boss would be by. He blasted music in his office so loud the whole floor shook. He dedicated an entire wall to LPs and DJ equipment, which he spent most of his generous salary on. His work got done, and done well, but he just never seemed to want to be there.

One day the boss called him into his office. Sauntering into the secretary's area outside the massive room, he'd barely begun flirting before she wordlessly buzzed him in. The man was unassuming in every way: average build, brown hair and eyes, wore the same 2-button suit every day. His office was decorated with garish pictures of what looked like clowns, and on one of his walls hung a framed picture of some unfunny American comedian with a mustache. He was starting up his pipe as Dave walked in. "Ah, Mr. Strider-"

"God I love being called that. Sorry, go on."

"Er, yes. Well, lately it seems you've been getting rather a lot of complaints filed about you. Do you know what any of these are about?"

"Probably love letters, I dunno. People want me to DJ their kids' Bar Mitzvahs?"

"Mr. Strider, let me read one to you. This one says, 'there's been a thumping bass sound coming from the office two doors down from mine all week. It never stops, but sometimes it's punctuated by a string of profanity lasting some minutes in length. When I'm trying to record a memorandum or listen to sensitive information I cannot tolerate these kinds of disturbances. Please, do something!'"

"I guess I can wear headphones from now on. As for the swearing, I'm not gonna admit to that, that could have been anyone."

"There will be no need for headphones, Mr. Strider. In fact, there will be no need for you to return to your office, either. Your personal possessions are being transported to your home as we speak, and your work will be taken over by a new agent."

"Woah, woah, wait a second. You're firing me for rocking too hard?"

"Oh heavens no. Fortunately for you, your quality of work has been excellent, and with your previous service in mind, we simply couldn't let you go. You're being transferred to field work."

In his head, Dave did a little happy dance. Outwardly, he stayed cool. "'Kay. Do I get a say in this?"

"Well, you could retire, I suppose. But I don't see why you would- haven't you ever wanted to be an secret agent?"

"It has a certain appeal. What about my salary?"

"You'll be making your current wage plus 5 percent, with the same promotion schedule."

"And an expense account, right?"

The boss's expression sterned up slightly. "Yes, a rigidly monitored expense account. Don't get any ideas."

"Okay, okay. So basically you're going to send me all over the world, getting into gunfights and seducing all the ladies, shower me with cash, and give me all the gadgets and dope-ass threads and sexy cars I want."

"Basically."

"What's the catch?"

The boss leans back in his chair, taking his pipe out of his mouth and pointing the stem at Strider. "We get to torture you first."

The next three months passed like little snippets of dreams. Every now and then Dave snapped into reality, only to find himself doing something that couldn't possibly be real. He was eating a banana slug. He was suffocating in a 3-foot cube. He would be given a password, then interrogated for it. The trainers starved him, shocked him, beat him, humiliated him. He and his teammates were split up and turned against one another. He learned to communicate with a cellmate using nothing but fingernail taps on reverberating pipes. He learned what you could eat in the jungle- surprisingly little- and what could eat you- pretty much everything. He learned how to take a beating, how to survive a fall, how to keep your wits after three days with no food or sleep. And then one day, he was done. It was the best day of his life.

Walking out of the processing building was a surreal experience. He hadn't worn real clothes or shoes for two months, and the sound of low quarters on the hard floor startled him. The first time he saw a female in three months he almost had a heart attack. The first time he saw a dog he wondered how it would taste. The first time he saw a kid he almost cried. But slowly he returned to normalcy, and after a one-week vacation comprised mostly of eating take-out and watching TV, he received his first assignment. That was three years ago.

If he were counting, which he wasn't, this would be his 82th mission. He averaged one every two weeks or so, and the timing rules were very strict. He'd spend a week on preparatory status before the mission. He'd have a weigh-in, a fitness examination, and a nutritionist-approved meal plan. They made sure he was in the absolute finest shape possible before deploying him. For 24 hours before the mission, he was ordered to rest and relax, study the case dossier, and get plenty of rest. When it was time, he was always in top form- he quickly established himself as a superior agent and extremely capable, whether at the shooting range or the driving range.

Following a mission, he was given three days of leave. These days passed in a blur of pretty women, strong drinks, and loud music. Then he'd be given his new case file in preparation for the next mission and spend a few office days getting and giving briefings, teaching classes, and keeping his shooting skills up.

Sometimes they'd send him to the countryside for driver training or other such distractions. He'd attended classes on bomb disposal and IED identification, basic computer and Internet security bypassing, and even learned the basics of how to fly a helicopter. One time he went to a class dedicated to sleight-of-hand and learned how to reorder a deck of cards, how to pick a pocket, and how to plant a bug. As his skills increased, so too did the difficulty of his missions.

After only three years, he was promoted to Senior Field Agent and given an increase in pay and security clearance. Increasingly his job included dealing with Trolls, who tended to be very dangerous. He audited classes on troll history, culture and society, how they thought, how they fought. Ever since they'd appeared and set up colonies on earth, human/troll relationships had been rocky, and conflicts were common. Their organ structure was different and their muscle tissue was thicker, so trying to fight one as though he was human would be fruitless. Sun Tzu said understand your enemy, and aliens or no, that wisdom still rang true today.

But this was the first mission Dave Strider had been given in which he'd have to deal with Eridan Ampora, aka Dualscar, codenamed Fins. One of the most dangerous trolls on the planet by reputation, this highblood had far overstepped his boundaries, which were sizable enough. He'd gained the moniker Orphaner after killing an American congresswoman and single parent, leaving her four children in the care of the state. She'd been attempting a bill that would result in ID-tagging every Troll in the US, to curb rising troll-related smuggling and gang crime. The seatroll had one of his underlings wardrive and hack a communication tower so that he could execute her on live television. Hell of a way to make an entrance.

The case came up immediately. He had already been getting spun up for another case, but it was bumped down for the Fins job. He was deployed within 72 hours.

At operation start (T) +155 minutes, Dave slides the half-spent magazine out of his Walther. He releases Jade's hand and reaches into his coat pocket to withdraw another. He reloads, uncaptchalogues his bulletproof vest and then his spare, and whips off his soiled, expensive coat. Simultaneously walking forwards, strapping on the heavy kevlar, and holding the gun between his teeth, he motions with his head towards the second protective garment.

"I'm not wearing one of those, are you kidding?" she asks, incredulously. In a flash, she changes back into her Iron Man armor and follows him. The design is different from the original he read about the USAF acquiring a contract to use from Stark industries. It's more feminine, but still intimidating as hell. Even robotic armor looks sexy on Jade Harley.

The sound of approaching trolls is growing louder. "You ready?"

"I should be asking you!" she replies, chipper as ever. There's a smear of troll blood on her cheek the color of deli mustard. He takes his finger and wipes it off.

"I have complete faith in you. When we get out of here, drinks are on me."

Harley blushes again, glancing downwards. "Gee, Dave- I mean Greg- I don't..." But she isn't able to finish. She whips her head toward the end of the hallway, all business all of a sudden.

"TOOK YOU SONS OF BITCHES LONG ENOUGH! I BROUGHT YOU SOMETHING~!" She uncaptchalogues a big fucking gun. Dave's shades helpfully inform him it's an M-32 Riot Grenade Launcher. They ask if he'd like to read the manual. The manual is a hundred and seventy pages long. He declines.

Jade Thoonks out a grenade toward the end of the hall she's facing, laughing all the while, then wheels the thing vertically over her head, scraping the high ceiling of the hall, and blindfires it backwards, one-handed. Simultaneously, a small sunburst of flame and earth-toned blood splatters around the two corners of the hallways, followed by arcing jaggedly-severed limbs and concussed trolls, rag-dolled and flailing. But there's still more coming, based on the shouting and pounding footsteps. Jade recaptchalogues the riot gun and uncaptchalogues an even bigger one, which Strider's shades inform him is called an M2 var. GAU-18/A. The display informs him this is the model commonly used on USAF attack helicopters. A long belt of ammunition extends out of the side of thing, and a tripod mount dangles uselessly from the bottom- she's holding the fucking thing in one hand.

"YEAH, MOTHERFUCKERS! MOMMA'S GOT A MA DEUCE! WHADDA YOU GOT?"

Dave looks down at his Walther PPK. Well, at least no one can accuse him of compensating for anything. He raises the handgun, automatically assuming a firing position and lining up the iron sights at average head height. No matter whether the thing you're trying to kill has a brain or a thinkpan, a headshot is a headshot, and he's got limited ammo. Jade, obviously without this disadvantage, has already opened fire on the trolls behind him, but he wasn't lying when he told her he trusted her. He doesn't even need to turn around to know what's happening, and anyway it's probably not a pretty thing to watch.

He inhales. Holding the gun steady, he doesn't even flinch as several trolls leap over the corpses of their grenaded comrades. Holding his weapon steady, he fires nine times. Three of the trolls go down, each with a shot to the head and two to the belly- 9mm ammo can't pierce a troll's ribcage. The remaining ones draw beads on him and he's only got 1 round left in this clip.

He exhales slowly. It's going to be a long night.