Even having traded his soggy tweed suit for a Tarraleah First XI T-shirt, Ugg boots and oversized track pants, the Archduke managed to maintain the air of self-assured superiority and bonhomie. Seated before the fire with a blanket over his shoulders, he drained his mulled wine (the ordering of which were his very first, almost reflex-like words upon regaining consciousness) and, looking around with the first signs of genuine attention since his defrosting, noticed Peregrine standing by the bar.

"Ah, excellent. You, bar-wench." He held up his empty glass. "Another."

"Wench?" Peregrine grinned in delight. "Ha! Can't remember the last time somebody called me that."

"Never fear, my dear." The Archduke waggled both the glass and his eyebrows at her. "If it's name-calling you fancy, you've come to the right man. And you'll be called something a damn sight worse if you don't damn well hurry up and fetch my damn wine." He turned to Fields, standing alongside his partner. "And you, potboy. Bring me a steaming bowl of whatever swill this benighted establishment of yours calls soup, and make it snappy. And then throw another log on the fire, damn it. I'm sure I can't recall ever feeling quite so bloody cold."

"Uh..." Still taken aback that what he'd been sure was a corpse had instead turned out to be alive and kicking—and apparently a bit of a dickhead—Fields stared wide-eyed at the Archduke's haughty, mutton-chopped features. Despite the facial hair, he was younger than Fields had expected, looking far fresher and clear-skinned than any man born in the first half the 19th century had a right to. "I'm not actually...although, I s'pose I could..."

The Archduke rolled his eyes. "Bloody colonials," he declared, shrugging off the blanket and getting to feet. "One would be forgiven for thinking they don't speak the Queen's own English. A fellow could freeze to death waiting to be serviced properly around here. Now," he continued, sauntering over to the two agents, "are you two slack-jawed layabouts going to shake a leg and do as I say, or I shall I give you both the thrashing of your lives? Hmm? What's it going to be?"

"Now, now, Archie." Peregrine gave his arm a friendly pat. "I know your brain's probably still part popsicle, but you may want to dial it back a notch there, sunshine. After all, we just—"

"My, my," interrupted the Archduke, raising an eyebrow as he leaned in closer. "What have we here? Unlike most of the Highland Arm's trollops, you improve with proximity, my dear. My goodness yes, you're a definite cut above the usual class of floozy they have here. What a complexion. Peaches and cream ain't in it." He again glanced around the interior of the pub. "In fact, the whole establishment is looking rather fresher than usual"—he sniffed—"and a damn sight less malodorous, to boot. In any case, cancel the soup and the wine"—he gave Fields a broad wink—"I can think of a far more enjoyable way to warm up. Rowr, as the Tasmanian tigers say. Or at least, I assume they do. I generally shoot the buggers before they get within hearing distance."

"Hey." Instinct kicking in, Fields stepped between the two, even though he could think of few people less in need of protection than Peregrine. "Watch it."

The Archduke merely smiled. "Never fear, my boy. You can have her back afterwards. She may have even learned a new trick or two."

Expression stony, Fields had time to clap a hand on the defrosted man's shoulder and growl, "Right, that's en—" before his world turned upside down, the breath whooshed from his lungs and a galaxy of stars exploded before his eyes. Moments later, he found himself under a table, breathless and in pain, taking in a hazy ground-level view of the Archduke's tracksuited legs sidling closer to Peregrine's pants-clad pair.  

"Now, mon cheri. Where were we? Ah yes, I was just about to sample—"

The Archduke's legs jerked rigid, twitched a few times and then he went down like a tree, hard enough to bounce on impact with the floorboards. His wide-eyed, fixed expression was a curious blend of astonishment and lechery.

Peregrine's face appeared from around the edge of the table and grinned down at her partner. "C'mon, tough guy. Lying on the floor in pubs is not a good look." As she reached to help him up, Fields took note of the taser in her other hand. Even through his grogginess, he was surprised—his partner wasn't usually one to let the chance to punch someone go begging.

She noticed the direction of his gaze. "Yeah, can't go damaging the merchandise, can we?" She winked. "At least, not permanently." Slipping the device into a pocket, she gave the Archduke a nudge with her toe. "What a character, huh? They sure don't make 'em like this anymore."

Fields gazed down at the fallen man. "Thank goodness," he muttered, rubbing his head. "Um, what the hell just happened?"

Regina spoke up. "Perhaps I should have mentioned there are reasons beyond his remarkable preservation for our revival of Mr Rawlinson-Thomas."

"Let me guess," said Peregrine. "His charm and winning personality?"

"Ah-ha-ha. Ahem. No, I'm afraid not. You see, in addition to his renown as a brewer of illicit beverages, the Archduke also made something of a name for himself as a bare-knuckle brawler. He was already a boxing blue in his Oxford days, and it seems between locals eager to 'take the poncy toff down a peg or two' and cash-strapped miners attempting to welch on their tabs, he further developed his fighting prowess to a quite extraordinary degree. It was those skills, combined with his apparent ability to survive conditions no ordinary human should, that brought him to our attention.

"Now, given those skills, perhaps it might be best transport him to the helicopter while he's still in his current, ah...compliant state."

"Yeah." Fields gave his jaw a careful rub. "Even though he only got the drop on me because I wasn't ready, of course." Given he was pretty handy in a fight, having punched a wider variety of creatures from a more diverse range of universes than most, this may have been true. But Fields wasn't keen to take any chances. "Compliant sounds good to me."

****

"Attention, unknown aircraft. This is RNZAF Base Woodbourne, please identify. You are traversing restricted airspace. Repeat, please identify."

"Still nothing, corporal? Maybe you could try another frequency?"

"I've tried all the primary channels, sir. Commercial, domestic and military—no response."

"Right. And what's the radar telling us?"

"Well, it's a strange signal, sir. Seems too slow to for a fixed-wing aircraft, but it doesn't really match the signature of a chopper, either. Could be some kind of a paraglider or gyrocopter I guess, but it's probably too big to be either of those, plus, to the best of our knowledge, there isn't really anything like that based around these parts. It's a mystery."

"Nothing visual?"

"No, sir. Although, there is...actually, never mind. I'm sure it's nothing."

"I suspect I'm the best judge of that, corporal. Come on, spit it out."

"Well, if you insist, sir. We ran the contact past Airways Wellington, just on the off-chance it might be some joyrider who forgot to lodge their flight-plan, or something like that. And the tower did mention a report of a strange visual, radioed in by a charter flight. The pilot reported—and please remember sir, I'm only repeating what he said—he reported seeing a large...well, a large scaly flying creature, sir."

"A large scaly flying creature, corporal?"

"Yes, sir. At least, that's what was reported. By the pilot of the charter flight."

"So, a large scaly flying creature, as in, something a bit like a dragon?"

"A dragon? Oh, I couldn't speculate as to that, sir."

"Bloody hell, why does this kind of stuff always happen on my shift? You know, corporal, those damn Lord of the Rings movies have a lot to answer for. They might have done wonders for our tourism but this is the side of the coin nobody ever thinks about. It's thanks to them we have the kind of wackjobs out there who can't keep enough of a divide between fantasy and reality to realise Aotearoa is not in actual fact populated by hobbits and beardy wizards and hot elfish princesses. A large scaly flying creature, my arse."

"Um. Yes, sir. And the contact?"

"What?"

"The unknown contact, sir. What should I do about it?"

"Oh, yeah. Let's see. Have we still got that A109 onsite?"

"Yes, sir."

"Right, in that case, round up the crew and have 'em go take a look."

"Yes, sir. And if it should turn out to be a, um, you know...?"

"Corporal, are you seriously asking me what we're going to do if we discover a dragon trespassing in our airspace?"

"Uh, no sir. Of course not. But what if it is?"

"Well then, after we shoot it down, I guess you and I will have first dibs on its hoard, corporal, won't we? Early retirement for us, eh? All the treasure and princesses we can handle. And then maybe we head off on a magical quest to Candy Mountain or some such. Sound good?"

"Sir, I didn't mean...I only thought—"

"Corporal?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, sir."

"And then scramble that bloody chopper."

****

With the Archduke securely strapped in a rear seat of the helicopter, Fields once again watched the stark beauty of the Tasmanian landscape unfurling beneath and occasionally (all too often for his liking) alongside them. He consoled himself that at least his newly acquired headache was something of a distraction from his treacherous stomach.

"Wasabi macadamia?" Peregrine held out a crumpled bag, from which the fumes alone were enough to make Fields' eyes water. "Cabin service on this flight is not at the standard to which we've become accustomed, but luckily I came prepared."

He held up a hand. "Tempting, but I'm all good thanks. Care to fill me in on our next stop?"

"Beats me, Fields. I got a brief rundown on Archie when they signed us up for this gig, but beyond that I know just as much as you do."

"But I don't know anything!"

"I know. Exciting, huh?"

He glared at her for a moment, before closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. "Regina?"

"Yes, Agent Fields?"

"Where to next?"

"To attempt our next recruitment, of course. Right after dropping off Mr Rawlinson-Thomas."

"Dropping him off?" queried Fields. "Dropping him off where?"

"Why, at our base."

"Wait a minute. We have a base?"

"Of course we do, Agent Fields. We have multiple potential recruits on our list, and we can't very well cart them all around with us as we go, can we? An Australian base has been established, a central hub at which our new recruits will be housed as they are assessed and trained and hopefully moulded into the assets we need. Heroes do not come readymade, I'm afraid. The Archduke in particular will require careful and compassionate counselling as he comes to realise he is a relic of a world which no longer exists."

"Yeah," agreed Peregrine, "and that the girl he's hitting on might just be packing 50,000 volts. Ha! Right, so we dump the douchey duke and then what?"

"Then, Agent Peregrine, we are going to see a lady with anger management issues."

"Ooh," Peregrine popped another nut into her mouth, "I like her already."