Quetzalcoatl Feathers

Two creatures: over a hundred metres long, four metres wide, a dozen sets of legs which are squat like a lizard's and end in raptor's talons, a dog's head with snout like an alligators but shorter, a whipping tail, all covered in feathers mostly azure but sometimes bright green, rust orange, white or puce. They stand on their hind legs and tower parallel. Clawing air, short of reaching the other's torso but locking paws at four points. One jumps to be slightly atop the other and the two fall, knocking down a stobie pole.

The locked dragons roll 1420° together, crushing small gums and knocking a pine 30° askew. Claws dig into the other's flesh, the lower sinks teeth into the higher's throat, which roars akin to an elephant. The two coil at three curves like overenthusiastic, twisted 'S's, the higher's curves being (from the head back) horizontal, vertical and then horizontal, the lower's curves horizontal, horizontal, vertical. Another roll, 180°, throat bite reversed.  The two coil loosely together and writhe like bubbling mud. One, then the other: a great inhale followed by a high-pitched bellow, long over three slowing, softening beats.

The higher rolls off the lower and, laying content on their back, lights a metre long cigarette. Next to their head, Elise pipes up:

'Do I get paid now?'

The dragon flies away, slithering above treetops.

THREE DAYS EARLIER

Elbows on armrests, forearms steepling with left hand clasped over right, her back to the office door when it knocks.

'Come in.'

Meek: 'Elise Por Favor? The zoological psychologist?'

Damn straight: 'Yes. How can I help?'

'I'm looking to impress the females of my kind.'

'I can do that.' Elise finally spins chair to face the customer and her smile drops. 'Wait. You're not a turtle.'

One large eye gazes through the doorway: 'I'm a Quetzalcoatl. A feathered-serpent dragon.'

A job is a job. Elise had quit working at the zoo, citing 'oppressive political correctness of snowflake millennials triggered by a loose tiger'. She started an independent consultancy two months ago but the workflow is yet to become steady.

In a residential backstreet, Elise dishes out advice: 'Rule one. Stand straight with shoulders back. That's how lobsters assert dominance.'

The Quetzalcoatl complies. His snout barges into a lounge room and knocks over a chimney stack. His read third stretches through three backyards.

Elise flips rapidly through a well-worn self-help book: 'Um, um, OK, how about "Pet a cat when you encounter one in the street"?'

The Quetzalcoatl raises a massive paw and locks eyes with Chubs, a Burmese frozen and praying for the love of Tom, do not.

Elise: 'No no no. Scratch that. No, I mean, stop. Let's stop. Rethink this. Why do you think that lady dragons aren't interested in you?'

'It is a complicated ritual.'

'Ahhhh k.'

'I need a mejor amigo. In your tongue, a "wing man".'

'More details.'

The inner-suburban cafe is sparse at 14:00, one coffee date and another pair finishing lunch. Minimalist paintings of native flowers hang from cream walls. Elise takes a flat-white and sits at a bench near the front window. 16 minutes before a man, in slim tartan jacket and thick-rimmed glasses, takes the seat next to her with vanilla slice:

'107. 9-point-3. 64:17:8.'

Elise: 'Damn straight.'

A moment before he smiles smug: 'You're new to this? You know a Quetzalcoatl, right?'

Elise nods with a slight glare.

He raises digits from a right-handed fist, one at a time: 'Length, height, proportion of blue, green, purple. Yours?'

Elise sips coffee. Uh oh.

He frowns, annoyed: 'I need to know your guy's numbers to check if he's suitable.'

Ahah! She takes her phone out: 'I took a photo.'

He takes a look: 'This is not accurate data.'

'I've tried Tinder. Everyone's photo is of their good side.'

'That is not his good side.'

Elise turns a slightly manic smile over the empty cafe.

He sighs and stuffs mouth with vanilla slice: 'My name is Todd.'

BACK TO THE PRESENT

The second feathered-serpent dragon takes off, slithering away in the opposite direction.

Elise: 'What is this hit-it-and-quit-it bullshit?'

Todd climbs from a trench, scribbling into a notebook: 'Thatz-coo-et-sal-co-a-til-bang-in.'

A touch of screech: 'Without paying me? You. Why you do this?

Eyes remaining down: 'My thesis.'

'Well. Fuck.' Elise looks over the mangled grass and notices at least a dozen feathers - 35cm long, multicoloured with a jet-black shaft. 'Those look nice. I call dibs. All of them.'

Todd shrugs. Elise ends with 146 Quetzalcoatl feathers. She slips two favourites in the band of her pith helmet, accessorising, which she wears whenever she walks city streets. At a pedestrian crossing, a voice at Elise's side:

'You selling those feathers?'

'No I earned them they're valuable.'

Elise turns and softens before the smiling-cheeky first impression of a short, spunky woman with left sleeve-tattoo of monkshood and hawks. This is Amy, a bow hunter. Arrows fletched with Quetzalcoatl feathers are immune to gravity and air resistance, granting greater accuracy and range. Amy has, on eleven occasions, missed her target with such an arrow, which flew forever away into lost property, likely leaving the Earth's curvature and drifting into space, whereupon it becomes Denmark's problem. (Regarding the possibility of hitting someone: Amy pays a monthly premium to The All Knowing Machine, which specialises in specialised insurance policies.)

Amy and Elise go to a pub.

Elise: 'Why don't you just wingman a dragon?'

Wistful: 'It's a very heteronormative scene. Women wingman for the male dragons, men wingman for females. Also, I burnt bridges. Apparently it's taboo for wingmen themselves to get some.'

Finishing second pint: 'I have 144 spare feathers. I'd love to help you, but I love animals more.'

'Hm. That's 192 CatScript.' Amy thinks. 'You work with animals. I have something you want.'

They get a six pack to go and leave for parkland discrete in dusk. Amy presents a crossbow: grey and black carbon fibre, 30cm wide and twice as long, half the length being a butt-stock with a right-angle triangle lever tucked beneath. Amy aims one-handed at a pigeon roosting in an electricity transformer and pulls trigger - a 5cm pin digs halfway into the pigeon's breast. The pigeon thinks eh, close enough and promptly falls asleep.

Amy: 'The NOS-KAL. One-of-a-kind designed for a Lemurian special operation, since sold at Mitchells Adventure. No need to chamber, infinite tranquiliser mini-bolts so long as -'

Amy flips the NOS-KAL 360° around her hand, fingers remaining within the lever which is thereby pressed down. The crossbow's elastic is drawn and locked when Amy catches it back in her hand:

'- you can successfully flip-cock.'

'Gimme.'

Yawning: 'I'd advise practising the reload beforehand. Also, avoid use when intoxicated.'

A pin sticks through Amy's shoe. She curls up and falls asleep, dreams of Goku flashing behind her eyes.