Tidbit. (edit: these are not the html tags you are looking for. fix’d.)
You grew up on Murder, She Wrote and Magnum PI and Unsolved Mysteries and The X-Files. High school was boredom punctuated with flashes of frantic color: Leading the debate team to State Championships three years running (you insist freshman year was a fluke), gleefully starting the first Mock Trial Club in the Conference, being introduced to tabletop gaming. University was four years of devouring textbooks - psychology, with a minor in sociology - because you can get places with a Bachelor’s in Psych, just not the places you’d think.
You enter the Minnesota State Patrol Academy four days after your twenty-second birthday. Sixteen weeks later, you grin at the poor sod who’s taking down your name at your new assignment - district 2700, the Cook-Lake-Carlton-and-Pine Counties, and the Duluth slice of St. Louis County. (You wanted to stay near your family in Grand Marais! For a given value of nearness. You dream of Langley and the CIA, maybe after you’ve a few more years experience. For now, Duluth and the highways that run out of it are enough to satisfy you.)
"That’s Papa-Yankee-Romeo-Oscar-Papa-Echo, Tango-Echo-Romeo-Echo-Zulu-India." You grin wider. The poor man’s ears go pinker, but this time he spells your name properly. (It isn’t YOUR fault the Pyrope clan is the only Greek family on the Iron Range! Surely you can be forgiven a bit of sadistic glee.)
Time passes. You decline a promotion that could have made your 3NT1R3 C4R33R (wait, what?) because it would mean relinquishing your patrol car for a desk. Langley becomes a fond daydream, something to plot out in your head when you’re bored. You end up DMing for the local Vampires: The Masquerade larp group, and it grows into your schedule like ivy over a house. You study the history of law, now, instead of its applications. Sometimes you think of law school, or of a different uniform from the tan-and-brown that you keep starched and ironed. It’s an entertaining diversion, but your mind sings with hot-gold-spark-glee when your car’s radio crackles to life with a call. Nothing will ever be better than this - just you, the car, the destination, and the Law.
Time passes. Some things change. Some don’t.
Your name is Terezi Pyrope. You are thirty years old, this coming October. Yesterday, a drugged-up weirdo tried to tell you a story about alternate universes and aliens and blind red eyes and meteors, which earned him a verbal warning and you a mild headache. You’re not an alien! You are as human as they come, just like everyone else you know. (You repeat that thought to yourself like you’re praying the Rosary. You are normal. Normal is relative. There is nothing new under the sun. He’s just some crazy meth-head letting whatever pops into his head come out his mouth.)
The night after you chase him off with threats of handcuffs and nuisance charges, you dream of dragons.