“For the time being?” asked Alex, brows lifted.
The barista shrugged their—evidently, her—shoulders. “I contain multitudes. Don’t go dictating circumstances for my womanhood, Alexandre.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Cat.”
“You two know each other?” Pru demanded. Her voice jumped an octave on the last syllable.
“I’m pretty sure Cat would have called the authorities by now if we didn’t,” said Alex. The corner of his mouth rose ever so slightly. “Plasma gun and all.”
“Nonsense,” said Cat, sticking a tray of bagels into the bakery display. “I would have been perfectly pleased to call the authorities on my own mother, god rest her soul, if she made the sort of scene you did in this coffeehouse. The only reason I didn’t see you arrested and turned over to the Barricaders’ Courts is because you gave me at least an hour’s notice that you planned to accost some schoolgirl around these premises. You did cut it rather close, Alexandre.”
Alex shrugged. “Sorry.”
“You knew I was going to be here?” Pru demanded. If her voice climbed any higher, she’d be squeaking out questions like a cartoon mouse.
“If it had been forty-five minutes, I would have had you both handcuffed,” said Cat, sounding pleased at the thought.
“Your candor is noted,” said Alex.
Cat rolled her eyes, jerked her head at Pru, and fired something off in Spanish, too quick and fluent for Pru to catch.
“It’s not nice to threaten to shoot people in languages they can’t understand,” Alex told her.
Cat scowled. “She’s a waste of your time and mine.”
“She’s a friend of Anabel’s.”
That, if possible, deepened Cat’s scowl further still.
The coffeehouse door slammed open with a violent clang that cut off even the auto-tuned welcome jingle. Anabel Park strode through with a gait that made her school uniform look like some fantasy queen’s robes, black hair impeccably glossy in its high pony-tail, eyes furious. “Alex!” she thundered. Her gaze narrowed on the plasma gun at his hip. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Alex saluted Anabel with Pru’s empty coffee cup by way of greeting. “Trying to pin down the whereabouts of a rogue, cybernetic dragon. You?”
“Finishing up press for your concert.” Anabel blew wisps of dark hair off her forehead. “You know, convincing media outlets that we did something righteous and sexy in the name of Barricader values, but definitely not something that should actually land us in jail.”
“You thought it would be fun,” said Alex blithely.
“And I was not wrong,” Anabel retorted in severe tones. “Music is fun. Damage control, less so. You owe me a favor, Lamarque. Stage managing isn’t easy. Nor are public relations.”
Alex tilted a stage-brilliant smile toward Anabel. “But you’ve made such an art form of both.”
“Flattery doesn’t count as my favor,” Anabel informed him, but amusement crinkled the corners of her perfectly lined eyes. “I hope your uncle’s satisfied. So far as I’m concerned, he owes me a favor too.”
The brilliant smile winked out. “And he’ll grant it, no doubt.” Alex ran a palm over his face, eyes closed. “We needed to pull Incorporated focus elsewhere—anywhere—while we got Project Rebelwing back under control. Breaching their propaganda channels with an hour’s worth of black market music got the job done. And hey.” A hint of the dimple returned. “Meanwhile, Incorporated citizens hear what we have to say.”
“For the price of a diplomatic incident,” Anabel pointed out, unmoved.
“Good,” said Alex grimly. “Because if it’s diplomatic incidents we’re concerned about, I think the giant dragon mech that escaped into Incorporated territory in the middle of a wyvern scare is probably due to cause a bigger one than a few rock songs. Arms races almost destroyed this continent once, remember? The distraction from the concert blowout buys us some time, but it’ll run out eventually.”
“At least the dragon turns invisible. It’s got that advantage over a wyvern flock.”
“When we’re lucky. I don’t like those chances. We need Rebelwing home and safely stabled, sooner rather than later.”
Anabel folded her arms. “So you interrogate my friend at gunpoint?”
“I interrogated a thief who’s committed grand theft auto on our best and only defense against a reportedly rebooted wyvern flock, yes.”
“Hey!” cried Pru. “That’s enough!” Twin pairs of snapping dark eyes whipped toward her, as if remembering Pru’s presence for the first time. “First, I’m a book smuggler, not a thief, you unbelievable dick. I move media products between Barricader and Incorporated territory; I don’t mug people. Second, it’s not my fault I got sucked inside that crazy dragon mech monstrosity, okay? I didn’t exactly ask for the Full Reptile Experience: Mobile Suit Edition. Third,” she paused for air, “what in actual hell is going on?”
Anabel’s shoulders slumped. “I should have told you everything from the beginning.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” said Alex and Cat in unison.
Anabel directed a ferocious glare at Alex, but her gaze softened on the barista. “Cat,” she said, her voice gentle, “none of this is your—”
An auburn eyebrow arched. “Business?”
“Fault.”
The barista shrugged. “It is, rather. Both my business, and my fault.”
“What is?” Pru practically shrieked.
“The dragon, of course,” said Cat, in a tone devoid of emotional inflection. “Our wayward Rebelwing. That’s what this pair of imbeciles is trying and failing to tell you about. The dragon mech you just joy-rode was the product of an old and foolish engineering dream.”
“Uh-huh, sure. What kind of mech engineer would dream up a dragon?”
“The kind that knows a thing or nine about how wyverns are made,” drawled Cat, “and worse, what they’re made for.” She shrugged. “I was born in the slums of an Incorporated wyvern factory, licensed to a self-styled engineer named Harold Jellicoe.”
“You?” Pru stared at the barista who’d served her a tray of coffee and cha siu buns barely an hour ago. She tried to picture her building war machines for the UCC instead of selling overpriced snacks to Barricader schoolgirls. “You created the dragon? Project Rebelling, or whatever you called it?”