Cohost writing prompt: @Dragon-who — Dragon who was getting bored of knights until they started showing up in mech suits
"Dylan!" shouts the operation coordinator. "Over here!" He shakes her hand over-enthusaistically. "Our legendary Chevalier, back in the pilot's seat for this one! It's an honour to work with you, maybe we can lure you back to EuroDragon full-time, eh?"
"Who knows," she says diplomatically, failing to dredge up enough of a smile. He's not looking, anyway, already bouncing along to the next thing, turning away even before letting go of her hand.
"You must come and meet the front-end team. I don't think the Kingdom of Burgundy had anyone active with us, during your operations?"
Few of the nations of Federated Europe still have a monarchy, and fewer still have any people they're willing to risk to act as the traditional bait. The Burgundian princess would only have been — twelve? Thirteen? when Dylan last piloted for EuroDragon, certainly not out in the field.
They pass under an outstretched winglet on one of the new Hospitaller Draconis frames, and she eyes the state-of-the-art vectored thrust units. She doesn't miss the bureaucracy; she does miss the piloting. Three years in microlight frames as a camera platform for the BBC, filming Atlantic Drakes; several more hauling around a chunky, indestructible antique after a wild flight as a support driver for a long-term draconic behavioural research project on the Mongolian steppes. All piloting, technically, but it's not this.
"Vermelais Magistrix has been behaving erratically, more aggressive than usual, and the vets suspect toothache. We've secured the cooperation of Vogue in shooting a fashion spread with Princess Mercedes on the edge of Vermelais' territory, and when that gets the dragon's attention, you'll be on standby with the tranq rail lance. Get a hit in, let the scaly close, and keep dancing until the drugs kick in."
Dylan's read the briefing, and she's done this more times than this guy's fluffed his own ego. Okay; maybe not that many. Enough. She's a professional, she knows what she's doing. And her touch with Vermelais, their rapport in scrapping each other to a standstill without either ever landing a too-serious blow, is legendary.
She holds her tongue.
Seconds later, she's grateful, as they walk into the area where they're briefing the front-end talent, the Vogue protographers and — the face.
Dylan's assaulted for a moment by flashes of an Alpine ski lodge, last spring. A sullen face in a yapping pack of shitty young aristos, eyes that followed Dylan around the room. A bathroom stall, lips sticky with lip gloss, mouth tasting of hot chocolate and brandy. No names.
Princess Mercedes looks right through her as though it never happened, or lodged no impression in her memory. Dylan's long work reading the bodies of dangerous wildlife sees more than her disinterested face, though, sees the invountary pull of muscles the instant she sees Dylan.
"Your Highness," she says, as if she never bothered to remembered the princess, either. "I hear we have a dragon to catch."