Leta barely registered the banter of her two companions. Since she’d generated this plan, she could think of little else than how to do it — of how to talk to Casner the right away. She had to engage him, she had to find out about Ren, and she had to do so without revealing who she was. Fiearius hadn’t shown any other interest in the idea, except when he’d seen the three of them departed the Dionysian earlier that evening.

“Surely there must be some mistake, finding these shining beacons of beauty and class exiting my ship,” he’d said to Leta and Corra with a dramatic flourish of his hand, before adding, gesturing to his brother, “And with this.” He’d let out a loud bark of a laugh and strode past them carelessly.

But it didn’t matter what Fiearius thought about their appearance or anything else. Now, it was time to execute. With an inhale of breath, she shifted the bodice of her long purple gown — an item she’d picked up with Corra earlier in the afternoon — fixed the mask on her face, and stepped into the hall.

At once, Leta had to squint her eyes. The hall was larger than a cathedral and every painting and wine glass and woman’s gown glinted in the light. As she stepped down the ornate staircase, Leta drew her long gloves higher up over her forearms, effectively concealing the Society tattoo on her her skin. Though, if there were any place where that mark on her arm would be admired, it would be here. Resisting the urge to glower, Leta kept her lips in a smooth, thin line of indifference as her eyes shifted over the large oval room beneath the mask.

She scanned over the sea of gowns and suits, and suddenly, a problem struck her. By the looks of it, she was the only person unaccompanied, absent a partner to curve her arm around, and as such, she stuck out: she was going to draw attention as a single young woman. It wasn’t a terrible hindrance, but nonetheless, she felt a stab of annoyance at, of all people, Fiearius. He was supposed to be her goddamn date.

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, Leta stood tall and still, just another wealthy guest at this party. For now. “I’m going to get a drink,” she told them. “Let me know if you see him.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” Corra assured her, though her attention had wandered up to a glittering, tremendous chandelier on the ceiling. Still holding her arm, Cyrus provided Leta a weak smile and nodded quickly. Well, at least one of them would probably be paying attention.

Satisfied, Leta drifted toward the opulent, half-moon bar in the corner, its rows of liquor bottles glistening like jewels. She rested her elbow on the shining surface, her eyes behind her mask moving through the room for any signs of Casner. Was he the gracious type, she wondered, who would start greeting guests at the the door? Or was he going to be loud and raucous and command attention from a table?

Her thoughts were interrupted a moment later by a gray-haired gentleman in a fine suit (at least twice her age, Leta noted) who brushed her arm. He bent low to speak in her ear.

“You, my dear, are drawing every eye in this room.”

Sure fucking hope not, thought Leta at once, but she forced a smile all the same. She managed to exchange all the right pleasantries with this man, the traces of her Vescentian accent and demeanor surely helping her cause. At least her until he said, “May I buy you a drink?” and gestured toward the premium liquor.

And with that, Leta couldn’t help herself. “But it’s an open bar,” she said bluntly, snorting, and then regretted it immediately. That was a comment someone from the Dionysian would make, but not an affluent young woman with millions who just loved these sort of events. Luckily, after giving her a curious look, the man seemed to think Leta was being coy and chuckled appreciatively before having a flute of champagne delivered to her.

Leta picked up the glass, sipped it and smiled stiffly. As soon as her back was turned, the smile dropped off her face. If this was how the whole night was going to be, she needed to corner Casner soon.

But he wasn’t near the tables, Leta noted, nor was he on the dance floor — though it was hard to tell once the orchestra struck up a lively tune and more couples joined in. Leta tilted the rest of the champagne into her mouth, furrowing her brow as she regarded two security guards near the wall. She had the sudden sense that Casner was nearby — he must have been, this was his party —

And that was when it happened. Just as she reached to deposit her emptied glass on the bar, there was a strong grip on her upper arm and someone had tugged her away from the bar and steered her decisively toward the dance floor.

Leta was about to yell in protest, but it caught in her throat when she glimpsed the stranger who held her at his side. The man was tall, dressed in formal wear and his face was covered in the most obnoxious orange and red feather bird mask. No one else in the room was wearing an animal mask of that size. But it was his subtle smirk that gave it away.

“What’re you doing here?” she hissed to Fiearius as he pulled her into a dance.

“But you’re not wrong about one thing,” he went on. “Dune’s a good place for business. So if it’ll make you shut up, we’ll head there. Go to your fancy party. I honestly hope it works out for you.” He paused thoughtfully. “It won’t. Since I hate hope so much.” He shot a quick glare at Corra. “But go on and try.”

“So you’re not coming,” said Leta bitingly. “Even though we have more of a chance of finding out anything with you there?”

Fiearius mustered a smirk. “There’s little chance that anyone in that room won’t have noticed the Society’s database of bounties in the last four years…” He grimaced apologetically. “And I’m just a bit recognizable. I’ll pass.” He stood up to his feet, kicking his chair aside on his way toward the door.

“But please, go. I shall live vicariously through you as I get some real work done so you can afford to go dress shopping,” he went on casually. “Oh and good luck getting Cy to go with you,” he added, letting out his bark-like laugh. He left the deck to go set the course, leaving Leta looking shocked, and really quite hurt, at the table.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Once Fiearius left, Leta put her face in her hands and allowed herself exactly three minutes of hatred, anger and swear words so vicious that Amora, the cook, gasped in horror as she entered the mess hall. But Leta wasn’t listening to Amora. She had half the mind to stalk after the captain on his own ship and slap him across the face for promising to help her and now acting completely useless.

Finally, with several deep breaths, she shook it off. She didn’t need him now. She had work to do.

So, with Corra on her tail, Leta marched to the command deck where she crawled up the ladder, knocked twice on the metal hatch to Cyrus’ room and called, “You awake in there?” Without waiting for a response, she pushed it open and climbed inside, holding a mug of coffee in one hand. Just as shamelessly, Corra clambered in afterwards.

Leta’s first impression of Cyrus’ room was that it looked less like sleeping quarters and more like a workshop. Blueprints covered the walls, drawings lay in piles, and his desk was covered in textbooks. Leta glanced over the walls curiously before she looked to the figure in the bed, who had just sat upright, alarmed, his hair a mess.

“What the–?” said Cyrus incredulously, his face reddening as he secured a sheet around his middle. With his other hand he fished for his glasses off the nightstand.

“We come bearing coffee and good news,” said Corra cheerfully, plopping onto his bed beside him, as Leta reached to hand him the mug, which he accepted wearily.

“Coffee and news are great,” he muttered, “but what I really would love is some privacy…“

“You’re not too hungover to listen, are you?” said Leta, hardly able to contain herself as she lowered to the edge of Cyrus’ bed. “Because something’s happened. And I wanted to ask y — wait, are you really naked under there?” she demanded suddenly, as she glanced down at the blanket with an irked brow, laughing at the fresh redness in his face. “Whatever, never mind. Listen — I found out the name of the guy who captured Ren. And I’m going to get him to talk to me. He works for the Society and he lives on Dune, and every month he holds these parties in his mansion. And I want to go to the next one. I want to talk to him. I have to talk to him.”

If this was too much information for Cyrus at this early hour, he did not appear to mind. In fact, he frowned thoughtfully. “But how will you not get caught?” he asked after a moment.

“We’ll be in disguise,” Corra put in helpfully, casting him a hopeful grin.

“And you know how to get in?”

“That’s easy,” said Leta at once.

“Identifying the guy?”

“Covered!” chimed Corra.

Cyrus glanced between them and fell into a contemplative silence as he considered the notion. For a moment Leta’s heart sank: he would turn them down, just like his brother had. He too would call the whole thing stupid and cast them off. But then he muttered thoughtfully, “That’s not a bad idea. It’s probably worth a shot, right?”

“See! I knew I liked you better for a reason,” said Corra, beaming and grasping his shoulder.

Leta, sighing in relief to finally have real help, went on, “So you’ll add us to the guest list,” she continued, trying to calm herself, though her fingers drummed atop her knee as she stared intently at him. “And you — you could stand watch while I make nice with these people and talk to this asshole. You’re smart and helpful and you know how to use a gun and Fiearius refuses to help, so — I was hoping you’d come with.”

Cyrus paused in mid-sip of his coffee, slowly lowering the mug. “Oh — no I — I don’t think so,” he answered, sounding characteristically nervous. “I can’t see how I could help. And she’s much better with a gun than I am.” He gestured to Corra. “I don’t think you need me. I’d probably just get in the way.”

Corra, busy examining her nails, pointed out, “And you hate large social gatherings.”

“And I hate large social gatherings,” Cyrus agreed, smiling sheepishly. “I’ll help you get in. But unless you get Fiear on your side, I think you two are gonna have to take on the rest alone.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Cyrus sighed, nervously adjusting the collar of his formal jacket as he stood in the gardens beside Leta. All around them, couples stood in line to enter the gala, chatting and laughing. “I can’t believe — “

Before he could finish, Corra hooked her arm around his, elbowed him in the ribs and lifted her chin confidently, using her free hand to swish her new dress. “Shush,” she scolded, grinning through the mask on her face. “What if the cap’n’s right and we do get into trouble? Won’t you be glad that you came?”

“If I’m not dead,” Cyrus muttered, and then winced when she squeezed his arm too tightly.

At once, Corra flared up at his other side. “Leta’s awesome, you leave her alone! She stole us drinks and she does surgery and she is the best.”  Her words slurred, but they were still enough to make Leta suddenly beam drunkenly with pride. Then, Fiearius felt a mild pressure in his ribs that he could only assume was Corra’s attempt to attack him. He feigned a grimace of pain on her behalf.

Finally, it was with one last drunken stumble that they made it up the ramp into the open cargo bay. The rest of the ship lay in sleepy silence, although probably not for much longer if Corra and Leta kept shouting at one another about how cute that bartender had been or whatever they were saying. It was difficult to discern amongst the giggles.

Finally Corra pried herself away from his arm and started to wind dizzily over to the stairs. “I bid thee a good night, mine cap’n,” she declared with dramatic flair. “Mine friends.” She giggled. “Shall we be off?”

“Just one second,” Leta called back, and to Fiearius’ surprise, she slipped away from Cyrus and caught his forearm in her hand, pulling him back towards the open door. As Cyrus wandered off after Corra, Fiearius watched with interest as Leta set down her prized bottle carefully near her feet, then stood up with sudden authority, staring at him avidly in the semi-darkness.

“I need to talk to you,” she said. Her voice wavered, but her eyes shone with seriousness. “About things.”

Curiously, Fiearius surveyed her through narrowed eyes: she was swaying slightly on her feet, her cheeks were flushed pink and she seemed to struggle to hold her gaze on him. He raised an eyebrow. “Think now’s really the best time, kiddo?”

Surprisingly, it was with a clear, cold voice that she said, “Please, don’t call me that. I’m not a child. I’ve never felt less like a child in my life, actually.”

Unable to decide if he was annoyed or impressed with her sudden bout of lucidness, he only smirked. “Still look like one, though.”

“You — you’re seriously insulting my appearance now,” she said blandly. “That’s where we’re at with each other? I  really don’t think you want to play that game with me, captain,” she laughed, but it was a maddened one. There was a definite strain of hysteria in her voice he hadn’t really heard before, and he had to admit he was intrigued to see where this was going, at least for the moment. “But, guess I should expect that from you by now, right?” she rambled, “Even if you really have  — ”

But whatever it was about him, he never found out. She cut herself off, suddenly looking up at him with an odd look of loss in her eyes. As quickly as the look appeared, she went on, with an abrupt snap back to her usual manner, “Nothing. Fuck it. Let’s just get this over with.” Suddenly, she pointed at him accusingly, rather like a lawyer might confront a witness. “You need to tell me if I’m wasting my time on your ship. Because I deserve to know that. You’ve been avoiding answering me all week. So are you going to help me with Ren or not?” she demanded. “Because otherwise, I need to be left at the next stop.”

Fiearius couldn’t decide how he wanted to answer her. Then, he realized he wasn’t interested in this drunken conversation after all.

“It’s late,” he said shortly, starting to step around her. “You’re drunk. Go to bed.”

Unfortunately, he only made it a half-step to the side before Leta was in front of him again, blocking his path with a fire in her eyes. “No, you don’t get to tell me what to do. I’m not part of your crew.”

Pausing, Fiearius squinted innocently at her. “Have you told Corra that? ‘Cause I believe she thinks differently,” he said, starting to veer around her other side. But she was in front of him at once, making them do some sort of zig-zag around one another. Now she looked as if she’d been slapped in the face.

“Oh leave her out of this,” she snapped. “Corra knows why I’m here, she wants to help me. And you’ve made it pretty clear you won’t, so I am wasting my time, aren’t I? Just tell me so I can finally leave and plan my next move.”

Fiearius observed her in a dull, sarcastic admiration. The scrawny young woman stood blocking his way to the stairs with the confidence of a warrior. “Gods,” he couldn’t help but grumble good naturedly,  “you’re pushy, ain’t ya?”

“Terribly,” she admitted. “But what do you — “

This was definitely not when he wanted to talk about this. Not here, not now and definitely not to this belligerent woman who looked like she was either about to slap him in the face or sink to his feet and pass out. “You’re not. Just go to bed. We can talk about this later,” he finished gruffly, and he was about to elbow her out of the way when she elbowed him first.

“I’m not?” she repeated heatedly. “I’m not what?” Apparently, she was sharp even in her drunken state.

But that wasn’t enough to keep him from rolling his eyes. “Wasting your time. You’re not wasting your time.” Though you are wasting mine, he thought bitterly, thinking fondly of his bed waiting for him on the command deck. But now, as she continued to stare up at him intensely, he could only think of one way to end this conversation.

“Look,” he growled finally, clasping a hand in his hair and stepping back from the stairs. “I may be a dirty rotten criminal, but I’m a man of my word. If I tell you I’m gonna do something, you gotta trust me to do it. But since apparently you don’t … “ He dropped his hand to the side in defeat.

“Your boyfriend’s on the Baltimore,” he stated shortly, causing her to blink in surprise. “Cy got me the coordinates, I did a bit of digging in Society records and that’s what came up. The Baltimore. One of the better prison ships in the fleet. I don’t know where on the Baltimore or how to get on it or how to get someone else off of it yet, but it’s a start. It’s a start,” he paused for dramatic effect, “that I will think about. As I told you. Multiple times. Thinking about it.” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “Okay? Satisfied?”

It was clear this woman was hanging on his every word, absorbing what he said with a shocked look on her face. It was actually difficult to witness: for the first time, hope glinted in her eyes.

“He’s on the Baltimore?” she said at last, one hand clasping nervously her mouth. “We know where he is?” A shaky sort of exhale escaped her, and for the first time since he’d known her, she looked stricken and somehow much more human than usual.

“So that’s — so that’s where we have to go then,” she whispered, her eyes growing distant, until she spared him a look of apology. “Sorry I just attacked you,” she added quietly. “But it’s just — ”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted before she could finish the thought. He eyed her warily in silence. It was hard to fault the girl, really, no matter how annoying she was. When it came down to it…

“It’s fine,” he said calmly. “If I were in your position, I’d do the same.”