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Black exhaled, mostly in irritation.

He tried to think it through rationally, and not through the lens of everything that had just gone through his mind. He wanted to talk to his wife, but she was likely busy now, anyway.

His little epiphany would have to wait.

“No,” he said, decisive.

He should probably check this out, for a lot of reasons.

It could be a threat. Or, if it did turn out to be a potential government client, it could be a way to strengthen those ties, and keep things friendly with the humans in charge here. There was a reason he’d chosen to involve himself with the military when he first arrived on this world.

He never again wanted to be entirely on the outside, looking in.

Not after being literal property on the world of his birth.

Dealing with these people personally would be a fuck of a lot more efficient than sending them away and having his team research them from afar. It would also be a lot more productive than whatever he was doing now, staring at his desk like agaos-damned zombie.

He firmed his jaw, and met Kiko’s gaze.

“I’ll take it,” he grumbled. “But only if you make me a real fucking coffee, Kiks. You know. From thesix-thousand-dollarespresso maker I got you whining, prima donna fucks to shut you up about what a tight-ass I supposedly am.”

Kiko’s lips twitched. “Sure thing, boss.”

He grunted. “Then do that. And tell Mr. and Mrs. Fake Name I’m on my way.”

3

MR. GOLD AND MS. SILVER

Black gripped an extra-large mug in his hand as he walked through the door into the all-glass conference room.

He didn’t hesitate to stare at his guests, or to size them up unapologetically.

He sipped the four-shot macchiato Kiko made him, unsure if he wanted to kiss her or smack her. He’d wanted the caffeine––badly––but this might be enough to make him vibrate out of his skin by the time the meeting finished.

In general, he’d been fucking volatile lately, so feeding him this much caffeine meant they’d deserve whatever came as a result.

Well, not all of them would.

You need to talk to Miri.

His mind stuttered, fractured.

Gaos. You really, really need to talk to her.

He forced back the pain that rose, but not before he had a passing thought that his own mind had gotten a fuck of a lot louder since the dragon-mind-monologue had gone away.

He walked towards the two very F.B.I. agent-looking people––apart from the expensive suits, as Kiko said––and didn’t hold out a hand until the first of them did.

“Mr. Quentin R. Black?” the man asked.

F.B.I.-looking fucker #1 stood up, hand out, a faint smile at his lips.

French. Interesting.

The accent was faint, but Black definitely heard it.

“Yes.” He shook the hand. “Mr. Gold?”