One heavily penciled eyebrow shot upward. “Was that today? How did it go?”
Nova opened her mouth to tell Honey what a failure the mission had been. She hesitated, though, and instead told her, “They had an actress portraying you on the villain float.”
Honey started. The bumblebee slipped into her drink and she reached in and plucked it out without looking, dropping the sodden creature onto the vanity.
“She was really pretty,” Nova added. “I mean, not quite on par with”—she gestured at Honey’s gown—“but still, she did a good job. Very classy. I don’t even think she got hit with any fruit.”
Honey looked down into her glass, her long, fake eyelashes brushing against her cheek, and for that moment she looked like a portrait. Sad and forlorn. A queen divided from her kingdom.
“Perhaps they haven’t forgotten me, after all.”
“Oh, come on,” said Nova, bobbing the bag of tea in the mug. “How could they forget about you?”
A faint smile climbed up Honey’s glistening lips, just as a yellow jacket made its way over them.
“On another note…” Nova held up the steaming mug. “Could I borrow some honey?”
Honey looked at her, eyes shining, and sighed.
The tea was already cooling when she left Honey’s room and headed for the fork in the tunnels. Nova passed another abandoned platform, a mural of chipped and grungy tiles marking the stop for Blackmire Station, and again she paused, considering.
The platform was set with three children-size circus tents, each one barely big enough to stand up in. Their wide stripes done in once-vibrant primary colors had been dulled with years of dirt and grime. The tents were connected through flaps torn into the fabric and stitched together with shreds of old sleeping bags and bedsheets, forming a sort of miniature tent-palace. The most striking change, though, was that their pennant flags had been replaced with skewered doll heads, one to each tent, their dull black eyes watching anyone who dared approach.
Nova set down the cup of tea and hauled herself up onto the platform. She peeled back the front flap of the tent and spent a moment letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, and her wrinkled nose adjust to the stark odor of Winston Pratt, who had never been particularly adept at self-hygiene.
Holding her breath, she stepped over the scattered remains of broken windup toys and dried-out paint sets, making her way to the second tent, where a child’s wooden kitchenette greeted her, overflowing with food both real and plastic.
She rummaged through the fake refrigerator and cabinets until she found a bag of kettle corn and a candy bar. She stuffed them both into her pockets.
Winston wouldn’t be back for them anytime soon.
By the time she reached Leroy’s train car, where a lantern was glinting in the window, the tea was lukewarm. Things never stayed hot for long in the damp tunnels.
Nova stepped up to the side door and knocked.
“Enter at your own risk,” came the familiar greeting.
Nova pried open the glass door, which had long ago been painted black, and stepped into the car. Leroy, or Cyanide, as the world knew him, was at his worktable, measuring a spoonful of green powder and dumping it into a vial full of yellowish liquid. The concoction crackled and hissed inside the tube.
He looked up at Nova and smiled, pushing his goggles to the top of his head. “You look terrible.”
“Just what I needed to hear, thanks.” She threw herself into a brown recliner. Though the cushion had once been home to a family of mice and the fake leather upholstery was torn in multiple spots, it still remained one of the most comfortable seats on the entire westbound line. “What are you working on?”
“Just a little experiment,” said Leroy. He was a pudgy man, with brown hair that was always matted to his forehead and a face that was a patchwork of scars and discolorations from a multitude of botched experiments over the years. He was missing three teeth and both eyebrows and always smelled of chemicals, but of all the Anarchists, he had always been Nova’s favorite.
“How was the parade?”
She shrugged. “We didn’t kill the Council. Or any Renegades, for that matter.”
“Shame.”
“I think I might have broken one of Thunderbird’s wings, though.”
Leroy’s eyes brightened, impressed, as he lifted the vial. The mixture inside had stopped bubbling. “Were you able to use the dart?”
Her frown deepened. “I tried. I missed.”
He hummed, unconcerned. “Maybe next time.”