Shockscale Drakeling

The neon crown unfolded wings. We'd taken it for a shorting sign above the flooded intersection. It was a Drakeling, no larger than a riding bike, with scales like transformer fins and its tail twice around the pole. Each puddle showed it in a different pose.

Pell raised his rifle. Its throat clicked and the reflections discharged before it did. Branching blue current fenced us into the bus shelter. It stayed aloft, moving charge between the cables and rebar whenever we tried to leave. I broke a ceramic sink from the rubble and held it overhead. Pell crossed beneath it and cut the pole's copper bond. The Drakeling fell with a cry like a car alarm drowning in surf.

It sets traps from a high perch, treating the wet surfaces below as a diagram. Movement completes the circuit; it would rather alter that circuit than chase you. Bright signs matter to it. Working neon is often rearranged as a rough crown over the nest.

Ceramic interrupts both current and reflection, leaving a surface it cannot read. Unexpected grounding makes its rigid body clumsy, and it scrambles desperately for height. At a shared grid boundary, two Drakelings perform elaborate aerial arcs. The weaker one yields its brightest sign.