[b]Black![/b]

Making contact will always leave some kind of trail. Fortunately, the Headpattr communication line is sufficiently established that it can be used relatively safely. White may have snubbed Merkin but it's an unbroken series of positive arms-length transactions for anything on the public facing side of Headpattr. A cunning scheme would only rock the boat at this time, so Black chooses directness again.

Maid Malon, the Headpattr CEO, has a dream of running something more than a maid app. She wants to run a ~platform~ - in her vision some sort of vague monopolistic control over the entire service economy, in practice a vector for corporations to trick people into opting into unpaid work as junkmail distributors. For five months last year financial papers wrote at length about the fantastic visionary potential of Headpattr 3.0 as a revolutionary decentralized digital service market; the end result of all that hype and millions of unpaid overtime programmer hours was the ability for people to send each other digital coupons. You can make a couple of bucks out of the system if you're prepared to firesale your social networks.

A few options for venue pass through her mind. She could direct him to a seedy part of town, the kind of privacy themed midmarket corporate bar where people go to meet street samurai and cheat on their wives. It'd guarantee privacy in the contact point, and establishing a narrative explaining any unusual behaviour from Merkin as the result of tending to a mistress could potentially be useful. In the end she dismisses this approach; if Merkin's handlers are paying attention then they'll run a routine security check on this 'mistress' and who knows what'd come out of that?

Instead, she decides against the concept of a strong play entirely. She is at the information disadvantage and she doesn't know what kind of tail Merkin has if any. Instead, she sends a coupon for an upmarket German chain restaurant, Svelto's. If his apartment is wired he's got an excuse to take a walk, if it's not he's got another opportunity to request a delivery. It's his move.

[b]Green![/b]

Green is in the enviable position of not needing to explain shit to anyone. If she builds a computer inside a sealed box in the middle of the workshop none of November's other aspects question it even a little bit. Her entire value proposition is operating in completely alien and abstract ways, and this is what makes her perfect for this kind of operation.

It does not hurt that the workshop is currently dominated by a vast computer-based project that Green is already running. For the better part of a year she's been designing a Quatronic Warfare Platform and with the recent infusion of cash she's finally had the reach to buy the last few necessary components she needs. An entire wall of computer processors are straining to crunch hideously complicated mathematical equations, tangled together in a green hell of cables all running down into a Quatronic Processing Core - a crystal the size of a fist, glittering as microscopic lasers etch channels onto its surface. A Core is the miracle of data storage hardware that is at the heart of true artificial intelligences - both her own and common androids. It can also be used to run the terrifying software of a true hacking rig. 

But that process is not what's occupying Green's mind right now. She's looking at the public database of the Aevum Reptile Appreciation and Conservation Society, real time GPS data of thousands of cloned lizards roaming the streets and parks of the Ring. Filter after filter is applied to narrow down risk categories. She is looking for twenty large turtles with a low accident risk profile. The plan is straightforwards: adhere the portable drives onto the interior of the turtle shells. 

That is storage, then. Recovery is easy too: all she needs to do is provide people with a partial list of which turtles to look at. The [i]actual[/i] question is one that she still feels profoundly unable to answer: [i]Who can she trust with this?[/i] In the end she decides that the only time this will matter is if she's dead, and so she can use the mechanisms of death to deal with it. She opens her Crown&Slate Legal account and updates her will to leave everything to the Aevum Reptile Appreciation and Conservation Society, along with a sequence of autogenerated heartfelt letters to all her journalism contacts talking about her passion for reptiles and asking each of them to take care of a different turtle she specially bonded with. 

She also stashes another drive on the inside of her skull, another inside her chest cavity, and a third inside her foot. And then, for good measure, she takes the audio track Black's Audiolox generated and loads it as a track called MY PLAYLIST on her Spotitunes account. Currently her account is set to private, but her will now also has a clause that she wants this played at her funeral.

There. [i]Now[/i] it's sorted.

[b]Pink![/b]

"I have ALCOHOL and MEGASTRUCTURAL DESIGN BLUEPRINTS," says Pink as she bursts in through the door an improbably short amount of time later. "I also have SANDWICHES," they are not in fact sandwiches so much as they are bowls of laksa soup but she's trying her best.