[b]Orange![/b]

Power is the priority. For Orange it always has been. Though, she notes - with some quiet relief - that [i]hiding[/i] evidence that she might be werewolfing doesn't seem to be on the priority list. She's not going to [i]volunteer[/i] that information though. She knows she's not qualified to perform psychological assessments on herself, and to voluntarily subordinate herself to White's tests means that she would be taking her own - potentially critical - perspective out of circulation at a key moment. 

Besides. Nothing's happened yet.

She dispenses with those thoughts soon enough; they're alien to her mental architecture. The context she understands is this: She is to do the best she can within the boundaries of the legitimate, pushing - but not breaking - those frontiers if necessary. She must strive for absolute brilliance and it's the duty of other people to figure out if and how to restrain her. 

Mrs. Bandara, then. Oh, such a contact - but such an [i]impossible[/i] one. One operating entirely within the realm of the legitimate, walker of corridors of power, a decision making node in humanity's great security force. She fantasizes almost viscerally of herself in a sleek black dress, cut with fiery orange lines, hair coiled up like an autumn inferno. A figure of sophistication and class who could engage the prosecutor as an equal. The maid dress she wears may as well be burlap. Professional conversations are not struck between servants and masters. Without an introduction Mrs. Bandara might as well be on the moon.

Well... perhaps. Nobody gets to be a District anything without having a willingness to climb the greasy pole of power. Part of the beauty of human organizations is that each node is a human. And there might be levers, priorities and rivalries that would allow even a maid to cloak herself in a dress of power.

So Orange listens. She cleans in patterns that keep her in earshot of certain phone conversations, tapping into invisible electromagnetic signatures, and communications channels. She listens and she observes. Where do the individual and the system meet? And where do they diverge? 

She's always listened like this. She was the one who came up with the plan to bring down Mrs. Everest's heirs. If corporations and governments are a form of AI, then it stands to reason that they can get computer viruses too.

[Surveillance+Clever: 6,3+4 = [b]13[/b]]

[b]Pink![/b]

"Promethemouse back there stole fire from the gods," said Pink. "Enough to make me start thinking in terms of Ragnarok and Fire Giants."

Her eyes are vibrant and alien, the sight of Odin in neon pink. There's an eerie intensity to her statement, a private determination not to invoke such myths frivolously. She's far more confident than she normally is, a spooky focus.

"So I have a question, York," said Pink. "Say you were the first to receive Prometheus' fire in ancient days, the first one to take the forbidden torch 'ere the wroth of Zeus. What would you do with it?"

[b]Yellow![/b]

To be wanted is one thing; something you are familiar with. To be [i]explored[/i] is another.

Yellow doesn't follow patterns of human intimacy; neither shame or shyness, nor confidence and power. She is inquisitive and slow and thoughtful, but never distracted and never unfocused. Nor is she interested in being touched herself - she'll gently pull away and whisper '[i]later[/i]' each time you get close. All that seems to interest her is the shape of your body beneath her hands and mouth.

She's curious about your hands, where the synthetic material is sensitive on the palms, and where along the back. She's curious about your back and where it connects to your shoulders and hips. She searches for tension as much as for sensitivity, gently working tight muscles or tender nerves - just enough to whet her own curiosity without taking you to relaxation or release. If there are stories in where your neck meets your ear or where your thigh meets your navel she'll find them and make you tell her in shivering gasps of breath. And then she'll move on again. It seems agonizingly accidental, the work of an inexperienced AI, but once when she tosses her head back and her golden eyes glitter in street light shining through the window you become aware that there is a playful cruelty at work.

Again and again, she insists on her own pace. Patience. Later. [i]Shhh[/i]. She touches what she wants, satisfying her curiosity rather than satisfying you. And so she draws you out until, finally, she is able to press her thumbs down on the centre of your palms and the feeling is so intense and your nerves are so stretched so tight that it shatters something that separates the world from a broken universe of white. 

She's surprised by it, a scientific and wide-eyed surprise. She didn't have a plan; didn't know how long you'd last; didn't know you fit together or fell apart like this. But after the storm has passed she draws close under the covers and lets still-curious hands at last be still. 

She'll learn the rest later.