[b]Orange![/b]

Orange considers, but only briefly. On her deepest level she agrees with Black's assessment that humanity is a hostile and unpredictable force. Removing herself from human society represents an unacceptable risk. Isolation means danger, integration means safety, so if there is a social void in this situation then of course she wants to fill it. November the artificial intelligence becomes November the family friend and only one of those people has a District [i]anything[/i] pay attention if she gets put back in the box.

Besides, she reasons, it can't be manipulation if she doesn't know what she's doing.

Because she absolutely doesn't. She has zero data whatsoever on how to interact with human children. She blunders through each playtime running off internalized etiquette manuals with Sarah set to "Hapsberg Princess, Informal." It's a poor map to begin with, but she rapidly finds herself in cross country terrain when the Incredible Hulk (nee [i]Broccoli Head[/i]) stomps all over the teatable and abducts Bunnysword-san at lightsaberpoint. Helpless, she refers the incident in its entirety to Green, who enjoys this sort of madness.

Green texts back: make lightsaber noises.

So she does! She sets her vocalizer to synth and autosyncs the lightsaber thrum and hiss to the movements of Mr. Broccoli Head's flailing arms. And, as it turns out, that is sufficient to render her the coolest person in the universe and earn her the title of Mrs. C3PO. And, as it turns out, there are no limits on the demands for the autotuning capabilities of Mrs. C3PO, to the point where a flustered Orange is starting to feel more like a musical instrument than anything.

Later that evening, she is the belle of the ball. Sarah has dictated to her a song of her own design, one comprised of lightsaber noises and barnyard animal sounds, set to the beat of [i]All About The Benjamins[/i]. This she performs for Starlight, with Sarah as the conductor. She's not sure what conclusion to draw other than a note that children are not politically inactive.

[Orange rolls [b]snake eyes[/b] on a cool+waifu roll to integrate herself socially. However, she has the [b]Friendly Design[/b] augment that lets her make a once per mission reroll, which turns that into a total of [b]8[/b]]

[b]Pink![/b]

"Okay," said Pink, nodding firmly. "I get it. I trust you. But that's why I can't tell you what we've got."

Her eyes have that divine look in them again, brain processing poetry as code. "Because when Maori stole fire, he did not use it to light a single pot. He hid it. He concealed the sparks in the wood of the kaikomaka so that it would always be to hand no matter the deluge. Right now, I need you to work not with fire but for the [i]promise[/i] of fire. And the first part of that is we need to get Prometheus here [i]gone[/i]."

She looks across at Persephone, eyes wide and apologetic. "And he [i]needs[/i] to be gone. You want to protect him, help him stand against the gods and fight for his home, but this isn't that kind of story. These are the [i]gods[/i] he's stolen from. If this comes down on him it comes down on his people too. His family, his community, and especially his fellow furries. York, please - right now we need to hide the spark where even the rains won't take it."

[b]White![/b]

The purpose of this, in White's mind, is not to pretend that she is different. She is not coming here to demonstrate to others that she is progressive and open minded. She made no concessions to her destination when she was dressing, and she feels strangely vindicated in that decision now that she's here. This is not a place to be phony. 

She has come civilized. Her hair is done up in elaborate braids, her dress is low and sweeping, showing off the glowing joints along her neck and shoulders, her makeup is precisely applied. The impression is evening gown lawyer, slumming it from the spires; elegant, professional, conventional. Her atmosphere radiates a restrained disapproval of everything around her - a conscious consideration of each new idea and concept, viewed suspiciously from a slight distance. They say be yourself; well, here she is: the ice queen.

But watch her a little longer and it becomes clear she hasn't come to make a scene; hasn't come to tut-tut anyone, hasn't come to arrange some business deal with some shadowrunner away from the eyes of the corps. She pulls up a chair at the bar, orders a glass of spiced irish tea (White's personal favourite) served out of a dog bowl (a restaurant special). She contemplates what she's been given, and then requests a spoon. She puts her drink in her lap and looks around the dance floor with sharp eyes, taking regular sips as she soaks in the ambiance, foot tapping along in tune with one of the beats.

Oh, she's dangerous, certainly. She's haughty, proud and has extremely high standards. But she's also here to try new things and have fun. She's not gritting her teeth and tolerating this, she's giving it a chance to impress her. Who, then, is impressive?