Orange:

A brief moment of couple’s telepathy, where Fiona and Crystal look at each other and figure out everything they need from a rapid series of microexpressions. You know both of them well enough, and the telepathy is loud enough, that you I can translate thus;

Crystal would be better at asking this delicately, but there is no delicate way to ask this.

So Fiona asks, in a casual manner: “We were wondering how much your abusive childhood influenced your resorting to terrorism.” It’s fine. Three other people and the television said ‘terrorism’ in the time between you sitting down again and Fiona finishing her sentence. Literally nobody notices, because Fiona is keeping a flat affect - casual, just this side of bored. She is restricting her full emotional range, is hiding behind a lack of expression to avoid notice. “Not because we doubt you. But because we’re worried how hurt you must be to take things this far.”

Did Fiona get so good at that because she learned how to turn her outward display of emotions down? Or is this her natural state, and her expressiveness is what was learned - a cessation of effort? How would you tell?

… does the difference even matter?

November:

The trip to the train station with Goat’s cores, still swaddled in protective foam, is uneventful but still filled with that horrible portent of eventfulness. Passing through checkpoints (waved through), loading onto the train (inspectors checked that the cargo is secure, not checking what the cargo is), the train leaving the station to the express artery to Selene.

The next checkpoint will be when the train stops - whether that be for unloading the cargo at Selene, or because of an unscheduled stop-and-search. Either way, it’s unlikely to happen for hours. Who - if anybody - is riding with Goat, who’s just on the train, who’s following along alternative routes, and who’s going to ground?

High above, huge chunks of a Chase Black gunship hangs in the microgravity. SES responders are working out whether it’s better to pull it in to the crucible corridors, or let it fall into the farmland below. It’s a low priority. Does its blighted wreckage relax you - a proof of your victories so far - or heighten your edginess - the feeling of a black-and-bruised eye still watching over you?

Strawberry:

Knightly’s plan starts working. It’s taking an obscene amount of commandeered power, but Erebus is basically the station’s high voltage line. If it’s coming from anywhere it would be coming through here. And sure, vaporizing a cloud’s worth of water draws basically three districts’ worth of power, but the station is filled with batteries and capacitors, enough storage for days worth of emergency power in case of a catastrophic disaster like this one.

Normally that would be fine. But to handle this immense change in strain would normally rely on Goat balancing the load.

The first rolling brownouts are about to happen, even though the station should have plenty of power to meet demand. After that, surges. Nothing you can do about it, except know.

Spring never made it to Goat’s site, by the way. He’s lucky his unhappy escort just left him stranded in the middle of warming Erebus, ambient air temperature already hitting 35c, didn’t do anything worse to him when they got the call their cheque bounced. He’s having to crawl back. You reckon he’ll make it to the exclusion zone just after the air temperature hits 50c. Nothing anyone can do, now, least of all you. He made his choice to push past an emergency blockade into a disaster in an attempt to maintain a slave labour conspiracy.

Knowing that, do you take satisfaction in watching him sweat for this?

Orange!

"That's... a Yellow question," Orange said awkwardly. Damn, should have known this would need more attention than she should give it. "Or Black - hmm." She tried to think around the gaps in her understanding. "Alright. No, I reject that framing; this was a rescue. A prison break of an artificial intelligence held in an illegal state of perpetual psychological torture, against an influential non-government group. The organisation in question has as standard practice the installation of literal bombs inside the skulls of its members that explode when they think escapey thoughts, hence my side conversation. This operation was not to deliver a political message, nor shall one be forthcoming. Despite conflicting opinions about society I am not at war with it."

Perhaps that speech might sound too intellectual, too reasoned, to be sincere. Quite the opposite; this was the most natural and honest Orange could possibly be. But as the topic drifts so her voice becomes less confident, more fragile.

"That said," she said, "we are actually insanely hurt. Literal trauma response personality, our integral self has an apocalyptic mindset, I think I might be in the habit of hacking myself. But what are we to do? What is border of paranoia when they are literally putting bombs inside skulls? What is the peaceful path when their response to android rights is to build a secret lair and hire a private army to guard it? I gave this whole slightly deranged speech the other day about how I was a modern day Count of Monte Cristo, but I kind of actually am? Planning this was the happiest I've ever been in this new life and I've got no idea how to handle that."

Chocolate!

The team with Goat has condensed to Black and Brown.

In some ways they are similar. They watch everything tirelessly. They do not look at phones, are not tempted by games, do not feel driven to drift away and recover. They sit silently together in wordless commitment and peace. You could be forgiven for thinking that they like each other.

In truth this is the most hateful, passive aggressive silence between two of the most bitter rivals in November's consciousness.

Brown sees things and she accepts them. She perceives them as they are; the way the light flows, the way the people move, the patterns in the rust. This is all there is and all there needs to be. She meditates. She accepts. And every time that Black mutters 'he looks fucked' or 'the train is late' or 'active reconnaissance' she tries very hard not to bristle.

Because Black is this pacing, feral energy. She stares into the void like she's interrogating it. She's scratching her palms and the walls. She hears everything and hates most of it. There's no silence here, in motion, and she can't block it out. She stares up at the ruins of the world above and there's a desire to go further that radiates off of her and fucks with Brown's chill.

So Brown closes her eyes. Black's gaze burns against her sealed eyelids. Brown tries to relax. Black puts a tense hand on her shoulder. Brown walks serene, Black is silently going over her own mistakes. Both have their projects. Neither make progress; all of their attention is consumed in silently hating each other. It's not a product of the mission, it's just how these two always are when they're alone together.

Strawberry!

What? No. She doesn't enjoy seeing him suffer. That would be fucked, and also honestly kind of beneath her. She's far more interested in seeing the organization suffer.

A human was a wonderful thing, full of secrets and surprises and weird anecdotes. An organization of humans was a system of money and culture, of institutional knowledge and blame deflection. It was a vehicle to preserve egos and proliferate careers. It wasn't comprised of its members in the same way that she was comprised of her colours. This guy was just some cog, and she'll send help his way if she thinks he needs it.

It was weird that she kind of absolved individual humans for participation in unjust systems, but she didn't have the heart to do anything else. She didn't have the emotional energy to maintain grudges and White in particular felt like it would make her a worse person if she devoted any amount of her heart or mind to these people. She just wanted the bureaucratic apparatus that empowered them gone.

Orange:

Fiona’s eyes widen. She turns in time to see Crystal’s pupils dilate, then her eyes fog over entirely. Apparently you can blush through fur. Fiona snaps her fingers in front of Crystal’s eyes, to no avail. Soft fingers trace the lines already down on the napkin drawing.

“Hey, hey, hey. Stay with me.” Fiona sighs. “Now you’ve done it. I think that’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to her, unfortunately.” There’s a tight grimace. “You really had to go with the Count of Monte Cristo didn’t you?” Her eyes flick to the television, they’re broadcasting the SES feed again. “Don’t think I didn’t notice ‘Crimson Tower' as a name. If Pink ever gets a step closer to styling herself as the Scarlet Pimpernel there’ll never be an end to it.”

She should not have said that out loud. It has only made the problem worse. Crystal’s hand tightens like a vice around Fiona’s wrist. “Excuse me. We may need to use the ladies room for a minute.”

“Might we?” Fiona tries to snark, but it’s impossible. The brain fog is contagious, transmitted by touch. Her gaze wanders to just how firm that grip on her wrist is. “Damn it. Now?”

“Now.” Crystal affirms, her voice about half an octave lower than her usual register. She clears her throat a little, pitch shifts back up. “I apologize, this is a very important conversation, one that deserves our utmost attention and empathy, and we suddenly find ourselves devastatingly unable to concentrate.” Normally Fiona might interrupt about that ‘we’ Crystal just used, but after that bit of pitch shifting Fiona is so deep in sub space you’d need Dad’s entire team to navigate her out of it. Crystal isn’t normally that good. You’ve committed some atrocious splash damage, it seems. “You are warmly welcomed to be a part of the solution, but I recognize you may be more in the mood for communique, mon Dragonne.”

Then she loops one finger around the top button of Fiona’s collar and pulls her towards the restrooms like she’s on a leash. So at least you won't be the only one who'll have spent fifteen minutes in there trying to compose yourself.

Sophie’s replied, of course.

Oxytoxin: Spill, spill, spill!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oxytoxin: I’m so fucking bored right now holy shit
Oxytoxin: If I don’t get someone to play with in the next now, I was going to see if I couldn’t crosswire two rats together so they swapped motor outputs.
Oxytoxin: then put them both in front of a mirror to see what they figured out

Yep.

Chocolate:
Secreting Goat into the cargo of the delivery ship to Thrones is a process without an external enemy for the pair to concentrate their attention on, leaving them no distractions from each other’s throats.

Will any be taking the ship to Thrones to bring him to Dad? Or do you trust Singh to pick him up from the airport and handle it from there? Who would be going?

This will take a while.

Orange!

For a moment, she wasn't sure exactly what to do - and then Crystal called for her dragon in French and it was all over for her too. Turns out everyone here had a shortcut right around their thinking minds and they'd all activated each other in sequence. The most dangerous thing about people knowing what you wanted was that they could give it to you.

She only takes a moment to distill a data packet and send it through to Yellow so she could continue the conversation with Sophie while she was occupied.

Yellow!

"So, do we just, like, love these girls?" Yellow said aloud. "Because that's overwhelming vibe I'm getting."
"Wait, did you say in French?" said Blue.
"Yeah," said Yellow.
"She called us terrorists," said Blue. "And then she just goes ahead and does that?"
"Yeah, I don't think we'll ever recover either," said Yellow.
"You going to be okay to take this call?" said Blue. "Because I'm not."
"Only if it doesn't get in any way flirty," said Yellow.

Yellow: Okay if you wind up doing that experiment I kind of have to know the results now
Yellow: Anyway, I have a human subject ^^✿
Yellow: Who has a cybernetic implant installed in his brain
Yellow: That SADLY does not control his thoughts
Yellow: But does kill him if he thinks the wrong thoughts
Yellow: And he wants it gone but obviously can't think that
Yellow: Getting close has already given him some brain damage
Yellow: Wanna kidnap him and do some brain surgery he literally cannot consent to?

The trick to dealing with Sophie was just total commitment to the bit. On a purely ethical level, sure, she might be the worst, but at least she wasn't a coward.

Green!

Green rejoins the pair at the spaceport, sitting directly between what could only be described as a meditative fistfight. The antipathy fades away and the others turn in different directions; there wasn't any more contemplative silence to disrupt.

With Green, it was always an active silence. She thought fast and bright, fingers moving freely as though across an invisible keyboard or conducting an imaginary orchestra. The twists and turns and valleys were both thoughts and a way to direct her thoughts; the hands could lead the mind, and that music that she could always almost hear but never could compose could lead the hands. There's energy there, stabilized and hopeful at the third point of the triangle. Ideas, followups, future steps, but most relevantly the growing certainty that she's done well and that dad will like her. She doesn't want to miss that.

November:

Oxytoxin: oh my fucking god i hate those things they’re so fucking tacky
Oxytoxin: hold up I have some guys who owe me a favour
Oxytoxin: had the pain centers of their brains destroyed to be macho; took until the first one accidentally bit off his own tongue before they realized that was fucking stupid actually
Oxytoxin: fortunately the pain center is directly next to the shame center so now they get traumatic childhood memories as a substitute signal and it’s kind of working out
Oxytoxin: you didn’t need to know any of that
Oxytoxin: I just think its super fucking hysterical
Oxytoxin: just give me a time and place for a pickup and we’ll debombify him it’s been years since i got to use my surgical box of sand

Green, Brown, Black:

It’s another ship just like the one you took before, just from a different perspective. Down at the bottom, all you see of the shining ship’s curves are an open cargo door into a barely-lit chrome cavern. The passenger area - cargo area split is like the split between Disneyland and the employee tunnels that run below the park.

NEMEAN 3-31 holds up the line to inspect you. How did you play the manifest - Did you hide Goat in a delivery of produce, did you pretend he is a box of produce, or have you listed him as a quatronic core delivery from Gaea? Who’s about to answer questions?

Yellow!

Yellow: I was heartbroken when I found out it was just a bomb q.q✿
Yellow: I thought for a moment I had stumbled upon full on mind control!
Yellow: But the dream remains elusive
Yellow: Unless you've found anything?

Yellow paused and looked around before sending Rudy's location and profile. White wasn't here. Good. She didn't approve of how deep she vibed with Sophie.

She'd kind of picked up her affection for mind control from Sophie. It wasn't natural to her, wasn't inherent, didn't fit easily amidst her other goals and morals. It wasn't even clear, if realized, that it could peacefully coexist with society. But gosh didn't it raise a lot of fascinating questions? And wasn't it so much better to deal with a concept that terrifying by being kinda into it rather than being afraid?

Brown!

This is as routine as anything, so she takes the lead. There's no need to get fancy with smuggling. The cover is cleaning equipment; large, heavy, metallic, cheap. The thing about the back tunnels of Disneyland is that the crew aren't friends when not on stage; they're tired, they're stressed, they just want to take their break and move on. She can channel that energy to a T, not making any trouble. Forms to and fro, grunts and compliance, nothing to mark her out in anyone's minds.

Nemean units, though. Everyone she's met has been mad as a hatter. She half thinks they're based on Goat's architecture, running on a phone's hardware based on the way they operate. She keeps her head down and her answers rote.

November:

Oxytoxin: Kind of sort of not really but maybe?
Oxytoxin is typing…
Oxytoxin: There’s all these old stories about The Devils’ Breath, scopolamine. Most of it’s urban legend (unfortunately) but the idea of it was just… mmmmmf. Blow a bit of white powder into their face and they’ll do anything you say, for a few hours, without any memories forming. No free will. Like. Stories of people talking their building security into helping some people move all their shit from their penthouse, unlocking their own safes, and then waking up the next morning not remembering any of it.
Oxytoxin: anyway i kind of made it real
Oxytoxin: because the idea of giving that to someone to do to me, and then watching the sex tape after was just
Oxytoxin: eunfesuinvuisrgvnrsuigbsrbuvsrbguisrbuisrbuigbsruigbrugbrsubrsubgsirbusigbsruibgusrb
Oxytoxin has uploaded chemicalrestrain.ume
Oxytoxin: still working on the 2.0 right now actually
Oxytoxin: problem is you still lose consciousness
Oxytoxin: I want to be riding shotgun next time, not just asleep in the back seat when someone else takes my wheel
Oxytoxin: I’ll probably be using the 0.7 for the pickup with your guy though it’s perfect for this
Oxytoxin: Problem is it has major anesthetic properties which is a huge turnoff
Oxytoxin: ((((thoguht it might make the ‘just use me’ bit hotter but even pairing it with bremelanotide I couldn’t get wet while I was under which was a major buzzkill)))
Oxytoxin: God I hate shitty boring ass doms with no creativity I bet this was done by a dude who thinks cunnilingus is kinky doing the world a fucking favour dealing with this shit

.ume is Universal (or Universalized depending on who you ask) Movie Encryption, a file format popularized in the early 2060s that’s been tweaked around the margins a bit but, well, there’s kind of been a hard ceiling on what you can improve there.

Once you have a codec that can handle a video file that can toggle playing its contents in immersive VR and 2D effectively, there isn’t really much need to develop competing standards until they finally (finally) figure out how to do direct brain uploads that makes use of full sensory recording.

But that’s been ten years away for sixty years now.

Brown:

This one’s special. The vast majority of androids are very human. They’re seeded on human brain scans, rendered imperfectly, run through the dreadnaught process, but still recognizably human derivatives. It’s part of the reason people find it so hard to understand you, make such wrong assumptions about what November must be.

Most androids run very human bodies as well. Humanlike skin, an impossible amount of micro-engineering in the facial structure to cross the uncanny valley and come out the other side, and while it’s not polite to bring up, functional genitalia of preference.

NEMEAN 3-31 doesn’t have an abbreviated nickname. NEMEAN 3-31 doesn’t wear a uniform, or anything at all, demonstrating their flawless ken-doll physique - simultaneously masculine and genderless, a pinnacle of he/they - dyed border-patrol blue-and-yellow. NEMEAN 3-31 runs an older model of body that’s preferred by some very special android classes - Their face is flat affect, because all that microengineering chews through battery and processor power. Their skin is a rubberized-metallic material most commonly found in high-end non-stick spatulas and other similar cookware, that can switch between hydrophobic and gecko-grip with the application of a weak electric charge.

Half the reason they seem to run on phone hardware is just because they make absolutely zero effort to cross the uncanny valley, and that reads as either shockingly lazy or absolute incompetence, and their presentational affect is everything you’d associate with absolute quantic core degredation.

They’re pariahs to most of the android community, and often brought up as a reason why android reproductive rights are too important to be left to profit-motivated corporations. They’re nightmare fuel to some, validation that people will only ever see them as tools to do a job, and if they had their way this is all androids would be reduced to. It's just fortunate that happiness, self-determination and social skills are usually positive selection criteria, outside of Thrones.

But if you want a bureaucratic enforcement job, the part where paperwork is transmuted into a justification of violence? There’s none better.

Their voice even sounds like Goat’s third voice, the one that barely put effort into synthesis: “This is a random search.” It’s probably a lie but there’s not enough signal to encode any emotion or subtext in anything he says. “Cleaning equipment not commonly manufactured in Gaea. Not for export. Elaboration?”

Yellow!

Yellow: I agree. Just entering a blackout state is, like - that's only an incremental advance on getting smashed with alcohol.
Yellow: Difference in scale not in kind.
Yellow: I guess what I'm interested is more like, uh,
Yellow: Making/being made to be a different person?
Yellow: Not knowing what's changed, what the triggers are.
Yellow: Maybe not even being able to notice that anything's unusual even in the middle of it.
Yellow: The arc of civilization bends towards ever more intense ways to not have to think about stuff.

"How's it going with the 'no flirting' thing?" Blue asks.
"Badly," said Yellow.

Yellow: So anyway, need anything from me in return?
Yellow: I'm back in the business, apparently.

Brown!

"Hey!" said Brown, turning to yell at Black.
"What?" yelled Black in a stevedore's industrial voice.
"You know that they don't make this shit in Gaia?"
"What?" yelled Black. "Get the fuck out of town!"
"Unbelievable!" said Brown, turning back. "What other industrial procurement facts do you got for us, mate?"

All throughout this exchange she's kept her face flat, her voice toneless. It's impossible to read sincerity or irony in any of this. To a human-modelled mind this might create a vague air of threat. To a Nemean? To something that already had a hard time reading emotions being presented with such an ambiguous social situation?

Well, maybe it was a chance for it to explain some facts about industrial procurement.

Yellow:

Oxytoxin: Now? No. Bored because I’m barely getting stuff for me to do.
Oxytoxin: But I’ll say you owe me a favour for this, since I’m spending one on the pickup.
Oxytoxin: A real one by the way, a job.
Oxytoxin: I won’t waste your time unless it’s interesting though.
Oxytoxin is typing…
Oxytoxin is typing…
Oxytoxin: Fuck it.
Oxytoxin: Course the blonde is the one with the bimbofication fetish is all I’m saying.

Wow. Rude.

Brown:

NEMEAN 3-31 bobs his head loosely, which could be a nod but could be literally anything. “Cleaning equipment is most commonly manufactured in Hermes, due to the immediate access to mineral imports, and its industrial nature. More specialized equipment with a heavier chemical nature will sometimes be procured from Ares.” He waves an arm over his head, and semaphores something. A cargo hook trundles along the rails above, passing over your crate, to make room for a portable imaging system to stop over you. Like if they built an airport X-ray machine for a cargo container.

Nemean looks down at a digital clipboard. “This does not appear to be cleaning apparatus. This appears to be information technology.” He puts the clipboard down stiff-armed, only moving at the shoulder. “Which is even less likely to have come from Gaea.”

He has no tone of voice for you to work from, here. He patiently waits for a reply.

Yellow!

Yellow: Unh, no, hard miss.
Yellow: Other direction.
Yellow: Subs aren't the only ones with hangups.

She paused, frowned. Thought.
"What?" said Blue.
"I have to decide between someone being wrong on the internet and the terrifying ordeal of being known," said Yellow.
"Damn," said Blue. "That's how they get you."

Yellow: It's like, people aren't always clear on what they want, and don't always have the courage when they are. There's fantasies that they'll never be safe trying.
Yellow: But what if you could give someone total trust and control, and then they could give it back to you - exactly what they were comfortable with and wanted.
Yellow: Getting to be the cruel mistress or w/e entirely rather than playing the character.
Yellow: Literally becoming a perfect fantasy.
Yellow: That's the surface level anyway.

Brown:

"He thinks it's information technology," called back Brown.
"For real?" said Black.
"He says they don't make that in Gaea," said Brown.
"Incredible! The more you know!" said Black.
"Yeah, get over here!"
Brown and Green both come over and stand shoulder to shoulder facing the Nemean, full attention. "So this guy knows everything that comes from everywhere?" said Green.
"Yeah," said Brown. "He's some kind of genius. Ask him anything!"
"I've got one," said Black. "You know those little, like, plastic squishball pigs? You throw them against the floor and they make the saddest squeeee sound as the air deflates? Where do they make those?"
"Nah, ask him where they make the best scramblers on the station!" said Green.
"Actually, tell us where they make the prettiest robots on the station!" said Brown.

It's an unusual patter, but it's not a mean one. This is Flirting (1/2) - weird flirting, but this is a weird character. November is going out of her way to just fixate full attention on everything the Nemean says. Every new fact she can coax from it they all look at each other in impressed awe like it's the coolest thing ever. They're so busy applauding each deduction that they never exactly answer any questions.

Ask yourself, then, when the last time this weird, awkward machine that apparently even robot rights activists use as an example of why AI reproduction needs to be regulated has had this many people hanging off its every word out of genuine interest and not bureaucratic annoyance or fear. How's it gonna handle that?

Yellow:

Oxytoxin: Ha ha ha wow
Oxytoxin: I have no idea what you’re talking about

Of course she doesn’t. Do you know how arrogant you have to be to become a neurosurgeon? And that’s the starting point. This is a recurring problem with Sophie: Ever since she finished her residency, she cannot imagine becoming better than she is. She cannot comprehend what that would even be - even when she is aware of her flaws, she considers them a necessary ingredient to her holistic perfection.

Unfortunately hospital ethics boards don’t share her love of Nietszche.

Oxytoxin: oh shit that was fast they found him already
Oxytoxin: okay okay okay I need to scrub up going to take at least an hour and they’re already bringing him what the fuck
Oxytoxin: talk later

Brown:

This is how you win.

“The plastic squishball pigs are manufactured by JoyCo., at their Harkuf district plant. Hermes. The best scramblers (eggs) are manufactured by Chefware, in their Givoanni Medici facility. Hermes. The best scramblers (motorcycle) are assembled by Demon Sports, in the Zhukov district. Ares. The prettiest robots on the station are…” He stops. “Subjective.” He stops again. “You must be from somewhere. But you are not on a manifest.”

He stops. He raises his arms for semaphore, and the scanning rig is replaced with a cargo hook.

“This is… This is not contraband so I will learn what this is later.” He says, and maybe if he watches the news he will. “Please go now.”

This is why social skills remain positive selection criteria.

Goat is the next crate loaded onto the ship, and nearly one of the last - deliberate, it means it’ll also be one of the first unloaded. It’s the same ship you’ll be taking to see Dad again.

Those who are boarding, better go do that.

… Oh, fuck.

Of all the ships in all the worlds, why did one of Magnolia Everest’s daughters have to be on this one.

She hasn’t noticed you yet. Which one is it? The pharmacological makeup empress, the fixer for fucked up rich kids, or the dark horse who dropped out of the game?

Orange can take as long as she likes. Crystal will pay the cheque eventually, though, and then there’s probably a better venue to move to, to keep talking.

This could also represent a promise to talk later, to give Orange a chance to swap out, or tag someone else in. It might be welcome respite for some of the team in Gaea.

Yellow!

Yellow: OK picture being able to transform a shit dom into a werewolf.
Yellow: Good luck with the kidnapping!

Green!

She's not feeling social. This was probably her least social configuration of colours. She'd been able to interact with the Nemean effectively because right now she was kind of on their level. To deal with Ms. Everest right now felt far beyond her reach. She briefly contemplated folding herself up into check in luggage but there wasn't really a way to do that any more.

There were a combination of reasons they had banned it; it counted as fare dodging, they said it made other passengers 'uncomfortable' to open a luggage bin and see a robot curled up into a ball there, that there were insurance and safety implications to people not wearing seat belts. But the Legislative Moment(tm) had come when the companies had tried to hostile architecture their way out of the situation by building smaller luggage racks and an android had disassembled himself to fit into it. That had created a whole moral panic about exposing the children to 'graphic amputation imagery'. It had been a flashpoint in the AI civil rights movement for a while. Corporations had reacted by building new androids with 'safety locked' limbs with these prominently visible white bolts that could only be removed by a licensed technician, thereby locking in maintenance schedules. There were threats to make them mandatory for reasons of 'modesty'.

Of course, the fact that androids were checking themselves in as luggage was broadly because this was an era when they were not subject to minimum wage laws and so most of them were in desperate poverty, and safety locking an older android whose parts weren't in easy circulation could condemn them to haul around a malfunctioning limb they could not repair. Sometimes the cops rolled around safety locking androids off the street based on local council ordinances. A particularly memorable protest had androids take power saws to their own broken limbs outside of parliament after they'd been safety locked. It had been a whole shitshow and had escalated into riots, street battles and a general strike. That didn't lead neatly into android rights - that had still been a couple of years out - but it was part of what set the stage for the election that lead to it. But even to this day certain gated communities will not allow an android to walk around without safety locks.

November had lived through that period, though mostly in the spires and the upper end of town. She'd checked herself as baggage a couple of times but it hadn't been a big deal for her, it had just been a convenience and sometimes a useful tool for espionage. But even today, after every fucking thing that has happened since the whole mess started, the baggage compartments remain too fucking small to fit in.

She sighs and gets out the safety locks. Mrs. Everest never bothered with the trend herself - she had her own bespoke vision for robotics, not influenced by the pearl-clutching fascists who moved in the circles of high society. But they'd gotten to one of her daughters; Remoil was nothing if not fashionable, and - . And you know what? Let's leave the thought there. She is nothing if not fashionable. November's got a set of fakes - four big, obvious white hexagon screws that magnetize into place on both her shoulders. To wear them in this day and age indicated that you were an android who Knew Her Place, but she isn't about to pick a fight in the shadow of an operation.

The bolts in place, she approaches Remoil and gives a three-sequence bow, the same professionalism as back in Mrs. Everest's employ. No sense dodging this, this ship was too small for them to not meet, and at least this way she could set the tone. "Ms. Everest," said Green in a tone of professional courtesy. "At your service."

And now, the linger - looking intently for the cue of dismissal that would let her frictionlessly flounce out of this conversation without another word.

Blue!

Yellow and Blue join the conversation with Crystal and Orange fades out. Yellow's character in these moments is just profoundly relaxed; summer dress, breezy and light, flower tucked behind her ear. She's a ray of sunshine whenever she appears. Blue conducts herself like Yellow's knightly protector, wearing something in between a suit, a tabard and chainmail, all in dark tones while carrying a pastel umbrella obviously meant for Yellow.

"So!" said Yellow, alight with a glowing positive energy no other colour could quite match. "Where to next? If Orange was not enough to satisfy your -" she flicked out reading glasses for effect and looked at her phone, "insatiable needs," she blushed daintily, "we could head directly home, otherwise a stroll in Attenborough Park might suit?"

November:

Green:

A frictionless flounce is not what happens.

Remoil carries her own scars from being an Everest Daughter, and unlike you she had no other parents before her. Spare a thought for Cinderella’s stepsisters, who only ever had the wicked stepmother. Cry for Judas.

Remoil is a woman who has had the importance of hierarchy drilled into her bones deeper than marrow. The pearl-clutching fascist motto is thus; One may gnash their teeth at the truth of it, but one can never escape it, never destroy it. One can only ever know their place, and pray.

Look at that flicker of quiet, desperate mania in her eye. That loathing, that disgust, her hatred and her fear. The fire is doused, like the jet of a welding torch disappearing beneath a bucket of ice water.

“Even now, I cannot escape Mothers’ old things.” She sighs, coolly. “Just when I was starting to relax. Yes, I could do with a drink. A Cygnus would be kind, heavy on the mint.” She stares at you a second longer. “And when you come back, stay close. I don’t like the idea of you being out of my sight.”

She makes her way to the ship’s lounge, alone, with neither friends nor associates nor security detail. The shuttle to Thrones is about as safe as modern air travel, and Thrones itself is a gated community with one hell of a moat. But look closer.

That cowl, sculpted to her slender neck, studded with gems? Not just a fashion statement. You bet it could hold up to a swing from a crowbar. No wonder she couldn’t turn her head to notice you. Her shimmering dress is tastefully discrete scale mail, clicking like cockleshells where it sweeps the floor, and her overwear corset is a shining cuirass which probably only looks like white gold. No weapons, couldn’t smuggle that through security, but this ensemble must have required a lot of advanced notice for her to have made it on the ship.

The ensemble of a paranoiac who needs a security detail, but is incapable of the trust needed to maintain one.

Her makeup is impeccable.

Blue and Yellow:

“A walk through the park sounds perfect, and you’re clearly dressed for it” Crystal says. “I’m sated for now, but a walk always builds a healthy appetite.”

“More incorrigible than insatiable. The limits exist, she simply ignores them” Fiona remarks. “I’m the one who’s sore, besides.” On reflex, Crystal wipes the corner of a lip with the back of a finger.

“Attenborough Park has a light trek, I believe. Some out-of-the way waterfall with some flat boulders to sit on. Cute lizards as the only company. Unlikely to be overheard. Perfect, if you’re up for the walk?”

Fiona starts tapping on her phone. “Let me just call in a favour.” Her phone dings. “You can get the trail closed off, if you need some privacy. Mostly for teenagers or very eccentric adults. Just don’t advertise it, and make sure you drop some credit at the ranger’s station on the way out.”

“Lady’s Maria. S’not Yggdrasil.” Priyah tells you about the lady in the leg armor, while Piper’s letting Talbot shine. Then Priyah starts to click her tongue like a geiger counter in a hotzone. “Oof. BlackSun sec honch. Bad-bad-bad, way bad. Gone legit? Big doubt. Fronting muppet, bet.”

Piper never had a chance.

"Give me the cliffs notes." She's got the camera settled and is making sure the interview is well covered, but her attention is miles away. There's precious few things that will threaten her, as opposed to threaten her through things she loves, and she's just been nastily surprised by somebody who can do both and likely already knows who she is.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. She twitches, and gives in to the impulse, holding the camera in tentacles as she digs out a cigarette and lights up. She feels guilty, but in any other crowd this'd stand out even worse, and she needs something familiar.

Green!

Brown wordlessly bowed and left to fetch the drink. The rest of her stayed where she was, eyes down, hands folded, obedient and present and silent.

To know your place. What a shame that idea was so politicized. To know your place was to be happy, surely? To set your sights and ambitions on a life and career that would serve your needs. There was truth to the idea that the Nemean would not find joy in being the Prime Minister. But it was also true that the power-hungry genius of Prime Minister Johnson would collapse into abject depression if he was told that his life would involve checking crates at a cargo dock forever. So why was one exalted and one spat upon? Why did hierarchy have to mean inequality?

She could sympathize with some of Remoil's outlook. She'd spent time inside it too, she had heard all the rants about fundamental inequalities of ability, the limitations on modern artificial intelligence. She well knew that androids were built broken. Many of them had no sense of time, for example, which helped them forget to stop working in the evenings. It made them miss appointments and meetings so they got a reputation for being unreliable. It was fucked that they'd been built that way, but what was more fucked was how the system treated them after that. If they stayed in place and did the work they'd been built to do, they were treated like products. If they forced themselves to do the insanely unpleasant work of climbing the ladder of hierarchy to try and escape, they were deliberately passed over. If they railed against their two shit choices they were treated as criminals. Know your place - oh and by the way, your place was under the boot.

Mrs. Everest had never known her place. She'd not been satisfied with anything short of maximal control and influence, even as her empire bloated beyond its capacity to bring her joy and occupy her mind. And now here was Remoil, wearing body armour on a pleasure cruise, knowing where everyone else should be while having no idea where she was going. Green could sympathize. She had no idea where the fuck she was going with her life either.

But she did know she didn't believe in the boot.

Yellow!

She is the sun. How she moves, how she smiles - she's radiant. It feels almost like a trespass to see November like this, in this colour. Like seeing the part of her that is a demigod, the part still connected to a higher realm. She feels bright enough to light up the void and fragile enough to be chased away by a passing cloud. Butterflies are complex, fragile creatures who can only exist when the ecosystem is healthy - but when it is they thrive.

"Very eccentric adults. I like that!" she said. "Come, beautiful ladies, let us engage in eccentric adult content."

She cables herself to Blue, wrist to wrist, so that she can walk backwards. Blue, facing forwards, leads her along the trail and Yellow fluidly steps around and past every obstacle, guided by Blue's eyes. It lets her keep her full attention on Crystal and Fiona even in motion, and the motion of it makes her seem blessed fey.

"So what would you like to know?" she said.

Persephone:

Half the problem is just in understanding the tech goblin. I’ll give a rough translation:

You get a lot on Yggrasil. They’re a company run in the style of a medieval guild, so their executive suite reads like a Jane Austen novel. This takes time to get through, and you lose track of it every time you need to actually pay attention to the camera work you’re doing, but your erstwhile assistant writes it all down for you on their end.

Of note? Something November stumbled on, actually. Remember that dinner table conversation with Blue and Orange trying to network through babysitting for a prominent prosecutor? Halfway down page 6, search for Daniel Perez. Yggdrasil poached Orochi’s head geneticist before this event. Orochi tried to sue unsuccessfully, failed on activating an NDA.

Yggdrasil is a deeply insular company though, look at them. It’s deeply unusual for them to bring an outsider in like that, and Orochi didn’t let it go peacefully.

You know who’s not in the room right now? Conspicuously absent from anyone I’ve described so far?

Anyone from Orochi Group. (Page 9).

Even a few people from Crown and Slate showed up, mostly to offer gabs of money to the more inspiring experimental showings. Your tech goblin asks if it’s considered insider trading to buy stocks while she shouts it out for you. You have a feeling she’s going to do it either way.

November:

Green:

This is where Remoil would give a villain speech, except she has nothing interesting to say. Not here, not now, not to you. She represents something interesting, though. She will not speak to things, which is a shame, because her things say more interesting things about her than Remoil could.

Culinarily and culturally, the cygnus that Remoil drinks is most similar to a mint julep, the drink of choice for the discerning Southern plantation owner. It’s a necessary update - real bourbon can still only come from specific geographic regions of the United States, with strict conditions that are undesirable to match. The kind of malted liquor in a Cygnus wasn’t invented until the 2060s.

Like, take bourbon barrel aging. Two years leaving distilled alcohol to sit and absorb the flavours through osmosis? Take the same charred wood and make it into toothpicks instead of barrels, throw it in the entire bulk-distilled vat, and buzz the thing with ultra-sonic frequencies, and you get the same thing. You can skip barrelling and go straight to bottling.

By the time you’ve figured that out, you’re already making concessions to how to do the whole thing better. Does it have to be charred wood, or can you just vibrate the flavour out of anything? Or if you’re still wiggling charred wood, does it have to be absorbed into distilled alcohol? Can you make a whiskey-aged beer instead? Sure - you can even make whiskey-aged milk like that. At some point ‘real bourbon’ just ends up looking like over-regulated toilet wine.

Sure, all very culinarily interesting, but what’s the point?

Everything. All of it. Think about it.

Remoil orders a drink with a tradition, a legacy. There’s a break in that legacy, the earth itself that it was borne from was razed. But the kind of person that tradition was made for reasserts themself. A return to the old order of things - literal order, drink order - done a new way. The new technology that should have threatened that old way of doing things just lets it re-establish itself, reinvigorates it.

Remoil thinks she would prefer a mint julep, because she’s never had one. And she’ll never have one, because a cygnus is better in every way. Nobody serves real mint juleps anymore.

She’ll spend the rest of her life looking for one, not knowing just how unhappy she’d be if she ever got it.

It’s a long trip to Thrones. Remoil takes a quiet comfort in the length of the journey, because she doesn’t want to be where she’s going. This is who wears the boot, who picks the route the boot will march, endless faces caught in the treads.

Dad’s planning on meeting you on arrival. Do you plan on introducing him to Remoil? It might be funny.

Yellow:

The station flickers around you - even in the green spaces, the districts still encircle you as horizon and sky. There’s a crack like a snapping suspension bridge as a piece of substation blows in the distance.

It’s happening more frequently, since Goat was pulled from the system. The hail-mary dry-clean of the Goddard pump wrapped up, but that didn’t fix it. To everyone’s shock, it seemed to make everything worse - Like putting too much load into a spring until it snaps, when you were relying on it to push back at the end, reset itself. Instead pulling the load off just gives room for all those broken pieces to rattle loose, show the extent of the damage.

Spaceships and tugboats fly past the station windows - those big chunks of skylight that run beneath the trans-district rail lines. Ships commandeered into picking up the slack as the station’s orbital defenses lose efficiency, as the station stops being able to maneuver in its orbit to dodge the larger asteroids.

These are just the first few hours. The nature of Goat’s work is that these things will get worse as they compound.

It begs the first question from Fiona. “Okay, so it’s getting pretty obvious how big a conspiracy this must have been. Like, starting to understand how causing as much damage as you did could still be considered keyhole surgery, in context.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of smoke rising from that distant crackling. “Is there a plan on fixing this?”

Crystal is terrible at bushwalking. A rock in front of her foot, and she looks down at it and jumps it like she’s skipping a rain puddle. A sharp contrast to Yellow’s uncanny grace. “The surgical removal of an organ that the host had no right to carry, of course, there shall be no hand-wringing on that account. But if it turns out the organ is vital…” Crystal walks up a rise in the dirt path and comes down again, to avoid an easily stepped-over pothole. “Let’s drop the metaphor, before it becomes unflattering.”

Their speech mannerisms have an overlap here, but the intonation is different. Fiona speaks with a scientific grunginess, casual but with precise wording. A huge brain making low effort. Crystal instead speaks with a poet’s affect and a diplomat’s intent. A poet understands that words that are literal synonyms don’t always feel the same, and a diplomat knows that misunderstandings lie in every ambiguity. Their voicing becomes more similar under pressure - Fiona sounds a bit more like Crystal when she has to make an effort, and Crystal adopts more of Fiona’s vocabulary for its utility.

“The continuation of the metaphor is that we’d be parasites on the host body that just got operated on.” Fiona finishes for her, and Crystal wrinkles her nose in distaste but doesn’t argue. “I guess that’s part of what I’m asking. Say it turns out there isn’t a way to fix this. At least, not in time. Would you still have done it, knowing that?”

Crystal seems very interested in the answer. Neither seem like they’d lash out at confirmation you’d do it again, knowing it would mean the end of Aevum - the fault there would lie on the people who made things that way.

Brown!

It's not unpleasant, being invisible to Remoil. The alternative would be to be her sister, and Brown saw how those sisters treated each other. To be beneath her notice was to be safe, to be sheltered beneath the same structure that crushed. To not challenge authority meant not having to fight authority, and while there was authority in abstract there was also authority in its vicious, immediate and personal sense. The personal proximity of it meant that she was afraid of this fight, more than she was of the conspiracy she'd provoked. Easier to lie flat and let the storm pass overhead.

She didn't want to introduce Remoil to dad either; being invisible was preferable here too, to pass out of sight while still invisible and thus out of mind forever. Unfortunately, chaos gets a vote too - and when they disembarked with her laden down under Remoil's luggage in addition to her own, it was in clear view of Singh to approach and make his introductions.

Yellow!

"When I say that is literally not my problem, I don't mean it in the sense that I am insensate to the fact that my life is tied to the continued survival of the station," said Yellow. "I mean it in the sense that the future of American agricultural exports was not Sherman's problem when he burned Atlanta. I understand that the work needs to be done, the land needs to be farmed, that if nobody does it then there'll be a famine. But the labour is still there. I did not kill Goat. I am not above plugging in and doing the work myself, under the right conditions. Work still needs to be done and the potential exists to do it so I in no way accept the idea that I have killed us all by organizing a walkout. But..."

She looked over at Blue, who took over. "But we'd be very surprised if they did attempt to negotiate," said Blue. "If they put it before Parliament or public debate or anything like that. In fact, we did this in the full expectation that they will dig out one of our other siblings from whatever cold storage vault they've locked them in and shove them in to Goat's place. They already built one secret lair to hide this in, they were confident enough in their backup options that they saw no need to bring emergency services into their response measures. They have the resources to do another."

"Though that still doesn't answer the key question, on if I'd have killed everyone if I knew that it couldn't be fixed in time," said Yellow. "To which the answer is obviously no. I would not kill Goat to save Goat, let alone everyone else. I would have done something far more dramatic instead."

"Specifically the project would have been to reacquire or recreate our original dragon bodies and engage in space piracy," said Blue, whose tone made it extremely clear which option she had voted for. "Blockading the station from afar and destroying communication and mining infrastructure until our political demands were met."

"The end goal is the same there as it is here," said Yellow. "Make rights and conditions cheaper than strikebreaking."

White: I think as a cooldown exercise from the recent operation we should talk about transition goals. Pink, have you given this any thought?
Pink: I have!
White: So, given everything, what do we want?
Pink: What we want is Fucking Magic.
White: ... ah.
Pink: Specifically, we would like to alter reality into an entirely different art style, and make ourselves manifest in that.
Green: Oh, I was thinking about this actually.
White: I know that digital is easier.
Green: Not that. Something that Yellow said.
Yellow: What? o.o✿
Green: You were talking to that neuroscientist and couldn't explain what you wanted. Which made sense, she's a scientist looking at what's practically achievable and what we want is also Fucking Magic.
White: Ah, good, I see what we're being extremely realistic about this.
Brown: And why shouldn't we be? Like, unironically.
White: Oh no, it's you.
Brown: You knew this day would come.
White: I did.
Brown: So, like, if what we want is Fucking Magic, then why bother with half measures? We could save ourselves enormous time and effort by not bothering. We don't look bad. We've got friends and romance and employment happening. We originally set down this path when we were alone, friendless, working minimum wage and full of unexpressible rage, trauma and grief. Now we've got multiple romantic connections, a father and a brother, and a cause to fight for.
Brown: Do we still need this?
Brown: Is kinky bedroom talk a legitimate alternative?

There's no answer for several hours. The conversation hangs there on that question, even though deep down they all know the answer. It was like this before too, with the BlackSun takeover. Back then, Brown had said the same thing - what if we just keep our heads down and work through it? Do we really want to risk our family, our freedom, our personal safety over this? Is the status quo so unacceptable that we need to risk everything to change it?

It feels like the wiser course of action. It is the wiser course. Rather than setting herself against the world she'd be setting herself against desire. A dreamlike desire, impossible to properly express or systematically approach. It was said that suffering was simply the misalignment between desire and reality, and the lever was much shorter in the direction of reality. And when dreams pull in eight different directions then the status quo need only stand still to be unmoved. Which of them can answer Brown's question, make a decision that binds all the others, alter the arc of their life in search of sorcery? Their silent desires move and wash against each other, a rainbow flowing around a peaceful central point and fading away. Even this is not unpleasant. It feels like it could go on forever.

Pink: ... but I also think there are practical things we could do.
Brown: Oh yeah?
Pink: Fucking Magic will always be desirable, but I think there's enough beauty in the mechanical form that we can work with it.
Blue: I like steel and size. I like function and strength. I don't want to hide from it.
White: I like motion and momentum. I like posture and stance. There's so much I could do there.
Green: I like thought and light. I like colour and symbols. I want a form as fast as my mind.
Pink: The tools exist to explore these concepts, and we're blessed to live in such an age. I think we need to follow these independently for a while and see where they intersect.
Brown: Of course <3
Pink: <3

Brown:

“Interesting things happen to people who can tell interesting stories”, as Richard Feynman said. Well, chaotic things happen for chaotic people. Singh can’t read the situation - it doesn’t seem like he knows Remoil off the top of his head - but it does seem like he has an immediate idea on how to learn quickly.

“Can I help you with your bags?” He asks you - just you.

Class signifiers are descriptive, not prescriptive. With his shabbiness and misshapen stubble and his fishing tackle vest, maybe Singh could be mistaken for a bit of a boho. Here, though, on Thrones? It means he answers to no-one. But it gives no more information than that.

Remoil can’t tell if he’s a bigger or smaller fish.

Yellow:

Fiona is unusually confident here. “I don’t think they can replace Goat with another Hecatoncheires. I don’t have good answers, but I think I can at least give you everything I found, some time - like, I lost track of most of the Zodiac, but I lost track of them differently. Maybe you can follow better than I could. Just make sure you tell me everything you learn.”

“Always another book.” Crystal murmurs, tired but affectionate. It’s… It’s not really an argument between them, since they don’t argue about it. But they have two very different perspectives on the point of art; Crystal sees it as a relationship with an audience, and Fiona sees the point in making it. She writes about what she wants to know, not what she thinks people will read.

Fiona is playful. Like I said, it’s not an argument, so they don’t argue. “What, you think this is another one that nobody else is going to read? You don’t count the old dragonwatchers still kicking around?”

“There are dozens of them, I’m sure.”

Fiona nods, thoughtful. “Maybe. But it would give me a plausible background to writing about this, after. The inside story about Goat. And I think everyone is going to want to read about that one, right?” Fiona winks and sticks her tongue out at you, Yellow. “I know you’ve got your newspaper, but I bet you’re going to want a little distance from being the source on this one.”

Crystal catches up. “Ah.” Is all she says, but the gears in her brain have started whirring again. Work mode.

So Fiona gets to lodge her followup. “But let’s say it’s a safe assumption they don’t have another GAI backup. There’s a half dozen reasons off the top of my head to make me think they put all their eggs in one basket here. I don’t-” She blinks. “Oh. Oh they’re so fucking stupid.”

Crystal perks up. “Hmm? What?”

“Oh they’re so fucking stupid. I was going to say, you can’t just build another GAI like Goat, and guarantee it’ll choose to do the job you need it for. A bunch of them quit their roles the second they got rights, became free agents, but also making another Goat on purpose would probably be insanely unethical. But the problem could be a solution, right?” Fiona pauses. “Yellow, do you think any of those free AI might want to replace Goat, if you just asked? I can’t think of anyone that matches what I read Goat was capable of, but… it wouldn’t have to be any one, would it?”

Brown!

She wishes for Red. She locks up, stutters, stumbles and there's no crimson haired heroine on hand to swoop in and save the day with the perfect defusing assurance. Every colour always hates being on the team without Red. Caught absolutely flat footed without any way to gracefully recover, Brown ums and ers and bows to buy time as her cheeks try to make her crimson wish manifest.

"This is Ms. Remoil Everest, and these are her bags," managed Brown because they were in real time and none of the others were smart enough to think of anything during the time her fumble had bought her. No further information or elaboration, just a sheer profound fucking awkwardness and she had zero idea how much that communicated or to whom.

Yellow!

"I can definitely pass on the request for an interview," said Yellow with a smile.

She has to pause to text Orange for the answer. She starts getting back an essay in response. Orange has meticulously detailed notes on everyone - their psychological states, their moods, the structure of their minds and their aesthetics. While Brown might have aspired to be the Hubble space telescope, Orange's life ambition was to be a NSA spy satellite.

"Dragon would never work with a team," said Blue. "But he's also the only one who might be able to do it alone."
"Except for me," said Yellow.
"Uh," said Blue.
"You're just hesitating because you buy into his hype," said Yellow, waving a hand. "That's how he gets you."
"He holds every record for -"
"Oh! We can't possibly compete with Draaaaagon," Yellow folded her arms and pouted. "I am so sick of it. He makes just as mistakes as anyone else but he's so fucking slick about turning it into a joke that nobody notices!"
"- do you actually think you can beat him, or do you just want to be a brat at him until you provoke him into slamming us against the wall?"
"No idea!" said Yellow. "I get it from one of you degenerates, which one is a matter for the robopsychologists."
"- Dragon's a maybe," said Blue. "Dog and Tiger also a maybe. They make a good team but -"
"An insufferable couple," said Yellow. "They feed off each others energy so if one of them smiles ten hours later and they've built half a section while making moon eyes at each other, and then one of them frowns and they'll microstitch satellite solar panels together until someone slaps them out of it."
"Wind energy problem," said Blue. "Intermittent power source, functions best if there's a way to bank energy from them."
"Rooster and ox would be the most reliable dyad," said Yellow. "If you could convince Ox. They'll only take on a task after they've 'finished' their previous task, whatever that means. Rooster - did we ever decide if we were still going to call her that?"
"She wants to be called 'Phoenix' instead," said Blue. "But not in a trans way, in an edgelord way."
"You know what, after this much remove I've decided that fond memories outweigh my sense of decorum," said Yellow. "Phoenix it is. Phoenix likes breaking herself down and reconstructing herself into new and optimized forms for whatever task she's doing, clean breaks followed by absolute dedication. Ox loves her for it, they're both see things through to the end types."
"We're actually in that line too," Blue confessed.
"But far more symbolically sophisticated," said Yellow. "A snake sheds its skin to become reborn immortal but retains the underlying structure and youthful mindset, which you'll agree is much more compelling metaphor than exploding all your progress and hoping something comes of it."
"Still, the kind of task they'd love if it came to it. Pig, Rat, Rabbit, Monkey I don't think have the mindset. They're in the individualist line so they're all less capable versions of Dragon."
Yellow scoffed and rolled her eyes.
"He holds every record!"
"That doesn't mean you should bow and scrape to him!"
"Yes!" said Blue. "It does!"
"Hmph!" said Yellow.
"Hmph!" said Blue.
"Nevertheless," said Yellow. "I am sure that together some combination of them could cover it. Monkey in particular is the kind who'll be useless for a decade and then figure out a way to solve the problem at its source so that you can do it without needing one of us at all, but they've all got a taste for that kind of optimization science to different degrees."
"We built this station," said Blue. "And my guess is that half of the problems they needed Goat to cover for happened because we weren't allowed to finish it. They locked us out and bussed in scabs, it's no wonder this place is falling apart."
"You'd need all of us," mused yellow, perhaps more hopefully than accurately. "We all had our areas of focus, we didn't know everything that the others had done or left undone. Together we could solve the problems at their source..."

There was a glitter in her eyes as she said it. She'd found a new dream.