[b]Orange![/b]

"I wouldn't know," said November. "I'm not friends with anyone who doesn't torture themselves for what they love."

She folds her hands behind her back and paces. Pope doesn't know, but she's mirroring Tiger right now - for some reason that was just where her mind went when she was thinking about performing coups. 

Get the mannerisms right. You're not impersonating a human any more. You're not dealing in human power. You're dealing in balances of force and [i]fait accompli[/i]. Immediately the illusion deepened, plunging through layers of her mind like dry ice into golden whisky. Mannerisms, turns of speech, accents, surface level stuff - but go deeper. Think about the structure. The politics. The turns and twists of thought, the inevitable truths that let her predict the future. 

Yes. She had once been the most powerful colour. Everyone else had been emanations of her. This was how.

She drops back a step as they walk, just on the edge of Pope's peripheral vision. She hunches forwards a bit, hands in her pockets. She'd have to do away with this suit; it revealed too much. The aesthetic of the enemy. She pulls off the jacket and stuffed it in a trashbin as she walked, undid her tie and top button and let it hang loose, reached up to pull her crafted hair into a rough ponytail. She produced a sparkstick she'd built for this purpose - the shape of a glowing cigarette, a flicker of light and heat and a wisp of smoke. It was the inverse of a vape; it was useless for any recreational purpose, it was purely an aesthetic tool, the motion of holding a glowing fragment of fire in hands and mouth.

Orange like Tygers, burning bright.

"How about you, Pope?" she said. "You ever want to run a magazine?"

She could predict the answer. The question was useful regardless.

[b]Naval![/b]

While Dudekov is looking at the roof, lost in his monologue, Mr. Naval Oldberg, Psychologist, strikes like a Snake.

It's an impossible move, not least because he's still sitting back in his chair while he does it, hands folded thoughtfully. He doesn't move a muscle actually, every one of the limbs he uses for this assault didn't exist before he started using them. He doesn't bat an eyelash even when his hands close across Dudekov's unlocked phone, ice blue eyes don't blink even as teal eyes look up through batting eyelashes.

"Hey," said [b]Cyan![/b]

And then she fucking [i]scrams[/i]. A crazy, high energy, zero dignity scramble rolling over the bed, powering off with both legs, landing in a shoulder diveroll and sprinting out through the door without dropping a second of momentum. Brown is waiting to slam the door shut behind her and weld the lock shut.