3150/Titan Memories 2012: Donna and Caitlin Meet

Titan Memories 2012: Donna and Caitlin Meet
Date of Scene:	29 August 2020
Location:	Queens, New York
Synopsis:	Donna Troy and Caitlin Fairchild meet for the first time!
Cast of Characters:	Donna Troy, Caitlin Fairchild

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Donna Troy has posed:
    How much difference a few months make. Troia - now going by the name Donna Troy - no longer expects to spend her days in New York fighting nazis. She knows how to use her phone now, of course - not just how to phone Diana and let her know what she's up to and where she is, but also to watch videos on youtube and browse the web. Her dress sense, when it comes to the clothes of Man's World, is no longer quite so random and her ensemble of slightly baggy jeans, a hooded fleece and basketball boots blends in with the other teenagers walking the streets.

     She's even going to school now, though that has been a bit of a struggle. There, her accent makes her stand out, and her 'foreign' education stands out even more - there are subjects she knows better than any of her teachers, and others she's oddly ignorant in. There had been some teasing at first; initially about her ignorance, but as her rapid learning kicked in about her geekiness. That didn't last long in the face of her athletic aptitude easily outdoing the jockiest of jocks, which forestalled any temptation her classmates might have had to move from teasing to attempted bullying, which despite Diana's instructions to /not let on/ would undoubtedly have gone badly for anyone who attempted to push things that far.

    Nevertheless, Donna hasn't exactly made many good friends yet. Getting out of school is something of a relief, and relaxation is something she generally does on her own - such as today's visit to the Museum of the Moving Image in Queens. Donna has discovered a love of all things photographic and cinematographic, and it has been a good day. The museum, part of the old Astoria studios buildings, is closing for the day and Donna is amongst the last of the visitors to be pushed out the door by tired staff. She puts her hands in the pockets of her hoodie against the chill of New York's late winter air, and starts to walk down towards 36th Street Station.

    Donna has only been walking a minute or two when she passes a Mexican cantina-style bar with an unusual crowd gathered around it. The crowd mills around the doorway, split into at least two groups pushing and shoving at each other, voices raised. Donna slows her walk as she approaches, and comes to a halt across the street from the bar, her eyes narrowing as she assesses the developing situation.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"You're a wonderful nieta for helping us out like this."

Caitlin, in the back room, is unaware of the developing situation out front. She's in the kitchen, holding up a thousand-pound grill while two of the kitchen workers shore up braces underneath it. Esmerelda, the owner, is beaming gratefully at her; in her late forties and barely five-five, she's clearly decided to become Caitlin's temporary abeula. "They said, it'd be a thousand dollars to bring in a man and a hoist to do this so we could fix the wires."

"Well, Hector asked nicely," Caitlin says with an embarassed expression. "He's always nice to met at the iron yard and mentioned y'all were in a bind." She's holding up the weight with just a slightly strained expression, waiting patiently for the team to shore up the grill. She looks like she might work here herself, wearing an old set of military coveralls covered in stains and with frizzy, tangled red hair pulled hastily back in a sloppy ponytail.

Hector himself wriggles out from under it, clothing stained heavily with dirt and grease. "While we've got this up, I think we should go ahead and *clean* under it, too," he informs the others. "Like an inch of rat shit and oil under there."

Esmerelda whacks his wrist with a spoon that seems to come out of nowhere; Hector hisses and dances in place, gritting back curse words. "You watch your language, no nice girl's gonna take you serious if you curse like a sailor. Caitlin, did you know Hector's single?" Esmerelda tells the redhead. Caitlin's taking a sip of water and nearly chokes on it.

"Y-yes, I knew," Caitlin stammers. Her head cranes to the developing situation in the main restaurant and her brow furrows. "Hey, what's going on out there?" she inquires, desperate to change the subject. "Did y'all's soccer team lose again or something?" She steps out to the edge of the kitchen but doesn't quite emerge, half-hiding around the corner where it transitions from the kitchen to serving area.

Donna Troy has posed:
    Inside the bar, the argument is even noisier than outside. The two groups, mostly young men, had been there since the afternoon. Both groups were large enough to have spread to several tables and between them were occupying most of the bar - all of it, since that one smaller table finished their meal hurredly and left due to the noise. One of the groups is a familiar sight here, a group of motor mechanics from a nearby garage, and a few of their friends. They're here most friday nights. The other group are new faces, apparently celebrating the birthday of one of them, and have been drinking heavily.

    It's not clear what the argument is about. There is no single clear focus of the argument, and perhaps it would be more accurate to call it a series of localized disputes as the two groups, both under the influence of alcohol and testosterone, inevitably impinged on each other's evening. Peering past the kitchen door, Caitlin can see a group of three men from the new group hovering over one of the tables occupied by the mechanics. The two groups are yelling at each other, and have reached that stage in the argument where whatever triggered the argument off originally has been lost and they are now taking offense at each other's reaction to taking offense. Members of both groups sitting at other tables are taking a keen interest in the dispute, but as yet are not getting involved.

    Both groups have spilled onto the sidewalk outside, where several of them are smoking, and the argument outside appears to revolve around a claim that one person tipped ash on another's shoes, of all things. It's a fight waiting for an excuse, rather than any kind of real complaint. It's here that the disagreement first gets physical, as one of the mechanics pushes one of the newcomers out of his way , and immediately the newcomers swarm the mechanic angrily.

    "HEY!" Donna calls out, as she crosses the road. "HEY! Stop that!" Her voice is loud and confident, but ignored. The fight still hasn't got beyond the stage of pushing and shoving by the time she interposes herself between the two groups. "What are you doing? This is no way to behave," she berates both parties in a thick, very obviously foreign accent. "If you have a dispute, settle it in a civilized fashion, and do not scare customers from this establishment!"

    The effect of her interruption is immediate, and utterly bemused. People don't behave like this, and the raised voices hush for a moment out of sheer surprise.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"Oh golly," Caitlin says in dismay. "Y'know, maybe someone should call the cops," she suggests-- and then Donna pipes up. The Princess' voice carries a strong timbre, full of confidence and force. It has an immediate effect on the crowd.

But then someone with less brains than sense laughs. And it echoes, and soon there are a good number of the assembled crowd simply laughing at the girl upbraiding them. It stops the brewing fight-- if but briefly-- and the comments floating around range from the derogatory to the lewd.

"Ayy little bambina, batirlo, si?" one of the mechanics says dismissively. "None of your business."

Esmerelda bustles out into the serving room with a spoon in hand, and aims it as dangerously as as handgun. "No mas! All of you, vayas! Undele, si si!" she says, banging her spoon on the table. "You cabrons are all drunk and bad tippers, go find somewhere else to fight!"

"Tcch," says one of the birthday goers-- a collective mutterance goes up and they start a slow, collective momentum towards the door.

"Ayy pequena, how about you come with us, huh?" one says from behind Donna, and steps close behind to give her hair a flick. Esmerelda reacts instantly with that spoon again, and this time one the customer gets the hard wood stirring spoon right smack on his wristbone. "Mierda! Puta pinche, the fuck?!" he screams, and spits at Esemerelda's feet.

"Cuidadito, cabron!" shouts one of the mechanics, and he grabs a beer stein and fastballs it at the offender's face.

Donna Troy has posed:
    Donna is remarkably tolerent. This of course is apparent to nobody but herself at this point, because anyone else would assume she has no choice but to be tolerant. From the perspective of those seeing her, she is acting very recklessly. From her perspective, she is acting with considerable restraint.

    Scratch that, from the perspective of those seeing her, she is acting suicidal. "None of you are capable to handle your alcohol and you bring shame upon your nation. You will disperse immediately!" she insists. However a stein has been thrown, and is instantly followed up by a fist from one of the offender's friends, sent back in the opposite direction, and the crowd around the door pause only a moment in shock before an all-out brawl breaks out, and Donna is momentarily lost in the heaving mass of bodies.

    Like ripples in a pond, the fighting spreads inwards to those in both groups who have yet to reach the door. Within seconds the interior of the bar is in chaos; tables are overturned, bottles are being thrown, and chairs are being swung. Hector takes one look out of the kitchen and decides he is not paid enough to get involved. He immediately retreats inside the kitchen to call the police. The other kitchen worker picks up a cleaver and hovers by the door, an arm held out protectively to encourage Caitlin to stay back.

    Inside the bar, a pained voice rises up above the general noise. "Maldito bastardo! Estas muerta!" The voice is rapidly followed by a couple of others yelling "GUN!"

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
It's utter chaos for a few moments. A swirling melee, the smash of glass. Cries and shouts and screams as the fight turns into a proper brawl.

There's a surge of motion and then a nearly a dozen of the fighters get knocked down like dominos, one shoved so violently he goes tumbling and rolling into his buddies and the force carries them all along and onto the ground and tables. It's enough of an impact to get plenty of attention, focused now on the towering redhead standing protectively over Esmerelda (who'd been knocked to the ground in the melee). Fists clenched, shoulders rolled forward; teeth are clenched and bared at the violent brawlers.

"Fuck you, pendeja!" shouts the guy with the gun, and aims the cheap snubnose revolver at Caitlin's midsection and pulls the trigger. The sound of a gunshot indoors is deafening and even in the brawl everyone dives for cover and violently tries to get clear.

A second shot does not happen, because Caitlin grabs the gun-- and the hand holding it-- in her long-fingered grip. She lifts, and squeezes, hard enough to break bones as she holds the gunman up until his feet dangle from the ground. All he can do is kick and screech in pain, desperately trying to pull Caitlin's fingers apart and only hurting himself as he kicks at her. Only a very sharp eye would notice a nine-millimeter hole in her ratty jumpsuit, and a misshapen chunk of lead on the ground at her feet.

It becomes apparent a beat later that aside from trying to look scary and keep the gun out of anyone's hands, Caitlin's entirely unsure of what to do with the brigand once she has him.

Donna Troy has posed:
    There's a wave of hurtling bodies in one direction, briefly followed by a smaller wave in the other, as two of the fighters come flying through the door and into the interior of the bar. They are followed by Donna, striding into the interior holding two more, one in each hand, who she throws to the floor. She stands there taking in the scene for a fraction of a second, eyes darting rapidly around the room. Someone tries to rush past her to the door, but she reaches out an arm and the man collides with it, bouncing back and crashing to the ground as if he had run into an iron bar. The place falls silent.

    Donna stares curiously at Caitlin. "A gun?" she asks in her smoky, hard-to-place accent. "It was loud. Why are you holding him like that?" She sounds remarkably calm.

    The remaining combatants are cowering behind upturned tables, watching the tableau nervously, afraid to come out of cover while there's still a gun in play, even if it is currently pointing at the ceiling.

    Donna takes a couple of steps towards Caitlin and the gunman, observing the tall redhead with a look of frank curiosity. "Are you planning to hold him up like this forever?" she asks.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
% Caitlin's anger is mollified and she looks around with a look of dawning discomfort-- uncertain and embarassed at such an outburst, no matter how necessary. The shooter's crying and kicking still, and Caitlin gives him a little shake. "Shush! I'm thinking!" she says, speaking to him, and Donna, and everyone else.

The redhead disentangles his fingers from the gun and lets him drop to the ground. She examines the firearm as if trying to recall something. The motions look familiar yet a surprise to her as she ejects the rounds and then twists the gun apart to destroy it beyond recovery. It's tossed aside and Caitlin-- still not sure how to respond to Donna's somewhat intimidating presence-- squats down to help Esmerelda up. "C'mon Es," she whispers. "You're okay. Let's get into the back," she suggests, and starts trying to cajole the frightened owner towards heading to safer ground.

Donna Troy has posed:
    Donna watches Caitlin's demolition of the gun with an expression which is surprised, but only marginally so. When the redhead crouches down to help Esmerelda, Donna shrugs her shoulders lightly and turns to face the remnants of the crowd still cowering in the interior of the bar.

    "I said you all to disperse. Told you all. You were foolish not to listen," Donna says, her voice filled with peremptory command. "Now, you will do as I instructed you. Help your injured friends and go, before I change my mind." There are faint sounds of shuffling, but nobody seems eager to move quickly.

    There are several sudden intakes of breath from around the interior, followed by a hissed "Malditas superheroes!" from someone in the crowd and a louder "I SAID GO!" from Donna. By the time Caitlin looks up from Esmerelda, whatever had triggered this reaction is no longer evident, but there's a rapid scramble for the exit. Soon the place is empty but for Caitlin, the staff, the whimpering shooter curled up in a heap on the ground clutching his injured hand, and Donna.

    Donna steps up to Caitlin, her head tilting to one side curiously. "You were shot with the gun," she states matter-of-factly. "Are you injured?"

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"What? Me?" Caitlin backs up with a very nervous expression when Donna confronts her. Hector takes Esmerelda to a booth and puts her in it, then rushes to get a cool cloth for a compress and a drink to help Esmerelda's nerves.

"I-I wasn't shot," she stammers, patting herself down. She's easily a half a head taller than Donna, but the way she slouches and stands with her shoulders slumped offsets the difference by quite a bit. "It was loud, sure, but he was just... I think he missed, the bullet must have gone somewhere else," she protests.

"How'd you d-do that?" she inquires of Donna. "I mean, scared 'em off like that. I never heard anyone yell like that and make folks run off."

She looks a little starstruck; as big and evidently strong as she is, Caitlin looks more impressed at Donna's commanding presence. In contradiction to the dapper dress Donna's wearing, Caitlin's old jumpsuit looks like it sees a lot of heavy use and it manages to fail to flatter her body in any way. With her hair a frizzy mess and literal smudge on her face, Caitlin looks like a blue-collar laborer off a day shift rather than aspiring heroine.

Donna Troy has posed:
    "You were shot," Donna repeates insistently. She crouches down and picks something off the floor, holding it out to Caitlin - the bullet, its point flattened from impact. Her eyes go up and down Caitlin's body, falling on the small hole in her jumpsuit by her stomach. She points it out. "There," she says. "I do not see blood. You should check."

    She turns and scans the interior, then steps quickly to the doorway, looking both ways down the street to check that everyone has gone. Apparently they have. Leaning on hand on the doorway, she turns back, her big dark eyes fixing on Caitlin again. "They were already scared when you lifted that man up and broke his hand," Donna counters dismissively. She blinks a couple of times, then gives a shrug of her shoulders. "I levitated a little. It is a way to... to make the point home." Her grasp of English idioms is still rather rough. "Did you call the police yet? I prefer not to speak with them. They will contact my sister. I do not know if she will be pleased."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"I didn't break his hand, I broke his gun," Caitlin objects. She's poking at her stomach all the same, and finds a fresh, neat little hole in the fibers where the lead had cut through it. Hector lifts his chin at Donna. "Yeah, I got it," he reassures her, and fishes a phone out to call 911. He pauses, looking back at Caitlin, then at Donna. "You, uh, you two wanna go, you can run," he tells her, matter-of-fact. "Big city, no witnesses, no one's gonna remember who was here," he offers. Seems he's extending to Donna some of the consideration of the neighborhood for her intervention in helping the restaurant.

Caitlin turns away from Donna and steps around the corner, looking a little shocked. In the relative privacy of the alcove Caitlin unzips the jumpsuit far enough to try and examine herself for a wound, and the lack of blood or major injury only seems to be contributing to a bit of a nervous breakdown.

Donna Troy has posed:
    "Both," Donna counters Caitlin's objection. "Hand first, then gun. That is why he is still making so much noise." She looks down at the gunman whimpering on the floor. "Too much noise!" she says to him. "It will heal. You think yourself a warrior to go armed, yet you cry like this at such a wound? You are no warrior. In future you will be wise not to attempt combat. You have neither the skill nor courage.

    The words bring forth only more whimpers.He is not stupid enough to argue with anyone at this point.

    Donna nods her head to Hector. "Nobody will remember. I shall go then," she agrees. However she doesn't head straight for the door, but rather follows Caitlin into the alcove. With a lack of decorum that's rather shocking by American standards, she takes hold of the edge of Caitlin's jumpsuit and tugs it lightly to the side, examining the point of impact carefully. "You will be... uh... dark... swelling. I do not recall the word. Tomorrow," she predicts. "But there is no real hurt. Come. Now. We must go or the police will ask difficult questions. As Caitlin appears to be too shocked to act with any great haste, Donna brushes her hand aside and pulls the zipper up, repeating "Come."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin turns a stunning shade of red at Donna's sudden proximity and inspection. Perhaps it's a bit of shock at the situation, or something in Donna's demeanour. But she leaves her hands still so the girl can examine the injury. If there's a bruise, it'll be a small one. The impact didn't even tear the skin.

"P-police? But we're supposed to wait for the police," Caitlin stammers. "Isn't it ag-against the law to run from the c-cops?"

Donna's tugging her along with a surprising amount of force and when Caitlin hears her jumpsuit stitches tearing she follows along with a guitly expression.

"I'm-I'm sorry!" she tells Hector, for no apparent reason, and then they're disappearing out the back of the restaurant into the web of alleyways behind it.

"We're gonna get in trouble! The cops are gonna ask everyone and they're going to come talk to me and ask why I left the scene of a crime and I'm gonna go to jail!" Caitlin says, and with each word her voice winds higher and tighter with anxiety.

Donna Troy has posed:
    "Calm yourself, you have done nothing wrong," Donna insists. "We are running from nobody, we are simply avoiding complicated questions. Those men were acting in an unruly fashion. You helped to stop them injuring each other and causing more damage to the restaurant," she explains patiently.

    There is an adjustment slowly taking place in Donna's attitude. When she saw Caitlin dealing with the gunman, she had instantly categorized Caitlin as a warrior. The logic is quite simple: a woman who steps into a fight and defends those who need defending is a warrior. That's the /definition/ of warrior in her mind. Caitlin is a warrior, therefore Caitlin is experienced in combat, is quick-thinking, calm and analytical in such situations. Except clearly she is not. Donna is not quite sure what to make of the rather Amazonian-appearing redhead, but apparently a little more consideration of Caitlin's mental state is required.

    They have only gone a few steps when the whoop of sirens can be heard in the street outside. There must have been a car close at hand. Donna stops and says something in a foreign language that sounds like it might be a curse. "Listen. It is awkward. The police will require of us to state what happened, and give them our names and other information. It is not necessary, it simply creates for us inconvience. So we are not running, but..."

    There is a tug, and the ground lurches and moves. For a moment it feels to Caitlin like she's falling, but in the wrong direction. Windows zip past, heading downwards, and she feels the weight of her body pressing down under her arms. There is a sudden breeze as the walls around them fall away, and the dim evening sky stretches out all around.

    It takes a few seconds to process the new experience. Donna has her arms under Caitlins, and is lifting her up through the air.

    They are flying.

    No sooner has the thought hit her mind than Caitlin feels the solidity of a roof beneath her feet, and the weight on her arms is released. Donna lets her go and steps out from behind her, looking up into the redhead's face. "There. We can wait here a little while until they have gone. Are you feeling okay?"

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"Oh yeah, I'm fine," Caitlin tells Donna.

Then she sits down hard, dropping all her weight to her rear and landing on the roof heavily enough to shake it. She's a tall girl and athletically built, but improbably dense even for her athletic frame.

"S-sorry," she says, hugging her stomach and shaking. "J-just.. was kind of a l-lot all at once."

Her pale features have gone near-white with the adrenaline working through her system. "I've only been in o-one fight before," she admits. "I d-didn't even know I got shot. This is a-all kinda new to me, the... powers and stuff."

Donna Troy has posed:
    Donna crouches by Caitlin, studying her face. "Why do you apologize?" she asks curiously. "You did no wrong thing. Do you feel frightened? There is no danger. We are safe here." She rests a hand on Caitlin's shoulder, giving it a gently squeeze. "Everything is fine."

    She doesn't really know how to handle the situation. A fight? No problem. Someone in shock? A new experience. Oh sure, in man's world most people are not warriors. She understands that just fine. How people who are not warriors react to being in combat? That's new to her.

    Donna stands straight and walks to the edge of the building, leaning dangerously far out over the street to look down at were, a couple of buildings over, a pair of police cars are parked. She stands there watching. "You say you are not a warrior. This is only the second time that you fought? You have no training?" she calls back from the edge of the roof, her voice losing some of the business-like edge she has spoken with so far. "It is strange. You fought with the instincts of a warrior. You did not hesitate. Yet now when the battle is won, you hesistate.

    There's the sound of another siren, and Donna watches as an ambulance pulls in to join the police cars. "You have powers. So you are a metahuman, like the super-heroes," she says conversationally. "But this is new to you and you find it difficult. I understand." She doesn't, really. It seems like the right thing to say. "Everything will be okay, please do not worry. My name is Donna. What is yours?"

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin looks flushed and teary, and miserable, and most of all embarassed at her reaction contrasted against Donna's cool composure. "Es-Esmerelda was on the floor. I saw her crying. She's al-always really nice to me," Caitlin explains. "Hector invited me by and she m-made me lunch, and she asks me to come by and help with s-stuff in the kitchen. They're a really nice family." She smears her tears away on the heel of her hand and the inside of her wrist. "It was the first time in ... months that I felt *full*. I'm hungry all the time. She always makes big batches of food for me. I just kinda... I don't know," she says. "I saw her there and I got ... mad?" she hesitates. "I guess? And then the gun went off and I thought it was just like, a ricochet or something. I feel really bad I broke his hand, I just didn't know what else to do," she laments.

The long rambling discourse ends and she looks up at Donna. "I'm Caitlin. I'm sorry," she says, again. "I-I've always had anxiety, I'll c-calm down here in a few minutes."

Donna Troy has posed:
    Donna steps back from the edge of the roof, and crouches down in front of Caitlin. "I do not think you should have anxiety," she says with a soft smile. "You are strong and a bullet cannot harm you, so you have little that you need to be an... anx...ietous about, I think."

    She reaches out to take Caitlins hand and hold it gently in her own. "Cait-el-in. It is a good name. Listen to me, Cait-el-in. You did a very good thing. Your friends... Hector? Hmm. Hector and Esesmerelda will be very thankful to you. Tomorrow you go back and see them, yes? I promise you they will be very glad to see you and will make for you even more food. Those were bad men, and they would cause much damage. Maybe hurt some people. Hurt Hector and Esesmerelda. Because of you, they did not."

    She pats Caitlin's hand and lets it go. "It is good that you feel regret for causing an injury, because always it is best to stop those who do wrong without hurting them when this is possible. But it is not always possible. Already he shot his gun once, it was necessary to ensure he did not shoot it again, yes? You did the correct thing. I too would have broken his hand. It is much preferable to injuring him more significantly, but it stops him from injuring others. You fought well, and you saved those who were innocent from those who were willing to harm them. This is a good thing."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"I really don't like hurting people," Caitlin says quietly. "But I didn't want to see Es or Hector get hurt. They've been so nice to me. Hector works at the iron yard with me. He always tells the guys to lay off when they start teasing me or catcalling. I just hide in the back, Mr. McGill lets me work on my own sorting the heavy bars 'cause I'm not gonna get hurt if one lands on me."

She squeezes Donna's hand gratefully and looks at the dark-haired girl. "You said your name was Donna?" she asks, tentatively. "I'm sorry, I don't recognize you. I thought I knew most of the heroes working in New York. Are you new? Or is this your secret identity?" she inquires, timorosuly.

Donna Troy has posed:
    "It is not good to like hurting people," Donna says patiently. "It is good to like helping people. Sometimes we must hurt someone to help others, because they desire to cause harm. Remember, this man with his gun, he makes the choice. He requires you to hurt him so that you can help others. You hurted him only a little bit because you are strong. If you were less strong, you have to hurt him more or perhaps he can still hurt others, you understand? Everything you did was good. Your friends will be very happy."

    Man's World is /weird/. What kind of place fails to train someone like this, someone who so clearly ought to have been trained? It's baffling to Donna, and clearly another mark in the negative column of her assessment of the world outside Themyscira. This stuff, Donna reasons, is basic. This is the kind of conversation her mother had with her when she was a decade younger, and as Donna realigns her thought processes further and further to Caitlin's reactions, that fact is reflected in the way she speaks; slow, calm reasoning, almost like speaking to a child.

    Donna smiles her broad smile at Caitlin again, and settles herself down on the roof, folding her legs beneath her and sitting cross-legged. "Yes. My name is Donna. It is often in New York City people do not recognize each other. There are nine hund.. there are nine million people living here and I am not a hero." She breaks into a soft laugh. "I do not think my sister would approve if everyone recognizes me! Yes, I am new. I have only been living in America a few months now." She grins a little and shoves her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, hunching up a little. "My sister says that America is not so cold later in the year. I am looking forwards to this."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"I like the cold," Caitlin admits. She's a little shy about it, fumbling towards trying to talk with Donna as the competent young Amazon settles in next to her. "I can't stand it the heat. I moved here from Iowa a couple years ago. Er, that's a state, a few hundred miles west," she clarifies. Donna's accent seems to elude Caitlin. "It's all corn crops and fields though. Summers are only hot for a little while and it's not so muggy."

Unconsciously echoing Donna's body language, Caitlin sticks her hand in her pockets too, and finds a pair of protein bars. "Oh, uh. Here," she says, and offers Donna a choice. One's chocolate, one is some strawberry yogurt thing. "They're a little mooshed from my pocket but they're okay to eat, I promise."

Caitlin unwraps hers and takes a few bites; the protein bar has the consistency of chalky mud, and the flavor feels like it was invented by someone who once looked at a strawberrry in passing.

Donna Troy has posed:
    "Thank you, Cait-el-in," Donna says with a grin as she takes the slightly smooshed bar and tears open the wrapper. "I love the heat," she says with a slight sigh. "Where I am from it is much warmer than it is in America. I miss that very much. But America is a very interesting place. I love Coke and the cartoons on television."

    She doesn't love the protein bar, but she chews on it with apparent pleasure. Sometimes it's not about the flavor, it's about breaking bread with someone. "Mooshed," she comments after the first mouthful. "That is not a word I know. It means crushed? Compacted? I like this word. It sounds funny." She flashes Caitlin a grin.

    "You know many heroes then, Cait-el-in? It makes sense to know them when you too have the meta-human abilities. But I don't understand why you have not more experience of combat if you know them. Why did they not train you?"

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"Smashed, smooshed, mooshed," Caitlin says, working through those permutations. Her ears pink at Donna's words but the bright grin and sincere enthusiasm seems to be chipping away at her shyness. "I don't know... I don't know any of 'em, really," she confesses. "I like to watch 'em though, on YouTube. I've got a bunch of pictures of them doing stuff saved on my Instagram account, it's goofy," she admits. "A bunch of us spot them out in the city and tag each other when we see a post. I've... only had these, uh, powers f-for a few months now, so... I'm just kinda trying to work and keep my head down and get through school."

She looks over at Donna. "U-um, is it okay for me to ask where you're from? I know, I'm sorry," she says again, "I don't mean to be rude, i-if I am then ... well, nevermind, it's not a big deal," she amends, coloring and shrinking into herself again.

Donna Troy has posed:
"I am Greek," Donna says, staring with fascination at the protein bar. She takes another mouthful, chewing it thoughtfully as she considers expanding on that explanation. "I was born on one of the Greek islands. We have many islands."

    She tilts her head curiously at Caitlin, looking puzzled. "I know of Instagram. Your account is goofy? With the at symbol before it? I shall look it up. Why do you watch these heroes on YouTube? Is it so you can learn their techniques? If you only have... had... have had your power for some months then you must learn anew. To understand how your strength should be controlled, this is an important measure for your training. Also if you are so hard to injure that you are not hurt with a bullet. This is important. It changes very much the strategies of combat. When you should attack, when you should defend, these are different now. "

    Donna nods her head decisively. "You must ask one of these heroes who understands such things to train you. You have great powers. I am sure if someone shooted me that I... shot me. If someone shot me I would be hurt. But training is very important and you have a lot of catching up to do so that you can be a hero too."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin gets to her feet with a sudden motion. Almost too fast, like she doens't know her own strength. "N-no, I'm not-- me, I'm not a hero," she stammers. "I just like watching 'em and stuff, they're... they're better than celebrities, right?" she laments. "They actually do cool stuff and save people. They're not just actors, they're ..."

She grabs her hair in both hands, fairly yanking it as it trails between her fingers. "Besides, no one's gonna train me. Who would want to? I'm n-not anyone important. I never did anything heroic. I'm not anyone. My daddy sold concrete out of Grinnel. I'd just hurt someone, or screw something up so bad that someone got hurt. I accidentally bro-oke my friend's foot two months ago because I stepped on him in lecture hall. And- and- and wh-- if I try, and I mess it up, no one would ever want my help again, and I KNOW I'll screw it up," she says. The more Caitlin babbles, the more tightly wound she's getting.

Donna Troy has posed:
    Donna watches the performance with growing confusion. Yes she's /heard/ of low self-confidence before. Conceptually. Coming face to face with it is a different thing altogether.

    "Cait-el-in?" she says gently. "Please sit down again. And it is not necessary to pull at your hair. I did not bring with me a hair brush. And what you are saying does not make good sense." She gestures towards Caitlin with the remnants of her protein bar. "For a start, if you are worried that you make mistakes, that is exactly why you should train. The more you are training, the less you are making mistakes. That's why you should train at all! It's like..." she ponders a moment, and inspiration strikes. A thing she's been thinking about herself quite a bit the last month or so. "What you are saying, it's like saying... I have never learned to drive, so I am not good at driving. Therefore I should not learn to drive in case I crash a car. It is the exact opposite of making sense. You learn to drive so you do not crash a car, correct? So, also you learn to be good with... at the physical things, at balance, coordination, and onwards, so you do not make mistakes with these things. That is sense."

    Donna takes another bite of the bar and chews it thoughtfully. "As with who will train you, this is obvious. A hero will train you, because they will wish there to be more heroes. If you were already an important hero then you would not need training. I started to train since I was six years old, do you think I was some important hero then? I was a child!" She laughs and shakes her head. Compared to those training her, she /really/ was a child. "Training is the start, not the finish."

    "As to your last point, you say... a hero is someone who saves people. You say... you never did anything heroic. Would you like to go back down to the restaurant and ask of Hector and Esesmerelda if they agree with your conclusion? You defended them. You took a gun from a man's hand. You saved them. These are things that heroes do, yes?"

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
It's a good bit of logic, and a persuasive argument, and Caitlin is struggling to keep her cool enough to process it. The admonition to let her hair go brings her hands swiftly downwards and they fidget with spastic little motions. "See, y-you've been doing this for years, you know all the stuff and the moves," Caitlin accuses. "Th-there's nothing like that for me. Why do you want me to do this?" she demands suddenly. "You don't know me, you never met met. I just took a gun away from a guy, that's-- anyone could have done that, I was just fast, and I grabbed the gun and broke his hand, and-- -and--" she starts hyperventilating and turns in place, then finds a sturdy looking vent cover to sit on. The redhead flails around in her pocket and digs out an inhaler. Three rhyhthms of *puft*-inhale, *puft*-inhale and she sets it back in her pocket before rocking back and forth and whimpering at the enormity of it all.

Donna Troy has posed:
    Donna is really struggling. Why does this woman talk like this? None of it makes sense. She keeps contradicting herself and denying the obvious, and /now she is sucking at a plastic tube/. Is this some kind of ritual, some sacrifice or paean to her gods? America makes no sense at all, and this woman is the most... AMERICAN thing Donna has come across so far.

    "Cait-el-in, I am sorry," Donna says quietly. "I thought... I thought this is what you wanted, to be a hero. You talk about them with such respect. You admire them. I thought this is what you wanted. When I saw you act like a hero today and then you talk about watching them... it is natural to assume you want to become the same as them. "

    She stands up and steps slowly over to the vent where Caitlin is sitting and stands behind her, a hand resting on Caitlin's shoulder. "You are wrong, you know. Not everyone can do what you did. There are few who are so fast or so strong. And fewer still who would be able to do these things after they have been shot. But you can. Even without training you can do this thing that you did today. "

    "But you don't have to do this. Please forgive me." Donna looks down at Caitlin with a gentle smile. "It was not in my intentions to push you. I just thought this was what was your destiny that you were granted this power, and what you wanted to do because you... because you chose to do it. Perhaps it is the wish of your inner mind and not your outer mind. I only wished to help you find a way to do what I believed you wanted to do."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin sniffles and wipes her nose on the back of her wrist. Even to Donna's limited perceptions, there's something a little slovenly about the redhead; as if the unspoken social niceties of dress have simply never been explained to her.

"M-maybe," she concedes finally, once her panic attack has abated. "A couple months ago I couldn't do anything at all. I didn't *look* like this," she says, and tugs at her jumpsuit in disguist. "No one noticed me, I fit in all my clothes right, a-and I wasn't eating six times a day. I was normal, and now I'm about as far from normal as it gets. I get a jumpscare every time I look in the mirror."

She runs her fingers through her hair; how it is both a fizzy and a bit greasy from labor is truly a question for the ages. The tie holding her ponytail back is undone and red locks explode around her head like fireworks, before she pulls it all in place again and binds it carelessly behind her.

"I'm sorry. You're being really nice to me and I'm being a basket case," she apologizes. "Everything's just so..." Fingers curl in the air, looking for the word. "/Everything/. You know?"

Donna Troy has posed:
    Donna looks thoughtful for a moment or two, then apparently coming to some conclusion, she nods her head, gives Caitlin's shoulder a squeeze and sits down again, legs crossed, in front of Caitlin. She folds her hands in her lap and looks up at the self-confessed basket case.

    "It is a big change for you," she says. "I understand. For me also there has been a big change. In... at home, I am normal. I like normal things. I don't make mistakes in when I am talking. Then I come to America, and everything is different. Different for me, you understand? Which means for people here, /I/ am different. Not normal. When I start... started school here, people are unkind to me. Not all people, just some. I say something which is normal to me but is not normal in America, and they laugh. Because they say I am not normal."

    Donna's lips curl up into a grin. "You know? They are wrong. I am not normal for America perhaps, but I am normal for /me/. I am learning their ways, but they are not learning mine. So if they laugh at me, they laugh because they are ignorant. Should I feel bad because someone assumes there is only one thing that is normal? No. I should feel sorry for them because they show their ignorance of a larger world. Do not apologize for being who you are Cait-el-in, because being who you are allowed you to save the lives of two of your friends today. That is a thing to take pride in, not to feel shame for."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin pinks again, but this time it's at the praise instead of insecurity. It goes with a bashful smile and she looks away modestly at the compliment from Donna. "I'm not... I'm not normal either, so I know how that feels," Caitlin promises Donna. "I went from no one noticing me to no one leaving me alone. My first semester at college I just studied and kept my head down and tried to focus. Now I get people pestering me and stalking me and my professors won't take me seriously."

"Normal's overrated, but... it'd be nice to just blend in again," she admits.

Thumbs twiddle nervously and she forces herself to put her hands at her sides, braced against the box. "Thanks for getting me out of there and um, not calling me stupid or crazy," she tells Donna. "And I will go back and check in on Es and Hector later. I gotta see Hector at work anyway on Monday. I just hope none of them got in trouble 'cause of us scooting outta there." A tooth frets her lower lip anxiously and she rises a few inches to look at the cop car below in the street.

Donna Troy has posed:
    "There are nine million people in New York," Donna says, repeating a statement from earlier. "There are almost nine million people who blend in. To blend in is mundane. Would you not prefer to be special?" She grins wide at Caitlin, and joins her in observing the police car.

    The ambulance and one of the police cars has already left. As the pair watch, the remaining pair of policemen come out of the front of the building with Hector. It's too far to really make out what's being said, but it all seems pretty friendly. They exchange a few more words, and the cops get in their car and they drive away too.

    Donna tilts her head to look over to Caitlin. "Let them rest, visit tomorrow. I think also you need to rest. We can go down now, and it is getting dark. Can you fly, Cait-el-in? I did not stop to ask when I carried you up. I can carry you back down if you require."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin shakes her head at Donna's question. "No," she says, wistfully. "I mean, I don't think so. Maybe I can? I didn't know I was bulletproof. I'm still kinda figuring out how it all works. I just know I can pick my car up and walk it into a spot instead of trying to parallel park. And it got me a job at the iron yard moving scrap," she says, helpfully.

Caitlin follows Donna to the edge of the roof and looks over it a little nervously. "Golly, that's a long way down," she frets. "I don't mean to be a bother. I can probably just find a fire escape or something. You've got better things to do than haul me down there."

Donna Troy has posed:
    "Well at least we know that you are hard to hurt so if you try and it does not work you won't be too badly injured. But maybe try taking off from the ground rather than a tall building." Donna nudges Caitlin a little and laughs.

    "Come on. No more being silly. It is no effort to carry you down. I am not great at flying but it is little effort. Much less effort than looking for a fire escape. " She pats at her shoulder. "Come. Wrap your arms here around my shoulders and we go to the ground. Or if you prefer... do you live near? I do not know my way around this city well yet except when taking the subway trains. But if you tell me the way I can fly you to your apartment, if you would like."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
It's a little awkward getting situated, but Caitlin steps up and hugs Donna firmly as directed. "I live in Gotham," Caitlin says, and points south. "It's a long way to go, and I need to get my car anyway. If you can just drop me in the alley I can drive myself home," she bids Donna.

Down they go, and once they alight Caitlin looks around to make double sure that the cops aren't going to jump out at her unexpectedly. She turns back to Donna and a tight, nervous smile crosses her face, and she pushes her hair away from her brow again. "Um... thank you. For everything, and for what you said. I wish I could do something to really say 'thanks'," she apologizes. "I could... well, I don't know. I'm learning how to bake; would you like some cookies or something? Is that lame? That's lame. Forget I said it," she says, nerves jangling again.

Donna Troy has posed:
    The light in the alley is a little dim, but Caitlin will be able to make Donna's face breaking into a sudden grin. "I like cookies very much," she says. Then leaning forwards a little, with her voice sllightly hushed as if revealing a secret, "Especially chocolate chip cookies. This is not like cookies we have at home. It is tastier. "

    Donna stralightens up and glances around, as if she's checking in case there's someone from home standing near by who mlight have heard her make this so treacherous admission. Of course there's nobody.

    "I have a phone", she announces, as if this was in any way unusual. "If you like we can swap numbers. Then you will be able to give me cookies." She glances towards the bar, then looks back with a grin "Or invite me along next time you do things that mean you later have to convince yourself that you are not acting like a hero, yes?"

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"Me too! I mean, I have a phone too-- and chocolate chip is my favorite," Caitlin clarifies.

Numbers are exchanged and she tucks her phone back in her pocket. It's a very cheap model, one easily replaced if broken. "Thanks Donna, for... everything, I guess. I'll text you and we can figure something out."

"I don't really think I'm ever gonna be a hero. I just wanna go to school and try to have a normal life," she says with a wan smile. "But I guess if things get desperate enough, I can do my part to help like everyone else does. The whole 'parable of the talents' thing, I guess." She adjusts her jumpsuit and rests her hands in her pockets, shoulders shrugging then relaxing. "I guess I'll see ya when I see ya?" she offers tentatively.