3804/Caminask

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Caminask
Date of Scene: 14 October 2020
Location: Caminask, the Seven Worlds.
Synopsis: The Titans visit a world where social rank is a daily lottery. ALL HAIL QUEEN CAITLIN THE FIRST!
Cast of Characters: Donna Troy, Terry O'Neil, Victor Stone, Caitlin Fairchild




Donna Troy has posed:
    Gateway had been a water world. Echon was a much drier world with small oceans and extensive continents of stony gray and dull green vegetation. Caminask looks like Earth. White clouds swirl expansively across the blue-green disk. Polar ice caps mark out a modest arctic region north and south, and across the equator there are a few desert regions, but most of the planet looks lush and rich.

    It is here that the Dreadnought now orbits. In the days following the visit to Echon much work had been done to make repairs, and make the battered hulk of the Dreadnought feel like home. Its own engines are missing, but the shuttlecraft is now fully spaceworthy, and a harness structure has been fitted that allows the Dreadnought hulk to be towed slowly through the system.

    Interaction with the people of Caminask from orbit has so far been non-existent. The Titans have been in contact with a synthesized voice - clearly no true AI and capable only of answering limited questions - but no actual people, as yet. They had been issued landing co-ordinates to a spaceport and a landing pad number, and strict instructions not to leave their ship until they have been issued formal Caminask ID.

    The spaceport, like that on Echon, is fairly primitive. A large area of concrete with numbered pads, with two other ships currently present. Across the concrete some two hundred feet away is a cluster of buildings and a control tower. The Titan's shuttlecraft is being watched by a couple of beings standing outside the control tower entrance. One, purple-skinned and slender but looking otherwise looking quite human, towers over the other, a squat hexapod with four feet and two arms folded across its chest, its red skin rippling with cilia-like protuberances.

    A small robot, looking comically similar to R2D2, trundles across the concrete, approaching the shuttlecraft. Donna watches it, shaking her head, then turns to the others. "We should have asked more about what to expect here, but I'm beginning to wonder if we're actually getting useful information about one world from the people of another. Everyone here is so convinced their own world has everything right that they're probably not describing the other worlds correctly."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Mind you," Terry says, leaning back with his arms crossed, "I think the description we got about Echon was more or less accurate. A planet that wasn't so much a planet as it was an ivory tower. I wish I had been more useful with that self-important jackalope. Bless Cait and her direct line of dialogue because otherwise we could have been days in that office."

He stretches and yawns, "How long are we going to wait? Geez, if I'd known they would take this long, I'd have switched to cat form to get some more healing time on my ankle..." he glances at Vic, "You and Cait did a marvelous job of getting this honker planetfall-worthy. When we get back, I'll make some of my mom's tiramisu recipe for you guys."

He was trying very hard to forget the embarrassing incident that happened not too long ago- when Cait and Vic had come back from working on the shuttle... and Vorpal went to greet them after a session on working on his newly-discovered powers of illusion with Donna. Unbeknownst to Vorpal, a backfired illusion had him wearing Harley Quinn's daisy dukes... but only seen from behind, so he had no idea that was there. But as soon as he turned away from his friends...

He shudders. Banish the memory. Don't think about it.

He glances at Donna.

Victor Stone has posed:
Vic is seated on the ramp, a holographic display in his arm projecting a blue-violet array of data into the air in front of him. It's the information they managed to bully out of the academics on Echon, and in what little time he hasn't spent getting the ship's systems functioning to a livable standard, he has been poring over it.

After this long, the information is familiar enough that it fairly flickers past; he's browsing using mental commands rather than any interface that would require physical interaction, considering how unreliable his movements currently are. He's been seeking informational connections in the dataset ever since they got it, and mostly quiet and withdrawn from the others in the real world.

As the astromech trundles over, though, he dismisses the haze of information and, still seated, asks, "Remind me what we're here for? Is this where the crew anscestors were, or something else?" That question probably isn't a great sign, but what exactly they think it indicates is up to the others to decide.

Donna Troy has posed:
    "The crew ancestors were on Lucan's world," Donna replies to Vic. Her attention remains focused on the robot trundling across the concrete. "Gombar, it's called. The Koranian battleship is now a museum, Lucan thought on Nim. The Beating Heart, Endovar's ship, we only have rumors about where it crashed. Maybe it's here. Or maybe they know something about the asteroid bases. "

    Donna gives a slight shrug of her shoulders. "Honestly we might as well at least check each planet on the route, given they are orbiting like a line of ducklings. Unless you think it's worth trying to cut across the orbital path, but considering we're already close enough to that black hole that I have no idea why we and all these worlds aren't being dragged into it, I'm going to vote we follow the orbital path we know is actually safe."

    She glances briefly over to Terry, trying hard not to think about hot pants. "Yeah, you guys did a good job," she agrees. "We're stable, and we're able to move forwards. But there's important technical work still to be done. Vic, we need to get home, but that's not the only priority. I don't know if what you need is even available here, but we're not forgetting you, okay? While we're here, ask around. Maybe there's someone who can help."

    The robot finally arrives outside the cargo bay door, and announces itself with an electronic boop. Donna hits the control to open the door, and the little robot trundles in. Held in a mechanical arm is a lidless box, which it offers to Terry. Inside the box are small disks, each with a central circular display that is flashing a red 'X'.

    The speaker on the robot crackles, and the same synthesized voice that had communicated with the Titans speaks up again. "Please take one of these identity disks each. Press your thumb to the rear, and when it beeps, place it on your head."

    Donna raises an eyebrow, then shrugs. "Well. When in Rome..."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"You know, if we could get an image of Gombar, we could just Rabbit Hole there. Then we could find something to help Vic... although I don't think that these colonies really cultivate planet tourism and encourage traveling around outside of trading, what with each one of them believing they're the nae plus ultra, as Donna said..."

When the little robot comes in.Terry looks at the box and looks around the group, absolutely puzzled as to why he was chosen. He shrugs, and does as instructed, not without a healthy dose of caution. "This is the first time I've seen your identity worn on your head. But, you know, there are worse alternatives, I guess."

Victor Stone has posed:
Vic gives a quick shrug at Donna's answer, and replies amiably enough, "Works for me. Just making sure I wasn't letting something important slip my mind." He takes one of the discs when they come within reach, peers at it curiously, and says to the little robot, "Sorry, we're Titans. Not X-men. Same planet, different teams. That should be a big silver T, not a red X."

Acting on the assumption that the robot won't get the joke, he doesn't hold for laughter before raising the disc to his artificial eye like a jeweler inspecting a stone. His eye flickers and little beams of red trace across the object as he tries to scan it and suss out its purpose. "I don't have thumbprints," he points out. "Side effect of not having thumbs. Ditto if this thing's going to try to get a DNA sample or any other biometrics."

What with the robot's appearance putting him in mind of Star Wars, he's especially wary of this disc being some sort of restraining bolt: anything on it that could generate a magnetic pulse, electric shock, or psychic wave is going to be a dealbreaker for him. He's malfunctioning enough as it is. "Sorry, guys, but when in Rome they make you wear bedsheets. Can you imagine how much a toga would bunch up in my joints?" he says, for Donna and Terry's benefit.

Donna Troy has posed:
    Victor's scans reveal a radio transceiver connect to some pretty complicated circuitry which looks like it probably has something to do with signal decryption. There's a very simple bit of circuitry connected to the display, with a small memory buffer. The rear of the disk has a mildly abrasive surface connected to a series of small circuits that presumambly act as some kind of sampling hardware, and connect to the encruption circuit. The idea of DNA sampling isn't far-fetched, and perhaps that is used to provide some kind of unique seed to the encryption circuit. There is a tiny power source that defeats any quick analysis, and a structure that takes up approximately one half of the volume of the disk that contains a peculiar crystal nano-lattice. It has some resemblance to the artificial gravity system on the dreadnought, but on a much smaller scale.

    Terry touches the disk as per instructions, and the disk beeps. He places it on his head, and a moment later the disk floats up, coming to rest a few inches above his head, and turning slowly. The display on the disk changes from showing an 'X' to showing the digit '4'.

    Donna watches with curiousity, gives a small shake of her head, and follows Terry's lead. The same thing happens, except in her case the number is an '8'. "Yours says four, Terry. What does mine say?"

    She tilts her head to Vic. "Try pressing it against your cheek or something," she suggests. "And you'd be surprised how comfortable togas can be. If I can ever get you to Themyscira, I'll have a clothes-maker work with you to get you something comfortable - but we don't insist on traditional garb. Mind you I'm still waiting on them to finish up that pair of jeans."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Yours says eight. Unsurprisingly, you're higher level than me," Terry makes a show of pouting, "And like Donna say, don't knock walking around in sheets, that's what they do over at Donna's Island Of Women of which multiple fanfictions have been written," he grins at Donna.

"I guess this is some sort of identity lock for offworlders, locked to biometrics or something?"

Victor Stone has posed:
Vic gives a short, disapproving hum, and desipite Donna's suggestion, tries his prosthetic thumb first. No dice. "These people need a space ADA," he says, his tone even more disapproving, then he gives his cheek a try instead, as suggested.

"It's sampling something from your skin, processing it -- encrypting or decrypting, maybe -- and then transmitting it," he answers Terry. "Most of its internal space is the display and the hovering gadget. Doesn't look dangerous, as far as I can tell. And let's be real, that's pretty far."

He peers warily at the discs now hovering over Terry and Donna's heads, and says, "I didn't realize we were visiting the Sims planet. Do they turn red when you need to use the bathroom, too?"

He gives Donna a skeptical look, and adds, "I mean, they're great for people with legs, I'm sure. But anything between gym shorts and a bathrobe on the drapiness scale is just a printer jam waiting to happen. And trust me, there is nothing more socially awkward than me having to deal with one of those."

Donna Troy has posed:
    "A single digit seems kind of useless for an identity disk," Donna points out with a shake of the head. "I think this may just be more evidence that every planet we visit is going to be insane."

    The two aliens who had been watching from a distance have moved closer, and are now standing only some fifty feet away, peering from a distance into the back of the shuttlecraft through the cargo doors, watching as the Titans follow instructions - or not - for the identity disks.

    Donna greets Vic's printer jam comment with a broad grin, and she gives his arm an affectionate squeeze. "Don't you worry," she says. "Ignore Terry's fanfic comments. Nobody will make you wear a toga. If you want to smarten up for when you're presented to the Queen I can take you to the metalsmiths instead. Just promise me you won't ask for a gold plating, you look better in chrome."

    The application of disk to cheek seems to do the trick, and a few moments later, Vic's disk is floating above his head, and he now proudly bears the number five. As soon as the disks are all in place, the two aliens approach the cargo ramp and look in. The first thing they do is read the numbers on the disk, before studying the individuals wearing them.

    With the two aliens close by, their own disks can be easily read. The tall one bears the number six, and the shorter, hexapodal one has the number 5, like Vic. Both aliens give Terry a bow. The tall one towers over Vic, almost eight foot tall, and the hexapodal one has a lot of limbs to account for, so between the pair of them, the bowing is quite an impressive sight.

    "Welcome to Caminask sir," the tall one says, clearly addressing Terry. "Are you considering settling here, or do you come for trade? Do you have any crops, seeds, energy weapons, animals or explosives to declare?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry is momentarily taken aback by the deference that is being shown to him. This isn't normal- not for the human side of him, at that. He shoots a careful glance at his team-mates, and then he turns his attention to the aliens addresing him.

"Thank you," he says and inclines his head slightly, keeping an even and calm tone, "We are recent arrivals and have not yet decided what our fate shall be, but we have come to learn." This was true, in its own way, "What we have with us is all we carry, and have no produce or animals with us, and no technology except my friend's augments," he gestures to Cyborg, "which suffered some damage during the events that led to our arrival. One of the things we seek is specialists who may be able to assist him, and we would appreciate any referrals to one such expert, should they reside here."

Victor Stone has posed:
Vic snorts quietly at the thought of going full C-3PO with a gold coating. "Nah, if I'm going way over the top, it'll either be the neon Tron treatment, or a real throwback with some Damascus steel swirls. I like to make an impression, but gold is just kind of gauche, don't you think?"

When the aliens arrive, Cyborg lurches to his feet, bracing with one hand against the wall because he's a little unsteady on them, and answers their elaborate bowing with a simple wave. "Like Terry said, I'm two of the five," he announces, unselfconsciously jumping into the conversation. If there's some weird alien custom against it, no one has told him, and he doesn't especially care. "Also a vehicle, by some metrics. I had to get licensed in the EU and everything." This is clearly for Terry's benefit, as he adds, "Donna remembers."

Donna Troy has posed:
    The hexapod reaches into a pack slung over its back and starts shuffling through papers. "You'll have to fill in the appropriate forms," he says, handing them over to Victor. "I'm not sure if there are any cybernetics experts on the planet, but you can ask the directory. There's a terminal in the space port offices. We have a hotel in town and they'll have a directory terminal there too."

    Donna beams another grin at Vic's reminder of the EU licensing. "It's true, Terry. Vic has to be very careful while travelling in the EU. If we install more than two seats on him, he's not allowed to travel on public roads."

    "So what's the deal with the numbers on these identity disks?" Donna asks the tall alien. It glances at her very briefly, before turning back to Terry.

    "Ah yes, sir. These are your first identity disks, I am reminded that I should explain certain aspects of our ways. The number on your identity disk indicates your social rank. By law you may only communicate with people who are within two ranks of your own, or people who are considered to be in your employ. For the sake of practicality we are rather flexible as to what we consider employment - in this case as a group who has travelled together, you will be considered in the employ of the member of your group who is of the highest rank, in this case yourself. Thus you may communicate with your servant..." he gestures towards Donna, eliciting an annoyed "HEY!" which he tries to ignore.

    "As a rank four you of course command deferrence from most people you meet. Deferrence is one thing, but respect is entirely another, and the respect you achieve will come from the skills you and your employees are able to bring. You will find as you spend more time here that the two are quite separate things."

    The alien smiles faintly. "If this all sounds highly inconvenient, it's meant to. We concluded that social rank is always a barrier to proper communication and true equality, and is impossible to avoid in any society. It's part of the socially competitive nature of most life-forms that they will find a way to put themselves above others. By enshrining it directly in law we are able to ensure that this lesson of the stifling nature of social ranking is never lost, and that society essentially aims to work around the inconveniences that social status brings. You will find that each morning your social rank will be randomly alloted by the central computer, so that everyone experience the full range of social ranks. This avoids the mistreatment of people of lower rank, and ensures total equality to all individuals."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry takes a few moments to absorb this. At first, he had started to entertain the suspicion that all this deference indicated that he had been singled out to be the virgin sacrifice to a galactic volcano- which would in and of itself carry a few embarrassing admissions... because how can you exactly /prove/ it? But, upon hearing the absolute insanity of a social lottery that this world has decided to implement, two thoughts come through his head:

His human mind briefly considers whether being the virgin sacrifice might be more preferrable, and his Cheshire mind thinks the idea is absolutely delightful, and that he really should mention it to the Queen of Hearts if he ever manages to swing back there someday again.

He glances at Donna for a moment, and he has to fight the urge to tease his 'servant' because he wants revenge over the Daisy Dukes. But. He also doesn't want to end up a volunteer for the first unmanned, no-craft flight around Caminak in its history.

"I see. Your system has interesting features, and we look forward to the experience. As Marcus Aurelius once said, all things take place by change and the nature of the Universe loves nothing so much as to change."

Yes. He has books in his satchel. He likes to read during his lunch breaks. "Is there anything else we need to do, after filling the requisite paperwork, before we are allowed to visit?"

Victor Stone has posed:
Vic accepts the forms, glancing over them briefly to ensure that they are in a language he can understand and actually ask questions applicable to his onboard armaments. "I hope you guys have a pen I can borrow. No pants, no pockets," he says, offering the mildest possible chagrin at the prospect of being unable to complete their paperwork.

Then, as the aliens go into their introduction of this planet's peculiar societal setup, he turns to peer curiously at Donna. The expression shifts to an exaggerated, sly thoughtfulness as they continue. "Waaaait... does that mean I can get Donna to do the paperwork /for/ me?" he asks, letting out a cautious laugh.

It's probably a good thing they've been friends for a long time, so she can tell he's certainly teasing -- the implication that she's somebody's servant is unlikely to sit well with the Amazon, but Vic can probably get away with joking about it more than Vorpal can. "Don't worry, Donna, I make a great boss. Good pay, flexible hours, a very relaxed workplace vibe," he assures her, grinning. "I do have a bad habit of foisting the boring stuff off on other people, though."

Donna Troy has posed:
    Donna listens to the explanation of this particular planet's social structure with increadingly wide eyes. For someone who was brought up in a monarchy - admittedly one with a healthy senatorial balance - and as a princess herself no less, it's a bit hard to take in. She'd probably complain to someone, but there are no natives around with a low enough social rank to listen to her.

    "I'm obviously the hired muscle, Vic." She folds her arms and looks around sternly, putting on a bodyguard act. "I don't do paperwork."

    The tall alien pulls a pen from his robe and offers it to Victor. "Feel free to borrow mine," he says with a smile. They do seem to be a lot more friendly and helpful here than Echon - maybe the system works.

    "Once you've submitted the paperwork and we've done a customs sweep, you'll be clear to visit sir. " The hexapod pulls out a scanner and starts running it over the interior of the shuttlecraft. "If you plan on staying here for more than a few hours, which if you're looking for cybernetics experts you'll need, I recommend you book in at the hotel. It's just outside the spaceport."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry's lips have a slight curve, because he finds Victor's realization absolutely hilarios, just as much as Donna's sulking, but he's trying to keep an even keel of respect and deference. Riffing? It'll happen in private. Oh, there will be riffing. "That is an excellent idea, thank you- I am always eager to experience the hospitality of a brand new world. Once Victor has finished the paperwork and ... Donna has fetched our luggage-" okay, a /little/ riffing, "We will be ready to make our reservation."

He smiles and it is amazing how he could be standing near Donna and manage to not look her in the eye at all.

Victor Stone has posed:
"A place to stay is probably a good idea. At the very least, this could be a nice break," Vic suggests, accepting the pen with a resigned air. "I don't know if I'd like it for the rest of my life, but getting randomly dropped into different social levels could be a little like a game -- for a couple of days, at least."

He seems oddly reluctant to acknowledge the suggestion that they seek out cybernetic experts, and shifts the topic at his first opportunity: "I don't suppose there's anyone here with an interest in the old legends about Endovar? We're sort of investigating those on each planet as we make our way through the system. Gives us a sense of a goal -- sort of a through-line. If there's anyone around that could help us in that regard, that would be nice."

It's not the full truth, but he's a little tired of being told how absurd their quest is every time they bring it up. Still, better that than more talk of his malfunctions.

Donna Troy has posed:
"Endovar? No idea, but I'd assume so. The Directory will tell you. Speaking of which, if you are planning to stay for more than a few days, you'll want to register yourselves with the directory. Any skills or talents you have that other people might find useful should be registered with the Directory, so that if anyone has need of your particular skills they'll be able to contact you about employment." The tall alien gives an amused glance to his hexapodal associate. "Otherwise people will only have your social status to judge you by, and think how absurd that would be!"

    *********

    The scan of the shuttlecraft doesn't seem to turn up anything that concerns the customs officers. Donna's sword provokes a brief huddle, but after that short discussion they decide it counts as an antique. Victor's cybernetics take rather more time - once the paperwork is filled in and returned, there is clearly some consternation about the potentially lethal capabilites he comes with as standard. Eventually a police officer is called in, and Vic is given a lecture and stern warnings that Caminask is a peaceful world and any actions that endanger that will be dealt with severely. Eventually the Titans are free to leave the spaceport and book into the hotel.

    Rooms at the hotel are on the small side but pleasantly appointed. They are also entirely identical. The reason for this is explained by the hotelier, a human for a change. "Look at it like this - we could provide a range of different accomodations, but imagine we had you booked into a cheap room for low status individuals, and you wake up the next morning as a member of the nobility. Or the reverse. Either way it would be simply embarrassing to all concerned. No, the only sensible option is to make all the rooms equally nice."

    By the time the Titans have their rooms sorted out and meet up again in the hotel lobby, it's already early evening, and Donna is looking ready to punch someone. Thankfully not everyone ignores her - the ruling on employment includes what the people of Caminask refer to as 'employment-in-the-moment' - it is, for example, possible for her to communicate with the bartender despite him having four social ranks on her, because while she's in the process of buying herself a beer, the bartender is under her employment-in-the-moment. Nevertheless it's a sulky looking Donna who sits at a table in the lobby, sipping her beer and tapping away at the public directory terminal, as she waits for the other two to come down from their rooms.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry joins Donna after taking a brief time to change into a fresh set of clothes- something muted and in grey, which could be seen as elegant, if seen under a general light. "Don't worry, Donna," Terry says as he joins his team-mate, "Tomorrow I'll probably wake up the lowest of the low and I'll pretend to be your Igor. How's that?" he smiles. He doesn't order himself a drink just yet. With a slight mischievous smirk, he adds "Hey.. what do you think would happen to my silly floaty social rank indicator if I were to transform?"

Victor Stone has posed:
Undoubtedly making the entire experience worse for Donna is the nonstop flood of 'right to bear arms' jokes Vic keeps making throughout his ordeal with the police. At one point he takes a seat, methodically unplugs all of his limbs for 'confiscation,' and stages a sit-in, because at that point there's literally nothing else he can do.

Even without his arms and legs, he's too heavy for just about anyone but Donna to move, and eventually the cops give in. Vic has to verbally walk one of them through the process of reattaching one of his arms so that he can deal with the rest and get out of their way.

Still, this too must eventually pass, and after a time they're all seated at the hotel bar and he's sampling some alien cocktails. "It might decide you're a thief who stole it and call the cops all over again, Terry," he says. "Probably better not to try it."

Donna Troy has posed:
    Donna nods in agreement. "Yeah, there might be alarms and things if you turn Vorpal, Terry. Who knows what's going to happen. Let's not give them any reason to get worried about us quite yet. I mean apart from the whole thing Vic did. Honestly I'm surprised they didn't issue an extra set of identity disks for each of his limbs just to teach him a lesson. Imagine if your leg started bossing you about."

    Donna pushes the terminal towards Terry with a frustrated sigh. "See if you have any more luck with this. There's a historian who specializes in 'the folklore of the seven worlds' but his social rank is twelve today. Twelve! What does that mean, he's got to walk the streets ringing a bell or something? What it means is that none of us can speak to him today. Apparently that 'employment in the moment' thing doesn't work for phone calls. I guess we have to wait until tomorrow and hope one of us is close enough in rank to him. I've found a cybernetics specialist, but one of you two will have to contact her, she's rank four. This world is stupid."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Well, Donna, if that had been the case, Vic wouldn't be the first man to suddenly find himself ruled by one part of his body or another," he grins, offering a self-deprecating joke to Donna in hopes of tickling the Amazon funny bone. A poor compensation for the frustrations that the arbitrary social system puts in their path, but... "Isn't that right?" he asks Vic, hoping for some backup.

Taking the directory as it is offered to him, he nods, "I'm the same rank, then, so I'll go ahead and contact her. Hopefully when we visit her the rank topsy-turvy won't eff up our dynamics. The historian... I guess we can try our luck tomorrow. Hopefully the distribution of ranks is wide enough among us that at least one of us is suitable for one task. The odds are..." he pauses, "I have no idea what the odds are. Math isn't my thing."

Victor Stone has posed:
"I mean, he's right. /Hasn't/ my leg been bossing me around this whole trip?" Vic agrees with a bit of amusement. "At least here it's formalized. There's an appeals process, by which I mean it's appealing to think that tomorrow I might finally be the one in charge again."

In spite of being able to make light of his own recent impairments, he's not thrilled to find that the cybernetics person is going to be the one available to contact today. "We don't need to make a big detour on my account," he says, fending it off for as long as he can. Eventually, though, it becomes clear that the others aren't going to let it go, no matter how evasive he is, and he tries to explain.

"It's... I'm not even sure it's a problem with the limbs. They've been busted up before and it's never been anything I couldn't repair, especially with Caitlin's help," he explains. Lifting a finger to tap against his temple, he says, "I think it might be something in here. Something that got thrown out of whack when we were pulled through those spatial distortions. There's a lot of highly experimental, untested tech that goes into making me as physically capable as I am. Was. Used to be."

He sips his alien concoction -- green and smoking -- and sighs, then finishes, "It's the difference between a sprained ankle and a problem with your inner ear. I don't know if any amount of tinkering with the parts is going to fix the central problem."

Donna Troy has posed:
    "Caitlin touched down about half an hour ago," Donna says. "She should be here any moment. I wonder what number she's got..." She sits back in her chair, sighing softly, and sips her beer. "Terry, the math you're no good at isn't solvable. We don't know the variables. Without knowing what the distribution curve is, or the population size there's no way of predicting the probability of an optimal coverage of ranks. If we assume there's a logarithmic pyramid structure we can be pretty sure to cover the lower two-thirds or so of the rankings, but the higher rankings will be that much more difficult. That's an unlikely distribution though. Our sample size is far too small for confidence, but something approaching a bell curve would seem more likely."

    She looks sideways at Victor for a while, chewing her lip. "Vic... this is a cyberneticist, not a machine shop. It would probably be worth giving it a shot. Given where we are, there's a chance we'd be dealing with someone who has a lot more experience than anyone on Earth does, and they might find that highly experimental tech relatively easy to understand. But... well. I understand if this all feels a bit personal. It's your call. I just..."

    She's interrupted by the arrival of Caitlin, who had come down to join the three when they'd determined that the planet seemed safe enough and there would be no necessity to bluff planetary bombardment from the Dreadnought's unpowered mass driver. Caitlin has gone through the same customs check the others had experienced, and now has an ID disk of her own, floating just above her head and bearing the number 5. "Bell curve is looking better and better," Donna says. "Hey Cait! Over here."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Donna's wave gets Caitlin's attention; the redhead returns it and heads towards the crew at the bar. "Hey! Guess who's got two thumbs and got her smart clothing to work again?" she inquires, and points two thumbs at herself. Indeed she's wearing a red tee-shirt and plum-purple yoga pants rather than the green and aubergine of her more identifiable heroic garb. It doesn't do much to downplay her sheer stature but it's better than the more aggressive cut.

"Also the ship's parked at a LaGrange point in orbit. Enabled what security measures I could, locked up our personal effects somewhere they won't be easily found."

There's a bag over her left shoulder and she sets it down with a heavy *thunk* at her feet. Caitlin tests the bar stool carefully then settles on it, resting one foot atop the bag just for safety sake. Her brow furrows and she looks down the line at the other three Titans.

"Hey, am I the highest ranked here?" she says, and points above her head. "That's good, right? Or is it the other way around, and bigger numbers are better?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry points upwards to the '4' that's hovering over his head, "Check again, Doctor Fairchild, you all work for me!" He grins, with a mischievous glint in his eye "My name is Charlie, and these are my ange..." he stops, and then looks at Vic. After an awkward pause, he says, "You got a wig?" an attempt to defuse the situation.

THen, reaching out to touch Vic's shoulder, he adds "Whatever you decide, we'll back you up. It's just natural to be concerned for a friend. Look on the bright side- it could be Gar bugging you about it. You know exactly how he would be, you know."

Victor Stone has posed:
Vic smiles as their last teammate arrives, then points over at Terry. "Golf scoring, but Terry's--" he starts to tell Caitlin, but by then the whole thing has been pretty succinctly explained, so he shifts to offer different information. "We're tied for second. Donna got the short end of the stick." He takes another sip of his weird alien drink, which in spite of its odd appearance, doesn't taste half bad.

He gives Terry a skeptical look for a second, then decides to bypass the wig question entirely and instead suggests, "Maybe I'd be Bosley?"

Then, he purses his lips for a moment, staring into his drink before answering Donna. "It's not that I don't think there's any chance they could help," he explains. "It's more that if it's not just a mechanical fault, in order to get at the problem, they might need to do some serious surgery. Like, pull out the parts of me that aren't modular, take them apart, rebuild them. It might put me out of commission for a while -- and not just the actual fix, but reorienting once things are repaired. This is not a great time for me to peace out for a few months of PT, you know?"

Donna Troy has posed:
    "Your five beats me" Donna says to Caitlin. "That makes you the princessiest." She sticks her tongue out at her old friend, but continues before a fight can break out. "Don't get comfortable with it though, they change the numbers randomly every day. And honestly I'm not too worried about anyone breaking into the ship. We could get back there by rabbit hole within moments of any alarms going off, and it's not like we've got a lot worth stealing, anyway."

    "I'm not going to pressure you into doing anything you're uncomfortable with, Vic." Donna smiles at him and reaches a hand out to give his arm a squeeze. "But would there be any harm in a consultation? I mean maybe they'll find your tech is too advanced for them, or maybe they don't know enough human neurology to even hazard a guess. Or maybe they'll be able to fix the problem with a quick tune-up, or suggest some signal-conditional negative feedback regime that will help limit the problems until you have more time to deal with them properly. You don't need this extra stress right now Vic. And we're all worried about you."

    She glances in annoyance at the Directory terminal. "Not that any of us can actually /talk/ to the Cyberneticist today. This social system might be even more annoying than the one on Echon, but at least they admit it's annoying. That's the only reason I'm not voting for going full Caitlin on them just yet."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"Hey--" Caitlin points a finger at Donna. "If the Fallout franchise has taught me anything, it's that you *hoarde* everything you can in situations like this. So." She sticks her tongue out at Donna and glances at the menu when the bartender comes by.

"Got anything like a ginger ale?" she inquires with a polite tone.

She listens attentively to the discussion regarding Vic's cybernetics. As Donna seems to have hit the salient points, Caitlin considers Vic with a thoughtful expression as if trying to diagnose his issues in her mind. Realizing she's staring at him, she smiles apologetically and drums her fingernails against his pauldron-- an equivalent to a pat on the shoulder, something he can sense through the heavy gear.

"Wait, going full what?" She's jarred back to awareness by Donna's words. "That's not a thing. 'Going Caitlin' isn't a thing," she objects.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Bosley is doable," the redhead nods at Vic, and then he smirks at Caitlin. "Oh, Going Caitlin is a thing. It is very much a thing." He pipes up an sings, with much enthusiasm but not a lot of talent, "These boots were made for walkin', and that's just what they'll do, you keep up the bull and one of these days my PHD boots are gonna stomp all oveeer yooou." He grins. "It was pretty magnificent and it caused a whole bunch of hours of potential bullshit to protract themselves into five minutes." He kisses his fingers, "It was mwah!"

He leans back, "Should I go and dial the historian slash folklorist?" He pauses, "That sounded like a very obscure academic erotic fiction, didn't it?"

Victor Stone has posed:
Vic is not entirely convinced by the appeal to reason, but when Donna mentions the others' worry, he glances around the group with his eyebrows raised, then gives a little shrug. It seems like something that might set some of the other Titans' minds at ease, so with a quick sigh and a smile, he answers, "I suppose it can't hurt to at least have her look over me. But keep in mind that a complete fix might not be practical while we're in the field like this. I don't want everyone getting their hopes up for a finger-snap solution -- least of all me."

When the conversation turns back to Echon and Caitlin's intervention there, he quickly lifts his drink to his lips, eyes flashing back and forth between the others over the smoking top of it. "I would like to plead the fifth," he says, before sipping to forestall any further questions or answers.

Donna Troy has posed:
    "Doing a Caitlin totally is a thing now," Donna confirms. "Look, I know nobody likes the idea of us throwing our weight around unnecessarily, but it's an option, and we're not just thinking of ourselves here. Cait, I don't even wanna think how much wasted time you saved us on Echon, and we may need to take that route again. Or go a lot harder. And honestly being able to talk about 'Doing a Caitlin' in front of other people, that gives us a useful shorthand that people aren't going to understand. So sorry Cait, but it's a thing now."

    "Go ahead Terry, see if you can book us an appointment for tomorrow." Donna watches as the barman brings Caitlin a drink that smells extremely, potently, possibly lethally, gingery. "Then maybe we should see if these guys can cook a decent meal and try again in the morning. Hopefully that Cyberneticist will have a rank that allows us to speak to them after the morning social lottery."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin reaches around Vic with a vague flailing motion to try and muzzle Terry with her hand. Regrettably the cat's too fast and she just narrows her gaze, then eye-points back and forth at him. "The list. On it," she mutters in a warning sotto voce.

Shifting her weight back so she can look down the bar, Caitlin regards all three of them and then huffs out something that sounds like her relenting. "Oh, fine, do whatever," she grumbles good-naturedly. The glass is lifted and Caitlin takes an over-large gulp. Eyes promptly bulge and she forces the mouthful of ginger ale down. "Oh my -gosh-," she wheezes, and pats her sternum with watering eyes. "That tastes like a juiced ginger."

The barman looks over, and holds up... a partially-pureed ginger root. "That's what you asked for, right?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The human redhead slips away gracefully from Cait's grip, "Sorry, Cait! You can't stop the beat!" he reaches for his drink and takes a quick gulp before stepping away from the stool, "I'll go ahead and try to call ehr... using whatever it is that they use to contact her and see if she'll see us tomorrow. See if they have peanuts or something like that. I feel like something salty."

He steps away, with the directory, "Makin' progress. We're makin' progress. We'll get home before Rae turns the universe inside out, you'll see." He says that for his own benefit just as much as for that of his team-mates.

Victor Stone has posed:
"Do I have to separate you two?" Vic asks wryly as Caitlin swipes at Terry past him. Then, to Donna, he continues, "I'm all about the make friends and influence people approach, when it works. In a fight, I'm probably going to need to have you ladies just throw me at whoever needs squishing. I can do computer stuff if we're ever being sneaky, although..." He glances at each of the group's members in turn, then teases, "Not really much chance of that, is there? Forget I said anything."

Donna Troy has posed:
    Aside from a few more misunderstanding about ginger, which the kitchen staff here now seem to think is the life's blood of humans, a meal that suits everyone is finally provided, and in the end it's a lot tastier than the bland foodstuffs the Titans had 'enjoyed' on Echon. Terry was able to arrange a meeting with the historian the following afternoon, and her replies over the Directory link had implied she didn't think the subject of his query was too outrageous. The evening wore on, nicely lubricated with a very pleasant local beer, and the Titans went to bed that night with a sense that perhaps there was some hope for this planet yet.

    The following morning, Donna descends from the her room for breakfast to find Terry already there. "Five!" she declares, seeing his ID disk. "You've lost rank, Terry. They must have thought you did a bad job. What am I?" The disk floating over her head reveals that she too has a five today. "Where's Cait? She's usually up early. Don't tell me, she wanted to get a little work in on the shuttle before breakfast? And... what in Hades is going on here?"

    This latter question is a fair one, because the bar is heaving this morning. The previous night the hotel had only had a small handful of other guests, but today it seems to be packed out with serious looking people milling around and talking in hushed tones to each other. "Is there a convention here or something?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Looks like we're the Heckle and Jeckle of this outfit, we're the same rank now!" the human teen grins at the Amazon, "Or maybe I'm Rosenkrantz and you're Gentle Gildenstern? I don't know where Cait is... I just woke up." He had dressed hurriedly, and didn't bother to comb his hair because it was a lost case anyways. "It took me a while to get to sleep but... it does seem to be a pretty hopping place this morning. I wonder..."

Victor Stone has posed:
As Vic descends from his room into the bar, he looks around the crowd, then holds up one chromed forearm, angled to reflect his disk for his own benefit. Once he has checked his rating, he heads toward the sound of Terry and Donna, distinct within the hubbub of alien voices. "Man, I hope they have eggs here," he mutters as he slumps down into his seat. He seems to be taking the big crowd in stride. "I'd punch Doomsday for a half-dozen eggs fried just right."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
The crowd starts to mill and react to something outside. Then a pressure front of movement sends them out the door, moving with a great hurry and interest. A distant drumbeat turns out to be leading some kind of processional down the road, making a direct path for the lodging.

It proves out to be a military march, crisp precision and unified strides. Six powerfully built individuals carry a divan on their shoulders in the middle of the pack. Anyone in the crowd not actively part of the procession bows, salutes, or even kowtows to the passing person.

The divan stops at the entrance to the lodging and with a great ceremonial fuss, the guards set the divan down and move to flank it. Someone brings over steps and sets them down in front of it.

The curtain's pulled aside, and Caitlin peers out at her friends with a wholly flummoxed and embarassed expression. Her ears are almost red as her hair at all the attention she's getting.

"Ummmm... I might have solved our little mobility problem," she says tentatively. She's wearing what appears to be formal vestiture, a long white robe with gold accents and flowing sleeves. Caitlin emerges all the way from the divan and points at the '1' floating over her head.

Donna Troy has posed:
    In the curved reflection of Vic's forearm, the red digit spreads out oddly and curves in a narrow, awkward arc, but it looks like a six. Vic's on baggage carrying duty today, it seems.

    "Fried eggs sounds awesome," Donna agrees. "If they can do them without ginger, even better. I..." Donna's voice is suddenly surprisingly loud. No - the room is surprisingly silent, all of a sudden, and Donna falls silent too. Then the voices start up again, louder than ever, as Caitlin makes her appearance.

    Donna stands up. Donna points. Donna sits down again.

    "Well. I think we should have a bit of luck getting some answers today."

    Donna bursts out laughing.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry's eyes go as large as saucers at all the ceremony and panoply. And then there is just silence at Donna's reaction and... well. Caitlin is Queen for a Day. The redhead stands up slowly, looking at Caitlin with absolute seriousness. His hands come down to rest on Donna and Vic's shoulders, and then he intones, almost on pitch: "Oooh watch that girl. That's Caitlin'. Diggin', the Titan Queen..."

And then he performs a curtsey. A curtsey. Donna and Cait should be thankful that he is not in his Cheshire form. With his new powers of illusion, a powdered wig and a rococo hoop skirt might have materialized.