Shipwrecked

December 30, 2016:

A cargo ship has an accident at the docks. Luckily, several heroes are there to help put things to rights!

Cargo Docks

They're docks. For loading cargo.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Disaster near the port.

A cargo ship has run aground on the docks, smashing through two full piers and beaching itself on the low ground. The Bay never smells particularly good, but the immense crush of a hundred thousand tons of steel has displaced a huge number of tidal pools and bitter, stinky seaweed. The ship's hull is breached and it's slanting dangerously sideways, cargo containers sliding off and dropping into the water.

"I— well I mean, it's a /disaster/, but I don't know if I can upgrade it to /catastrophe/," Caitlin says into her headset, pressing fingers into her ear as she communicates with the Watchtower. "No imminent loss of life but there's a lot of hazardous materials and stuff in these containers. Chlorohexide, ammonia extract— if they rupture, the cleanup's gonna take months or years."

"I can't move the boat on my own, so I'm trying to get the cargo containers out of the water," she says, walking out into the shallows to rope off another cargo box with a chain so she can haul it from higher ground. "The crane control unit is broken so I'm having to do it by hand. Any fliers nearby who can help get the crew off the ship?" Caitlin asks, squinting fifty feet upwards where the crew, some injured, some not, are unable to get off the deck of the boat.

—-

"Fliers? Just the best in the business, Red. Coming in from on-high, Caitlin. I'lll be hot, but I can take a dip before I pick them up, cool off. e have to get that crane fixed." Captain Marvel comments, as she launches herself from the WatchTower. She doesn't bother with a Javelin or a quinjet; she just skips across the outer envelope of the atmosphere and then dives, virtually burning up, almost white hot as she comes down and SPLASH into the bay. Seconds later she comes up, steaming as the last of that heat she hasn't absorbed dissipates, and heads for the ship and the crew.

"OK, folks! League Taxi, incoming! Form up, and let's go." Princess Sparklefists offers, as she slices off a piece of deck from the ship and uses it as a platform to carry a load of thirty or so crew towards the shore. One darned thing a time, it seems.

—-

SOMEWHERE IN GOTHAM, ALONG THE WATERFRONT:

There is a CB radio in a hangar-sized warehouse, the exterior of which is marked only with laser-cut metal letters reading G A R A G E. Vehicles — some prosaic, others more exotic — stand quiescent in various bays around the sealed concrete floor, and from underneath one of these can be seen two long legs clad in ripped jeans, thighs smeared with grease. Kinsey Sheridan is working, wrestling at the moment with a recalcitrant oil pan. Why don't people change their oil when they should..? It's not even difficult! She's pretty sure this is in her /hair/ now.

The CB crackles, and she stops moving. The audio is fuzzy, but it's police dispatch: something about an accident at the cargo docks. Crew at risk.

She's still feeling vague twinges of guilt over her attempt at stealing from Hominis Nova a couple of weeks ago, even if she really did need that vial of genetic material. Maybe…maybe she can balance her karmic scales a little. Do something /good/.

She rolls out from beneath the car, tosses her tool to the side as she rises and fast-strides toward the perpetually empty bay in the back corner…

Fifteen minutes later, an unmarked VTOL craft rises from the bay, streamers of silted water streaming from its aggressively streamlined contours, spewed as mist from four halos containing rotors. These pivot with smooth machine grace.

Inside of the dark cockpit, banks of winking lights reflect from the glossy, pitch-black surface of Six's helmet.

(There was an unidentified organic airborne object present in the bay. It appears to be traveling toward the accident site at an extremely high rate of speed,) whispers Five through the vehicle's interior speakers.

"I saw it," Kinsey says. The filters on her helmet process her voice heavily into a white-noise whisper. "Some kind of supernormal. I didn't get a good look. Let's just go."

(Is that advisable?)

"Well, if they're there to help, we're on the same side, aren't we?"

Five says nothing. The VTOL banks hard and, still streaming liquid, tears off toward the cargo dock.

—-

Caitlin hooks the chain around an anchor point and single-handedly hauls the cargo container out of the muck and onto a low concrete rise, where she can at least get enough purchase with her feet that she doesn't just sink into the muck. She grabs the underside of the container and with a grunt of effort, lifts the ten ton crate over her head and walks it off to a growing stack of them not far away.

"I can get some of the nearby ones and I can help rebalance the load on the ship," Caitlin tells Carol. "That'll help. But we need the two main cranes up and running again, and the control tower got knocked clean offline," she says, calling up at the blonde aviator. "If we can get the cargo cranes hooked to the side of the hull we can straighten the ship, I think, they're rated for enough tonnage," she offers. "But I can't lift out the containers that are in the mud, I just keep sinking into the loose sand."

She wades into the water, chest deep, and climbs another container to hook up the chain to a strap point atop it.

"I don't float real well, y'know," she advises Carol, not yet noticing the UFO closing fast on their position.

—-

"OK. So with the crew off, next up is moving the cranes manually?" Carol inquires. "I can help you with the ones you can't move for no leverage, but it's one or the other: there's only one of me." Hugs and backslaps and such can wait for later, but she's proud of her protege; Caitlin seems to be running this op quite well, and that's just what she wants to see. So, Captain Marvel will not be undermining Big Red's authority today. No way.

Once Carol is clear on what Caitlin needs next, she is quickly about it, refusing to waste time. They've go ta job to do, and she just bounced in from near space to get it done. Heeyah!

—-

The airborne craft streaks toward the bay, details of the accident resolving in the luminescent HUD within the canopy.

Five pipes up: (Identified: Fairchild, Caitlin. Database identification number not accessible. Identified: Danvers, Carol. Marvel, Captain. Database identification number not accessible.)

Once upon a time — well, a year ago — Kinsey was developing AIs modeled on Five to assist the Knightwatch with their roles as enforcers. After the accident and her sudden retirement, Five no longer has access to the updated Knightwatch files, and therefore no access to the updated filing system…but he retains the information he had at the time he and Kinsey were unceremoniously fused together.

Six decreases their momentum down to a hover just a little distance from the center of the action. "That's a lot of muscle. Probably a bad idea to sneak up on them. Find me a frequency and patch me in."

(Working.)

(Acquired.)

Across the radio affixed to the two women saving the day, a new voice. It is strangely feminine in spite of being utterly artificial.

"Hello, ladies. I thought you might need a hand. Is there anything I can do to help?" Reaching out with one lightly armored, gloved hand, she thumbs another switch with a snap, and a brilliant halogen light pops on at the front of the craft, making it more visible at a distance. "Waving at you from your ten-o-clock."

—-

A voice crackles in Caitlin's ear, ahead of the arrival of the jet. "Red— seven o'clock, high. Fast mover," comes Carol's authoritative tones.

—-

Caitlin blinks and looks around. "Wha— who's on our comm line?" she asks, touching her earpiece. "Hello? Hi!" She peers around. "This isn't really for civilians, miss," she says, quite politely. She glances at her watch, then chops her hand in a half-circle, trying to figure if seven is on her right or left. She turns, looking around, not quite seeing the jet. "The help's appreciated but—" she looks up and blinks. "Uh, I see you brought your own jet. That's… really cool?" she says, waving at the woman. "But unless you can get those cranes up and running, I kinda need you to clear the airspace so you don't run into Captain Marvel. She gets cranky about airspace violations." She waves at Carol, who is bringing a load of people down from the boat, and lashes another box with a chain and starts hauling it out of the muck like a rancher pulling a horse from quicksand, the bands of muscle in her bare legs flexing into relief with the exertion.

—-

"What kind of sensors does your bird have?" Captain Marvel inquires, looking over the non-standard aircraft. "If you can, map out where the containers have fallen below the visible waterline, and get us a sounding along the hull so we know where the danger points are. Stay as clear of the main hull as you can for now, I'm moving cranes, and they're huge and ungainly. I don't want to knock you out of the air."

That said, Captain Marvel gets started. Those cranes are heavy, but she's all powered up and happy to help. Glowing like she is right now, she's almost as strong as Caitlin herself. And until she can finish that birthday present for the redhead, she's a lot more maneuverable in the air than the other Leaguer. "You have a callsign, there, Trouble?"

—-

What trickles across the line is something that was probably a bright little laugh before it was reduced down to synthetic tones. "Sorry. If I'd taken the bus I never would've gotten here in time," says the voice.

She lapses into quiet after that to listen to Captain Marvel — some part of her internally /thrilled/; she knows that dossier, knows what a decorated pilot Danvers was, IS, and as former woman in the military and a test-pilot herself (albeit one who got by more on enthusiasm than raw skill), she might be just a little bit of a fan.

She tries not to let that leak into her voice, though.

"Can do. Let me know if any of the machinery's fried. I can probably do something about that, too. We'll stay clear."

She doesn't say what kind of sensors the craft has, but 'can do' speaks for itself, at any rate. Asked for her moniker, she hesitates a moment, feels a bubbling of /something/ in her stomach. It's the first time anyone has ever asked her. "Six," she says, finally. "You can call me Six, Captain."

Closing the commlink: "Start scanning, Five, and keep us out of her way."

—-

Nancy O'Neal leans on a railing of a nearby building, watching over the supers as they busy themselves with saving the day. She inhales deeply of her vape, letting out a cloud of brandy scented mist as she watches on. Inhaling deeply, she debates offering to assist, but the ones that seem to be involved are all fliers and with super strength. Nan knows her limits and part of that is being all too squishy and earth bound. However, she grabs her communicator off her belt and lazily speaks into it. "K'ten? It's Nan. Some fuss going on near my co-ords. Can you try and patch me in to their comms? I'll see if they can use my help." When given the go ahead, she announces herself. "Deadzone here. Anything I can do to help? You know, that doesn't need the ability to lift a mountain?"

—-

"Alright, Six. Get that map, quick as you can!" Captain Marvel offers, and then she's continuing with moving the cargo cranes from their usual - and currently useless - positions over to the lower edge of the tilted ship's deck, where they can then be turned around to face the opposite direction and help to pull the ship up and around. It's backbreaking work - more, in thise case, because of precision and how damned awkward the things are than because of weight - but Carol has nothing better to do. And this is the way to save the ship.

—-

That last is for Caitlin, as she shoulders another cargo container and hauls it off. She sets the container down and keys the 'accept/override' on her headset, trying to remember the buttons. "Fairchild Moving Services, you call, we haul, how may I direct you?" she says, chattering breathlessly. "Uh, well— we've got injured crew coming off the ship, and we need to get the mooring cranes and the drydock cranes going, and there are still cargo containers to offload, so, uh, y'know."

"That."

Caitlin finds a sturdy place to stand and does a few test squats, eying the deck of the ship. One, two, HUP! And she explodes into a leap that cracks the concrete behind her, and lands on the deck of the cargo ship, looking around.

"Uh… okay. Captain Marvelous, my favorite forever, will you please move the drydock crane #1 towards the water's direction? And bring #2 back about fifty yards— you should be able to move them manually, but I can help push if need be." She reaches down near her feet and with a grunt of effort, lifts a five-ton horseshoe shaped D-ring that attaches to the ship's superstructure. "I learned about these in school, this is how they hoist the ships in dry dock for repairs. If we get the cranes in place, we can right the ship so they can drain out the lock and fix it."

"And, uh, Six?" she says, trying on the codename with polite hesitation. "If you can take a look at the smaller cargo cranes, see if you can figure out a way to bypass the control tower," she says, speaking into the headset as she flips out another massive mooring point. "You can use the smaller crane to fish the boxes out." She speaks a bit breathlessly but confidently, eyes scanning the area as she tries to determine the best course of action.

—-

Within the cockpit of Six's pride and joy, geometric lines are gradually beginning to scan into place as soundings are taken of the terrain beneath the surface of the water. A picture begins to form on the cockpit canopy, floating in the darkness of the bulletproof glass. As it compiles, she watches the other two women go about what they do best. She's watched thousands of hours of video of extranormals — had to, part of the job; it's hard to design equipment for dealing with it without knowing what's involved, what they're capable of — but she's never gotten tired of it. An expert in machinery, she still finds biological systems to be the most impressive machinery of all, and what are supers if not supercars, so to speak?

(Scan finished.)

She flips the comline open. "If you ladies have the ability to receive data on this frequency, I can send you the information you wanted. I'll have a look at the cranes, but I'm sure I can make it work. Nobody invests outrageous amounts of money in security-proofing systems like those."

Comlink off again. "Lemme out, Five. If they ask for the data, send it wherever. Just…" She hesitates as she peels herself out of her seat and the involved harness that keeps her within it. Slender fingers reach back to the place a cable in the seat links with her helmet, and thence to her brain itself, gently disconnecting. "Just…be ready to grab me if things get weird, okay?"

(Yes.)

A hatch beneath the craft slides open, and Six sits on the edge of it for a moment, the inorganic angles of her prosthetic lower legs dangling. Butterflies in her stomach. It's /broad daylight/. People will /see/.

She sucks in a breath, and slides out into open air.

—-
With a smirk and a chuckle, Nan takes a last inhale from her vape before she speaks into her comm. "First aid I can do. And I can co-ordinate with the local paramedics. Be there in two shakes." Nancy nods to herself. This will be the first time actually working with the flame-haired mountain that is Fairchild. Usually it's just seeing her on the news or meeting her in Central Park and just letting her be anonymous.

Once again, the comm is spoken into. "K'ten? Can you transfer me to the site? Ground level and with one of our First Aid kits? What? No, no need to go overboard. I doubt there is anyone there that isn't human. No, you're right, better safe then sorry. Good to go when you are." Slipping the comm onto her waistband again, she disappears in a shimmer of light, only to reappear on the ground of the incident with a kit at her feet that appears to be a large tacklebox. She waves up to Fairchild, a little curious if the redhead will actually recognize the goth, and then starts to see what she can do to assist the injured.

—-

Someone is actually humming into the comm lines. It sounds like a husky-voiced but feminine rendition of the Seven Dwarves. One can almost imagine those tenor voices calling out with crystal clarity, "Hi hooooooo! Hi hoooooo! Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go …."

As promised, Captain Marvel is hauling and moving and re-setting cranes. "I can charge up the motors if needed. But if the control runs are shot, that's going to make this awful touchy." she comments, sharply. "If you're serious about being able to get these things running, Six, then once I get them locked in place, you get over here and take a look.

—-

"Dangit— we were /just/ talking about belated Christmas ideas," Caitlin complains. "A HUD would be super useful but I don't have anything that can take the data." She flips the last locking ring into place. "If, y'know, I didn't break literally everything I take into the field." She dusts her palms and waits for the first crane to move into place, and beckons for Carol to unspool the tremendous braided cables that themselves weigh close to ten tons. She lifts the heavy hook and snags it around the big U-bolt, and moves down the line to attach the other mooring clamps until the ship is ready to be righted.

Spotting Nancy down below, Caitlin peers at the girl, then despite being in the middle of a disaster, beams brilliantly and waves, popping on her toes a bit redundantly for a few more inches of height. "Oh hey, hi! I know you! Can you start triage down there?" she says, waving a hand at the crew who are limping towards the edge of the piers where the first ambulences are pulling up.

She pops up over the edge of the deck's rail, feet wiggling behind her. "How bad is it?" she asks the other two women. "We can lock the pulleys manually and at least keep it from completely scuttling," she offers. "but I'd like to get it righted as long as we're here."

—-

It's a sleek and sinuous outline that drips from the bottom of the aircraft. Slick leggings, a jacket, something fitted and slightly armored underneath, but this is not /sponsored/ extranormal gear, not a uniform. It's homemade, scratch stuff, albeit the prosthetic limbs that interrupt that otherwise sleek outline are not something a body could pick up at a local medical supply. And one day, maybe some distant day in the future, on the other end of a lot more experience and training, it will be as graceful as its shape. For now, though…

For now, Six its the top angle of one of the small crane arms with a spray of sparks that continue to shower as the bottom of her prosthetics — usually shaped like heels, actually — articulate into gripping claws, and she skids downward toward the control cabin deck. It would be cool, if she weren't having to pinwheel her arms like that to keep her balance. She hits the bottom of the arm at speed and stumbles across the narrow platform with its slim railing, only able to stop because her right hand, the one that isn't real, manages to buckle into one corner of the cab.

…maybe they didn't see that.

Her cheeks simmer with heat as she slinks into the control 'room,' such as it is, dropping into the cracked leather operator's seat. the fingertips of her left glove have holes in them, and she places them on the console.

The world sways, seems to telescope away. Motes of her consciousness trickle down through her nervous sytem and into the machine and — regrettably, as she has yet to figure out how to be in both places at once — her form slides bonelessly down into the embrace of the seat, metal limbs singing softly across the grippy metal floor as her feet slide. "Bypass first," says her voice across the open line. "Then anything you want."

—-

Nancy can hear Fairchild over the comm on her hip and so salutes the woman when she gives her orders. Triage she can do. She watches as the people start to approach, asking those that are able bodied to clear some space for her for the injured and for some others to keep an eye out for the paramedics and to help direct them to her location. She keeps her null field close, just in case there are any mutants around that depend on their powers for being able to breath. A mistake like that is something a null like her only does once. The goth opens up the tacklebox, pulling the many shelves up and out to access all that is within, and starts deciding who needs her help now and who can wait and who needs more help then she can provide.

—-

Captain Marvel unspools cables and delivers them into Caitin's hands without swinging - avoiding the possibility of swatting anyone off the deck or crushing them to death as she listens in. "Hang on. Oracle, do me a favor. Open us a port on a comm channel just above this one, set for lidar-based imaging data. Give it back to me when ready." Three minutes later, Captain Marvel pipes up, giving Five - actually Six, but Five is the one taking action - the right channel and port to send the data stream. And, just as helpfully, she's told Five how to format the data so that the system on the other end can properly interpolate it.

"Once that is up, Oracle, switch over our comm units to pinpoint GPS targeting and overlay. Then use my visuals and Caitlin's to locate the others as best you can. Then we can direct everyone to where they're needed on the fly." Captain Marvel commands, while she waits for feedback from Six on how those control runs are doing, and where they might need patching. "If you need a charge, let me know."

—-

Everyone's consumed with their individual tasks for a few minutes, then, as Six works to get the drydock towers into gear and Carol starts fishing out the cargo containers that are underwater. Spotting the ambulance crews struggling, Caitlin hops off the edge of the ship and wades ashore to start hauling debris out of the way of the docks, so the people don't have to walk a hundred yards to the only dry land nearby. Shedding water as she goes, Caitlin ends up using her hairband as a scrunchie, red hair clinging dark to her brow and shoulders.

She picks up a broken security gate and tosses it aside, then smiles at Nancy and darts in for a hug. "Thanks for being here! I'm gonna get back to the ship, lemme know if I can help, okay?" She squeezes Nancy's arm and jogs back to the dock, touching her ear. A handful of injured walk up to Nancy and the EMTs immediately conscript her services, trying to sort out the badly wounded from the lightly injured.

"Okay, where are we at on the cranes?" she asks Carol and Six.

—-

Five is an interesting thing. There is an iteration of it on the ship. Another at the garage, a few lightweight copies in the drones she's been building…but the native copy, the central copy, exists in her skull. All the while that Six is traversing the (ugly, utilitarian, unexciting) control systems of the heavy equipment, Five is in hive mind with the bits of him — she thinks of him as a 'him,' somewhat erroneously — that live elsewhere, including the one Carol is interacting with. Portions of Kinsey's awareness remain tied there, siphoned off for dealing with the systems on the ship. The data is sent as per Captain Marvel's instructions. Meanwhile, she finds an incidental link with the cameras in the yard, and another small fragment of her keeps an eye on the physical activity, displayed in the hud within her helmet.

And the bulk of Six flits through electronic atmospheres, until she encounters darkness. Something offline.

"We're close on the cranes. I'll take that extra juice if you've got it," she says. "Something's offline here, and I'd start it myself but it's physical. Pinched cable, probably."

Of course, she's never been inside of a system when an alien's poured the energy equivalent of jet fuel into it, so she feels the sudden, nervous uptick in the rate of her pulse is probably warranted.
Deadzone just lets the heavies do what they need to do. She is content to do what she can with keeping the survivors of the incident the best that she can. She does her best to keep her usual brand of sarcasm to herself, knowing that being snarky and cynical isn't going to help anyone in this situation. She takes a moment to remember exactly how to use the diagnostic device from the kit from the HMSS Starfire, reminding herself that in spite of its capablities that she's been told not to call it a tricorder or 'that silly Star Trek like thingy'. Once she has familiarized herself with its functions, she gets to work.

—-

On the ground, Deadzone is keeping people moving in an orderly fashion towards the ambulances. It's a mess of injuries, some critical, some subtly concealed. But her calm assurance helps get the EMT triage going at a good rate, and many find themselves lining up for the medical supplies in her ultra-futuristic toolkit.

Carol and Six are working in tandem— Six trying to operate the cranes, using her powers to bypass the broken control mechanisms. Where there's simply no getting around the equipment, or where the motors are running too weakly, Carol is in place to help make the massive drydock cranes run properly again, and to set into motion the smaller freight cranes that line the walls of the dock, to help fish broken and upended storage containers out of the water.

—-

"I'll drop some juice. Then I need you to point me to the problem, and I'll fix it. Somehow." Captain Marvel offers Six when the transmission comes through. She gives a countdown. "Five. Four. Three. Two. Brace!" And then a white-hot torrent of electricity pours through the crane's power systems. Hot time in the old town tonight!

—-

Caitlin clasps her hands under her chin, green eyes wide, then grins delightedly as the drydock cranes crank to life. There are fits and starts, but the ratchets— each the size of a small car— go *chunk chunk chunk* and by inches, the ship begins to right itself, groaning protest. Caitlin cheers and leaps up four feet, yipping giddily, and clapping her hands. "You got it! Awesome!" She dashes to the deck and starts righting the cargo containers, moving them towards the keel line to help balance the load as she ship ponderously tilts towards proper alignment.

Once it's past a certain point the keel digs into the ground and goes sturdy, and Caitlin holds her arms out for balance. "Okay! I think we got it!" she tells the other two women. "Lock the ratchets down, let's get the cargo containers out, and then I think we can call it a day."

—-

Six waits. Her fingertips perspire a little — not from what she's doing, but from the mild anxiety of waiting to find out whether or not her fuse is about to get blown.

It doesn't /blow/, but it hits her like a freight train. The vent slots in the helmet strain to suck in air as she gasps and her spine arches, and everything inside of that drab, dull, utilitarian universe of circuitry suddenly lights up like Times Square on New Year's Eve. Her teeth click as her jaw locks. Her neurons get a sudden supercharge.

Whoa, MAMA.

There is a sudden, massive hum and whine as every single crane in the cargo yard powers up all at once — all but the one with the fault. Two of those crane arms pivot and whirl, the tips wheeling to a vertex that indicates a single point one one of the larger of the two cranes that Carol has been laboring to repair.

"That's your problem," says the white-noise whisper of a voice across the line. She hopes it masks some of the breathlessness on her end.

It's a good thing that doesn't happen all of the time. /Way/ more fun than cocktails.

Things proceed quickly enough after that. Quickly enough, in fact, that once Six trusts herself to extract from the system, she does so. She trickles back into her own body like running water, awareness expanding into the outer reaches of her limbs. Everything intact? Yes. Good.

Sitting up, she feels warmth roll over the curve of her mouth, salt-metal liquid on her tongue. /Oh good. Another nosebleed./

Still, watching the repairs unfold in her helmet's HUD, it's difficult to be troubled by that.

/Worth it./

—-

"OK. Keep pointing, I'm moving now. Power is going to dip down to low-ebb in four, three, two, brace …" And then Captain Marvel pulls her hands off of the engine power couplings and flies over to the point of that intersection, then rips the housing off like tissue paper, slices the control run wires and then yanks out the middle and splices it back in. Princess Sparklefists is not subtle. Not in the least.

But it works. Captain Marvel heads back to the power couplings for the cranes and lays hands on them like a revivalist preacher. "Let there be LIGHT!"

And then a four-hundred-ton supercargo ship starts wrenching itself around by its cranes. 'Cause that's PHYSICS, BABY!

—-

"Woo! Okay, you got it!" Caitlin moves to secure the tiedowns on the ship's deck, then clambers up one of the long cables easily and locks it manually down up there, too. "I think we can clear out and let the engineers take it from here, ladies," she says, surveying the scene as the last of the cargo boxes are dredged up and stowed. "No leaks, no messes, only minor injuries. I think I've earned some ice cream," she says happily, cracking her shoulder with a stretch across her chest.

"I think /we've/ earned some ice cream. My treat!" she offers to everyone, speaking over the commset. She eyes the water two hundred feet down, then with a shrug, drops off the crane in a pink and green blur of leotard and bare legs, her red hair forming a comet's tail and SKADOOSH she goes into the drink, before wading ashore and tugging her hair out of her mouth. "Blech! The bay is so /gross/."

—-

Her head feels like someone filled it with seltzer, still tingling with the after-effects of being dosed by Captain Marvel. Six peels herself out of the seat and onto her feet, splay-foot prosthetics mechanically recoalescing into the rough shape of heeled boots — not that anyone would ever be fooled. She Makes her way out of the cabin and to the railing to look down, buffeted by the bay winds. There's a sparkle of light on the water and things have been put at least more or less to rights. There's sunlight and celebration, a promise of ice cream. From Caitlin Fairchild, no less.

It tugs at her heart, sweet and sorrowful all at once.

"Wish I could," she finally says over the comlink she so rudely invaded on her arrival. "But you know how it is."

Cued by some errant thought, the VTOL craft stirs from its place hovering off to one side, swinging around and close to the crane. The hatch slides open, a retrieval line drools out of it. She gets one slim, gloved hand into a loop on it, the ball of one foot. "Thanks for letting me help." And after a pause, "I…I really appreciate everything you guys do."

The VTOL begins to rear back then, up into the air, drawing her up with it. As the line rolls back upward toward the hatch, she wrestles with conflicting feelings.

Elation: She /helped/. She helped famous supernormals! They called her /Six./ Is she a thing now..? Does this officially make her a thing?

And self-consciousness: She has really got to work on her balance and…and maybe she shouldn't have said that last bit. Like some sort of fangirl. That's not smooth. Not mysterious at all.

—-

"Let's get the last of the cargo containers up, and then I'm all for the ice cream. Why don't you take everyone and start ordering. The ones we have left are underwater, so I'll get them, and be over when I'm done." Isn't quickchange costuming fun?! Captain Marvel salutes Six upon her departure, and then gets to the hefting and toting. After all … ice cream, damnit.

—-

"Erg! Wait! Six! I— doggone it, I wanted a selfie!" Caitlin says, figure Six is already out of short-range comms lines. "Now her Instagram is gonna be empty," she tells Carol. "I /hate/ that. Is she new? She seems new. I don't recognize the name."

Screw a super-database; there are heroes who are regional to a one-block section of Chicago that Caitlin knows by name, classification, and major powerset. The big redhead Leaguer never forgets a superhero!

After everyone's set up and the EMTs are ready to roll out, Caitlin does one last thing— she gets out her phone and bunches everyone in for a selfie. Well ,anyone who isn't fast enough to escape her blind, cheerful enthusiasm. It goes up on Instagram seconds later— Caitlin grinning into the camera and the line of emergency services personnel stretched behind her, with Carol hovering in the background and Nancy lurking in frame.

~Justice League on site @ docks, watching EMT and FDNY do their thing!~

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License