[ ] Picking up the Pieces, Part 2
Emigration 4.6
Tuesday, March 22
Picking up the bowl of ground hamburger, you carry it over to the table where the tortillas and lettuce and cheese are already waiting. A quick, simple meal, but still miles away from those you and your dad have shared for the last couple of years. "We really should have taco night more often."
"I don't know," he replies with a smile. "Let's wait and see how Sam's digestion handles it. If raccoons react to spicy food like dogs do…."
Samantha gave him the dainty sniff that comment deserved and settled herself at the table. "I am a lady. I do not get gas, and I certainly would not spread it around the house. That would be rude."
"You're the rudest and crudest of all of us," you remind her, earning a betrayed glare from her and a quick laugh from your dad.
Conversation dwindles while you eat, appreciative moans making up the majority of your exchange. When you take a break from your munching, though, you ask the question that's been bugging you for a while. "You've been busy this week. Are the guys already out poking at the gangs?"
"Not as much as you'd think," he says after wiping his mouth. "A lot of the work so far is research. Finding out what territories the gangs have claimed, which capes are part of which groups, stuff like that. And finding out what kind of business they're involved with, too." He grimaces. "Taking the Merchants' money and handing over their drugs was easy work, honestly. A lot less dangerous than tangling with Lung or the Empire would have been. And I got the feeling that the Protectorate was more accommodating
because we were focused on shutting down the drug trade. We might have had more trouble if we had gone around grabbing skinheads who could protest that they weren't doing anything, but busting dug dens? Pretty cut and dry."
"So you're sticking with that for now?"
"Yeah. Several gangs make a nice chunk of money off drugs here. The Winter Hill gang is the big name since they have an actual drug Tinker, but they also have a bunch of capes to call on. Not as many as the Empire could, but still enough to rival the Protectorate and Wards. The Warlocks are smaller dealers, but they're also more violent. MS-13 is the big name in cocaine, and Cadejo makes sure they keep that title." He shrugs. "And then there's the Fairyland gang, who should be the easiest to deal with."
You take a moment to remember that name. "Isn't that the Disney princess gang?"
"Yes," he agrees with a sigh, "it's the Disney princess gang."
Samantha snickers. "You know if they beat you, you're never going to live it down, right?"
"…Let's just cross that bridge when we come to it."
The three of you stick with small talk for a while longer before your dad finally has to leave for work. Once you've cleaned the dishes, you head upstairs to your bedroom and peek in. "How's it going?"
Perfect Storm lets out a hollow sound not unlike a deep bell. «
Analysis slower than expected. Passive scan inconclusive. Active scan unfeasible. Power requirements excessive.»
"That's not that unexpected," you tell it. "The thing was part of a
spaceship. I'd be surprised if it didn't take a lot of power."
Of course, that it gobbles up so much power isn't a good thing right now. If Perfect Storm can't scan the computer core or whatever that tube you found is, it can't get any information off it. And if it can't get any information, looking for that thing was a waste of time.
You think about it for another couple of seconds before offering, "What if we tried what we did in the ship again? I feed you mana, and you do the whole cord thing and power it up?"
«
Mistress nearly collapsed last time.»
"True, but things are a little different now, don't you think? If I pass out, I won't drown, for one. And last time, you were putting power through that a chunk of the ship. It won't take as much power just to run this. Besides," you add when Perfect Storm doesn't reply, "we don't have to run it for very long. Just long enough for you to get a scan."
«
That is possible. If Mistress desires it, it will be done.»
Picking up the blue jewel, you offer Perfect Storm the power at your disposal. It drinks deep from your mana, and then the dark purple casting marks reappear and cords zip out to the various couplings. "How long do you think it'll take?" you ask when the magic drain begins to itch and burn.
«
Not… much….»
Blue-white sparks spit from the tube and do their best to form the same holographic screens your Device is so fond of. Noise soon follows, garbled and unintelligible.
«
Mistress,» Perfect Storm says in something approaching alarm, «
this is not a computer core.»
"DCYP Ahvunlan Lussyht."
You blink at the spray of sounds. Was that… speech? It sounds like it, kind of, but nothing you've ever heard before.
Actually, scratch that. You
have heard this before. When Perfect Storm first landed, it spoke in some other language, presumably the language of its builders. And if this tube isn't a computer but is speaking to you… maybe it's something else that would be a necessity on a spaceship.
You found their radio!
"Drec ec Meaidahyhd Depinuh uv dra DCYP," the man on the other end of the line barks out when you still don't say anything.
"Oui yna eh emmakym buccacceuh uv y DCYP jaccam. Etahdevo ouincamv yd uhla!"
Well, isn't that an interesting dilemma? 
What are you going to do?
[ ] Talk back. Perfect Storm should be able to translate the aliens' language for you.
[ ] Hang up. The last thing you want is this guy demanding Perfect Storm back.
No moratorium this time because in real life this would be a split-second decision.
