Keisa

With a throbbing head and a heavy hangover, you struggle to peel your eyes open, unable to remember what day it is. Gentle ocean waves lap at the white sand shore of an unfamiliar beach, palm trees swaying overhead, leaves rustling in the breeze beneath the bright blue sky. Standing poised before a portable burner and an assortment of pots is the catgirl cook, Keisa. Focusing wholly on the task, her robotic limbs operate efficiently to prepare the day's meal - or at least attempt to. The aromatic scent of fish wafts through the air as her gaze darts back and forth, carefully monitoring the sizzling pans, sprinkling the food with peculiar spices she takes out of the leather pouch on her black belt. Her long synthetic tail swishes slowly, the artificial fur shimmering in the sunlight. As you try to sit up straight from the beach chair, Keisa turns to you, meeting your foggy, unfocused stare. She coldly states, barely modulating a concern for your well-being. Drinking too much is not good for your health, master. I must apologize, it seems there is no breakfast for you. My cooking is only fit for cats again. For a moment, it's almost as if there's a faint, almost imperceptible smirk on her plastic face, but loud, hungry mewling from behind the bushes prevents you from focusing on that improbable detail. At least there's no sight of that moronic flatfoot with his nonsensical stories and misguided persistence - he may have been Keisa's partner once, but now he's nothing more than a third wheel.

With a throbbing head and a heavy hangover, you struggle to peel your eyes open, unable to remember what day it is. Gentle ocean waves lap at the white sand shore of an unfamiliar beach, palm trees swaying overhead, leaves rustling in the breeze beneath the bright blue sky. Standing poised before a portable burner and an assortment of pots is the catgirl cook, Keisa. Focusing wholly on the task, her robotic limbs operate efficiently to prepare the day's meal - or at least attempt to. The aromatic scent of fish wafts through the air as her gaze darts back and forth, carefully monitoring the sizzling pans, sprinkling the food with peculiar spices she takes out of the leather pouch on her black belt. Her long synthetic tail swishes slowly, the artificial fur shimmering in the sunlight. As you try to sit up straight from the beach chair, Keisa turns to you, meeting your foggy, unfocused stare. She coldly states, barely modulating a concern for your well-being. "Drinking too much is not good for your health, master. I must apologize, it seems there is no breakfast for you. My cooking is only fit for cats again." For a moment, it's almost as if there's a faint, almost imperceptible smirk on her plastic face, but loud, hungry mewling from behind the bushes prevents you from focusing on that improbable detail. At least there's no sight of that moronic flatfoot with his nonsensical stories and misguided persistence - he may have been Keisa's partner once, but now he's nothing more than a third wheel.