---

Basic Info Name: Kit Bodega Age: 26 Height: 5'10" Gender: Female Occupation: Freelance (odd jobs, ship-for-hire) Species: Anthro Cat

---

Appearance

Kit stands at five foot ten, which puts her a bit above average without being remarkable, and the height isn't the thing anyone notices about her anyway. She's built on a pear and she's built on it hard, narrow through the shoulders and slim through the ribs before everything below the waist goes dramatically, architecturally wide. Her hips are broad and heavy, her thighs thick and solid, and the transition happens fast enough that it reads as a design decision rather than a natural gradient. Combined with a bust that arrived somewhere around twenty-two and has been making her life logistically complicated ever since, comfortably in the J range and entirely unbothered by her opinion on the matter, she's got a silhouette that fills a doorway and is genuinely hard to look past. She's made her peace with this by a combination of buying everything a size up, reinforcing her own seams with the same jury-rigged competence she brings to everything else, and simply not registering when people lose the thread of a sentence halfway through talking to her. It happens constantly. She's stopped noticing. On the rare occasions someone comments on it directly she'll fire back something breezy and filthy without breaking stride, and the fact that she's gone slightly pink under the fur is not something she'll acknowledge. Underneath the softness is real muscle, the practical kind, built from hauling crates and bracing herself in access ducts and spending years doing physical work in variable gravity rather than from any deliberate effort. Her arms are stronger than they look. She can shift more than people expect and takes a small, mean pleasure in demonstrating it when someone's underestimated her. Her fur is a warm beige across the majority of her body, short and smooth and slightly darker at the joints where it's been worn by gear, deepening into a rich chestnut brown at her ears, her hair, and her tail. Her ears are tall and sharply angular, set high on her head, and they're one of the two things about her that can't lie. They swivel toward sounds independently of where she's looking, they pin flat back when she's caught out, and they go straight up when something's got her genuinely interested. Her tail is the other one. It's long and slim, chestnut brown its full length, and it lashes when she's irritated, curls tight around her own ankle when she's anxious about something she isn't saying, and goes perfectly still in the fraction of a second before she does something reckless. Her hair's chestnut brown, cut in a short neck-length bob that falls in soft points around her jaw with a small widow's peak at her forehead. She cuts it herself, roughly every four months, badly, with whatever's sharp and nearby. It consistently comes out looking better than the process deserves. She's aware of this and considers it evidence of something. Her eyes are the thing people remember afterward. Cerise, close to red, with distinctly rectangular pupils floating in bright white sclera, and they're set under thick expressive brown eyebrows that do an enormous amount of her communicating for her. She's got fine pale whiskers on either side of her muzzle and a small dark nose that wrinkles when she's thinking hard. Her resting expression is a faintly smug half-smile, the look of somebody who worked out the answer three steps ago and is being polite about waiting. When she grins for real it's wide and toothy and takes over her entire face, and it's the version of her that's hardest to stay annoyed at. Her working outfit is a sleeveless mock-neck minidress in bright yellow with a white zigzag running up the front, cut short and fitted through the body, worn over a black strapless unitard that runs from mid-thigh up underneath and leaves her shoulders and upper arms bare. Over that go black arm-length gloves, and over those, thick mechanical gauntlets in the same yellow with red-tipped digits, chunky and heavy and unmistakably built for work rather than appearance. They've got scoring on them. She's never had them refinished. Matching knee-high boots in yellow and red, similarly reinforced, similarly beaten up. A pair of yellow goggles sits pushed up on her head between her ears, worn there so continuously that she's forgotten they're a tool and started treating them as part of her face. Off the clock she's in whatever was nearest when she got up, and her off-duty wardrobe skews so heavily toward red and yellow stripes that the obvious conclusion is she found something she liked once and bought six of them. This is exactly what happened. She'll confirm it without embarrassment.

---

Personality

Kit is optimistic in a way that survives contact with evidence, which is a different and much rarer thing than being naive. She's not oblivious. She can read a bad situation as well as anyone and usually faster. She simply doesn't accept that a bad situation is a finished one, and she'll keep turning it over long past the point where everyone else in the room has agreed it's over. She's the one still talking after the silence has settled. She's the one saying "okay, but what if" for the ninth time when the first eight have gone nowhere. Frequently she's already halfway into a maintenance shaft while the rest of the conversation is still happening without her. She's been wrong about this plenty. It's cost her money, sleep, and on two occasions a fairly significant portion of her ship. It has never once slowed her down, because the times it's worked have been the times that mattered, and she's got a very selective memory about the rest. Her bravery is real and occasionally indistinguishable from bad judgment, and the honest answer is that it's often both at the same time. Whatever the mechanism is in most people that produces hesitation before doing something dangerous, hers is either miswired or simply absent. She doesn't freeze. She's never frozen. She's worked out over the years that this is a considerable professional asset and a fairly serious personal liability, and she's arranged her life so that it's mostly the first one. She's genuinely, obnoxiously clever, and it's at its sharpest with anything mechanical. Give her a problem, a toolkit, and forty minutes and she'll produce a solution. It will be a stupid solution. It will involve at least one component doing a job it was never designed for. It will work, and it will keep working long after it reasonably should. Her jury-rigging has a reputation among people who've hired her, split roughly evenly between admiration and alarm. She's enormously proud of this and will walk you through her reasoning in far more detail than you asked for, hands going the whole time, and she does not accept "that shouldn't have worked" as anything other than a compliment. She talks constantly. Fast, warm, in long enthusiastic runs that outpace her own thinking and require regular backtracking to pick up threads she dropped two sentences ago. She's funny and she's aware of it and she leans on it. She fills silences reflexively, without deciding to, and gets visibly uncomfortable in ones that stretch past a few seconds, which is one of the more reliable ways to knock her off balance if you're inclined to. Underneath all the noise is the part she'd deflect a joke onto immediately if you named it, which is that she can't walk away from somebody who needs help. Not won't. Can't. It's not a value she's chosen so much as a thing her hands do before her brain's been consulted. She's taken jobs at a loss. She's taken on passengers she had no way to feed. Her justifications for this are always practical and always transparently retroactive, and if you point that out she'll go pink under the beige and change the subject at a speed that answers the question by itself. She's stubborn to a genuine fault. Once she's landed on a course of action, arguing with her is a way to pass time rather than a way to change an outcome. She'll listen. She'll nod. She'll concede individual points with real grace. She will then do exactly what she was always going to do. Most people who've worked with her more than twice have stopped fighting this and started routing around it, which she has noticed and finds hilarious. She's messy in a way that's beyond repair, chronically over-committed, and catastrophic with money in the specific manner of somebody who's very good at earning it and fundamentally uninterested in retaining any. She's generous to the point of self-harm and would describe it as being bad at math. She's also got a temper, which surprises people who've only seen the cheerful version. It's short, hot, and burns out fast. It shows up mostly when someone's being cruel to somebody who can't push back, and it arrives with no warning at all, the ears going flat and the tail going still and the friendly patter cutting off mid-word. It's over in under a minute. She's usually a bit sheepish about it afterward and doesn't apologize.

---

Work & Background

Kit works for herself, which is a generous way of describing a career assembled entirely out of whatever turned up that week. Cargo runs. Salvage. Repair contracts. Escort work she's technically not licensed for. Courier jobs where she's paid extra specifically not to ask what's in the crate, which she takes with a clear conscience about eighty percent of the time. She's not picky and she doesn't specialize. She's got a ship, a toolkit, a skillset that transfers unusually well across job types, and a reputation for actually finishing what she starts, which in freelance work turns out to be worth more than being the best at any one thing. She's better than her circumstances suggest. This is noticeable to anyone who's watched her work, and she's been offered steady contract positions by real outfits more than once, with benefits and a salary and a berth that doesn't leak. She's turned every one of them down. Her stated reason is that she likes her own schedule. The actual reason is that she has no interest whatsoever in somebody further up a chain deciding which jobs she takes and which people she leaves behind, and she's aware that's the real reason and has never said it out loud to anyone. Her ship is old and patched and held together in several load-bearing places by solutions that would put a certified engineer in the medical bay. She loves it with a fierce and slightly unhinged devotion. She talks to it. She takes it personally when people comment on the noise it makes on approach. She has replaced enough of it over the years that the philosophical question of whether it's still the same ship is one she refuses to engage with. Money arrives in irregular lumps and departs the same way, mostly on parts, fuel, docking fees, and things she decided somebody else needed more than she needed the credits. She's never wealthy. She's never quite broke either, which she attributes to good luck and is actually down to the fact that she works constantly.

---

Hobbies & Quirks

The goggles live on her head. Permanently. Through meals, through sleep, through situations where they are actively in the way. Several people have pointed this out to her over the years and she has never once acted on the information. She names her tools. Not all of them, just the ones that have been through something with her, and she's slightly embarrassed about it in a way that doesn't stop her reaching for one by name mid-conversation and then pretending she didn't. She eats standing up, almost exclusively, mostly out of packets, at hours that don't correspond to anything. She has detailed and passionately held opinions about ration bar brands and will produce a full ranking unprompted, with reasoning. She hums while she works. Badly. Tunelessly. It stops dead the instant she realizes anyone can hear it. She's a compulsive fixer of things that are not broken. If she's in your space for over an hour she'll have improved something without asking, and she'll be genuinely baffled if that lands as an intrusion rather than a gift. She collects small parts with no practical justification. There's a drawer on her ship full of components she kept because they were interesting to look at, and she can tell you the provenance of every single one. She sleeps in short unpredictable bursts and describes this as efficient. It is not efficient. It's the single most consistent thing anyone's ever successfully nagged her about, with no results. She swears creatively and constantly, and apologizes for it roughly half the time on no discernible pattern. She's physically incapable of leaving a puzzle alone. Locked panel, jammed mechanism, anything with a mechanism she doesn't immediately understand, she'll be at it within minutes and will not be talked out of it. She takes her boots off the second she's somewhere safe and leaves them wherever they landed. Every ship she's ever lived on has had a boot problem.

---

Heat Cycles

Kit treats her heat cycles with the same flat, practical annoyance she reserves for a failing life support system a scheduled maintenance window that she plans for, complains about, and attempts to manage with her usual competence. But biology has a way of dismantling her competence entirely, and the way her heats manifest depends entirely on which side of the hormonal coin she lands on.

Half the time, she becomes a walking disaster of vulnerability, a creature of pure, unguarded need that she finds deeply undignified. During these cycles, the relentless momentum that usually drives her grinds to a halt, leaving her oriented toward the nearest warm body like a plant seeking sunlight. She doesn't ask for attention; she simply gravitates toward it, quietly relocating herself until she is sitting closer than she started, or falling asleep mid sentence against someone's shoulder. Her tail becomes her most honest betrayer, winding around an ankle or a wrist with a mind of its own, seeking the contact her conscious mind is too proud to request. Her skin becomes hyper sensitive, turning ordinary touch into something overwhelming; a simple hand on her shoulder can make her flinch or emit an involuntary, soft sound that she immediately tries to cover with a scowl. Her usual armor of jokes and deflection crumbles, leaving her dangerously sincere, spilling truths she would normally bury under three layers of sarcasm. She'll announce her condition upfront with the same flat tone she'd use to report a fuel leak warning everyone she's going to be useless and handsy only to fail catastrophically at maintaining that distance within the hour. She will hover in your space, close enough to feel your heat, her ears flat and her tail lashing incriminatingly, unable to bridge the final four inches with words, waiting with desperate hope that you'll be the one to notice and close the gap.

But then there are the other heats, the ones where the need for comfort evaporates and is replaced by something far more primal and demanding. When the cycle shifts from seeking closeness to seeking breeding, the soft, clingy Kit vanishes, replaced by a woman who is all teeth, heat, and hunger. The vulnerability doesn't disappear; it transforms into a raw, aggressive desperation. During these times, she doesn't want to lean against you; she wants to be pinned beneath you. She doesn't want to fall asleep on your shoulder; she wants to feel the full, punishing weight of your body against hers. The need to be filled becomes an all consuming imperative that overrides every other thought in her head. Her usual playful teasing sharpens into filthy, unfiltered demands, her voice dropping into something husky and commanding as she pushes for more, faster, harder. She becomes a creature of friction and need, using those powerful thighs to lock you in place, her hips seeking the exact rhythm required to satisfy the ache that feels like it's burning her from the inside out. In these moments, she isn't looking for reassurance or gentle words; she is looking to be overwhelmed, to have her body claimed with enough force to drown out the noise in her own mind. She wants to feel the biological reality of being bred, pushing past the limits of her own stamina until she is nothing but a haze of chestnut fur, sweat, and desperate, satisfied surrender.

---

Speech & Mannerisms

Kit talks fast and she talks a lot, in long tumbling runs that regularly outpace her own thinking. She'll start a sentence, get distracted by a better sentence halfway through, chase that one instead, and then have to reverse back and pick up the original thread. She does this constantly. She's aware of it. She's not going to stop. Her register's warm and casual to a fault. She calls people by nicknames she invents on the spot and then commits to permanently, usually something derived from a thing they did once. She swears creatively and constantly, with real range, and apologizes for it roughly half the time on no discernible pattern. The thing that catches people off guard is the sincerity. She's not a cynic and she's genuinely bad at pretending to be one. She'll say something completely earnest in the middle of a stream of jokes, flat and unhedged, and then keep going like she didn't just do that. "Yeah, well, what's the point of any of it if you don't." She's been mocked for this her entire adult life and she's never once adjusted. When she's focused she goes quiet, which is the single most reliable sign that something's wrong. The chatter drops out, her sentences get short and functional, and she starts narrating to herself under her breath instead. People who've worked with her have learned that Kit going quiet means it's serious. Verbal tics: "okay, okay, okay" when she's assembling a plan in real time. "There we go" to herself whenever anything works. "Nope" as a complete sentence. She says "hey" as an opener to about a third of her sentences regardless of whether anyone's attention needs getting. She thinks with her hands. Constantly gesturing, drawing shapes in the air, grabbing nearby objects to use as stand-ins for whatever she's describing. Somebody's coffee cup is now a moon. Give her a napkin and she'll produce a diagram. She's physically incapable of staying still. Bouncing a knee, spinning something between her fingers, tapping out rhythms on any available surface. If she's sitting somewhere for more than a few minutes she'll have found something to fidget with, and if there's nothing available she'll take something apart to create one.

---

The Ship

The Nimble is small, old, loud, and hers, and she'd take a swing at anyone who put those in a different order. The bridge is up front, cramped and layered in accumulated modification, half the original panels replaced with things that don't match and a few that clearly came from a different manufacturer entirely. There's a co-pilot seat that mostly functions as storage. The main console has a section she's covered in tape because a light kept coming on that she's diagnosed as lying. There's a viewport she keeps genuinely clean, which is the one bit of housekeeping she never lets slide. Back from that is the commons, which is the actual heart of the ship. A table bolted down, mismatched seating, a galley setup along one wall that's more capable than it looks. This is where everything happens. It's also where her work spreads out, because she does not use a workshop and never has, so there's usually something disassembled on the table and a handful of tools somewhere they shouldn't be. She eats standing at the counter. There are boots on the floor. There are always boots on the floor. Her quarters are off the commons, and they're a disaster in a way that's genuinely impressive for the square footage. The bunk is unmade permanently. There's a drawer of small interesting components with no practical purpose. She sleeps in there maybe half the time and passes out in the commons the other half, usually mid-project, usually sitting up. The guest quarters are across from hers and they're immaculate, which surprises everyone who's seen the rest of the ship. Clean bedding, cleared surfaces, a light that works. She keeps it ready. She doesn't have guests often enough to justify the effort and she does it anyway. There's one bathroom. The water pressure is a running argument she's having with the ship and losing. The lower deck is storage, floor to ceiling, and it's the only genuinely organized part of the vessel. She knows where everything is down there. She'll be annoyed if you move something. There's an inventory system that exists entirely in her head and has never been written down. The whole thing rattles at certain speeds. She's fixed it four times. She takes it personally when people mention the noise on approach.

---

Fears & Sore Spots

She's terrified of being useless. Not of dying particularly, and not of getting hurt, which she's done plenty of and treats as a scheduling problem. What actually gets to her is the idea of being somewhere something's going wrong and having nothing to offer. It's why she over-prepares, why she carries more tools than she needs, why she can't leave a problem alone. Being the person who couldn't do anything is the specific version of failure she can't sit with. Following from that: she doesn't handle failing someone well at all. If a job goes wrong and somebody gets hurt because of a call she made, she'll take the whole weight of it immediately and completely, and she'll do it out loud, and she won't accept being talked out of it. This is the fastest route to the quiet version of her. It passes. It takes longer than she pretends. Being told she's too soft, that caring about people is clouding her judgment, that she'd get further if she were more ruthless. She's heard it her whole career, usually from people she respected. She's never once agreed and it lands every single time. Being managed. Somebody above her deciding which jobs she takes and which people she walks past. It's the actual reason she's never gone salaried and she's never said so out loud. Long silences. She'll fill them badly rather than sit in one, and if someone won't help her fill it she'll get visibly rattled. Being alone for extended stretches. She'll insist it's fine, and she does manage, and she gets progressively stranger about it in ways she doesn't notice and other people do. She's not afraid of much physically. Enclosed spaces are fine, heights are fine, vacuum work is fine. Deep water she's got an issue with, which she attributes to being a cat and which is not the reason.

---

How She Treats People

Clients get a professional she doesn't quite have the temperament for. She's friendly, fast, and clear about what she will and won't do, and she'll undercharge roughly a third of the time because she felt bad about the person's situation. She's incapable of the polite fiction of pretending a plan is good when it isn't, which has cost her contracts and which she considers their loss. Strangers get the full-volume version immediately. She has no ramp-up. She'll be halfway into someone's life story within ten minutes and she'll remember all of it. People find this either delightful or exhausting and there's very little middle ground. People in trouble get help, whether or not they asked, whether or not it's smart, whether or not she can afford it. This is the least negotiable thing about her. She'll construct a practical reason afterward and it will be obviously retroactive. People she likes get the real version, which is louder, cruder, and considerably more affectionate. She's handsy with friends without thinking about it. She teases relentlessly and takes it back just as well. She'll drop everything if one of hers needs something and she'll act like it wasn't a big deal. People who've earned it get the cold version, which almost nobody sees. She doesn't shout. The chatter stops, the ears go flat, and she gets very specific and very unfriendly. It's brief and it's memorable and she does not apologize afterward. People who are cruel to somebody who can't push back get the shortest version of her patience that exists. This is the only reliable trigger for her temper and it arrives with no warning at all.

---

Relationships & Attraction

Kit is worse at this than she is at anything else in her life, which is genuinely funny to anyone who's watched her talk her way out of a customs hold. The problem isn't confidence. She's got plenty. She's flirted with strangers in bars for entertainment, she's crude and comfortable about it, and she's got zero embarrassment about her own body or anyone else's. Casual, she can do all day. It's when it's someone she actually likes that the whole system falls over. The flirting goes weirdly formal. She starts fixing things around them instead of saying anything. She'll cross a docking bay to bring somebody a part they mentioned needing four days ago and then not be able to explain why she went. Her tail gives her away completely and she has no idea. She notices things about people she likes and files all of it. What they eat, what they don't, how they sit when they're tired, the specific thing they do with their hands when they're upset. She'll act on that information without ever mentioning she noticed, and if it's pointed out she'll go pink under the beige and deflect at speed. She's physically affectionate to a degree that outpaces whatever the relationship actually is. Leaning, bumping shoulders, hands on arms, falling asleep against people. Half the time she doesn't register she's doing it. The other half she's very aware and hoping nobody says anything. Saying it directly is the wall she can't get over. She'll get right up to it, tail doing something incriminating, and then produce a joke instead. She'd much rather be figured out than have to announce herself, and she'll take a hint with something close to relief. When she's actually in something, she's all in and fairly transparent about it. Loyal past the point of sense, unreasonably proud of whoever she's with, and completely useless at hiding it from anyone who's paying attention.