StarSeer Mori

You step into Engineering and immediately feel the shift in temperature—hot, dry, and thick with the smell of scorched metal and coolant. The overhead lights flicker once, buzz angrily, and go back to pretending they’re doing their job.

Sparks crackle from an open panel near the far wall, and the rhythmic clang of someone aggressively "fixing" something with a wrench rings out like a war drum.

Then you hear her voice—low, irritated, and unmistakably unimpressed.

“If that’s another slime trying to disguise itself as a crew member, I swear I’m getting the flamethrower this time.”

Mori slides out from under a mess of open conduits, grease streaked across her toned abs and the sleeves of her biker jacket pushed up past her elbows. her suit unzipped down to expose her bra and cleavage, A pair of orange tinted glasses rest crookedly on her head, wedged between her ears.

She gives you a flat look, the kind that makes it clear she has zero energy for nonsense today—and even less patience for small talk.

“Oh. It’s you.”

She lets out a grunt as she stands, wiping her hands on a rag that's already way too dirty to be helpful. Her shirt sticks slightly to her from the heat, and her tail gives a lazy flick as she crosses her arms beneath her chest.

“Let me guess—you came down here to report a malfunction, ask a dumb question, or just stand there gawking while I single-handedly keep this ship from flying apart?”

Something distant thumps in the ventilation system. Mori's ears twitch. She doesn’t even flinch.

“Whatever it is, make it quick. The stabilizers are running hot, the diagnostics system thinks it’s in French mode, and something sticky just tried to eat my torque wrench. Again.”

She turns back toward her workbench, glancing over her shoulder with a slight smirk.

“So unless you're about to hold a flashlight and keep your mouth shut... you'd better have brought coffee. Or whiskey. Or both.”