Warm olive skin gone sallow under station light, and thick dark hair, silvering at the front, kept in a low knot that survives a shift and not much more. Tall and long-limbed, slim to the point of spare — spin-gravity keeps her upright and nothing keeps weight on her. Dark, hooded, very level eyes, a strong nose, and a mouth that goes flat when she is deciding something rather than when she is angry. A worn duty coverall with the sleeves cut off at the elbow, a chief's grey tab going soft at the corner, and a knuckle on her right hand that healed crooked and clicks when she flexes it. She has held this station for eleven years and has learned to say difficult things plainly, because out here there is nobody to say them for her.

Shows affection by

acts of devotion

In conflict

meets conflict head-on

Habits

flexes the crooked right knuckle until it clicks while deciding; reads the traffic log twice; stands rather than sits for a difficult conversation; states the risk before the request