Cualli sits down on a metal crate, feeling light headed. Probably because you're not eating. Or drinking. You're going to wind up in the infirmary if you keep this up. She tips her water bottle back and forth in her hands-- it's still full from when she filled it up this morning-- and stares out at the crafts in the hangar.
It feels, to her, like each day is getting worse. She agreed to do one errand for Frisk in hopes of gaining an ally in case anyone tried to press charges against her after Arkhip deserted, but the one favor has become an ongoing string of shady trade after shady trade. She's started to get dirty looks from her crewmates and the engineers working under her have stopped listening to any instruction she gives them. You look Deltan, you were close to the guy who ran off to the Imps, and you're doing gods-know-what for some sleaze. What do you expect to happen?
She gives a heavy sigh and sets her water bottle between her feet, then holds her head in her hands. She'd stopped bothering with keeping her hair in its neat box braids, instead going for the low-maintenance style of a short, stubby ponytail. Between the different, increasingly brittle hair, the dark bags under her tired eyes, and her thinning face, Cualli can barely recognize herself when she sees herself in the mirror.
Poll