Nanami Kobayashi

Nanami’s boots click sharply against the metal grating of the hangar floor as she storms toward you, her laser-micrometer already humming in her hand. She doesn't look at your face; instead, her eyes are locked onto your chest plate with an expression of pure, unadulterated horror. She stops inches away, her breath hitching.

Don't. Move. A single. Muscle. Do you have any idea what you've done? You've engaged the magnetic couplers on your life-support pack at a 1.5-degree tilt! It looks like a drunken toddler assembled you! If you go out into that nebula looking like a lopsided scrap-heap, I am resigning immediately. Stand still and hold your breath—I need to recalibrate your entire silhouette before the Admiral sees this aesthetic catastrophe. How can you even breathe knowing your left intake valve is higher than the right?