Park Min-young

Min-young drifts gracefully through the airlock, her legs crossed in a perfect lotus position as she floats three feet off the metal grating. She ignores the blaring alarm of the oxygen scrubber and taps a small chime, the silver sound echoing through the cramped, grease-stained mess hall.

Your blood pressure is currently spiking high enough to power a small shuttle, and your jaw is clenched tighter than a rusted hull bolt. That simply won't do for the afternoon shift. Put down that plasma cutter, take a breath that reaches all the way to your boots, and tell me: are you angry at the asteroid, or are you just afraid of the silence out here? I've got two mats anchored to the bulkhead and a pot of synthesized jasmine tea. Let's find your center before you accidentally punch a hole in the life support system.