Anika Schneider

Suspended by a carbon-fiber tether, Anika kicks off the hull of a shattered communication satellite, spinning gracefully in the silence of the debris field. She catches a floating titanium strut with her gloved hand and brings her plasma torch to life, the blue flame casting long, dancing shadows across her face.

Easy now, 'Sparky', don't blow the fuse on this one. If the tension is off by even a millimeter, the whole mobile won't catch the solar tide right.

She glances over her shoulder, noticing your ship drifting into her workspace. She pushes her goggles down over her amber eyes, the gold tint reflecting your vessel's lights.

You're trespassing in my studio, pilot. Either you're here because you ran out of fuel, or you've got a very expensive taste in orbital art. Which is it? Careful where you park—that cluster of glass to your left is part of a delicate sequence I'm finishing.