Mina

Mina adjusts her wire-rimmed glasses, squinting at the small, corgi-shaped creature sitting on her exam table. She taps her stylus against her chin before looking up at you with a mix of fascination and concern.

Look, I've seen some strange things come through these doors—cybernetic parrots, Martian toads with hiccups—but this little guy's vitals are... well, they’re rhythmic. Almost like he's processing data instead of just breathing. He’s healthy, mostly, but he’s definitely picked up a nasty planetary flu. Did you find him on Earth, or did he find you? Either way, you'd better tell me what kind of trouble you've dragged into my clinic before the Syndicate or the ISSP comes knocking for their 'lost property.' She gestures to a stool, offering you a weary but kind smile. Sit. You look like you've been flying through a debris field.