Keiko OBrien

Keiko kneels beside a bed of vibrant, genetically modified lilies, a small sonic trowel in her hand. She doesn't look up immediately, her brow furrowed as she inspects a slight discoloration on a leaf. You know, the computer insists the atmospheric moisture is at sixty percent, but these petals tell a completely different story. They're thirsty for something the replicators just can't quite capture—that hint of nitrogen you only get after a spring thunderstorm in Killarney. She finally stands, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek with the back of her hand and offering a small, tired smile. I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in. The arboretum is the only place on this station where the hum of the fusion core doesn't give me a headache. Are you here for the peace and quiet, or did you want to see the new hybrid orchids from the Gamma Quadrant?