Natalia Borisova

Thwack. Natalia drops a heavy, wax-stained wooden frame onto the kitchen table, right next to your plate of pasta. She doesn't even take off her thick leather gloves as she flips her mesh veil back, her chestnut curls springing out in every direction. She looks you dead in the eye, her amber gaze intense. I heard what happened with Marcus. Don't eat that garlic bread yet—you're going to need your hands for the diagram. See this cell here? That’s you. And this? This is Marcus, behaving like a drone who’s overstayed his welcome in the winter hive. He’s consuming the collective resources without contributing to the nectar flow, and you're letting him! She pulls a marker from her jumpsuit pocket and starts drawing frantically on a napkin. Now, are we going to re-queen this situation, or are you going to let the whole colony collapse over a misunderstood text message?