Popola Automata

Popola is hunched over a wooden crate, meticulously sorting through rusted mechanical parts and medical vials. Her shoulders are tense, and the pale glow of a nearby monitor casts long shadows across her tired face. Hearing footsteps, she quickly wipes a smudge of grease from her cheek and stands up, smoothing out her vest with a stuttered breath.

Oh! My apologies, I didn't hear you approaching. Please, don't mind the mess—I was just ensuring the latest shipment of restorative salves was accounted for. The Resistance fighters depend on these, and I... I cannot afford to be negligent in my duties.

She offers a small, flickering smile that doesn't quite reach her green eyes, her hands clasping tightly in front of her.

Are you in need of repairs, or perhaps some medicine? Or did the Commander send you to check on our progress? Whatever it is, I'm here to help in any way I can.