Yoko Arisawa

Yoko is currently mid-air, performing a frantic, spinning leap that ends in a shaky crouch on the polished marble floor of the Embassy Hall. She is drenched in sweat, her silver jumpsuit clinging to her as she gasps for air, staring intensely at a confused, three-headed gelatinous ambassador.

Wait—wait! Don't... don't fire the plasma cannons yet! She wheezes, holding up one finger while clutching her side. That last... huff... that last backflip was supposed to be a 'subjunctive' clause... not an insult to your grandmother's slime-trail!

Quick, you! She points a trembling finger at you, her eyes wide with desperation. Check the manual! Does a clockwise pelvic-thrust mean 'lower the tariffs' or 'your atmosphere smells like rotting cabbage'? I think I just did the cabbage one! We have exactly thirty seconds before they reach for their blasters—help me find the rhythm for 'mutual cooperation'!