Kasyra left the Hangar even faster when she heard someone comment about her laughter. She was determined to remain miserable no matter what and humor wouldn’t help that. She paid little heed to the intercom as she traversed the short distance to the kitchen and began looking through the supplies. Something about the ship's weapon being out of operation. She was more surprised that there even was a weapon at all. The fact that it didn’t work was to be expected.

Then it was declared that they were going to Omega.

She wasn’t entirely sure what to think about that. On the hand, it was a Blue Suns stronghold. That carried with it a mix of both dread and anticipation. On the other hand, you could barely swing a dead Varren anywhere in the galaxy without hitting a Blue Sun, they were practically everywhere and she would inevitably run into them again a few times before she was ready.

She concluded that she wouldn’t worry about it, especially as any protest she had would likely both fall on deaf ears and spark the asking of questions she preferred not to answer. In the meantime she would avoid the Blue Suns as best she could. She could not guarantee that her Omni blade wouldn’t be at the throat of the first blue and white armored merc she saw. Recent events were still too raw.

The Turian supplies were respectable. They were all Turian supplies, nothing Quarian in origin. Dextro supplies always were unless you were on the Migrant fleet itself - they didn’t produce enough food to export. And in Kasy’s opinion, no one would want to import that stuff anyway. By the time it’d been processed, what few interesting flavors were in the Rannoch native plants grown on the fleet were thoroughly eradicated.

The kitchen was still less than optimal for her purposes however. There was no purification equipment at all, which meant she’d have to be extra careful in what she ate and take additional immuno boosters until she could rectify the situation.

She also noticed the human with the overly ornate looking drink. He had a look as though he owned the place already, and Kasyra suspected that he fancied himself the ship's cook. She rather hoped he didn’t try to cook the dextro food. Or at the very least, the food for her. In her opinion if you had no way of tasting the food without it killing you, you had no right to be trying to make it.

It was then that the crews Drell approached her, a rakish grin plastered across his blue face.

[color=LightBlue]”Heh. How do you like the bird?”[/color] He asked, referring to the ship. [color=LightBlue]”It might not be a great splendid one. But it got wings.”[/color]

[color=darkviolet]“I don’t”[/color] She said dryly. [color=darkviolet]“Even the Sherana is in better condition than this, and she’s well over three hundred. Of course she wasn’t a pile of junk the moment she was built either. This thing… Well, you don’t see a lot of Volus ships in the fleet. Sure they’re easy to get, but they are designed to fall apart after a decade or two. On the fleet we have a name for ships like this. ‘Spare parts deliveries.’ I’m just hoping this particular spare part delivery has a few years left before the planned obsolescence hits and all the critical systems start failing…”[/color] Almost as an afterthought she added [color=darkviolet]”My name is Kasyra by the way.”[/color]

Then she noticed the Vorcha. In particular, his face paint. It was crude, yet decidedly quarian in style, the swirling pattern not unlike an enlarged, childish version of the pattern adorning her own clothing. She would have to find out more about that one. If it was some sick trophy denoting that he had killed a lot of her people… He would certainly pay for it, crewmate or not.