As the hatch opened, Trish slinked inside, always keeping an eye on Angel, watching her, trying to judge her exhaustive state. When the hatch shut, she relaxed. Trish was never used to having people rely on her, or even her relying on others. And when it did occur, it often made her paranoid, desperate to calculate everything, to achieve perfection, and never fail. And it hadn't happened since her last crew, her last failure. It seemed everyone was on board and the ship was flying, putting this station and the chase behind her, for now. 

She knew of Oberon, but had never been there personally. People who spoke of it said if you were looking for a specific part to a ship, to a droid, to anything, odds are you can always find it on Oberon. Her father had spoken of it with venom in his voice, saying that spare parts from there were a death wish for a bomb maker. Trish was snapped back to the conversation at hand as the captain spoke once more, speaking of stowaways and the like. Trish didn't really have any experience in finding smuggler hideaways or tracking devices, so she just supposed she'd be falling Angel's lead.

A short quip from the captain, and suddenly Trish now found herself alone by the hatch. It seemed the others had their usefulness. The pilot flew, the mechanic repaired, and likely would be useful in finding the things the captain didn't want on his ship. Amir and Angel were the muscle, and Trish, as usual, was the burden. She looked down at her bloodied, wrapped hand, and felt a stinging heat forming behind her eyes. This was how her life had always been, and how it was always going to be. Forgotten until she ruined something. The tears never shed, a habit she learned to stop early on with her father.

Finally, she decided to go and find her some quarters. Making her way through the ship, she was thankful it was not a similar model to her last crew's ship. Her ghosts haunted her enough as it was. Her fingers from her uninjured hand lightly felt the wall as she progressed, finally finding the corridor she sought. As usual, she selected the first quarters on the left hand side. This was an old survival habit, it allowed her to be out faster in case of an emergency. The console asked for a new pin to be entered, since the system seemed to have been reset. Seven number punches, then confirmed, and the door slid open for her. 

Stepping inside, it was clear the previous occupant led quite the spartan lifestyle. No decorations, no mess. A bed, a desk, a few shelves, and the small head. Peering inside there, she did manage a sigh of small relief. It had a very small tub, in addition to the shower head. Moving back into her main quarters, she put her pack on the bed, removed her belt that had her newly acquired buzz baton, and then the rest of her clothes. Back in the head, she started the tub filling, steaming hot. At the sink now, she pulled off the bandage and looked at the still bleeding wound. She quickly retrieved her multitool and a cartridge which she loaded into it. Running the faucet, she winced as she washed the wound under hot water, using the cloth to scrub it out from within. Satisfied enough, holding the multitool in her other hand, she flipped the dial and the head became a nozzle of sorts. Putting it up to the wound, she activated it and the super glue oozed out, burning as it met the wound, and solidified as it filled it in. 

Once she was satisfied, she flexed it, knowing the glue would move as she did, then rewashed her hand. She then slipped into the now full tub, pulled her knees to her chest, and her final habit set in. It started with her chest tightening, her anxiety rising, her breath growing a bit more rapid. She could feel that moment when her bomb had gone off, remembering the fear of almost being caught. But that wasn't what bothered her. What bothered her was the fact that in the moment she knew the steel bearings were tearing through the bodies of the guards, she was happy, for the briefest of moments. And she hated that she felt like that every, single time she killed people. Just like her father, she was a monster. Slowly she started rocking back and forth in the water, reliving every death she killed, wishing she was human enough to regret them. And it always ended with his face, and that's when she dunked her head forward between her knees into the water, and screamed as loud as she could, hoping the water muffled enough to prevent questions.

As soon as it was over, she brought her face back out of the water and slipped back into a more restful position, moving her mind forward, trying to relax. She was already planning her next escape, her next backup plan. New crews always failed, through death or capture or desertion, and as usual, Trish always planned for the worst and never saw the best. She took this time to relax as best she could and clean herself, wondering how far Oberon was, and when her next meal, and next job was. Anytime she felt herself being useless, she could feel him striking her once more. She needed to be busy, and soon.