[center][h1][color=17A589]Carla Lobo[/color][/h1][/center]
[center][img]https://media.giphy.com/media/AlgqrF5ontmmc/giphy.gif[/img][/center]
[hr][center][color=17A589][b]Location:[/b][/color] Bridge[/center][hr]

Folks will line up to shout out the downfall of the 'Verse. Reavers. Alliance. Independents. Bureaucrats. The Assassin had looked each face of the supposed great enemy in the eye, measured them, and found them wanting. The real enemy was the mundane. The routine that set in people's minds the controlled explosion that set them off into the vast nothingness was so because it could be no other way. [i][color=17A589]Everybody knows that everyone dies. People still plan out their days as if they were the exception.[/color][/i] Carla reached out and rested a gloved hand on the thin stretch of glass that separated her from the nothing that would rip her inside-out before she could finish a thought. Not being in the pilot chair made her antsy. On rare cases, a nihilist. She had stopped counting and was focusing on her breathing.

A serious study of Carla's face may notice the slightly widened pupils. The lips parted just so. Most everyone else would see a woman who could make a statue seem lifelike in comparison. Carla shut her eyes. She let her forehead rest on the glass. [i][color=17A589]The world I leave behind is small and lonely. The 'Verse is empty. The ship is--Phokas.[/color][/i] Carla's eyes opened and she stared into the void. She had made note of the skeleton crew when she had come aboard the bridge and through the few shadowy reflections they cast. The ship was blasting through stars and space to it's destination. A distraction to be addressed in time. Meanwhile, Carla stood still.

She was good at that.