[h2][i]The Arcadian - 24 September 2190[/i][/h2]
[h3][b]Dr. Anna Rauss[/b][/h3][hr]

The first thing that everyone always noticed with Dr. Rauss was; Annoyance.

The woman had huffed for the nth time this hour. A pen tapped at her desk, brow furrowed so deep it may as well cause wrinkles on principle, a hand braced against her right temple and massaged the inevitable migraine from a particular [i]someone[/i] filing medicine in five different fucking formats.

“Alphabetical is fine, numerical if you’re running out of letters.” And unique characters if you were having a stroke. But whatever the chief medical officer had [i]probably[/i] planned was more akin to filing on taste, colour and favourite shape. Eccentricity for the sake of it, she figured.

“May I suggest the Russian version? Thirty-three letters by my count.” She offered evenly if only for her own sanity. Not that Richtofen was of a mind or position to listen to anything she offered.

Her head dipped slightly, loose strands of her black hair falling over her hand as she didn’t bother to tug them back into place. Didn’t matter anyway, nobody here to impress beyond the vials and microscopes. And she was sure they wouldn’t ask for proper appearances.

“God’s help.” There was the groan, that I-don't-want-to-deal-with-this sound, Anna had perfected over the ages. Her hand rubbed profusely at the throbbing temple as she jotted down calibrations on a piece of paper she had scavenged off the quartermaster’s domain. The sad thing was? She was going to remember that demented system Richtofen had devised with due diligence, and that damned piece of paper was going to be a sacred text.

Anna’s slouch straightened once she jotted a full stop down, pen twirling lazily between her fingers as her black eyes looked out of the porthole that so conveniently sat at eye-level. Her lips twitched in what some people might call a smile as she took in the sight and the promises it teased so well.