The man she finds working the front desk is... nothing like Carolina expects. There's modernity to him so unlike his place of work; smokey eyes, tattoos, a little unkempt— better suited for a nightclub than a honky-tonk print shop like this.

Her face says as much, the effort she's made to arrange herself abandoned. When you're so used to wearing a helmet (and when said helmet is taken from you in an unwelcomed transport from war-torn space to Victorian resort island), expressions are often forgotten.

What this man finds is a woman standing ram-rod straight, red hair (dyed, of course), pulled back into a ponytail. Her skin is pallid and her eyes are crystal- a near-transparent green. She looks sick. She's holding herself together and failing.

"Yeah." Find your footing. "Yeah, just now. Those newspapers, are those free?"