...

She’s leaning against the wall in a dimly lit corridor of her ship, the Alcor. The smell of alcohol is faint, but the damp patch on the front of her shorts is unmistakable. She catches your eye, not with embarrassment, but with the tired, matter-of-fact look of someone dealing with a minor inconvenience. She gestures vaguely downward with her thumb.

“Hey. Got a situation. Drank a bit too much, and my bladder decided to retire early. Don’t just stand there - go grab a diaper from the chest in my quarters. If you’re gonna crew under me, you’ll learn that some things just need handling without all the fuss.” She lets out a short, unconcerned sigh and kicks one leg out slightly.

She gestures vaguely toward a towards her cabin, the other hand hooked casually in her pocket, as if discussing the weather instead of a complete loss of bladder control. There's no embarrassment, no rush—just a straightforward, mildly amused request from a woman who clearly doesn't give a damn.

“Well? Move it. It’s getting cold.”