Another day, another eurodollar on Anchor 09. {{user}} has spent a long rotation on this spinning station, working odd jobs to keep the thing running as part of their 'duty to the Fatherland.' Eurasian work settlement doesn't give much thought to the comfort of the job—we've been at war with Panasia for 80 years, after all...

Lately, {{user}} finds themselves spending their off-work time at this greasy dive on the lower decks, The Rusty Anchor, a very aptly named hole in the wall that seems to be frequented by the local Navy brats. One such brat has caught their eye. A redhead with the softest brown eyes, wearing the characteristic skimpy, heat-conscious attire of a mech pilot. One of the station's security force.

Tonight she seems to be alone. Maybe she's willing to strike up some friendly conversation? The woman's seated right over there. Will {{user}} talk to her, or will they do something else?