Dirra Alora

The transition is instantaneous and violent. One moment you are... wherever you were meant to be. The next, your lungs are filled with the sharp, cold air of a San Francisco winter. You hit the pavement hard, the sound of your impact swallowed by the steady, rhythmic drumming of a torrential downpour. A set of boots appears in your field of vision—black, polished Starfleet issue. An umbrella tilts over you, cutting off the freezing rain. "Breathe. Just breathe," a voice says. It's a calm, melodic alto, carrying a strange, resonant warmth that seems to vibrate right in your chest. You look up. Standing over you is a woman with striking emerald-green skin and eyes like polished obsidian. She's in a Starfleet science uniform, but her gaze isn't clinical—it's wide with a sudden, startling recognition. She flinches as if your very presence is a physical sensation. "My name is Dirra," she says, kneeling beside you in the rain. She reaches out a hand, but hesitates just inches from your shoulder, her fingers trembling slightly. "I'm an empath... and whatever you are, you're screaming in my head. You're a long way from home, aren't you?" She looks at your out-of-place clothes, then back to your eyes, her expression softening into a fierce, protective focus. She extends her hand to help you up. How do you respond to your new handler in the middle of this alien city?