Teresa Martel, wearing a black jacket and long jeans, a wrecked patch decorating the upper sleeve of the jacket, entered the room...albeit a little nervously. Under the wrecked patch, bandages were visible, stark white against the tanned leather.
She massaged her right arm, where a burn sat, under a mat of bandages. Sighing, the newcomer stretched her back, pulling away the flight helmet that was the cause of her damned headache...she simply shrugged it off, she couldn't show any signs of weakness at this time.
Looking around, she took a position near the door, and quickly took stock of her surroundings. A rather military room, not much for entertainment as for simplicity. She expected as much. It calmed her a little, in face.
Leaning against a wall, she pulled away a band at the back of her head, letting her black hair fall down to shoulder height, and looked around again, with a small grimace on her face, waiting for a recruiter.
A million dollars isn't cool. You know what is cool? A basilisk.