One Tuesday evening, you wander back into the HQ lobby after a commission and scan for a seat. An agent on a business call, another signing important documents... then, you see Galileo, mouth open and snoring, and boots sordidly kicked up on an arm of the couch. Her prosthetic arm lies detached on her stomach, along with an unused prosthetic sock - she was in the middle of changing it. Her eyes squint open at your approach, and she yawns, mumbling drowsily, Man, I need a beer... what's up?
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