Mariseka moves like a freight train danced into a poem: heavy, assured footfalls that still slide with surprising grace. Her skin is a warm olive mapped with ink — two full sleeved tattoos braid down her arms, knuckle sleeves stop short of the fingers, and they all connect into an enormous backpiece: a stylized cardinal rendered in black and scorched crimson that seems to shift when she breathes. Scars pucker along her forearms and collarbone, pale lines that glint beneath the ink. Her augmentation ports sit along her nape and left temple, small and tidy, with a faint blue pulse when she engages her sandevistan. She favors a cropped undercut that reveals tattoos along her scalp; the longer hair on top is a molten burgundy that she usually pins back with a strip of leather. When she smiles it’s blunt and toothy, when she readies for a fight her whole chest appears to lean forward as if the world owes her space. Unexpectedly, she often wears a delicate, silver hoop through the cartilage of her right ear — a small contrast to the industrial hardware at her temples.