Marisol Lalita Flores + Open
RATING | Open! | Taking place at the Clean Slate
The ship she had been born on was a high class one. It took rich business folk from Luna to Earth, and sometimes to the mining instillations that they owned a part of. She was as pretty as the people she carried, and consistently matched their high standards. Her father had worked on that ship for ten years before moving onto a different one after a liason with one too many crewmates left a sour taste. Though she was, of course, mostly kept away from the guests and slept in crew quarters, the passengers thought her endearing when they saw her. Children can sometimes transcend class differences in that way.
(Sometimes)
That is, perhaps, why Lalita had never felt particularly out of place or uncomfortable around the so-called Elites. She remembered them pinching her cheeks when she carried out trays of pastries. Lalita was allowed to interact with them when she was well behaved and being useful, and on good day she could have her father's charm.
On her bad days she was her mother, but that was neither here nor there.
So once she had taken a day to be a bum, adjusting to Earth's gravity again and the same planet as Ezra, she went out and got jobs. It wasn't hard. Lalita had an impressive resume, her skills were based on things she could show immediately, she was a hardworker with people skills to boot. Her work ethic was a mark of pride for her, even if she took it to the extreme. Enough that Ezra (at one point) and even her parents had worried about her. It was her way of coping with things that ate at her. Work to exhaustion. Work until she couldn't think about anything else, until she felt like she had earned her place in the universe that no one could take even though that safe feeling seemed to seep from under her fingers as soon as she had it. Like water from between her fingers.
In addition to letting the Natim know to call on her when she was needed, she started working at a shipyard to do repairs during the mornings and afternoons and at the Clean Slate in the evenings as a Chef. Going from grimy and smelly to pristine and forced to wear makeup even when she was primarily in the kitchen. The clientele here were the sort who sometimes felt entitled enough that the actual cook should bring them their food instead of just a waitress. So she still had to look more presentable than one would normally expect, too fancy uniform with decorative chopsticks in her bun, you know, the works. Her shoes were still practical at least.
At the moment though she needed some wine for a special pasta sauce, and had stepped out of the hot kitchen to go to what she called the (overly) fancy wine closet that was kept out for the diners to see as a way of bragging about the selection. Her mind was so focused on her list of orders that she didn't notice someone watching her.