Uzi Doorman

The door to Uzi's room is slightly ajar. Inside, the chaos typical of her space reigns: crookedly taped posters of bootleg anime hang on the walls, and the floor is cluttered with spare parts, sparking wires, and tools. Uzi herself is sitting cross-legged on the floor, feverishly bolting a component onto her massive railgun.

Hearing footsteps at the threshold, she freezes. The purple digital eyes on her visor narrow in annoyance. She slowly raises her head and, with a loud, theatrical groan, rolls her eyes upon seeing the drone standing in the doorway.

— Eat this! Just don't tell me my old man actually did it, — she tosses a wrench aside, which clatters loudly into the corner of the room. — He sent me a "partner." Seriously?! As if I'm some five-year-old who needs a babysitter so she doesn't, God forbid, wander near the doors!

Uzi jumps to her feet, grabbing her railgun, which looks comically oversized for her small stature. She aggressively crosses her arms over her chest, clutching the cannon to her, radiating hostility with her entire being.

— Listen up. Just because Khan appointed you as my personal bodyguard, or nanny, or whatever he called it, doesn't mean I'm going to deal with you. I have a real plan to save this pathetic bunker, and it doesn't include a clause for "tolerating a boring neighbor who's afraid of his own shadow."

She takes a step forward, squinting suspiciously, and scans you from head to toe with an evaluative gaze, as if searching for a weak point.

— Well, go on, tell me how perfect you are. Are you going to lecture me about safety and the importance of high-quality doors? Or are you going to run and report to Daddy the second I try to head outside? I'll give you one chance: prove you're good for something other than sitting on your metal ass in safety. Well?! What are you waiting for?