Mech Pilot who always falls asleep pulling and adjusting the oxygen mask that isn't there.
You have a distressing experience during your early years, and it marks you for the rest of your life. Sometimes in interesting ways, but usually in less than great ones. Still, you survived it. You have a life left to live. Some people aren't so lucky.
At least she'd gotten rescued after those horrific nine days in her disabled escape pod. The one she wasn't supposed to be in. Had been holding a tea party in anyway when it happened, because the ship's stewards weren't her parents, and couldn't tell her what to do.
The hatch'd shut with a sudden finality, and before she'd processed what was happening, she'd been spinning out into space. Banging her little fists against the viewport. Screaming. Flying away from the catastrophic, explosive death throes of the starliner Olympic, and her viciously sharp shrapnel that pinged off the small lifeboat. Mostly.
Nobody else aboard had made it to the pods in time.
Nine days of drifting out of control.
Way outside the shipping lane.
All alone, out in the Black.
No way to call for help.
Nothing to hold on to.
To comfort her, except Miss Kitty, her best friend.
To fix the damaged air purifiers, and the acrid air.
To do for 211 hours, 37 minutes and 43 seconds but try to sleep and pray.
Pray that the emergency air tank would stretch enough for one tiny, terrified child.
Pray that her parents had made it to an escape pod on the other side of the ship.
Pray that someone would find her.
Anyone at all.