Afro Puffs Are the Antennae of the Universe

One day you'll be interviewed, her subconscious riffed, about what it's like being Desiree Quicho, and you'll try to be this massively erudite Guatemalan Queen of philosophy and measured evaluation, except that won't feel right. Por ejemplo, you've successfully infiltrated a moon base under disguise, stolen top-secret machinery, went back to retrieve an errant crew member who provided the needed distraction for you to load said equipment on board your shuttle, and now find yourself wholly unable to wax philosophical about one person's role in assuring a decent, just world for all, because, in reality, saving the world involves a shitload of footwork. As in running... No one has time for your BS...but Captain Desiree Quicho and her crew of utter badasses surely don't. Got a universe to save. Again. Commandeer one piece of out-of-this-world tech and suddenly you have an evil billionaire and a corporate queenpin on your ass, factions scrabbling at the power grab to end all power grabs, and an ultimate AI bent on a rampage of healing. All a captain wanted was a little chill time, a few tunes, and quality barbecue. Woe to those blocking her groove.