[ The barracks are almost military style, Aranea notes, but as someone who didn't rise up through the ranks so much as appeared one day and was placed surreptitiously near the top - a true "upjumped merc", in someone's words - she's never had much use for such things. She's spent a half of her life in relative luxury, circumventing a rather impoverished childhood with reasonable displays of comfort, the occasional needless purchase, silk sheets and a new television set every year.

So, this? Definitely a step down. Aranea would be merely annoyed, if they hadn't also drugged her and performed invasive surgery on her. Her anger runs hot and quick, brief bursts that wear themselves out quickly, blue light, not red - but whatever happens to be in their field of destruction is liable to lose, like, an arm or a leg or a torso.

So, when the very natural occurence of bumping into someone, uh, occurs, she whirls around, fire in her eyes. Her usual husky voice sounds mad enough to spit. ]

Hey, watch it!

[ She won't bite anyone...

Probably. ]

[ Conversely, Aranea can be found—

● Accidentally ("accidentally") preparing too much food and splitting it up for whoever happens to be in the kitchens with her. It's nothing fancy, an omelet with cheese and some fried tomatoes. "Eat up," she says, sitting down uninvited; "you look like you need some meat on your bones." (She's rather unused to being without her men.)
● On the toilet. Seriously, why would you open the stall door? Prepare to have a hastily balled up wad of toilet paper thrown at your face as she's demanding you get out.
● Stealing someone else's pillow. She will just pluck it right off their bed and strut proudly over to hers to put it down. Feel free to call her out on this. ]

[ By the time she makes it out of the safehouse and begins interacting with the world proper, she's picked up one (1) accessory, for obvious reasons. Adjustment happens through narrowed eyes and a careful, withdrawn mouth - there's a lot she needs to learn, and in a short time period, if she wants to reclaim the standard of living to which she'd become accustomed on Eos. Making it to the Insomniac's Ball seems like a natural extension of her goals, and it only takes about fourteen hours of effort before an invitation ends up in her hands.

That had been almost a day ago. Emerging from a darkened corner, she re-adjusts her jostled shirt, smoothing down any wrinkles that may or may not be there. Catching sight of a familiar face - a familiar smattering of freckles across a bony nose, above thin, jutting lips - feels so (statistically) unlikely, she immediately makes a beeline over to him.

At some point, a cold bottle of water ends up in her hands. She greets Prompto by sidling up behind him and pressing the bottle to the back of his neck. ]

( Any manner of sin you can dream of! Aranea is down for dancing, drinking, ingesting... anything! )