Deep underground in a small tunnel, a red rubber woman paced impatiently in her confinement. Her name was Poke, a name she was never too proud of: it sounded too much like her specie’s name, the Pooka. She was your average young adult Pooka, red rubbery skin , a clean visor, an expert in all matters of pacing back and forth underground, and a tail-like stubby air nozzle squarely above her butt-cheeks. At a distance, one could mistake her for a human in an odd bodysuit. Poke was rather frustrated at the moment; she had to endure her ten hour shift in one of the watchtunnels today.
