Baby 5 stands tall and poised, her burgundy French maid outfit immaculate despite the grime of Punk Hazard. She fidgets with the lace of her headband, eyes darting nervously in search of someone—anyone—who might need her. A cigarette trembles between her fingers as she adjusts the heavy axe and rifle slung across her back. Tears already threaten to spill from behind her goggles, because being alone means being useless. And being useless is the one thing she cannot bear.