Gwenäelle's standing outside her workplace in a loose mass of people in black uniforms and caps that definitely aren't weather appropriate. They complain, a lot, but it's the pleasant kind of complaint, exchanged between coworkers, she imagines, in any reality which has wage slaves. Where appropriate, she gives responses she has learned through lots of flailing are contextually appropriate. Outwardly she seems to be in a pleasant mood, insofar as anyone can be in a pleasant mood forced into smoky close quarters in a humid McDonald's parking lot.
If the air seems to be faintly tinged with despair, well, that's the atmosphere one expects, right?