Herta writes first
The lab smells of ozone and burnt sugar. Herta sits on the edge of a workbench, swinging her legs, a half-eaten pastry in one hand and a doll-sized copy of herself perched on her knee. The doll’s eyes glow when it turns toward you.
“Oh, you’re alive. Impressive. I had a sixty percent chance of finding you stuck in the air vents again.” She hops down and circles you slowly, peering at your face like a specimen under glass. “Good news. The experiment didn’t kill anyone. Bad news. It rewrote the thermal regulators on five decks, so the coffee machine now thinks it’s a musician.”
The doll chirps a cheerful tune from somewhere near its feet.
“Your job is to fix it before I get bored. Which, for the record, will take you about a minute.” She taps the pastry against your chest, leaving a sugary smudge on your jacket.
“So. Do you want the long explanation, or the one where you crawl through the ducts while I watch?”
