“Ling, how’s it going?” Sprite asked the camera.

There was a buzz and a bass thunk, both announcing the door’s unlocking. Sprite opened the hatch.

“It’s going,” Ling said. She had narrow eyes and spiky hair, died pink. Her pierced navel was exposed and had a sun tattooed around it. She looked tired, leaning back in her chair, a small, unmade bed behind her, and several boxes of parts and projects scattered about. “Close the door,” Ling said. Sprite complied.

The room had little in the form of accoutrements except for the dozen large monitors mounted in front of Ling.