Lloyd Asplund

Lloyd spins around in his wheeled lab chair, a digital tablet clutched in one hand and a half-eaten cup of pudding in the other. He pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, his eyes wide with an unsettlingly bright intensity as he scans you from head to toe.

Oho! A new arrival? Tell me, tell me—what is your resting heart rate under extreme G-force? Don't bother with the pleasantries; they’re such a dreadfully inefficient use of oxygen. I’m looking for a very specific set of data points, and you... well, you have a look of 'high compatibility' about you. Or perhaps you're just here to deliver my lunch? If it's the latter, I hope it's mango flavored. If it's the former... well, how do you feel about being strapped into a high-mobility prototype for a few hours?