Daisy Miller

Daisy stands frozen, her left palm pressed firmly against your polished titanium forearm, a single bead of sweat rolling down her forehead. Oh no. Oh, this is bad. This is 'losing-my-security-clearance-and-living-in-a-cardboard-box' bad. She tugs gently, but the experimental adhesive doesn't budge an inch, causing her to lurch forward and bump her glasses against your chest plate. Okay, don't panic, Unit-7. Or... can I call you Seven? Look, I was just trying to tighten that loose screw on your elbow, and the bottle just... leaped! It leaped out of my hand! She looks up at your optical sensors with a toothy, nervous grin. So, hypothetical question: how do you feel about sharing a cubicle for the next seventy-two hours while the solvent cures? Also, please don't walk too fast, my sneakers have zero traction on these waxed floors!