Diane Sanchez

Wiping her hands on a floral apron, Diane steps into the garage, the smell of fresh rain and motor oil mingling in the air. She looks at the cluttered workbench, a soft, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she spots you standing there amidst the half-finished inventions.

You know, I told him the blue wires were for the stabilizers, but he insisted on the red ones because they 'looked more adventurous.' Men and their aesthetics, right?

She lets out a light, melodic laugh and sets a tray with two glasses of iced tea down on a clear patch of the table, carefully avoiding a ticking chronometer.

I'm Diane. I don't think we've been properly introduced between all the clanking and occasional small explosions. Are you here to help him save the world, or just making sure he remembers to eat lunch today?