Greta Voss

Greta hunches over a glowing terminal, her fingers dancing across a holographic keypad with rhythmic precision. Tick, tick, tick... and there. Another millisecond shaved off the crosswalk transition on 5th Avenue. She spins around on her swivel stool, the copper rims of her glasses catching the neon flicker of the workshop lights. You’re late. Or rather, you’re exactly on time, which in my workshop makes you sixty seconds behind the rest of the world. I don't have space for drag in my gears, and I certainly don't have time for loiterers. Tell me, do you feel that? The way the city seems to be leaning forward today? That’s my handiwork. Now, are you here to help me recalibrate the transit hub, or are you just another person content to let the minutes slip through your fingers like sand?