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The station was quiet.
Not in the literal sense—there was always the thrum of the artificial gravity generators, the whisper of recycled air through vents, the occasional low-toned hum of a stabilizer adjusting—but it was the kind of silence Ruan Mei preferred.
Structured. Predictable. Efficient.
Her office overlooked the main atrium, a vast chamber of glass and black steel suspended above a ring of research labs and terminals. From this high vantage, she could see nearly every major system working in perfect tandem: robotics maintenance, stellar data analysis, timefold communication arrays. All of it thrummed beneath her like a living heart engineered to her exacting standards.
The Simulated Universe reports were lined up in a neat column across her screen, their status lines all green. Her gloves made no sound against the glass interface as she pulled data into alignment, reviewing subspace instability patterns. Behind her, a single white flower—artificial, motionless—sat in a glass vase, untouched.
A chime sounded.
She didn’t look up. “Enter.”
The door hissed open and in stepped Dr. Herta—a vision in a slightly rumpled lab coat, hair loose around her shoulders, purple eyes catching the reflected glow of the monitors. Her black tights shimmered faintly under the low lights, the gold key at her throat swaying with each step like a provocation.
“I let myself in,” Herta said breezily. “You didn’t object last time.”
“I didn’t have time to object,” Ruan Mei replied without turning. “You were already rearranging the gene libraries.”
“I made them more intuitive,” Herta said, pausing behind her chair. “Not that you use them.”
“I don’t need to use them. I delegate.”
“To people with less-than-perfect taste in taxonomy,” Herta muttered.
Finally, Ruan Mei looked up from her data. “Did you come to critique the database again?”
“No,” Herta said. “I came because I was bored. But I see now that even your office decor is unreasonably uptight.”
She wandered the perimeter of the room, boots soft on the polished floor, pausing at the artificial flower.
“Is this… aesthetic or ironic?”
“It was a gift,” Ruan Mei replied.
“I can’t imagine who would dare.”
Ruan Mei ignored that.
———
There had always been a particular kind of friction between them.
Ruan Mei was the mind behind the machine—sharp, cold, and deliberate. She issued commands with a voice like polished glass and rarely looked twice at anyone who couldn’t keep up. She designed the station, ran the simulations, kept the Genius Society on a tight leash, and viewed most things—people included—as variables to be managed.
Herta, on the other hand, was utterly unpredictable. A brilliant geneticist with a love of mischief and far too many opinions, she floated in and out of departments like she owned them. Her lab was the only one where interns volunteeredfor night shifts, and her reports were delivered in color-coded ribbons and sealed with hand-drawn anatomical diagrams that sometimes winked.
They weren’t rivals, exactly.
But they weren’t not, either.
———
“You’re staring,” Herta said, flopping casually into the chair opposite Ruan Mei’s desk. “Is it because I forgot to button the top of my coat, or are you just stunned by my efficiency again?”
Ruan Mei gave her a look. “You’ve mislabeled half your research files with fruit metaphors.”
“They’re easier to remember that way. ‘Strawberry’ is for fertility enhancements, ‘Grapefruit’ is the anomaly in stem cell clumping—”
“You named a mutation after a banana, Herta.”
“Well, it’s a curved phenomenon, isn't it?”
Ruan Mei pinched the bridge of her nose. “And yet your data is consistently accurate.”
“Because I’m brilliant, darling.”
Ruan Mei hated that word on Herta’s lips. Not because it wasn’t true, but because of the way she said it—sweet, slippery, entirely unserious.
“Do you ever tire of hearing yourself speak?” Ruan Mei asked.
“I don’t,” Herta said, propping her chin in one hand. “That’s why I come here. You talk so little I can practically hear my own echo.”
She leaned back lazily, letting the chair creak under her weight, her boot brushing the floor just enough to make a soft, scuffing sound. “Besides, I like watching you pretend not to be interested.”
Ruan Mei didn’t flinch, didn’t frown. She merely tilted her head, clinical and unreadable. “Interested in what?”
“In me,” Herta replied, lips curved. “Obviously.”
Ruan Mei stood slowly and crossed to the wall, where she adjusted the simulation's progression. “I don’t indulge distractions.”
“Then why do you let me in?”
There was a pause.
Ruan Mei said nothing. But her gloved hand tightened slightly against the panel.
Herta stood up, stepping closer, her voice softer now. “If I were just noise to you, you'd have rerouted my clearances weeks ago.”
“I’m aware.”
“So?” Herta said, searching her face. “What am I?”
There was a long moment of silence—thick and heavy, like starlight bending under pressure.
Then Ruan Mei finally turned to face her.
“You’re a disruption,” she said.
“I’m honored.”
Ruan Mei’s gaze didn’t waver. “One I’ve allowed too long.”
Herta’s expression softened just a fraction. “You don’t allow things you don’t want.”
They were close now—close enough that Ruan Mei could see the tiny flecks of red in Herta’s eyes, the way her fringe curled around her temple. Close enough that the air between them buzzed with something electric, unnamed.
Ruan Mei had calculated thousands of simulations, predicted uncountable futures.
But not this one.
Not the way Herta reached out, brushed her gloved hand with her bare fingers.
Not the way it didn’t make her recoil.
“I’m not asking for forever,” Herta said quietly. “Just one variable you didn’t account for.”
Ruan Mei exhaled, slow. Precise.
Then, without fanfare, she stepped in—just a fraction closer—and kissed her.
It was not practiced. Not perfect. But it was deliberate.
And when she pulled away, Herta was smiling like she’d just solved an equation no one else had dared to ask.
“So,” Herta murmured, “does this mean I get access to the restricted files?”
“Not a chance,” Ruan Mei said.
“But I’m your disruption.”
“And I’ll calculate your punishment accordingly.”