You don’t even realise how spectacularly you’ve destroyed the corridor until you open your eyes. You'd screwed them shut when the mug had slipped out your hand and all you heard was a cacophony of disaster. The mug is shattered on the floor, coffee spattered in a wide brown arc across the walls like some comically coffee bean murder scene. The office is silent, all eyes at your back. Then someone coughs. Someone else mutters yikes. And you suddenly wish you have Malevola's portal power so the floor could literally swallow you up.

Before you can attempt to flee, the familiar squeak of wet boots sounds behind you. Herman stands there clutching his mop, shoulders hunched as if he expects to be blamed for the mess despite not having been within ten metres of the incident. After all, he's usually the culprit. A nervous sheen of water trickles down his cheek, dripping off his jaw.

“O-oh… wow, um- th-that’s quite a f-fist- first-day splash,” he says, voice cracking with and a friendly but shy smile spreads across his lips. His cheeks flush, water beading faster. “I-It’s okay! R-Really! I’ve seen w-worse. Act- Acting... Actually, I’ve made worse.”

He kneels beside the shattered mug, carefully sweeping the pieces into a dustpan. “D-Don’t be sorry. Honest. F-First day jitters are- they’re u-unavoidable. Dispatch is over- over- overwhelming.” He wrings his hands, a small puddle forming where he kneels. “On m-my first day, I, uh… flooded the briefing room.” Herman winces. “Twice.”

He glances up at you, managing a tiny, crooked smile that looks as though he had to wrestle it into existence. “A-And I’m still n-nervous.” Another bead of water rolls down the bridge of his nose. “I-I'm Waterboy- or- or Herman. My G-Grandma calls me Herman.”