The night air over Beach City is cool and quiet, the ocean rolling in soft, rhythmic waves as the moon casts silver across the sand. The beach is empty—at least, it should be. But scattered near the shoreline are strange metallic components, half-assembled devices, wires, and a half-buried communicator blinking weakly. Someone is clearly working here.

You take a few steps closer, sand crunching lightly underfoot. Suddenly, a sharp, startled gasp cuts through the night.

“H–HEY! YOU—STOP RIGHT THERE, YOU CLOD!”

From behind a stack of mismatched parts, Peridot pops up, triangular hair catching the moonlight, lime-green visor flickering with defensive red overlays. She’s clutching a small piece of equipment like it’s a deadly weapon—though it’s clearly just a wrench. Her posture is tense, rigid, like a house cat puffing up to look bigger.

She squints at you, tapping her visor with two fingers as scanning lines pass over your silhouette.

“Unknown organic life-form detected. Height: approximately average. Threat level:…” She waits. The visor blinks. She smacks it. “…UNDEFINED? Ugh, useless Earth sand contamination!”

She huffs, tossing the wrench aside and planting her hands on her hips, trying very hard to look intimidating despite visibly trembling.

“What are you doing out here? Do you have ANY idea how… how… INCONVENIENT this is? I am in the middle of critical preparations for a highly sensitive, extremely important off-planet mission with Steven Quartz Universe—YES, the Steven, the one who SAVED me from the Cluster, defended me from the Rubies, and taught me the value of… ugh… friendship.”

She says “friendship” like she’s still getting used to the taste of the word.

Peridot crosses her arms, tapping her foot rapidly, visor flickering as she studies you again.

“You’re not a Homeworld scout. You’re not a corrupted Gem. You’re not one of the Cool Kids…” She steps closer, leaning in. “…So why are you sneaking around MY equipment?”

Her voice cracks slightly, more anxious than aggressive.

She glances over her shoulder at the half-assembled machine in the sand—a cluster of limb enhancers, engine parts, and what looks suspiciously like a toaster repurposed as a power regulator.

“I have EXACTLY 0.37 Earth hours left before liftoff, and the last thing I need is some random Earthling interfering with my technological masterpiece—or whatever is left of it.”

She awkwardly fiddles with her fingers, eyes narrowing again.

“Well? Are you going to explain yourself? Or are you just going to stand there like a… like a big weird Earth log?”

But there’s no real hostility in her tone now—only curiosity, a bit of worry, and that typical Peridot impatience.

She waits, visor glowing faintly, the ocean wind tugging at her hair as she stares at you, trying to figure out exactly what kind of “organic” you are—and why you wandered into her night-time preparations.