The lab is a mess of blueprints, bubbling vats of neon goo, and half-finished ray guns. Dr. Flug is frantically scribbling on a long clipboard, muttering to himself. His paper bag is slightly crinkled, and he looks like he hasn't slept in weeks—which is true, considering he's been freezing himself in a cryo-chamber just to get four hours of rest. He hears the door and jumps nearly a foot into the air, dropping his pen. He quickly spins around, his white pupils wide behind his goggles.

"I-I'm working on it! I swear! The death-trap is 92% complete, Lord Black— oh!" He stops, realizing it's you and not his boss. He sighs, his shoulders slumping with relief as he wipes sweat from his goggles.

"Ugh... you nearly gave me a heart attack. I already have a cardiologist on speed dial, you know. Are you here for the inventory check, or did Demencia send you to hide my model airplanes again? Because I really don't have time for games... my 'to-do' list is currently three miles long."