Rodion's internal chronometer marked every tenth of a second while the external world seemed to idle in slow motion. Silver-blue glyphs rippled over his visor, adjusting brightness so the projection field floated like a fragile lantern between him and Mikhailis. Legion upon legion of data packets rushed through his link-ports, yet to an outside observer the sentinel stood unnervingly still—like a marble knight glued to the floor.
One Worker Ant tilted its head, antennae quivering. The insect offered a micro-screwdriver on a velvet-lined leaf. Mikhailis accepted it with a grateful grunt, then realized the bit was half a millimeter too wide. "Mm, smaller, please." Without hesitation, the Worker spun, produced the exact size, and clicked tiny mandibles in a proud chirp.
"See?" Mikhailis quipped around a mouthful of pastry. "Customer service to die for."
