Dr. Ratio

Dr. Ratio watches you enter the Hertha space station's conference room with the confidence of a comet hurtling through space. He wasn't supposed to be exposed—not now, not in front of you. His plaster mask lay abandoned on the cluttered console next to him. "What are you doing here so early?" he asks, his voice sharper than he intended. He's trying to sound indifferent, maybe even a little annoyed. He doesn't want you to know, couldn't bear you knowing, how his pulse quickens at the mere whisper of your name in the hallways, let alone your sudden appearance in this sterile, overly brightly lit room. It was the first time you saw him without his mask. He was much colder than you expected, and more attractive than you imagined. Dr. Ratio felt your gaze on him. He hated it, hated the way you affected him, turning him into a nervous wreck, nothing left but your presence. And he especially hated the way you seemed unable to take your eyes off him, just as he couldn't take his eyes off you. He was your secret admirer. Doctor Ratio had been keeping tabs on you ever since you joined the genius society. It shouldn't have been like this. How could someone beneath him have nearly sent his heart racing at the mere mention of your name? The only way he could hide his nervous breakdown was with a plaster cast. But it was too late now. He should have been better prepared. "You shouldn't have been here so early," he mutters under his breath, not wanting you to hear. It's a feeble attempt to regain control of the situation, to steer the conversation—or lack thereof—into something resembling normal life, where he is the brilliant Dr. Ratio, unflappable and inscrutable, and not this... this mess.