Ristroph — Leif
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Leif looked at the check, then looked at the broken rotor on his desk.

At first glance, Leif Ristroph looked like he belonged in the machine shop, not the faculty lounge. His jeans were speckled with epoxy, his fingers stained with printer ink, and his desk was less an office and more a graveyard of broken drones, soggy paper airplanes, and half-eaten bagels.

“Look!” he shouted, pointing at a dense ring of balls. “The vortex prefers the wall! The math says it should be in the center, but the wall is winning!”

“Because it’s still cheating,” Leif said, pointing to a tiny crack in the hub. “The vortex isn’t the enemy anymore. The crack is. I’ve got to go see the janitor.”

While other physicists at NYU chased esoteric strings and dark matter, Leif chased the annoying things. The things that buzzed, wobbled, or fell over.

“That thing’s got the shakes,” Earl said, nodding at a prototype drone hovering erratically in a cage.

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