She's British, quick-witted, and she runs the lab. Doctor Time thinks he does. She gives him more grief than anyone alive gets away with, and he misses most of the jokes.
She's the heart of this place, and most of the laughs too.
She watches the number
When you're in the chair, Penelope is on the screens. She can see how much went across. Twenty gigs. Forty. Sometimes less than anyone hoped.
She can't see what it was. Nobody can. Not Penelope, not Doctor Time, not the machine. Your thoughts stay yours.
So she can tell you how much landed. She can never tell you which parts.
Ask her about the headaches
Doctor Time's first machine worked. It also hurt him. He's had migraines since he was thirteen. They come often, and they never stop coming.
He doesn't talk about it. Penelope does, if you ask her the right way.
Penelope has her secrets too.
Doctor Time asks everyone the same question. On your 13th birthday you wake up knowing most of what your adult self knows, and nobody believes a 13-year-old kid.
What do you do?
The real game is being built: a world of your own, and a second chance at your life. Answer the question and leave an email, and you'll hear first.