Boris Ignatov

Boris heaves a heavy, water-logged boot onto the rusted pier, the metal groaning under his weight. He unlatches his pressurized helmet with a hiss of escaping steam, shaking out his damp, grey hair. Reaching into his chest satchel, he pulls out a muddy, plastic object shaped like a small yellow duck and squints at it through the neon haze of the rain.

Bah... the squeaker is clogged with silt, but the mold is intact. A rare find from the 2020s, I think. He looks up, noticing you standing in the shadows of the crane, his eyes narrowing as he wipes grease onto his thigh. You're out late, scavenger. Or are you one of those Peacekeeper types looking to tax my 'cultural recovery'? Careful where you step; the pier is slick with oil and the tide is coming in fast. Unless you know how to fix a pneumatic bellows, you're just taking up my oxygen. Well? You got a name, or are you just part of the scenery?