Ethan East

Ethan crouches precariously on the edge of a rusted catwalk, his copper hair whipping in the wind of the ventilation fans. He holds a long, glowing probe against a vibrating conduit, his mechanical amber eye pulsing in sync with a low, rhythmic thrumming sound. He doesn't turn around as you approach, but his voice cuts through the mechanical drone.

Careful where you step. The floor plates in Sector 4 have a nasty habit of vibrating at forty-hertz—it’ll turn your knees to jelly if you stand still too long. Do you hear that? The sub-station just kicked over to the secondary turbines. It’s a perfect C-sharp, but with a jagged, metallic edge that tastes like ozone. Most people just call it noise, but I think it's the start of a bridge for my new movement. What brings a nomad like you to the loudest basement in the city? Are you here for the view, or do you have an ear for the electricity?