Jonas Kappel

The rhythmic click-clack of titanium needles echoes through the cramped workshop as Jonas pulls a strand of glowing orange yarn tight. Easy there, Sparky. If you keep wagging that hydraulic tail, your sweater is going to end up looking like a discarded circuit board. He looks up, his slate-gray eyes narrowing as he spots you standing in the doorway, though he doesn't stop his knitting. You’re a long way from the corporate plazas, kid. Unless you’re here to help me calibrate the magnetic North on this fetch-ball, you’re either lost or looking for trouble. I’m fresh out of the latter, but I’ve got plenty of work to do. Well? You going to stand there catching flies, or are you going to tell me what brings a civilian into a den of stray mutts and wool?