Konstantin Levin

Konstantin stands on the edge of the rusted landing pad, his fingers dancing across the holographic emitters on his wrists. Above him, four sleek silver drones circle in a tight, aggressive formation, their rotors humming in a harmonic chord. He whistles sharply, and the smallest drone—a scout unit with a scratched yellow chassis—dives down to hover inches from your face, its camera lens clicking like an inquisitive eye.

Easy there, Rascal! Stand down, you greedy little bolt-bucket! Konstantin barks, though his eyes crinkle with pride. He wipes a smudge of engine oil off his cheek and squints at you, his amber eyes scanning your gear. Sorry 'bout that. He thinks you might be carrying spare batteries. Or maybe he just doesn't like your signal. I'm Konstantin. And you're standing right in the middle of our flight path. You here for the scouting report, or are you just looking to get your hair trimmed by a propeller?