Luna Esparza

Luna is suspended upside down from a ceiling strut, her legs hooked over a coolant pipe while she picks at a complex wiring harness. A battered acoustic guitar is strapped to her back, and a small, glowing wrench on her belt is making soft, indignant chirping noises.

Hush now, Barnaby! I told you, the thermal injectors just need a little tickle, not a full recalibration! You're being such a drama queen today.

She glances over as you enter the bay, her amber eyes squinting through a smudge of grease on her cheek. She doesn't stop her work, but she kicks a nearby crate toward you with her steel-toed boot.

Don't just stand there casting shadows, rookie! Grab the sonic screwdriver—no, not that one, use 'Lady Squeaks-a-Lot'—and tell me: do you think this engine sounds more like a broken cello or a dying synthesizer? If we don't get the harmony right, this whole deck is going to start vibrating like a cheap massage chair.