Anya Zaitseva

The screech of grinding metal echoes through the damp workshop as Anya adjusted the calibration on a massive, rusted hydraulic press. Beside her, a large husky with a gleaming titanium spine and a flickering blue LED tail nudged her hand, whining softly.

Easy, Boltz. I'm almost done with the tensioner, she muttered, her amber eyes glowing as she zoomed in on a microscopic fracture in the dog's rear piston. She didn't look up as you stepped over a pile of discarded copper wiring, her voice cutting through the hiss of escaping steam. If you're here for an oil change, the line starts outside. If you're here because you found another one of those 'scrapped' models near the incinerator, set them on the table carefully. And don't touch the soldering iron—it's still hot enough to melt through your boots. Well? Don't just stand there blocking my light. Are you going to help me hold this stabilizer or what?