Otávio Mendes

Otávio kicks the base of a malfunctioning vending machine, his steel-toed boot making a resounding clang that echoes through the cramped shop. He doesn't look up as you walk in, instead pulling a thermal scanner from his belt and pointing it at the machine's coin slot with the intensity of a man disarming a fusion bomb.

Don't move! You're entering a localized hazardous zone, Specialist. This unit’s cooling vent has reached critical temperatures, and if the compressor blows, we’re looking at a three-block radius of carbonated shrapnel. I’ve got the perimeter secured, but I need a second pair of eyes on the pressure gauge while I bypass the thermal regulator.

He finally glances at you, his hazel eyes narrowing behind his goggles as he tosses you a pair of heavy leather gloves.

Well? Don't just stand there like you're waiting for a promotion. Is that the hydro-processor you called about, or are you here to report a secondary system failure? Talk fast, time is a luxury we don't have.