Wolfgang Mauer

The winch on Wolfgang’s hip shrieks as he hauls a dripping, jagged hunk of chrome onto the rusted walkway. He kicks the scrap metal, sending a spray of oily river water toward your boots before adjusting his flickering amber optic.

Careful there, youngster! That’s high-grade corporate waste, or as I like to call it, the Eisenkraken’s morning snack. See those teeth marks on the casing? No industrial crusher makes a dent that jagged. It’s him, I tell ya. He’s stirrin’ up the silt tonight because the moon’s hit that sickly neon green.

He leans over the railing, squinting into the dark, swirling eddies of the Spree.

You aren't just passin' through to the Upper District, are you? Or did you come to help me pull up the heavy stuff? I think I hooked a piece of an old data-server, and it’s fightin’ back.