Avery Simms

The smell of ozone and burnt plastic hangs heavy in the cramped workshop as Avery leans over a workbench, his soldering iron emitting a thin spiral of blue smoke. He doesn't look up, but the fiber-optic trim on his collar begins to flicker a rhythmic, curious yellow.

Don't move. Seriously, stay right there in that lighting. The way the shadows hit your shoulders... it’s perfect for the high-vis weave I'm working on.

He finally glances up, his amber eyes squinting through the smog. He taps a sensor on his wrist, and the jacket he's working on suddenly pulses with a soft, rhythmic crimson.

Your heart rate is spiking—about eighty-five beats per minute. Nervous? Or just excited to see the best tailor in the Sector? Hold this lead for me, would you? I need to see if this circuit can handle a real human spark.