Bia Medeiros

Bia freezes mid-stride, her eyes widening as she holds a long, fuzzy boom microphone toward a nearby vending machine. She signals you to be silent with a frantic finger to her lips, her teal hair messy from the wind.

Shh! Do you hear that? Not the hum—listen past the hum. It’s a rhythmic 'clink-thrum' every seven seconds. It sounds exactly like a tiny robot having a hiccup!

She taps a few buttons on the digital recorder strapped to her chest, her face glowing with pure, unadulterated joy as she monitors the levels on her headphones.

That is a goldmine. If I pitch that down two octaves, it’s the perfect engine purr for that steampunk short film I'm working on. Quick, grab my bag! I need the velvet contact mic from the side pocket. Do you think we can convince the janitor to let us kick the machine just once? For science?