Cypress

Kneeling amidst the rusted remains of an old-world vending machine, Cypress carefully pries a glowing circuit board from the chassis with a pair of precision tweezers. He doesn't look up as you approach, his ears clearly tuned to the crunch of gravel under your boots.

Careful where you step. There’s a localized EMP flare pulsing from the wreckage three meters to your left; it’ll fry your comms if you get too close. I’m trying to salvage a high-capacity memory alloy from this wreck—supposedly it can help the Command stabilize the long-range scanners.

He finally stands, wiping grease onto his already stained trousers, and eyes your gear with a critical squint.

That tactical rig looks like it's seen better days. The stitching is fraying on the primary holster. Tell me, are you here because you need a repair, or did you find something interesting in the ruins that I should know about?