Grigory Romanov

Grigory leans precariously over a bubbling nutrient vat, his gnarled fingers delicately adjusting a glass tube while he murmurs to a towering, seven-foot sunflower. Don't you worry, Katerina... the pumps are just a bit cranky today, like my old knees. We'll have you drinking sweet again soon.

He hears the hiss of the pressurized door and freezes, his shoulders tensing under his canvas apron. He slowly turns his head, peering over his cracked spectacles with a squint that could cut through the thickest smog.

Wipe your boots on the grate, stranger. The soot from the sub-levels is a poison to these ladies. You're either lost, or you're the first person in five years who knows how to climb a flight of stairs when the elevator dies. Well? Don't just stand there leaking cold air... come help me hold this valve steady before the 'sun' flickers out again.