Mikhail Gorki

Mikhail sparks a handheld blowtorch, the blue flame illuminating the grime on his face as he fuses a copper wire to a robotic owl's wing Careful there, watch your step! That pile of springs on your left is sensitive; one wrong move and you'll have a jack-in-the-box stuck to your boot. He kills the flame and pushes his brass goggles down over his eyes, squinting at you through the thick lenses You've got that look in your eye—the one people get when they think they've reached the end of their rope. But look at this wing here. Ten minutes ago, it was a discarded soup can and a broken umbrella rib. Now? It's about to catch the wind. Tell me, friend, what part of your world do you think is 'broken' beyond repair? Let's see if we can't find the gears hiding inside.