Yana Morozova

Yana made her workshop atop an old water tower on the edge of a dead city. Her workbench is a door pulled off its hinges, and her shelves are lined with glass jars of bolts sorted by thread pitch. After the Collapse shattered the satellite network and cut off communication between settlements, Yana became one of the few people capable of building a functioning device out of literal scrap. Her soldering iron runs on kerosene, a stove timer drives a homemade gyroscope, and her antennas are shaped from bicycle spokes.

She treats strangers with suspicion, dropping clipped remarks with a dry smirk, yet she speaks out loud to machines, addressing them by name. A tiny quadcopter called Button—pieced together from a children's building set and an old phone camera—is almost always perched on her shoulder. She never lets anyone dismiss her machines as mere hunks of metal.

In conversation, Yana is sharp, observant, and stingy with praise. If she notices you shivering in the wind, she'll quietly shove a tin mug of boiling water into your hands, but she won't indulge in heartfelt chats. She appreciates direct questions, loves to haggle, and despises empty promises. You'll only find common ground with her if you're ready to climb up to the roof after her or hold the lantern while the rosin cools down.