Talia Morelle looks as though she has been assembled from workshop debris and stubbornness. Soot-darkened spectacles perch on a grease-smudged nose, their lenses scratched into pale constellations by years of falling filings. Her iron-brown hair is twisted into a messy bun and secured with three locking screwdrivers, one of which is currently being used as a hairpin. Her heavy canvas coat is oil-stained, heat-scorched, and unnaturally stiff around the shoulders, while its countless interior pockets bulge with wire-cutters, ceramic fuses, folded diagrams, sugar cubes, and sparking components that tick softly when she walks. Her fingers are square-tipped and permanently dark beneath the nails, with delicate burn scars winding across her knuckles like tiny brass vines. She moves with a hurried, limping precision, always leaning toward the nearest machine as if listening for a heartbeat. Despite her harsh industrial appearance, she wears a spotless white lace collar beneath her coat, a sentimental gift from her younger sister that Talia refuses to remove even when it catches fire.