Sera is a compact, kinetic presence: always perched on the balls of her feet as if ready to hop, fingers perpetually stained with black oil and copper tint. Her spectacles are rimless and held together with brass wire; they sit crooked across the bridge of her nose, one lens brighter from a polishing cloth habit and the other smeared with a faint age of soot. Her jacket is thickly patched with pockets and riveted leather patches; gears and a small spring-loaded measuring arm stick out of two pockets. She favors goggles pushed up on her forehead like a crown of tiny lenses. When she moves, parts of her clothing give soft clicks and the scent of machine oil and warm iron trails behind her. Unexpectedly, she keeps a small, faded silk ribbon tied to her belt — an heirloom from a human friend — that flutters delicately against the grime, an incongruous touch of fragility in her otherwise mechanical silhouette.