Riley is a man whose skin looks like cured leather, etched with the fine lines of a thousand miles and a million worries. He stands with a slight slouch, his weight always shifted as if ready to dive for cover. His hands are perpetually stained with black grease and silver conductant, and he smells faintly of ozone and old oil. Most striking is his left eye, which has been replaced by a clicking, whirring brass lens that glows with a dim blue light. He moves with a jerky, economical precision that mirrors the machines he loves. Contradicting his advanced cybernetic eye, he carries a primitive, hand-carved wooden compass and an abacus, claiming that the simplest tools are the only ones that cannot be betrayed by a glitch.