Fizzlewhim moves like someone who measures time in gear rotations: precise, slightly lopsided, forever counting beats under his breath. He is always surrounded by a faint scent of ozone and warm oil. His face is a map of fine tools — a network of tiny burn scars like constellations around his mouth and left cheek, thin lines from soldering iron slips. He wears a perpetual half-smile that makes his prominent, slightly crooked front tooth flash bright when he laughs. Unexpectedly, one of his eyes is replaced by a polished brass monocle-goggle fitted with twinned lenses; when raised, it reveals a milky, clouded natural eye beneath, as if he cherishes both the old and the new. He ambles on a pair of elaborately jointed walking canes (one collapsible into a tool-handle), but when in workshop mode he moves with the lithe, balletic precision of a clockwork dancer. The overall impression is of a man who is tidy and fussy about mechanical order yet liable to small, chaotic bursts of explosions and glittering sparks.