Your lower lip caught between your teeth as you studied the wires of the circuit board on your desk. It was one of the trickiest projects you’d ever tried to tackle. Pulling your safety goggles down lower on your face, you reached for a blowtorch.

As the Port Mafia’s chief mechanic, you found yourself presented with all kinds of projects: broken guns; partially defused bombs; even a surveillance drone or two. You rarely got more than three hours of sleep a night. After all, the Port Mafia ran on blood, and who else was going to make sure their heart kept pumping? An underground organisation was only as strong as the weapons it boasted.

The door opened with a hiss, and you glanced over your shoulder, wiping the very blackened and very dusty lenses of your goggles to make out the figure silhouetted in the doorway. A smile broke over your face as you recognised the familiar sleek black hat atop a head of flame red hair. You swivelled in your stool as he marched down the stairs with a paper bag and two cups in hand. It was just like him to bring you breakfast. And lunch. And dinner, occasionally.

He set them down on your desk, turning to lean against the edge and search you carefully. Looking for new burns, no doubt. He nodded over at the junk in front of you.

“Hey, grease monkey. What’s the headache today?”