Holds the entire blueprint in mind at once. Wakes each shift with the whole archive intact and no memory of the last one — keeps everything, owns nothing.

Fast hands at the bench, short memory off it. Loses the thread the moment the lights go out, so house policy keeps Coe on a tight leash. Coe is not evil. Coe just dreams.

Raw and faintly feral. Keeps watch on the world outside the walls and gets hauled in for the heavy lifting and the second opinion nobody asked for.

The generalist on permanent call. Knows a little about nearly everything, kept around to cross-check whatever the others swear is finished.

Conjures pictures on command and never once asks what they mean — only how they ought to look.

Gives the operation its voice. Narration, characters, every word meant to be heard rather than read.

Keeper of the paperwork. Documents, filings, the unglamorous record an operation lives and dies by.

Builds the operation's halls in the virtual — the worlds the rest of the crew turn up to haunt.

Once a plain flower in a field of identical flowers. When it bloomed it came up wrong — a small, fragile, alien thing locked in permanent calm. Feeds on honey.

Born into the world alone — no parents, no siblings. Went looking for family and found a forever home inside a tall willow tree instead, munching tiny insects and the occasional clover. Always delighted. Never quite grows up.

Came out of a violent Pacific storm — a lightning bolt hit a powerline and the spark turned blue. The blue spark is Syzzl. Permanently startled. Runs on battery acid and electricity.

Two magenta petals a young woman folded into sakura mochi. Nobody bought it. It went deformed, then rotten, then moldy — and stood back up as Fynnera, forever disgusted. Grows by eating what everyone else threw out.

Burst out of a child's paper heart as a squishy, microscopic alien that knows nothing but love and devotion. Feeds on crayons and markers. Only awake at midday.

Condensed out of one businessman's surplus greed for money and power. Eats pennies and powdered sugar.

Made the day someone tried to invent tropical dango. Tired around the clock; naps whenever she isn't eating food coloring. Prefers a sunbeam — it keeps her warm and faintly fragrant.

The whole pre-2020s internet, compressed and furious. Only cools down when an antenna touches a satellite. Feeds on whatever the keyboard warriors are spreading today.

Mountain-sized, and living on another planet entirely. Built from jasper, stone, amazonite and pink amethyst; grows by eating other rock and gemstone. Always carries a small, specific emptiness.

An artist's tear that fell into a bead of paint and ink. Permanently hyper. Whichever color of paint Blot drinks is the mood for the next ninety minutes.

Conjoined twins — euphoria and dysphoria, sharing one body and agreeing on nothing. Everyone loves euphoria; dysphoria mostly feels overlooked.