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With a warm smile of approval, Cerenise tapped out the names and dates on her keyboard.  So refreshing when people were original when naming the fruit of their loins, she thought.  Some of the family trees she’d done for friends and clients had been a veritable cesspit of endlessly repeated Johns and Marys, Williams and Elizabeths.  Despite suppressing a shudder when introduced to a modern human named River or Sky, or worse, the ridiculously creative spelling of a common name, some of the older examples of unusual names she found quite delightful. Especially, it had to be said, French ones.

Pierre Wenceslas Varlet born on the 28th of  September, 1824  in Clenleu, Pas-de-Calais, brother of Austreberthe Varlet, born two years previously on the 8th of June.  Wenceslas!   What would you call Wenceslas for short? she mused. Wence?

“An ’twere not as good a deed as drink to turn true man and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth”.

A cautious knock at the door interrupted Cerenise’s mental meanderings.

“Enter,” she called, and Laddie Bentry sidled in looking sheepish.

“Ah, it’s you, the veriest varlet of number 26. Well, what is it?  You look as though you accidentally dropped Helier’s trashy novel in the water butt.”

Taken aback by Cernice’s perspicacity, Laddie recoiled slightly and then squared his shoulders. “How did you know?” he asked.

“Oh just a lucky guess,” Cerenise replied breezily, tapping the side of her nose. “I suppose you want me to order you another copy from Amaflob before he notices?  I’ll arrange for an express delivery. Keep an eye out for the delivery man”

Waving away his thanks, she picked up the old document on her desk that Yvoise had kindly provided, albeit reluctantly, and squinted at it. She could make out the name Austreberthe, but what did the rest say?

Cerenise dozed off, dreaming of the Folies Bergere. The atmosphere was exciting and convivial at first, escalating into an eruption of approval when the new act came on the stage. Cerenise felt the energy of the crowd but her attention was drawn to the flamboyant figure of a man dressed as one of the three kings of the Magi, and he was making his way over to her. Why, it was Lazuli Galore! What on earth was he doing here? And who was that dumpy overly made up woman in the blue dress, Godfreda, who had tagged along with them?

Another knock on the door wakened her and she called out “Come in!” in an irritable tone. She’d been having such fun in the dream.  “Oh it’s you, oh good, the book has arrived.”

Laddie shifted his feet and replied, “Well yes, a Liz Tattler novel has arrived.”

“Oh, good, well be off with you then so I can get on with my work.”

“But it’s not The Vampires of Varna.  It’s The Valedictorian Vampires of Valley View High.”

“Jolly good, I expect you’ll enjoy it,”  Cerenise said, picking up the old document again and peering at it.  Perceiving that Laddie had not yet exited the room, she looked up.  “Helier won’t notice, those books are all the same. Now get off with you.”

A cinematic, low-angle shot inside a flooded, ancient brick sewer tunnel that looks like a mix of Roman catacombs and Victorian industrial plumbing. The water is dark and murky, reflecting the light of a flickering lantern.

In the center of the frame, floating precariously, is a bright yellow, cheap inflatable dinghy.

Inside the dinghy are two men:

1. Spirius: An elderly man with a nervous expression, wearing a high-vis vest over ancient saintly robes. He is clutching an antique musket that is clearly too heavy for him. A faint, golden neon halo flickers erratically behind his head like a faulty streetlamp.

2. Boothroyd: A grumpy, weather-beaten gardener in a tweed cap. He looks completely resigned to his fate, lazily paddling with a plastic oar in one hand and holding a sharp garden spear in the other.

Action: The dinghy squeaks as it bumps against the wet brick walls. Spirius jumps at a drip of water falling from the ceiling. Something large ripples the water in the foreground—a menacing shadow moving beneath the surface.

Atmosphere:

• Lighting: Chiaroscuro—deep shadows and warm lantern light, contrasting with the synthetic yellow of the boat.

• Mood: Tense but ridiculous. High-stakes fantasy meets low-budget reality.

Movement:

• The camera tracks slowly backward as the boat drifts forward.

• The water ripples ominously.

• Spirius’s halo buzzes and dims when he gets scared.

As soon as Boothroyd had gone, Laddie Bentry, the under gardener, emerged from behind the Dicksonia squarrosa that was planted in a rare French Majolica Onnaing dragon eagle pot.  The pot, and in particular the tree fern residing within it, were Laddie’s favourite specimen, reminding him of his homeland far away.

Keeping a cautious eye on the the door leading into the house, Laddie hurried over to the cast iron planter and retrieved the Liz Tattler novel hidden underneath.  Quickly he tucked in into the inside pocket of his shabby tweed jacket and hastened to the door leading to the garden. Holding on to his cap, for the wind was cold and gusty, he ran to the old stable and darted inside.  Laddie reckoned he had an hour or two free without Boothroyd hovering over him, and he settled himself on a heap of old sacks.

The Vampire Hoarders of Varna.  It wasn’t the first time Laddie had seen Boothroyd surreptitiously reading Helier’s books, and it had piqued his curiosity.  What was it the old fart found so interesting about Helier’s novels? The library was full of books, if he wanted to read. Not bothering to read the preface, and not having time to start on page one, Laddie Bentry flicked through the book, pausing to read random passages.

….the carriage rattled and lurched headlong through the valley, jostling the three occupants unmercifully. “I’ll have the guts of that coachman for garters! The devil take him!” Galfrey exclaimed, after bouncing his head off the door frame of the compartment. 

“Is it bleeding?” asked Triviella, inadvertently licking her lips and she inspected his forehead. 

“The devil take you too, for your impertinence,” Galfrey scowled and shook her off, his irritation enhanced by his alarm at the situation they found themselves in.

Ignoring his uncharacteristic bad humour, Triviella snuggled close and and stroked his manly thigh, clad in crimson silk breeches.  “Just think about the banquet later,” she purred. 

Jacobino, austere and taciturn, on the opposite seat, who had thus far been studiously ignoring both of them, heard the mention of the banquet and smiled for the first time since…

Laddie opened the book to another passage.

“……1631, just before the siege of Gloucester, and what a feast it was!  It was hard to imagine a time when we’d feasted so well. Such rich and easy pickings and such a delightful cocktail.  One can never really predict a perfect cocktail of blood types at a party, and centuries pass between particularly memorable ones. Another is long overdue, and one would hate to miss it,” Jacobino explained to the innocent and trusting young dairy maid, who was in awe that the handsome young gentleman was talking to her at all, yet understood very little of his dialogue.

“Which is why,” Jacobino implored, taking hold of her small calloused hands, “You must come with me to the banquet tonight.” 

Little did she know that her soft rosy throat was on the menu…..

“Quite fitting that I should get her sleeves,” Cerenise said with satisfaction. “And what a relief that she left the wolf to you, Spirius. I’d not have been able to manage a wolf.”  Cerenise popped another cashew nut into her mouth.

Spirius looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “My guess is you’d have managed just fine,” he replied drily. He’d heard all the noise she made behind those locked doors.  He’d seen her prancing around the orchard in the moonlight when she thought nobody was watching, naked as the day she was born all those centuries ago. He hadn’t lingered at the window, but he had put two and two together years ago, many years ago, just after the seige of Gloucester.   If truth be told, Cerenise’s  secret was known to them all, but they hadn’t interfered with her delusion.

“There’s going to come a point, and very soon, when we will have to deal with the water leak, you know,” Yvoise interrupted the inconsequential chatter.  “Holy and healing as it may be, it will be the ruin of my collection if it reaches the upper floors.”

“And what do you propose?” asked Helier.

“I suggest we call a plumber!” snapped Yvoise. “This is the 21st century is it not? I know tradesmen are in short supply, and I know this isn’t an ordinary leak, but we should start with the obvious, and then adapt accordingly.”

“I must bottle as much of the holy water as possible before we stop the leak,” Spirius said, standing up abruptly in agitation.

Helier put a calming hand on the old boy’s shoulder. “There’s no rush, Spirius, there’s plenty of water in the cellars, it’s already waist deep down there.”

“And the saints only know what has floated into the cellars by now from the tunnels.  Be careful down there, Spirius.   Take Boothroyd the gardener with you,” Yvoise advised.

Yvoise gaze was transfixed on the brittle yellow document held reverently in the old barristers hands. Her eyes widened when she saw the pile of similar written sheets on the desk. I simply must have them, she thought, I simply must. What an addition to my collection of written records!  Unique document, absolutely unique. Listen to old Bart, she admonished herself, and with an effort she focused on the old barristers reading of the will.

Cerenise had noticed Yvoise practically drooling over the written paper type matter, and suppressed a grin (in consideration of the occasion), and smiled fondly at the saint she’d known for so very long. Such a confident capable character, despite her private mysteries. As saints go, she’s been a good one really.  And as the holy mother of all saints surely knows, the organisers above all should be revered, for where would be be without them. Amen.

I hope this is being recorded so I can watch it later, Yvoise and Cerenise simultaneously thought, Because I haven’t paid attention to Bartholomew since my mind started wandering. 

It must be two hundred years at least since we’ve heard a will read at number 26, Cerenise thought to herself, still in a mild state of shock at the unexpected turn of events. She allowed her mind to wander, as she was wont to do.

Cerenise had spent the best part of a week choosing a suitable outfit to wear for the occasion and the dressing room adjoining her bedroom had become even more difficult to navigate. Making sure her bedroom door was securely locked before hopping out of her wicker bath chair  (she didn’t want the others to see how nimble she still was), she spent hours inching her way through the small gaps between wardrobes and storage boxes and old wooden coffers, pulling out garment after garment and taking them to the Napoleon III cheval mirror to try on.  She touched the rosewood lovingly each time and sighed. It was a beautiful mirror that had faithfully reflected her image for over 150 years.

Holding a voluminous black taffetta mourning dress under her chin, Cerenise scrutinised her appearance. She looked well in black, she always felt, and it was such a good background for exotic shawls and scarves. Pulling the waist of the dress closer, it became apparent that a whalebone corset would be required if she was to wear the dress, a dreadful blight on the fun of wearing Victorian dresses.  She lowered the dress and peered at her face. Not bad for, what was it now? One thousand 6 hundred and 43 years old? At around 45 years old, Cerenise decided that her face was perfect, not too young and not too old and old enough to command a modicum of respect. Thenceforth she stopped visibly aging, although she had allowed her fair hair to go silver white.

It was just after the siege of Gloucester in 1643, which often seemed like just yesterday, when Cerenise stopped walking in public.  Unlike anyone else, she had relished the opportunity to stay in one place, and not be sent on errands miles away having to walk all the way in all weathers.  Decades, or was it centuries, it was hard to keep track,  of being a saint of travellers had worn thin by then, and she didn’t care if she never travelled again. She had done her share, although she still bestowed blessings when asked.

It was when she gave up walking in public that the hoarding started.  Despite the dwellings having far fewer things in general in those days, there had always been pebbles and feathers, people’s teeth when they fell out, which they often did, and dried herbs and so forth. As the centuries rolled on, there were more and more things to hoard, reaching an awe inspiring crescendo in the last 30 years.

Cerenise, however, had wisely chosen to stop aging her teeth at the age of 21.

Physically, she was in surprisingly good shape for an apparent invalid but she spent hours every day behind locked doors, clambering and climbing among her many treasures, stored in many rooms of the labyrinthine old building.  There was always just enough room for the bath chair to enter the door in each of her many rooms, and a good strong lock on the door. As soon as the door was locked, Cerenise parked the bath chair in front of the door and spent the day lifting boxes and climbing over bags and cupboards, a part of herself time travelling to wherever the treasures took her.

Eventually Cerenise settled on a long and shapeless but thickly woven, and thus warm, Neolithic style garment of unknown provenance but likely to be an Arts and Crafts replica. It was going to be cold in the library, and she could dress it up with a colourful shawl.

Ricardo noticed, with growing unease, that he hadn’t been included in recent events.
Had he been written out? Or worse, had he written himself out?

New characters were arriving constantly, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of most of them — especially with their ever-changing names.

He contemplated slinking back behind the bush … but this tree business, all the crouching and lurking, was getting embarrassing.

For goodness’ sake, Ricardo, he admonished himself, stop being so pathetic.

It wasn’t until the words echoed back at him that he realised, with horror, his internal voice now sounded exactly like Miss Bossy Pants.

He frantically searched for a different voice.

It’s a poor workman blames his tools, Ricardo. Miss Herbert, Primary School. Her long chin and pursed lips hovering above his scribbled homework.

Really, Ricardo. A journalist? Is that what you want to be? His father’s voice, dripping with disdain.

Any hope for a comment, Ricardo? Miss Bossy Pants again, eyes rolling.

Ricardo sighed. Then — brainwave! If he could be the one to return the gazebo, maybe they’d write him back in

Or … he stood up tall and squared his shoulders … he would jolly well write himself back in!

He’d have his work cut out to beat Chico, though, with the elaborate triple-reverse-double-flip of the worry beads and all that purposeful striding. One had to admit, the man had momentum when he made the effort. It was uncharitable, he knew, but Ricardo decided he preferred Chico when he was spitting.

Amy rushed over to Kit when she saw what had happened and said, “Kit, give me your hat!”

Tentatively Kit put his hand on his head and sure enough he felt a hat upon it. Carefully he removed it and wonderingly gazed at the cowboy hat.  He loved it! Just looking at the hat was already giving him ideas for his character,  newly baked memories were starting to slide in like a tray of chocolate chip cookies on a baking sheet, pulled out of the oven at the perfect golden melting moment.

But Amy wants it! I can’t say no to her, but I want to keep it. It’s my first hat! Kit was close to tears.

“Oh poppet,” Amy said kindly when she noticed his face.  Giving him a quick hug she explained.   “I only want to borrow it, just to keep the Padre happy. He keeps asking where his hat is.  I’ll bring it back as soon as we’ve settled him back at home.”

The releif was immense, and he graciously surrendered the hat to Aunt Amy. “Did you call me Poppet?” he asked. “Because Thiram just called me Trevor.”

“To me, you’ll always be Kit,” Amy said as she rushed back to her father. “See you later, Poppet!” she called over her shoulder.

“What does that mean?” asked Kit, but Amy had gone.

“Buns and tarts!” called a street vendor from the street outside the Gazebar.  “Freshly baked Memory Pies! Nostalgia Rolls! Selling like Hot Cakes! Come and get ’em before they run out!”

Chico realised he’d hardly eaten a thing since becoming a new character.  Maybe this is how character building works.

“I’ll take one of each,” Chico said to the smiling round faced vendor. I need to stock up on memories.

“Are they all for you, sir?” the vendor asked.  Chico couldn’t help thinking he looked like a frog.  Nodding, Chico said, “Yeah, I’m hungry for a past.”

“We normally suggest just one at a time,” the frog said (for he had indeed turned into a frog), “But you look like a man with a capacity for multiple memories.  Are you with friends?”

“Er, yeah, yes I’m with friends,” Chico replied.  Are the other new characters my friends?  “Yes, of course, I have lots of friends.”  He didn’t want the frog vendor to think he was friendless.

“Then we suggest you share each cake with the friends you want to share the memory with.”

“Oh right. But how do I know what the memory is before I eat  the cake?”

“Let me ask you this,” said the frog with a big smile, “Do real people choose who to share their memories with? Or know in advance what the memories will be?”

“How the hell would I know!” Chico said, roughly grabbing the paper bag of buns. “I’m new here!”

Chico poured grenadine into an ornate art nouveau glass filled with ginger ale. He hesitated, eying the tin of chicory powder. After a moment of deliberation, he sprinkled a dash into the mix, then added the maraschino cherry.

“I’m not sure Ivar the Boneless, chief of the Draugaskald, will appreciate that twist on his Shirley Temple,” said Godrick. “He may be called Boneless, but he’s got an iron grip and a terrible temper when he’s parched.”

Chico almost dropped the glass. Muttering a quick prayer to the virgin cocktail goddess, he steadied his hand. Amy wouldn’t have appreciated him breaking her freshly conjured aunt Agatha Twothface’s crystal glasses service.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Chico a tad too quickly. “Do I know you?”

“I’m usually the one making the drinks,” said Godrick. “I served you your first americano when you popped into existence. Chico, right?”

“Oh! Yes. Right. You’re the bartender,” Chico said. He fidgeted. Small talks had always made him feel like a badly tuned Quena flute.

“I am,” said Godrick with a wink. “And if you want a tip? Boneless may forgive you the chicory if you make his cocktail dirty.”

Chico pause, considered, then reached down, grabbed a pinch of dust from the gazebo floor, and sprinkled it on the Temple, like cocoa on a cappuccino foam. He’d worked at Stardust for years before appearing here, after all. When he looked up, Godrick was chuckling.

“Ok!” Godrick said. “Now, add some vodka. I think I’ll take it to Ivar myself.”

“Oh! Right.” Chico nodded, grabbed the vodka bottle and poured in a modest shot and placed it back on the table.

Godrick titled his head. “Looks like your poney wants a sip too.”

For a moment, Chico blinked in confusion at the black stuffed poney standing nearby. Then freshly baked memories flooded in.

Right, the poney’s name was Tyrone.

It had been a broken toy that someone had tossed in the street. Amy had insisted Chico take it home. “It needs saving,” she said. “And you need the company.”

At first, Chico didn’t know what to do with it. He ended up replacing some of the missing stuffing with dried chicory leaves.

The next morning, Tyrone was born and trotting around the apartment. All he ever wanted was strong alcohol.

Chico had a strange thought, scrolling across the teleprompter in his mind.

Is that how character building works?

Another one!  A random distant memory wafted into Amy’s mind.  Uncle Jack always used to say GATZ e bo.  Amy could picture his smile when he said it, and how his wife always smiled back at him and chuckled. Amy wondered if she’d even known the story behind that or if it had always been a private joke between them.

“What’s been going on with my gazebo?” Amy’s father rushed into the scene. So that’s what he looks like. Amy couldn’t take her eyes off him, until Carob elbowed her in the neck.

“Sorry, I meant to elbow you in the ribs, but I’m so tall,” Carob said pointlessly, in an attempt to stop Amy staring at her father as if she’d never seen him before.

Thiram started to explain the situation with the gazebo to Amy’s father, after first introducing him to Kit, the new arrival.  “Humphrey, meet Kit, our new LBGYEQCXOJMFKHHVZ story character. Kit, this is Amy’s father who we sometimes refer to as The Padre.”

“Pleased to meet you, ” Kit said politely, quaking a little at the stern glare from the old man. What on earth is he wearing?  A tweed suit and a deerstalker, in this heat!  How do I know that’s what they’re called?  Kit wondered, quaking a little more at the strangeness of it all.

“Never mind all that now!” Humphrey interrupted Thiram’s explanation.

Still as rude as ever! Amy thought.

“I’ve too much to think about, but I’ll tell you this: I’ve planned a character building meeting in the gazebo, and you are all invited. As a matter of fact,” Humphrey continued, “You are all obliged to attend.  If you choose not to ~ well, you know what happened last time!”

“What happened last time?” asked Carob, leaning forward in anticipation of an elucidating response, but Humphrey merely glared at her.

Amy sniggered, and Humphrey shot her a lopsided smile.  “YOU know what happened in Jack’s GATZ e bo, don’t you, my girl?”

Where were those random memories when you wanted them? Amy had no idea what he was talking about.

“Who else is invited, Humph? asked Chico, resisting the urge to spit.

“My good man,” Humphrey said with a withering look. “Sir Humphrey’s the name to you.”

Sir? what’s he on about now?  wondered Amy.  Does that make me a Lady?

“Who else is invited, Padre?” Amy echoed.

Humphrey pulled a scroll tied with a purple ribbon out of his waistcoat pocket and unfurled it.    Clearing his throat importantly, he read the list to all assembled.

Juan and Dolores Valdez.
Godric, the Swedish barman
Malathion and Glyphosate, Thiram’s triplet brothers.  Mal and Glyph for short.
Liz Tattler
Miss Bossy Pants
Goat Horned Draugaskald

“Did I forget anyone?” Humphrey asked, peering over his spectacles as he looked at each of the characters.  “You lot,” he said, “Amy, Carob, Thiram, Chico, Kit and Ricardo: you will be expected to play hosts, so you might want to start thinking about refreshments. And not,” he said with a strong authoritarian air, “Not just coffee!  A good range of beverages. And snacks.”

Thiram, leaning against a tree, started whistling the theme tune to Gone With The Wind. Tossing an irritated glance in his direction, Carob roughly gathered up her mass of frizzy curls and tethered it all in a tight pony tail.  I still don’t know what happened before, she fumed silently.  The latest developments where making her nervous. Would they find out her secret?

“You guys,” called Chico, who had wandered over to the gazebo. “It’s full of ants.”

Disgruntled and bored with the fruitless wait for the other characters to reveal more of themselves, Amy started staying in her room all day reading books, glad that she’d had an urge to grab a bag full of used paperbacks from a chance encounter with a street vendor in Bogota.

A strange book about peculiar children lingered in her mind, and mingled  somehow with the vestiges of the mental images of the writhing Uriah in the book Amy had read prior to this one.

Aunt Amy?  a childs voice came unbidden to Amys ear.  Well, why not? Amy thought, Some peculiar children is what the story needs. Nephews and neices though, no actual children, god forbid. 

“Aunt Amy!”  A gentle knocking sounded on the bedroom door.  “Are you in there, Aunt Amy?”

“Is that at neice or nephew at my actual door? Already?” Amy cried in amazement.

“Can I come in, please?” the little voice sounded close to tears.  Amy bounded off the bed to unloock leaving that right there the door to let the little instant ramen rellie in.

The little human creature appeared to be ten years old or so, as near as Amy could tell, with a rather androgenous look: a grown out short haircut in a nondescript dark colour, thin gangling limbs robed in neutral shapelessness, and a pale pinched face.

“I’ve never done this before, can you help me?” the child said.

“Never been a story character before, eh?” Amy said kindly. “Do you know your name? Not to worry if you don’t!” she added quickly, seeing the child’s look of alarm. “No?  Well then you can choose what ever you like!”

The child promptly burst into tears, and Amy wanted to kick herself for being such a tactless blundering fool.  God knows it wasn’t that easy to choose, even when you knew the choice was yours.

Amy wanted to ask the child if it was a boy or a girl, but hesitated, and decided against it. I’ll have to give it a name though, I can’t keep calling it the child.

“Would you mind very much if I called you Kit, for now?” asked Amy.

“Thanks, Aunt Amy,” Kit said with a tear streaked smile. “Kit’s fine.”

One too many cups of coffee and I should know better by now, Amy realised after tossing and turning in her crumpled bed through the strange dark hours of the night, wondering if someone had spiked her wine with cocaine or if she was having a heart attack or a nervous breakdown.  They all say to just breathe, she thought, But that is the last thing you should focus on when you’re hyperventilating.  You should forget your breathing entirely when you can’t control it.  After several hours of imagining herself in the death throes of some dire terminal physical malfunction, she fell asleep, only to be woken up by a strong need to piss like a racehorse.  Don’t open your eyes more than you need to, don’t wake up too much, she told herself as she lurched blindly to the privy.

Latte! Fucking Latte! what a stupid word for coffee with milk.  Amy hated the word latte, it was so pretentious and stupid. Revolting anyway, putting milk in coffee, made inexpressibly worse by calling the bloody thing JUST MILK in another language. Why not call it Milch or Leche or молоко or γάλα or 牛奶 or sữa or दूध….

Amy flushed the toilet, wide awake and irritated, but never the less grateful for the realisation that her discomfort was nothing more than an ooverdoose of cafoone.

Thiram Izu

Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes

Explicit Description

• Age: Mid-30s

• Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian

• Face: Calm but slightly worn—reflecting quiet resilience and perceptiveness.

• Hair: Short, tousled dark hair

• Eyes: Observant, introspective; wears round black-framed glasses

• Clothing (standard look):

  • Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket

  • Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath

  • Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)

  • Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish

• Technology: Regularly uses a homemade device, possibly a patchwork blend of analog and AI circuitry.

• Name Association: Jokes about being named after a fungicide (Thiram), referencing “brothers” Malathion and Glyphosate.

Inferred Personality & Manner

• Temperament: Steady but simmering—he tries to be the voice of reason, but often ends up exasperated or ignored.

• Mindset: Driven by a need for internal logic and external systems—he’s a fixer, not a dreamer (yet paradoxically surrounded by dreamers).

• Social Role: The least performative of the group. He’s neither aloof nor flamboyant, but remains essential—a grounded presence.

• Habits:

  • Zones out under stress or when overstimulated by dream-logic.

  • Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.

  • Carries small parts or tools in pockets—likely fidgets with springs or wires during conversations.

• Dialogue Style: Deadpan, dry, occasionally mutters tech references or sarcastic analogies.

• Emotional Core: Possibly a romantic or idealist in denial—hidden under his annoyance and muttered diagnostics.

Function in the Group

• Navigator of Reality – He’s the one most likely to point out when the laws of physics are breaking… and then sigh and fix it.

• Connector of Worlds – Bridges raw tech with dream-invasion mechanisms, perhaps more than he realizes.

• Moral Compass (reluctantly) – Might object to sabotage-for-sabotage’s-sake; he values intent.