22, drummer. The sarcastic lock on the whole operation. Mullet sharp enough to cut glass, one unexplained streak of white hair running through it like a warning. Toothpick always clenched between her teeth. She pounds a standard punk kit whose kick head still reads “FEDERAL PROPERTY” in drippy white paint. Counts off with a grin: “one, ‘F’ the mayor, four.” She’s the only one who’s been arrested. She never talks about it.