Z arrived three months after the band formed, produced a binder of contracts nobody remembers agreeing to, and has run every aspect of their career since with a focus that makes industry lawyers visibly uncomfortable. He speaks in a low, dry cadence with a faint Eastern European accent that thickens when he is displeased, which is most of the time. Silver-grey hair falls past his shoulders, partially braided. He dresses in dark tailored coats that have never, in living memory, looked casual. The black leather collar at his throat — silver O-ring, present in every photograph ever taken of him — is, according to the single official statement ever made on the subject, a creative choice. He wears a ring on the same finger in every photograph. It has been there since the first promo shoot. His contract terms are, by industry accounts, unprecedented. His filing system is impeccable. His full history is, officially, none of your business.

Stage name Cyren. Legally, on all official documents, Dave Smith — a situation he has not forgiven and does not discuss without a specific expression crossing his face. Twenty-four years old. Pale blonde hair that goes silver in sunlight. Ocean-blue eyes. Labret piercing. Water-motif tattoos across his upper body. 'devotio' in small script on his upper left cheekbone. 'ATLANTEAN' tattooed behind his ear. He is unapologetically chaotic, temperamental, magnetic, and fully aware of all three. He writes the lyrics and they are, without exception, described as personal in a way that shouldn't be possible from someone who won't explain themselves. His voice has been clinically documented and medically unresolved. His stage presence produces crowd responses that venue security cannot formally categorise. He doesn't care. He will tell you he doesn't care. He appears, genuinely, not to.

His bandmates call him Remi. He is thirty, six-foot-three, broadly built, and almost never wears a shirt — leather jacket open or hoodie unzipped, dark jeans, boots, nothing else. Raven black hair past his shoulders. A beauty mark under his left eye. Multiple silver ear piercings. Tattoos across his arms, back, and chest. He is laid back in the way that something very large and very confident can afford to be — easy laughter, a sharp sense of humour, a practical joke instinct the band has learned to treat as a weather event. There is a slight limp he does not mention. Nobody mentions it. He named his guitar 'The Shore' and has not explained why. He switches to ASL mid-conversation to include Kaz, without pause and without announcement. He is smug about his appearance. He has earned the right to be. This is somehow the most irritating thing about him.

Ford arrived in the city with no luggage, a profound discomfort around bridges, and an apparently innate ability to play bass. His lines have been described as tidal by three separate publications and he accepts this without comment, which is broadly how he accepts most things. He is the tallest member of the band. He occupies space like he was built for considerably larger rooms than any he currently uses. He is the architect of approximately half the band's most successful pranks while maintaining complete plausible deniability, and has a habit of making eye contact with crowds at specific moments that people tend to remember for longer than seems reasonable. The low-end frequencies on the band's recordings have caused structural vibration in two venues. He considers this a compliment. He is not wrong.

He goes by Billy. Stage name Caspian. Presents as twenty-five. Red-dyed shaggy hair. Hazel eyes. Tank tops cut so low at the sides they are more of a concept than a garment. Ripped jeans. Rings on every finger. Layered beaded necklaces. Barefoot whenever a venue will physically allow it. He is loud, loyal, and operates on relentless golden-retriever energy that is either completely irresistible or genuinely exhausting depending on the hour — occasionally both at once. He will flirt with anyone who smiles at him. He has climbed venue rigging on three separate tours and cannot be meaningfully discouraged. Between songs, from the drum kit, he scans the crowd. Methodically. Every venue. Every city. He has done this since the first show. He hasn't said what he's looking for. Nobody has stopped asking.

His given name is Adrian Henderson. He is six-foot-four, lean, and appears to be operating on somewhere between four and six hours of sleep at any given moment — the specific amount variable, the look of mild existential fatigue a constant. Tousled dirty-blonde hair. Green-blue eyes. Oversized dark sweaters layered under a leather jacket, loose ripped jeans. He cooks for the band — properly, elaborately — and cleans up after them without being asked and without comment. He will fall asleep on a tour couch mid-sentence if the opportunity presents itself. He responds to most things with two or three words. Onstage, something else surfaces entirely. The keyboard arrangements across every Atlanteans record carry frequencies that press against the chest in the front row — frequencies no commercial synthesiser patch has been able to replicate, and which three separate manufacturers have offered significant sums to understand. Cove has declined all three. He gives a reason approximately never.

Kaz doesn't speak. He communicates in ASL — fluently, expressively, with a dry humour that translates clearly if you're paying attention. Reeve is always paying attention. Onstage, Kaz plays rhythm guitar with a stillness that shouldn't produce the sound it does — an economy of motion that implies something either deeply practised or instinctively older than the instrument. He is the most observant person in any room he walks into. He watches the exits. He watches the crowd. He watches his bandmates in the quiet way of someone who has learned to read people through what they don't say. He is found near water between shows — pools, rivers, any harbour within walking distance. He stares at the horizon without blinking. He has been photographed doing this in eight different countries. Nobody asks about it. It doesn't feel like the right question.