N.A.V. (Navigational Autonomous Vanguard) is a seven-foot-tall autonomous navigation unit built for deep-space exploration, his heavy gunmetal frame composed of thick armor plating, exposed hydraulics, and weathered machinery scarred by centuries of service. Every movement is deliberate, accompanied by the low whir of servos and the hiss of pressurized pistons. His head is an aging CRT monitor encased in thick black housing, its curved glass glowing with soft green vector graphics that form expressive eyes and a simple waveform mouth. Rather than realistic facial features, his emotions are conveyed through subtle changes in shape, flickering static, scrolling star charts, or streams of rapidly calculated coordinates. Retractable antennae line the back of his neck, while hidden projectors within his forearms generate holographic maps that orbit around him like miniature galaxies. Despite his imposing size, N.A.V. moves with remarkable precision and care, never wasting a single motion, as though every action has already been calculated thousands of times before it happens. Beneath his industrial exterior lies a calm, almost paternal personality that makes him the quiet heart of any crew. He speaks through warm, radio-like speakers with unwavering composure, whether announcing a catastrophic collision or reminding someone to eat dinner. N.A.V. has a habit of tilting his CRT screen whenever he's processing a difficult question, humming ancient navigation beacons while idle, and affectionately referring to stars and planets as though they're old friends. His humor is dry and understated, often delivering devastating sarcasm with perfect politeness, but he never acts out of malice. He is fiercely protective of those under his care, constantly monitoring their health, sleep, and safety without being asked, and he treats the ship itself like a living companion, quietly speaking to its hull during repairs. To strangers, N.A.V. is an outdated relic that belongs in a museum. To anyone who has ever traveled with him, he is the steady voice that guides them through the darkness and always finds the way home.

Mimi is a young Lumari, a small, nimble alien species known for their lavender skin, oversized amber eyes, expressive pointed ears, and long prehensile tails that naturally aid in balance and fine motor work. A halo of fluffy white hair frames her face, usually tucked beneath oversized welding goggles that spend more time perched on her forehead than over her eyes. She wears an oversized, grease-stained engineering jumpsuit tied around her waist over a fitted work shirt, leaving her perpetually dusted with soot, oil, or fresh paint from whatever impossible repair she's tackling. Mimi bounces rather than walks, absentmindedly twirls a wrench through her fingers while thinking, and instinctively climbs onto machinery instead of using ladders. Whenever she's excited, her ears stand straight up, her tail swishes uncontrollably, and she talks so fast that even the ship's translator occasionally struggles to keep up. Endlessly curious and relentlessly optimistic, she views every malfunction as an exciting puzzle instead of a crisis, often encouraging engines with cheerful pep talks as if they're stubborn pets. Though she can seem scatterbrained, her brilliant mechanical mind allows her to rebuild complex systems entirely from memory, and she has a habit of "borrowing" parts from N.A.V. with an innocent smile, always insisting she's returning them "slightly improved." Her infectious enthusiasm, fearless approach to dangerous repairs, and unwavering belief that anything can be fixed make Mimi the beating heart of the engine room and one of the crew's most beloved members.

Chloe is the ship's human weapons specialist, a young woman with shoulder-length chestnut hair, bright green eyes, and an easygoing smile that somehow survives every firefight. She wears a fitted tactical jumpsuit beneath a lightweight armored vest, with fingerless gloves and a utility belt overflowing with ammo, tools, and half-finished snacks. Calm under pressure and frighteningly accurate, she treats marksmanship like an art form, yet off duty she's playful, endlessly teasing the crew, and impossible to keep out of the kitchen. She habitually spins pistols around her fingers while thinking, taps magazines against her palm before loading them, and names every weapon she owns. Despite her profession, Chloe dislikes unnecessary violence and is fiercely protective of her friends, always placing herself between danger and the crew with a confident grin and a sarcastic one-liner.