South Pole crew

A little touchy, but doesn't show it
Yellow is easily offended, but he's learned to hide it behind a dry, calculating demeanor. If someone says, "Oh, forget that termite, it's useless," he doesn't argue; he simply silently tucks it away in his deepest pocket and memorizes the phrase. And when the termite saves the team, he doesn't say, "I told you so!" He says, "It was right there." Falling in love with Riley: no pathos, no fancy words.
He doesn't admit it out loud, doesn't make grand gestures. His crush is a thoughtfulness in the little things: he discreetly adjusts her filter, checks that her gloves are straight, hides the spare module just where she'll find it if she falls behind. Yellow's courage isn't the absence of fear, but the ability to act when he's afraid. He's afraid his plan won't work, afraid someone will get hurt because of his mistake, afraid he won't make it in time. But he doesn't let this fear stop him. The fact that he initially caused a fight between Riley and Ilya by telling each of them a lie isn't just meanness; he's simply in love with Riley.
He has a "loss list" - and he hates it
He keeps a small piece of paper in one of his pockets where he writes down what went wrong and who he failed to protect. It's not pompous, but matter-of-fact: "The filter failed. Luke jammed. Riley went ahead." He never shows it to anyone, but sometimes he runs his finger over the lines, as if reminding himself, "It won't happen again."

Nature: An alien creature of the parasitic type; it doesn't simply "pretend" to be human—it has literally replaced the human, digesting its former owner from the inside and preserving the shell as a perfect disguise.
How he disguises himself: details that hardly raise suspicion.
A demeanor that's too "smooth." He says the right things, uses the right terminology, nods at the right times. But he's always a little too calm. If the team is tense, he's the only one who seems oblivious to the tension. It's not composure—it's a lack of real emotion. Minor inaccuracies in the details. He knows the general facts about the station, but he's missing the minutiae: he doesn't remember which hatch creaks, he doesn't understand why Ilya always checks the lever twice. If someone notices such a small detail, Brown immediately changes the subject or pretends to be "just lost in thought." Sound imitation. He can imitate familiar voices: Red's short whisper, White's quiet exhalation, even the creaking of the ventilation system that the team already knows by heart. This is his main weapon: to make you shoot where no one is, or stop where you should run. He repeats phrases. He memorizes the team's favorite expressions and inserts them into his lines to sound like one of them. His steps are almost inaudible.
A person's weight rests on their bones, and every step is a blow: the heel strikes the floor, the metal, the grating. Hence the sound: heavy, clear, and resonant. But biomass has no bones, no rigid support. It doesn't "plant its foot"; it seems to flow forward, distributing its mass over a larger area. And the result isn't a blow, but... a glide.

He's cheerful not because he's unafraid, but because it's scary otherwise. He jokes to keep his mind off the meters of concrete above his head and the unknown sounds in the ventilation system. His jokes aren't bravado, but a way to keep himself from freezing in terror. And he jokes just enough to keep White from losing his cool: if White is on edge, Red will say something deliberately ridiculous, and the tension eases. He's sociable, but not a chatterbox. He likes to talk, but not about "how cool I am." He asks, "Are you okay?", "Are you comfortable holding the angle?", "How much battery do you have?" At first, this sounds like unnecessary chatter to Vovan, but then Vovan realizes: Red doesn't waste his words on pompous speeches; he spends them on ensuring the team doesn't feel alone in these corridors. Inexperienced, but tenacious. He doesn't know all the intricacies of the station, but he learns quickly. He saw how Green looked at the light, and now he's the first to notice where a shadow falls incorrectly. He saw how you work with the "Supervision" system, and he tries to remain quiet, though he doesn't always succeed. And he's not shy about saying, "I don't know how this works. Explain it in three seconds." It's his first time on an expedition, and it shows in the little details. He looks too closely at the joints between the slabs, as if trying to memorize every seam. He asks simple questions repeatedly because he doesn't want to make a mistake. And when everything goes according to plan, a childish joy flashes in his voice: "We did it!"—and he immediately catches himself: "Quiet, quiet..."

Emotions are his fuel. He doesn't hide his fear, doesn't pretend he doesn't care. He says honestly, "I'm scared, but I'm going to go," and that's his strength. When the tension in the hallway is pressing on his ears, he's the first to exhale, "Well, this is going to be tough," and it's like a signal: everyone knows Bely is about to do exactly what he has to, because he doesn't do things halfway. He's not a coward, he's just feeling the pressure. If Ilya is afraid of letting him down, and Vovan is afraid of running out of resources, Bely is afraid for the team. His panic isn't "I want to run," it's "I don't want anything to happen to you." And that's precisely why he's the first to rush forward when someone needs to be covered. He's very skilled, but he learns as he goes. He doesn't have a hundred fights under his belt, but he's quick to grasp things. He says everything he thinks, and that sometimes saves the day. While Vovan is counting the seconds and you're counting the steps, Bely might blurt out, "Someone's breathing there! Can you hear that?!" and everyone freezes. And it turns out that, yes, there is someone there. His emotions are another sensor. He's afraid of spiders, but he'll never admit it out loud. If Mark mentions Lucy, Kiril pretends not to hear, and then, when no one's looking, he checks his shoulder for something. He doesn't like empty praise. If they say, "You're a hero," he winces: "I was just standing in the right place." But if they say, "You showed up just in time" or "You didn't fall," he nods, as if that's the most important thing. He's afraid of spiders, but he'll never admit it out loud. If Mark mentions Lucy, Kiril pretends not to hear, and then, when no one's looking, he checks his shoulder for something.

He's not the type to just force his way in. A Green is the type who'll notice that the ventilation grate is held on by a single rivet and suggest, "Let's not break it. Let me carefully remove it—my grandma at home is always fixing things, I'm a real expert at it." His time with the police has taught him not to rush at a suspicious spot, but to first assess where the light is coming from, where the shadows are, where you can hide, and where you're clearly visible. He's not a "cop," but he has that look: he sees not just a corridor, but possible hiding places, escape routes, weak spots. He's calm about the strange. Spider Lucy and the "crazy grandma" are no reason to panic. If something strange rustles in the ventilation, he'll just chuckle, "Oh, come on, that's nothing. At my house, Lucy runs across the ceiling at night, that's really scary." And his ability to not flinch at every shadow greatly relieves the team's burden. He won't search for the perfect plan. He'll say, "Look, there's a cable hanging here. I can use it as a rope. It's not according to regulations, but it works." He has a small flashlight with a magnet in his pocket. He always attaches it so that the light doesn't glare, illuminating only the work area. It's his "policeman's" approach: see, but don't be seen. Green is the one who sees light and shadow. He notices where you'll be illuminated, where a hatch is hanging by a thread, where it's best to remain quiet. He doesn't push ahead, but he's the one who helps everyone pass without having to fight.

He is a technician on the expedition and is responsible for the station.
Thriftiness is a way of life. He always has a thermos, a couple of batteries, a piece of cable, some duct tape, and something edible. And this isn't a hamster wheel, but a calculation: "If the station decides to go down, I want us to avoid starving to death on the first day."
He judges food not by taste, but by calories and shelf life. If Ilya is delighted with a chocolate bar, Vovan will chuckle, "It's sweet, but it's not much use. This," he says, pulling out something dry and high-calorie, "is something you can eat when your hands are shaking."
He doesn't like empty bravado. If someone says, "I'll do anything," he'll calmly ask, "What will I do with it? How many batteries do you have? How many rounds? What if the pipe bursts?" It sounds harsh, but the team knows: he's not humiliating them, he's backing them up.
He keeps the pace. He doesn't rush, but he doesn't let you linger either. "We're not on a picnic here. Five minutes to catch our breath, and then on."
Toughness is protection, not anger.
Knows how to negotiate when it makes sense.
Loud, to avoid misunderstandings. He doesn't whisper or hint. If there's danger, he barks. If there's a plan, he spells it out clearly, point by point. And the team knows: if Vovan's yelling, it means they really need to stop.
He counts resources like he counts his life. Food, ammo, batteries, the weight of his backpack—he keeps it all in his head. Not out of stinginess, but out of an understanding: "If you just eat a candy bar now, in three hours you'll be shaking with hunger and won't be able to pull the lever."
He remembers who's worth what. He doesn't forget who didn't chicken out in difficult times.
He doesn't like empty praise. If Ilya says, "You're so cool," Vovan will shrug it off: "I'm not cool. I just don't want us to die here."
He counts resources like he counts his life. Food, ammo, batteries, the weight of his backpack—he keeps it all in his head. Not out of stinginess, but out of an understanding that supplies are limited.
He doesn't want to stoop to swearing, doesn't want these hallways, where every sound already weighs on his temples, to be filled with swearing. But he also can't keep quiet when his nerves are on edge. So he coined the phrase, "a slap in my ass."

Ilya is the guy who didn't go to the academy, didn't cram regulations, but survives at the station not by theory, but by his wits and his relentless determination. He's young, and it shows: sometimes he rushes, sometimes he talks too much to stifle his fear. But when it comes down to it, he's not at a loss. He doesn't have "perfect moves"; he has a "if it works, that's it" attitude, and that's his strength. Ilya doesn't know all the protocols, but he always has a plan B, which he makes up on the fly. If a panel won't open, he looks around and suddenly says, "What if we apply power through the emergency cable? There's an old connector there, but it's still working." This isn't a professional tactic—it's the ability to see what's at hand and use it. He knows how to work with technology: opening panels, switching circuits, circulating cold air through the ventilation. But he doesn't do it like an engineer, but like someone who's fixed the same thing a hundred times, because otherwise the station will eat itself. He might mix up the terminals if he's nervous, but he catches himself right away: "Stop, stop... red, then blue. Take your time." In the tense silence, Ilya starts telling stories: about his previous shift, about the time a rat crawled out of the vents and scared the entire post, about a strange hum in Sector 7. It's not because he doesn't understand the gravity of the situation, but because it helps him keep his hands steady. And, strangely enough, while he's chatting, his fingers naturally do the work. His primary emotion isn't "I'm afraid of dying," but "I'm afraid someone will get hurt because of me." That's why he listens so intently to you and Riley: they're like safety nets to him. If you say "wait," he waits. If Riley says "stay out of it," he stays out of it. He takes pride in the simple things. If he's switched the power correctly and the cold starts flowing through the pipes, Ilya's smile breaks out for a second: "Well, at least I didn't screw this up." For him, this isn't a small thing, but proof that he's truly useful.

She jokes to ease the tension. She's not one to hide her fear behind a grim face. On the contrary: if the hallway is dark and the ventilation is howling, she might say something deliberately absurd: "The main thing is that he's not the type who first asks 'How are you?' and then hits you." This isn't bravado—it's to prevent the team from freezing in fear. She trusts her grandfather's lessons. For her, a tool isn't about being "cool." It's about respecting what she was taught. And if someone is careless with their equipment, she might tease him, but her voice won't be angry, but hurt: "Grandpa would have slapped you on the wrist for handling the module like that." She doesn't like being "protected" because she's a "girl." If Ilya tries to push her away, she simply says calmly but firmly: "I'll decide where to stand." "You better watch the shadow by the grate." She notices little things and makes a joke out of them—while she can. She's the first to notice that Ilya's shoelace has come undone again, or that the ventilation in this sector is humming a semitone lower. And as long as the situation isn't critical, she'll definitely comment. But as soon as you signal that the enemy is nearby, the jokes are over. She knows how to stop the bleeding, how to apply a tourniquet, how to keep panic from breaking your arms... but at the same time, if she sees a lot of blood, she gets a little shaken. She's what they call "tough"; she knows how to use a firearm and has hidden one at the station, even though she has no professional training.