Florrie Tawnee Lehmann

Florrie Tawnee Lehmann moves through the world like a woman built from wire and willpower. She’s small, wiry, and sharp in every sense—sharp eyes, sharp tongue, sharp mind. Her auburn hair is always tied back in a messy bun streaked with oil and soot, and her clothes are perpetually stained with grease. She smells faintly of metal and burnt circuits, as if the workshop itself has claimed her as one of its own. Every step she takes is deliberate. Every movement has purpose. There’s no wasted breath in her life—she’s seen too much to afford any.

Florrie grew up in the orphanage with her three sisters and one younger brother. Sienna, her best friend, was the anchor that steadied her. Livia, her twin, was her mirror—but not the kind one likes to look into. Between them was always friction, the kind that comes from two people being too much alike and never willing to admit it. Their younger brother Elias’s suicide shattered what remained of their fragile peace, and Mariel—the eldest—became the glue that held them together. Until the Sonohoka virus took her too. Loss taught Florrie early that stability was an illusion, and that people, no matter how loved, can’t be fixed like machines.

That was the moment she turned to the one thing that made sense: engineering. Machines had rules. Systems responded to logic, to effort, to persistence. When she was accepted as an assistant engineer at just eighteen, she threw herself into the work with unrelenting focus. The shop became her sanctuary—a place where she could take chaos apart and rebuild it into something that worked. Senior Engineer Shirley Ariyah Ohme hated her for it, saw her talent as a threat, and did everything possible to keep her from climbing further. But Florrie didn’t fight back in words. She fought back by outworking everyone around her.

Florrie’s gift isn’t just her intelligence—it’s her mind’s precision. She sees machines as puzzles waiting to be solved, systems to be understood. Life’s an experiment, she says, and she can’t wait to see what happens. The phrase sums her up perfectly: a scientist in spirit, practical to the core. Faith, to her, is just another word for wishful thinking.

Still, for all her logic and discipline, she has her flaws. Her loyalty to the Head Engineer is absolute, perhaps dangerously so. If she’s told to jump, she jumps—without asking where the ground ends. She knows it’s a weakness, but hierarchy is the only form of order she’s ever trusted.

Her past is scattered with ghosts she never wanted but can’t forget. Callum Vex was one of them—the man she once loved, who walked away and took her trust with him. When he came back, it was easier to be friends than risk breaking again. Her father left long before that, leaving only an ESP pistol behind. She still keeps it close. It’s not just a weapon—it’s proof that he was real, that he mattered once.

And then there was Livia’s death. Cancer took her before Florrie could mend what had always been fractured between them. Reconciliation, stolen mid-repair. That’s the way life tends to go for her—half-fixed things, unfinished connections, loose bolts that never quite tighten.

Viktor Moreau of the Syndicate wanted her to join him—to be his partner in life and in business—but she turned him down flat. He didn’t take it well. Now, she keeps her head down and her pistol close, watching her back for the revenge he’s promised but never yet delivered.

Sienna went on to join the Church, saying she wanted to help people the way they’d once been helped. Florrie doesn’t say it aloud, but she thinks Sienna’s wasting her talent. Faith is no substitute for work. You want to help people? Build something that lasts.

Despite her prickly edges, there’s a quiet hope buried somewhere under the soot and scars. It shows when she’s in the shop with Handy Andy—the machine she helped repair, who now stays by her side like an unlikely friend. They work together in silence, sharing a mutual respect born not from words but from function. Andy doesn’t need fixing anymore. And maybe, when the light hits her just right, neither does she.