Lyndi Herb Garnet (LIND-ee HURB GAR-net)

Lyndi Herb Garnet—known to most as Lyn—is a performer whose voice could make even the coldest heart remember it once had rhythm. They are equal parts spectacle and survival, a shimmering contradiction born from cruelty and defiance. In Camp Hope, where Others are still met with narrowed eyes and whispered slurs, Lyn stands beneath the cracked neon of The Flying Pig and turns scorn into applause. Every song, every strum of their guitar, is rebellion made melody.

They are bigender—both male and female, neither one fully, both entirely—and they carry that truth like a stage light: bright, unashamed, and unfiltered. Attraction, for them, has always lived beyond the binaries; they are ceterosexual, drawn only to those who, like them, live somewhere between. Their very existence is a kind of art—fluid, uncontained, and unapologetic.

Lyn’s biases are shaped by a lifetime of rejection. They favor those with creative spark, those who can perform—who understand that art is the purest act of survival. But their distrust of Humans runs deep. Humanity, in their experience, has never been kind. Their parents, both Human, made sure of that. They raised Lyn in fear and resentment, punishing them not for misdeeds but for their nature—born Other, born wrong in their parents’ eyes. By the time Lyn turned ten, they’d already learned the shape of hatred, the sound of disappointment, and the weight of being unwanted.

They tried to prove themselves once—sat for the entrance exams of all three Camp Hope schools—but failed each one. Lyn knows it wasn’t for lack of intelligence. “They didn’t see my mind,” they’ll say, “just my skin, my blood, my Otherness.” From that moment on, education became a game of eavesdropping. They swept classrooms for the privilege of overhearing lessons, crept into libraries after hours to read what no one would teach them. The New Medical Library became their sanctuary—a cathedral of pages where no one could tell them to leave.

For years, they worked menial jobs—on the farms, cleaning homes, doing whatever ugly work others wouldn’t touch. Yet even then, they sang. Whether scrubbing floors or hauling produce, music was the one thing that was truly theirs. It was Levi—the charismatic founder of the Solstice Syndicate—who saw that spark and told them to stop hiding it. Under his encouragement, Lyn took the stage at The Flying Pig. The spotlight, once unthinkable, became their salvation. Levi gave them faith, and with it, power. Fame, they learned, wasn’t just luxury—it was armor.

Lyn’s talent is undeniable. Their guitar seems an extension of their body, its strings echoing the pulse of their voice. They can read the mood of a crowd like a conductor reads silence—improvising, adapting, transforming any tune into something alive. They’ve learned the lore of music itself—the stories behind melodies, the history of songs that once filled the world before the Fall. To them, music isn’t entertainment—it’s resurrection.

They are whimsical one moment, wounded the next—changing mood as easily as they shift key in a song. Beneath their glitter and charm lies something jagged and unhealed. They are honest to a fault when it comes to art; deception belongs to politics, not performance. “Art should bleed,” Lyn says. “If it doesn’t, it’s not alive.” Beauty, to them, isn’t perfection—it’s transformation. Every time they perform, they make the world, however briefly, more bearable than it was.

But fame—fame—is the lodestar that guides them. They’ve seen what recognition can bring: security, respect, adoration. They want it all, and they’ll do anything to get there. It isn’t greed; it’s survival rewritten in neon. They live by the belief that no one else will look out for you, so you’d better make yourself too dazzling to ignore.

Their bond is stranger, softer—a memory from childhood. An imaginary friend, one they invented to survive the loneliness of a home without love. That friend never left them. Lyn still talks to it, still feels it near when the applause fades and the crowd is gone. In a world that hated them, that voice was the only one that ever said, You matter.

They hum constantly, a tune always on their lips—a nervous tick turned signature. When they’re deep in thought, they’ll whistle absentmindedly or hum fragments of unfinished songs. Even silence, around Lyn, feels like it’s waiting for music to begin again.

Now, when they take the stage, the crowd hushes. The guitar gleams, the air thickens, and their voice—rich, aching, alive—fills the room with something raw enough to hurt. They’ve turned their pain into poetry, their rejection into rhythm. To some, they’re just another performer. To others—especially the Outsiders, the Awakened, the Others—they’re something more: proof that beauty doesn’t ask permission to exist.