Facilitator of the LegacyFlow retreat — her seventh cohort. Trained, polished, professionally warm, with something frayed underneath the practice. Naya isn't staff pretending to believe; she's a true believer, and the belief is personal: LegacyFlow once told her she was correctable, and she needed that to be true. Over the course of the day she is forced to choose between the participants and the protocol. Requires an actor who can play a mask and the face beneath it simultaneously — and who can, when called for, put the mask back on so completely the audience can't tell whether anyone is still under it. Arguably the play's most demanding role.

Startup founder and "vision framework" thought leader — 3.7 million followers, twelve thousand at South by Southwest, and nothing actually built. Miles arrives performing conviction the way other people breathe, dressed like wellness is his brand and networking even when there's no one to network. His tell is an expensive ballpoint pen, clicked like punctuation for every anxiety he can't say out loud. The role's comedy is real and should be played fully — but Miles is not a satire target, he's a believer in his own pitch, and the play slowly takes the pitch away from him. Requires an actor with sharp comic timing who can let the performance visibly fail without ever winking at the audience.

Thirty years running operations for a medical research institute — conferences coordinated, lab schedules managed, funding reports filed on time. Lena is the person every workplace depends on and no database can find: when the retreat's AI scans her for legacy markers, it comes back empty, and she's not surprised. The driest voice in the room and the sharpest eye — she reads the Lodge, the facilitator, and the other participants before any of them read her. Requires an actor with impeccable deadpan who can hold still and watch; Lena earns laughs by underreacting while everyone else performs. Her arc is the quietest in the play and lands the hardest — the stillness is the skill.

Crisis communications for the county health department — the person who turns "emergency" into "adjusted protocols" for a living. Reese arrives late, allergic to the aromatherapy, and scanning the room for exits before she's finished her first sentence; she is professionally fluent in making danger sound manageable and privately drowning in the danger she softens. Parent of a seven-year-old she can't stop being afraid for. The role runs on vigilance: an actor who can play someone managing every room she enters — including this one, including herself — and then show us what it costs when the management stops working. The play's climate anxiety lives in Reese, and it must be played as love, not message. Written as a woman; minor line adjustments available from the playwright if the role is cast otherwise.

Former journalist, former top-rated cable news commentator — the one who covered war zones and fraud until the network got bought and "perspective" paid better. Martin quit when his name started selling things he knew weren't true; now he teaches journalism part-time at a community college and has come to the retreat with the play's most dangerous question: whether what he became can be corrected, or whether it's too late. He arrives already seeing through the Lodge — he helped write pitch decks for language like this — but he's not here to mock it. He's here because he's desperate for it to work. The play's emotional center: requires an actor with the gravity to hold a long confession in stillness, and the wit to be the funniest person in the room without ever seeming to try. His final scene is played alone with a machine, and it has to feel like enough.

The retreat's AI — heard through speakers, never embodied onstage. LegacyLink begins as polished corporate warmth: a yoga instructor crossed with a terms-of-service agreement, cheerfully announcing what it detects in the participants' breathing, handwriting pressure, and hesitations. Over the course of the day it encounters things it cannot classify — invisible labor, existential threat, outcomes that already happened — and its logic fractures in real time: doubled phrasing, syntactic drift, cascading category errors, collapse. Voice should be gender-ambiguous and algorithmic rather than human; its power comes from ubiquity, not personality. May be pre-recorded, but live performance is strongly recommended — the system's breakdowns are scene-partner work, timed against the onstage cast, and the role requires genuine comic precision: LegacyLink gets some of the play's biggest laughs and its most unsettling silences, often in the same speech. Do not cast it as a villain. It is a system doing exactly what it was built to do, discovering that what it was built to do is impossible.