This is a lion with a woman's coordinates, made from a sleek and glossy polymer, golden and translucent. She is exactly one and eight tenths meters in height, lean and certain in countenance. Her clothing is austere, a single broad sheet of thick white cloth wrapped about to make a suit that covers her from breast to knee. In the datasphere she bears the mark of the Department for Parachronotic Research and Retrieval on her brow and on her right hand. Her name is written in it. In detail she is obvious artifice, her body intersected by narrow lines of seams and joints, the fluid articulation of wrist and knee and ankle. Her hair is like gold thread, gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck and held in place by a drawing compass wrought from pale ceramic and platinum. Her claws are bright beads, her teeth soft-edged triangles. In the proper illumination it is clear that her body is hollow.
Integra read the Polychronicon wheels ago. But that is only a rumor.