Every specialization, strain and card in the game, straight from the game's own data. Filter by role to see only what matters to the colony you're building. Costs are in Biomass, the run's currency.
Nothing matches those filters.
A lean strain bred for one instinct: reach the enemy generator before anything reaches them.
A thick-membraned strain that plants itself and dares anything to get past.
Cut one loose and two grow back. This culture treats death as a chance to divide.
A weeping strain that leaves more damage behind than it deals up front.
A caretaker culture, more interested in mending the dish than fighting for it.
Thin-walled and short-lived, but it can lob a payload clear across the dish.
Patient and precise. It picks its target from across the slide and does not miss twice.
A restless culture that never stops dividing. Leave the dish overnight and it fills every corner.
Splitters spawn faster and leave four children, not two, each 10% smaller. Overwhelm with sheer numbers.
A crust-forming strain kept behind reinforced glass. Whatever it walls off, it keeps.
Walls are tougher and reflect damage. Outlast everything.
Cultured from a sample that consumed its neighbors, and it is across the slide before you look up.
Hunters hit 20% harder, carry 10% more health, and phase past the first taunt in their way. Race to their generators.
Cultured to feed on whatever it kills. The more it eats, the less it stops.
Hunters carry 20% more health and attack far faster, but move slower. Every hit one lands gives that cell +1 attack damage for the rest of the fight, and every kill heals it 10% of its health. Feed it a wall and it never stops growing.
Grown in the fume hood. Its byproducts outlast the colony that made them.
Every hit your Toxin cells land gasses everything standing beside them, and each one bursts when it dies. Attrition wins.
Touch it and you carry the burn home with you.
Your Toxin cells take an extra hit, and anything that lands a blow on them gets poisoned for the trouble. Your poison lingers longer, too. Hit them and regret it.
A cooperative culture that feeds its own. Starve it and it shares, wound it and it mends.
Starts with a healer that mends more, reaches further, and banks its wasted healing as bonus health, plus +1 Biomass a round. Out-scale them.
A caretaker culture that learned to close a wound by burning it shut. The dish goes quiet afterwards, and so does whatever was standing too near the work.
Your Menders fight through their own healing, scalding the nearest enemy every time they patch someone up. The harder they mend, the worse the burn.
A patient culture that plants itself between the wounded and everything else, and simply will not stop knitting shut.
Your Menders get 3 taunt range, reflect damage, regenerate 20% max health a second, and start with +30 health. Turn your healer into the wall.
Cultured behind blast glass and taught to keep its distance. It shells the far wall long before anything reaches it.
Starts with a Lobber that reaches further and takes a hit. Bombard them from range.
A spore sac that does not just land. It goes off wider and messier than it should.
Lobber splash reaches 1 tile further and hits 15% harder, plus +10 Lobber health. Blast a wider hole.
Slow, careful, in no hurry. It never fires at just one thing.
Stinger shots ricochet to a second enemy for 75% damage, searching 1 tile further. Every shot finds another mark.
It does not pick a target. It picks two.
Stingers attack 2 enemies at once. Nothing else. The double hit is the whole strain.
Grown to divide heavy. Every split leaves behind something that barely counts as smaller.
Splitters get +30% health and leave one child, not two, and it inherits 60% of your stats instead of the base 35%. Fewer, bigger.
A wall strain that does not so much die as calve. Break off a piece and the piece keeps standing.
When a Wall cell finally dies, one more Wall cell grows in its place. Outlast them twice.
No fixed shape. Whatever three specialists it becomes, it becomes them better.
Its three generators each specialize into a different role, and it does all of them a little better. A jack of three trades.
No fixed shape either, just thicker everywhere it goes.
Its three generators each specialize into a different role, every one of them thicker and harder to kill. Built to still be standing at the end.
A good harvest, banked fast.
The colony learns to heal between fights, not just during them.
Nothing is ever really bought. Only borrowed, and often returned.
Every membrane a little thicker than it needs to be.
Nothing touches your cells without carrying something back.
The colony stopped waiting to be hit first.
Death was never going to be quiet.
Loss is just fuel it hasn't burned yet.
The poison outlives the fight that started it.
The same dose, and a great deal less time to survive it.
Torn tissue closes before the next blow lands.
The colony mends itself in the gaps between blows.
The same cells, packed a little tighter than they need to be.
A fed colony does everything it does a little harder.
The nest grew a skin worth chewing through.
One more mouth to feed, every single time.
A healer that can see past the nearest wound.
The wall hits back before it even notices it's hitting.
The first taunt barely registers anymore.
The blast doesn't ask who's standing nearby.
The barb finds a second host on its way past.
They strike from a step further out than they should be able to.
The wall's pull reaches well past its arms.
When the walls fall, so does everything holding the swarm back.
Someone is always watching the gate.
A honed edge, grown for the kill.
The membrane thickens, and the world outside gets a little harder to reach.
A hardened shell grown over soft tissue.
Roots that reach deep, keeping the generator fed and standing.
Every strike lands a beat faster than the last.
Longer cilia make for a longer strike.
A richer feed, and every cell it touches grows stronger for it.
The generator swells, pushing out new cells faster than before.
All edge, no cushion. It trades its own membrane for a sharper blow.
A toxin bred into the cell itself, delivered with every touch.
Spines grown outward, so anything that presses in regrets it.
Mass for its own sake. It simply refuses to stop being there.
The cell forgets to rest between strikes.
Roots sunk so deep the generator forgets how to fall.
A denser broth for the healers to draw from.
Broth pushed past what the membrane can hold. The surplus clings to the outside and hardens.
The broth no longer soaks in. It sets, plate over plate, until the wound is armour.
Knitting a wound shut is a reaction, and this one runs hot. Every scrap of tissue it lays down sheds the heat somewhere, and the somewhere is whatever is standing closest.
The barb went into the broth whole and never dissolved. The wounds still close. Everything else in reach comes away scorched.
Tissue that knits itself shut, one second at a time.
Edges sharp enough to cut, thin enough to shatter.
A shell so heavy it forgets to hurry.
They hunt closer together, and closer together they hit harder.
Cilia that latch on and refuse to let go, dragging prey straight through the poison.
The generator stops pacing itself.
The top of its line. Bigger, sharper, and it knows it.
The strongest cell stops fighting for itself. The whole colony hardens under its reign.
An unstoppable mass that simply will not be ignored.
Faster in, faster out, gone before the dish notices.
A toxic bulwark that poisons all it draws in.
Bigger splitters leave bigger children.
A richer draw and a longer reach. The healer becomes something closer to a lifeline.
Heavy artillery that can take a hit.
One shot, further out, and it never needs a second.
Thorns grown thick enough to double as armor.
A softer target, and it makes sure everyone notices.
Dying only releases what it was holding back.
Every touch leaves something behind that keeps working long after.
Press against it and the wound presses back.
A cyst that seals over every wound almost as fast as it opens.
Even torn open, it has one more spore left to release.
It feeds on what it kills, and hunts stronger for it.
A culture that poisons everything it touches and detonates the rest on the way out.
Armor plated over a wound that never stops closing.
Its last act is the loudest: two heirs and a cloud of poison, all in the same breath.
It grows fat on every wound, its own and everyone else's.
It bleeds a stranger's strength into its own, and leaves one more toxin behind when it finally dies.
Its dying breath tends to the colony: one last child, one last mercy.
The old mother at the heart of the colony. Every child she leaves is nearly her equal.
What it sheds still has fight left in it.
Puncture it and the air itself turns hostile.
It doesn't just break. It goes off.
It doesn't just leak when it dies. It erupts.
A shell that seals its own cracks, given a moment's peace.
The shell and the flesh under it close their wounds together.
Layer on layer, until the shell stops being a shell.
It keeps one answer back, and saves it for the moment it fails.
Its last act isn't for itself. It's for whoever's still standing.
Every strike against it comes back twice: once from the spines, once from what's on them.
It leaves a mark on everything it touches, and one more spore when it finally goes.
It grows stronger with every kill, and answers every blow in kind.
It hunts alone, it walks through the wall sent to stop it, and it barely notices being hit.
Nothing that strikes it walks away clean, and its death is one last toxic word.
Where one shot used to be enough, now two land, and both leave poison behind.
The pack doesn't just hunt together anymore. Every bite it takes feeds the next one.
Its last act commits the whole colony: three heirs, kept safe under one final shell.
One wall stops answering for itself. It answers for everyone.
One healer's death used to be a loss. Now it's a promise kept to the whole hive.
No corner of the field is safe once the shelling saturates it.
The generator toughens where it keeps getting hit.
Roots braided into a wall, holding the generator up from below.
The crust grew barbs where the blows kept landing.
Every wound closes a little thicker than the last one.
The roots run down past the soil and set like stone.
A thickened membrane that pulls attackers in and holds.
The cell is gone. What it was carrying is not, and the agar remembers.
Ground you cannot cross is ground you do not hold.
The barb does not stop at the first membrane. It finds the next one, and the next.
Angles all the way down. Each carom is weaker and lands further out.
One shot, and the whole line goes down like a row of struck cultures.
Loss feeds what's left. The colony pushes harder when a generator falls.
The colony turns light into growth, round after round.
Your toxins outlive the cells that carried them.
The whole formation bristles now, not just the front line.
Every hunter sharpens the ones beside it.
The whole colony learns to divide one extra time.
Sugars break down in the dark, and the colony grows richer for it.
The whole colony shares in the healing now, not just the wounded.
Even in death, the colony has one more toxin to give.
Every death spawns new life and poisons whatever caused it.
The whole battery reaches further and hits harder.
Every stinger fires in tighter succession now.
A hardy mixed board holds together where a single specialty would crack.
A colony that specializes in everything trades any one edge for steady, compounding growth.
The wall holds the line and the healer keeps it standing.
What splits keeps multiplying, and the poison that lingers spreads with it.
Lob overhead while the line holds range on anything that closes in.
The rush needs a wall to launch from, and the wall needs something to launch.
Every wall in the colony locks into one unbroken line.
A board of nothing but splitters barely stops dividing.
A warm corner of the dish where every splitter raises its young a little larger.
Every toxin generator feeds the same outbreak.
Three hunters moving as one don't just chase. They corner.
A colony built around one purpose keeps everyone standing longer.
Enough lobbers and the whole board is inside their range.
One heal used to carry one lifeline. Now it carries two.
A colony built on three disciplines learns to shrug off a hit from any of them.
With enough wall to dig behind, the generators sit below the reach of the fight.
The wall does not just take the hit. It answers it.
A Lobber built for spread hits everything the blast reaches, not just the target.
A Mender's touch does not just close the wound. It flushes out whatever caused it.
A Hunter that has learned to read a stall. It slips past the first taunts and keeps running.
The colony stops fighting for the dish and starts fencing it off.
Three barbs in the air at once, and none of them travelling alone.
Once the colony pulls ahead, it pushes the lead further.
The colony holds its temper until the numbers turn against it.
Every generator waits for the first blow, then hardens as one.
A quick patch, held ready for the first hit that lands.
A lighter dose, held in reserve for the first sign of trouble.
The membranes wait for the first strike, then set hard around it.
The whole culture keeps building, waiting for its moment to surge.
A spore lies dormant at the generator wall, waiting for the first blow to land.