A composed deck reads as blank.
An outline becomes slides in a second: one per row, each on a layout the product chose, on your theme, with your headings in place. That is a framework wearing the right tokens. A cover is the cover layout at the cover size whatever the title says; a slide about one number is a numeral placeholder until someone fills it in. Nothing is wrong with it and nobody would present it.
The design import taught us what a deck looks like when a model designs every slide from scratch and the reader turns the result into native elements: it looks like a deck. So that is what happens next, in-app, with nothing changing hands but the clipboard.
The language, then the plan.
One call reads the brief, the kit and the theme’s direction line and decides the language of the deck: the palette and how it is used, the type scale, the motifs every slide shares, which slides sit on the reversed ground. With every slide in view it also writes a plan — for each beat, the composition it will get and whether a photograph or a drawing is coming. The plan is what makes twelve separately drawn slides read as one deck, and it is the first thing you see.
The plan, one row per slide: the outline’s title, the composition the designer chose, and what picture is coming.
Every slide at once.
The slides are drawn in parallel, each from its row of the plan, the language, and what that slide has to say. The prompt is the one the design import hands out for use elsewhere, and the reader is the same one: text arrives as editable text on the deck’s type styles, a box as a shape, a rule as a line, a drawing as a picture. A slide that comes back empty is asked for once more. Because nothing lands one slide at a time, the wait shows phases and a clock rather than a strip filling slide by slide — that strip would be a lie.
The judge, and one revision.
The drawn set is read into native slides and reviewed against the deck’s own rules — the same review that flags a broken slide in the editor. A slide that fails it outright, or that ran past its share of the file, is refused; the designer is told which and why, and revises those once. Something it could not translate is not a refusal: it lands on the slide, flagged, for you to replace, because a designed slide with one flag is worth more than a composed one standing in for it. A slide that still fails after the revision keeps its composed version. Every slide is either designed or plainly not yet; none is half-designed.
While it draws.
The composed deck is words and figures a person cannot tell from finished work, so while the designer is at it the deck is a wait page rather than the editor. It shows the only true things there are: the run’s phases with a clock, and the plan, one row per slide. On Home the deck’s card says DESIGNING. If you want to work now, a door opens the editor anyway, with hairlines on the slots still to come, and a slot you edit is kept when the designer lands.
The run does not need you. Close the tab; it lands anyway, and the deck opens designed an hour later like any deck. When it cannot land, the page says why and offers the outline deck.
The phases, as the wait and the agent’s thread both report them once they are over.
Afterwards.
What lands is a deck, not a render. Every heading is text on the deck’s type styles, every box a shape, every picture a picture you can swap; the agent in the thread says how it went, and each change you ask for from here is a proposal you apply one step at a time. The kit is as it was. And the version called Composed is in History, one click from being the deck again, for the day the designer’s taste and yours disagree.