Yamiel "Yam" St. Sero

26

F

Human

The first thing you’ll notice is the skin. Gray like fresh concrete from head to toe, even the freckles on her face have turned into a pale black spatter. It makes the red of her hair seem more fiery, makes her sickly eyes shine like polished gold, and makes Yam physically upset every time she looks in the mirror, so try not to mention it.

Next you’ll smell the smoke—relax, it’s only cigarettes. There’s one in her mouth now, there was one in her mouth five minutes ago, and five minutes from now there’ll be another one. She’s polite, she won’t blow it in your face, but Arôme de Nicotine is a powerful perfume and it’s the only one she owns.

Suit, tie, boots, coat, you get the feeling she’d wear a mask or a full suit of armor if she could get away with it. Some demons, especially ones who get cursed down to size, can be touchy about their earth-side appearances, but that’s not the case with Yam. She’s all human. Yep, check it again: Human. That’s not her skin, that’s her contract. It’s probably the worst ink job in New Helle; no artistry, no flourish, nothing but a blackout—well, grayout—nightmare.

It's easier to tell under the clothes. Pull up her sleeves, you’ll see some of her mom’s handywork: a webwork of curses, sigils, whatever the fuck those Hexen weirdos call it, Yam’s body is rife with them. They're like the tattoos on top of the tattoo, they even move. Creepy shit. You don’t see that much, cursed humans, but there’s something going on with that contract of hers that makes it necessary.

Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds. She’s a little touchy, a little temperamental, but her heart’s in the right place. Not in her job, holy shit no; it was pulling teeth dragging her back into the fold and she’s practically got it in her contract that she won’t get within a thousand feet of her mother. I meant her heart—when it’s actually her heart—isn’t as hellfire as she might put on. Buy her a drink, carry a lighter, you’ll get on fine.

Saliel St. Sero is the real deal. God knows what they feed the Hexen, but they’re on some Be-Not-Afraid, Keep-My-Glock-At-The-Vatican, Angel-Blood-In-My-Cereal type shit. Name any bigshot demon walking around New Helle, and chances are they’ve got Saliel’s work on them somewhere.

Some thirty years ago, before she was that good, she met a demon who, like every demon the Hexen meet, wanted into New Helle. By and large, the Hexen aren’t a personable sort; in the same way you don’t make small talk with the TSA, demons don’t generally get chatty with the people in charge of cursing them. But this one was different. He talked plenty, asked questions about Saliel’s life, her job, her hobbies, and when she proved unreceptive to conversation, he introduced himself.

His name was Bel, and he did not want to be cursed. Refused it outright, in fact. He wanted into New Helle, but by now means would he allow Saliel or any other Hexen to curse him. This was, of course, incredibly illegal and Saliel, being a perfectly dedicated rising-star, denied him entry. Bel left, and there were no hard feelings.

Then he came back, making the same request. Again she denied him, and again he left. And came back. And left. And came back. And came back. And came back.

Eventually Saliel’s superiors looked into him, and found nothing. No Bel, no demons who knew Bel, or at least no demons who would talk about him if they did. He had made no threats, given no outright indication that he meant harm should they continue to deny his entry, and so it was decided that he was a nobody, and whatever reasons he had for lying about his identity didn’t concern the Bureau until he agreed to their terms. Saliel thought differently. Bel was polite, but in his presence she felt a distinct danger, a tension that wafted off him like smoke. He wanted something in New Helle, and while he was patient now, she had a feeling he would not be patient forever.

Sure enough, after almost five years of their routine, and an avalanche of promotions for Saliel, Bel showed disappointment for the first time. A frown, a twitch in the eye, and as he turned his back Saliel knew, somehow, that the next time he returned there would be no talking.

So she stopped him. She pulled the demon aside, they talked briefly, shook hands, and then he left. She never saw him again.

Smash cut, seventeen years later and Yamiel St. Sero has graduated highschool, on track to join the family business. Saliel was an unfair advantage; not for nepotism’s sake, but because there were few fiercer instructors than Mother St. Sero, and Yam had spent every year since her tenth birthday in the classroom of their home.

New Helle itself was also a teacher. Yam grew up alongside demons, half-demons, and humans with demonic predilections. She came to know the city’s streets well, to understand the tumultuous nature of its social contracts, to see how vice and virtue were so intricately woven together here. Sin was familiar to her, but she had a family and goals to keep her in line.

For a while, anyway.

Eventually, and to no one’s surprise, Yam joined the Hexen’s ranks. She had a wonderful six years of service, conjuring, tweaking, and replacing curses on demonkind both at the portal, or when necessary—and with supervision—in The Pit. She had her mother’s fortitude, which came in handy when her job put her on the bad side of Hell’s less-enthusiastic travelers. She got good at staring back, good at not flinching, not giving into the urge to conversate. She was on track to becoming as frigid and unlikeable as her mom, in a good way.

Then, one day on the job, she met Bel.

He approached her while she was alone, and was incredibly pleasant. They chatted for a while, she told him about her life, her job, her hobbies, and he artfully avoided any similar inquiries about himself. When it was time to leave, she said goodbye and he did not reciprocate. Instead, he offered his hand, and not wanting to be rude, she shook it.

She’s not sure how long she was out, but when she woke up she was in a hospital with her mother sat beside her. Oh, and her skin was gray. And she was covered in cursework—familiar, St. Sero cursework. An uncomfortable and inevitable conversation followed.

On the list of things you don’t wait for your kid to find out on their own, somewhere between “you’re adopted” and “I used to do porn” is, “I contracted you to a demon before you were born.”

Yam was dumbstruck; her mother had promised Bel her first born out of, what, fear? Risk aversion? What was worse, Saliel wasn’t nearly as sorry as she was proud—of herself. Bel had only asked for the contract, maybe assuming he could somehow use Yam to circumvent the Hexen, but had made no stipulation preventing them from cursing her. By his own word now he was trapped, having vowed never to darken New Helle’s door if the deal was held. It was, in Saliel’s opinion, and evidently the opinion of the Hexen, a decisive victory.

Yam agreed. She congratulated her mother, discharged herself from the hospital, and then promptly quit the Hexen and ran away. Unfortunately, when you belong to a small family under the Bureau’s protection, you don’t really get to disappear. What you get is the illusion of freedom, behind which a system of constant surveillance and protection waits to pounce and shatter any ideas you might have had of living your own life after being betrayed by the people you loved and trusted.

Yam figured this out when the city’s syndicates eventually realized there was a Hexen in the wind. Most steered clear, except for the Children of Helle. Whether they meant to ransom her, use her to lift curses, or just kill her for what her family had done, no one knew. In the end, it didn’t matter; the Bureau swooped in and snatched her up, at which point she was given a choice: go back out onto the streets, and pretend she didn’t know she was living under a microscope, or join up with the Bureau, where she might at least find some semblance of independence.

It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was a simple one.

Once, Yam was a rising star among the Hexen. That was before the curses. Now her skills are restrained, her ability to weave intricate seals bottlenecked by her mother’s nigh-unbreakable work. She can still untangle curses well enough, still knows the practice like the back of her hand, and while that comes in handy against the occasional talisman, it's not what her family trained her for.

Her real abilities lie in her contract with Bel. The tattoo covering her entire body isn’t just for show, it’s part of the pact. Most demon contracts will grant things like hellborn strength, the ability to breathe fire, or conjure golems of brimstone. Yam didn’t make her own contract though, Bel did, and what Bel wanted was access to New Helle. In a way, despite Saliel’s efforts, he got what he wanted.

Yam can transform any part of her body into Bel’s. Her arms can become his arms, his eyes her eyes, etcetera, etcetera. She came to understand quickly that the narrow, polite man she had met in Hell proper was not Bel’s true form. In reality his skin is scaly, immensely durable and incredibly strong. His claws can break stone and rend metal, his legs can leap great, powerful bounds, his eyes can see much more sharply than her own. Even restrained by Saliel’s cursework, the power afforded to her by their contract was enough to bring Yam into Section 7’s field team, and to this day she's still discovering the extent of her patron's twisted abilities.

Mostly, she uses it to smoke with his lungs.

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Alphard

24

Male

Demon

Alphard is not especially tall at 5’8, nor does he strike an intimidating figure or is otherwise particularly remarkable. In New Helle, he can blend in as the perfectly average demon, which is a-okay with him. His distinguishing features are a dull slate blue complexion, a bird’s nest of black hair flying whichever way, a pair of stately horns curling above his head despite which he still manages to appear entirely nonthreatening, and a 3’3 spiked lizard tail sprouting from his behind. His skin is smooth and supple, though touching it reveals it to feel thicker than one would expect. The only place on his body where he has actual scales, however, is from the top of his tailbone to the tip of his tail, the sturdy black plaiting covering the upper side of his rear appendage. He is rail thin, his limbs long and gangly, as if he hasn’t yet properly grown into his frame. He shows hints of a wiry musculature in his arms and thighs. There is a certain awkwardness about his movements, mostly when he starts paying too much attention to himself or is otherwise discomfited. In contrast, when he is caught in daydreaming, thinking, or absorbed in a project, he is wholly at ease.

Alphard’s youth is apparent in his boyish face, a pep in his step, and a glimmer in his bright green eyes yet unextinguished by the world’s woes and cruelties. He is quite animated; not only are his facial expressions revealing, so are his posture, his gestures, his tail, and his elongated, pointy ears. Awkward smiles and nervous laughter are one of his remedies for anxiety. He is quick to blush, yet despite his emotional side, he almost never cries. His teeth may be sharp, but his tongue is very much not; he prefers to keep peace, may occasionally try to mediate, but will likely withdraw into himself when things (or rather, people) get too much for him. He enjoys casual touch, and can be rather affectionate, though shyness and respect for others’ boundaries often keep him from being the one to initiate such. His earnest attitude is reflected in his apparel. At work, he wears trousers, a formal shirt, and even a tie. Yet, his desire for coolness adds a few personal touches: pierced ears, a leather bangle here, a ribbon or two on his tail there, and a snazzy jacket or a long coat to spruce up.

Two demons, young and ambitious, sensed boundless opportunity when the portal to Earth opened. Each followed their hearts, pursuing power, passion, potential. They met in New Helle by chance, entangling each other in a whirlwind of romance and desire. That is how Alphard came to be: a child born to a couple who didn’t quite know what to do with a baby. They did what was in for the noveau riche, and hired a nanny. Still, over time and exposure, the kid grew on them, and each started taking notice of him in their own way. There was always a bit of a disconnect, but despite some dysfunctionality, they were overall a loving family.

From Al’s perspective, he always used to run after his parents as a youngster, seeking their attention. His dad was the first to cave in, starting to teach him martial arts around the time he started elementary. Despite his father’s grand ideas how his son might take after him, and follow in his footsteps, it never panned out for the young boy. Alphard still vividly remembers how during one of their training sessions, his dad told him he couldn’t win if he didn’t hit back.

“But I don’t want to hurt you,” he’d replied earnestly.

His father had laughed it off, but looking back on it, Al’s sure that’s when his dad had given up on the fantasy of his son being the legacy he’d imagined. He’d never given up on his progeny though, and Al appreciated the time they’d spent together. If only it hadn’t been cut short…

As for his mother, Alphard found her world far more distant that even his father’s. She enjoyed theatrics, aided people as much as she misled them, was dazzling, convivial, and charming. Whether moody seances or glittering parties, Al couldn’t relate to any of it, didn’t fit in at all. Despite their magic sharing some similarities, they were as disparate as could be. Yet, Al formed his own dream of helping others because of her. He never understood her selfishness nor she his altruism, yet he was willing to learn and she to teach.

His life was peaceful until it wasn’t.

One day, his parents attended one of those luxurious cruises they enjoyed so much. Only his mother returned alive. His father had supposedly died in an accident. Now in his late adolescence, Alphard wasn’t naïve enough to buy that. He’d heard the rumours, had his own suspicions. When his father’s body was returned a day later in a coffin, he begged, pleaded with, and otherwise wheedled his mom into calling up his deceased spirit to get the truth. His mother hemmed and hawed, hesitating so much, he ended up accusing her of being his killer in an exceptionally rare moment of irrational anger.

The truth was almost worse.

His mother, his father’s wife – she’d accepted being paid off not to look into anything too hard. Patiently and carefully, she explained to his son that the people who may or may not have been responsible for his father’s death were simply too powerful to go against. That making too much of a fuss would see them much worse off, so why not take at least why they could get out of it? A little bit of a blood money as a silver lining. Al couldn’t accept that reasoning, it was so utterly alien, so incomprehensible to him.

In the end, seeing how important it was to him, his mother did channel her magic to summon his father’s lingering spirit. Unfortunately, he did not have much tangible information to go off of. It seemed he had been drugged, so what the spirit conveyed was muddled at best. Nonetheless, Al put together his very own case file…Just in case some time in the future, it might come in handy.

The whole experience made him even keener on the idea of helping people, pursuing justice, and solving crimes. As soon as he was out of high school, he signed up for BPS’s training academy. After a year, he was drafted into service. Having the choice between a few sections, he joined up with Section 4. While he did not trust Section 5, he was the first one to volunteer for any joint operations with them.

Whether it was his dedication or a couple of lucky breaks to his name, there was something about his work which drew Chief Armand’s attention to him. Since a year ago, he has been a member of Section 7.

Alphard has a sharp, analytical mind, is detail-oriented, good at noticing things, and has experience finding the lost, forgotten, or the purposefully hidden. Whether it’s luck or misfortune, he has quite the talent for sniffing out trouble of the kind that is especially relevant to Section 7. While he’s too honest for his own good, his anxious mannerisms may occasionally inadvertently mask his underlying motives and agendas. Al’s got a knack for being underestimated and/or appearing harmless, which he knows how to take advantage of when it happens. Despite his awkwardness, he is surprisingly proficient at spotting lies, deception, and other forms of manipulation.

Physically, his demon blood offers few advantages. He is fairly agile, and while his strength is comparable to a human’s, his tail is a rather powerful limb. He is extremely tough, able to take a good beating before he goes down. His leather-like skin has a slight innate resistance to being cut. He can scale walls vertically, and could even cling to the ceiling for a while. He could detach his tail if he really, really had to. Regrowing it would take a hell of a time, though.

He has had some hand-to-hand training; he can read opponents’ movements well, and is excellent at evasion. However, don’t expect him to be the one dishing out damage – he isn’t a frontline fighter. In combat, he acts as the support, prioritizing defense, distraction, and assistance. He has also learned how to use a pistol in the BPS’s basic firearms course.

Of all his skills, his magic is his most used and well-developed. He is a psychic specialized in teleportation with a dash of psychometry. He can teleport only whole objects or people – so, no rupturing or breaking things apart with his power. He can move multiple objects at a time, and in fact, when he reads something or someone as one entity (e.g. a person and the items on them), he cannot separate them at will. For example, if he wants to disarm someone with the powers of his mind, he has to spot or create an actual opportunity, much as someone would when trying to do so physically. His teleportation is largely based on his ability to visualize. The Hexen’s curse also places reasonable limitations on the size, weight, and distance of what he can teleport from where and to where.

His psychometry is far less reliable. He can read objects, and more significant events are more likely to remain imprinted on something, but whether he gets the information desired out of something is very hit and miss. The more details he has about what he’s looking for, the greater the chance to get the target intel, but there is never any guarantee. It is also pretty much a one-and-done thing – whatever he gets on the first reading is what he has to work with. However, if enough time passes, or new key events occur to, in or near objects, he can attempt another reading. Given his line of work, the memories and sensations he obtains are often traumatic and painful, affecting his ability to clearly parse what happened. Perhaps it is a result of the curse/blessing or a self-defense mechanism, but the impressions he obtains psychically gradually fade from his memory.

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