Interactions: Who is the Heal Stealing SOB? @Blizz Team Aggro Elysium Island (Team Aggro)
Sully cracked his knuckles as the squad was teleported onto Elysium Island. He had given more preparation for this one moment right here than anything in his life, like, upwards to two and a half hours of planning. Sully righted his cowboy hat, cleared his throat, and…he needed a quick refresher. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and reread through the spiel, mumbling under his breath as the other teams grouped up and marched off. He tucked the paper away. Right. Now was his time to shine. Sully cleared his throat, pointed a finger in the air, and—“Alright, no speech,” said Ruby. A little croak eked out of Sully’s throat as his finger fell limp, Ruby inadvertently clamping down on the rousing speech he had prepared for the troops, his shoulders dropping as he deflated. He had transcribed that whole speech off of Youtube. It had taken multiple rewatches. All of his data, wasted.
And then machine guns started popping, shit started exploding, and he ducked for cover.
Little bits of mansion rained down on his back like the fragments of artillery shells as the high pitched ringing in Sully’s ears began to balance out. He blinked rapidly, the blindness from Jess calling down the fucking sun to nuke the mansion slowly fading away and revealing the destruction before them, spots of colorful lights still dancing in his vision as his stomach dropped. Sully had heard about Greenwood’s past run-in with the haters around St. Portwell since joining them, but his experiences with them had mostly been kicking it around a campfire, getting stoned, and listening to bad music from the nineties. Even in his one actual altercation with Greenwood at his back Sully had been too busy getting his ass kicked to ever really pay attention to how they operated, but he’d always assumed it was a little more…plucky, lighthearted hijinxs.
Like, even with Das Sonnerad he’d been under the idea that, with the exception of James defending himself against a neonazi prick, 8th Street had done the wetwork while Greenwood had been going around putting bananas in tailpipes and little sleeping nazi hands in glasses of warm water. Sully blinked away the stars, thinking that the mostly destroyed mansion would suddenly be rebuilt as he stopped imagining things. He wiped his eyes. Nope, still fucked. His breath quickened. Okay, okay, okay, so Jess had just orbital striked a building full of rich people eating cocktail shrimp and playing hide the sausage. Cool, cool, cool, okay, they were probably all bad and working with neonazis and child soldier mafias and there definitely wasn’t, like, a single, innocent cleaning lady or cook in the bunch. Sully gave a sniffled grunt as he stifled the urge to cry.
“Whaddafuckkkk, whaddafuckkkkkk…” hissed Sully. What the fuck was he doing here? He was just some dumbass with a sippy cup. He couldn’t drop nukes. "Come on, Aggro! You bastards wanna live forever?" Yeah, Leon, man, actually that sounded great! Sully watched as Kenshiro and Drake did some supercombo and dusted a whole buncha zombies. Sully couldn’t do that shit, man! He could toss water on somebody’s crotch and make it look like they pissed themselves, maybe splash a little lava around and oh great there’s a fucking lava giant so he’s even useless there COME ON, MAN! WHADDAFUCK!!
"Sully! Olivia! Somebody! Bring your asses over here!"
Hearing his name pulled Sully out of his shock, his head whipping over towards Ruby’s voice to see that Jess was half-cooked. HIs brain chalked up its hands, grabbed ahold of the still rings, and did a couple of backflips to draw up the conclusion that, nah, Greenwood weren’t actually way too extreme for him after all and that the mansion was just a monster closet full of zombies, primordials, and Wish dot com mobsters. Jess was his friend, she needed help, and only Sully could help her. Well, only Sully or Olivia. Nobody else. Well, one of the Amara clones probably knew first aid. So only Sully, Olivia, Amara clone, plus maybe Ken had a weird frog that could also heal. Okay, so only Sully, Olivia, Amara clone with a medkit, anime frog, oh, and Leon had some goop too, so really, it was only Sully, Olvia, Medkit Amara, Nurse Frog, Leon’s Hot Mom’s Goop, and that was it.
That was all that could save Jess.
Nothing else.
Not one more thing.
Sully grabbed the Soakem Mk V , rolled onto his back, and started pumping hard, building up the pressure needed to deliver the perfect sniper blast of heal juice straight to Jess. He rolled back onto his stomach, tucked the massive super soaker around one of Stormy’s barriers, and steadied his aim. Locked in. He squeezed the trigger and a fart of air came out. Sully cursed, realizing the elixir had disappeared, and rolled back over. In one sloppy motion that got his shirt drenched with elixir he filled the chamber back up with the Chalice, pressed in the plastic stopper, rolled over once again, and—
“Oh come the fuck on!” bellowed Sully.
He punched Stormy’s barrier as some nerd in—what was that, a bunny mask or some shit?—jumped out of nowhere, chucked a healing stick into Jess, and then jumped back into nowhere after firing off a bunch of sick shots from a bow and arrow. Utterly defeated, was about to roll behind his barrier as a cobwebbed covered light bulb flicked on in his head. If video games had taught him one thing, it was that the undead were allergic to health potions. Shifting up to a knee, Sully unleashed a streaming, high powered torrent of elixir over the killing fields, letting out a feral yell as zombie after zombie after zombie got a little wet. The yell died off into a whimper as Sully, utterly defeated, rolled back behind his barrier. Was he just cursed to wait for someone to almost die before being useful?
No! He had one more hidden technique! Clapping his hands loudly, Sully started up a cheer for his boy. Nothing made another man push harder than the fighting spirit given to him by a pack of cheerleaders rooting him on and, well, with all of Sycamore’s cheerleaders dead or missing in action it fell on Sully to carry on the legacy of the pom pom.
“L! E! Ooooooouhh,” Sully realized they were wearing masks for a reason. He pivoted with a clap clap, stick ducked safely behind his barrier as he cheered. “F! F-U! Eff who!? Zombie nazis! F! F-U! Eff who!? Magma bitches! F! F-U! Eff who…”
And so on until, hopefully, someone got shot or third-degree lava burns, utterly unaware that in all of the chaos someone already needed him, a small path cut clear between Sully and Liz by Jasper's painted automaton.
Interactions: The Breaking & Entering Bengal@Fernstone South Side, The Circle, David Smith’s House
It was so odd. Paloma used to think one of the many, many, manymanymany awful things about living in Cloverfield’s sprawl was the rudeness, impatience, and cold indifference of its denizens. Now, there was almost a kind of novel appeal, a nostalgic charm, when someone spoke to Paloma in a way that wasn’t doting or cloying polite. Almost. She still kind of hated it. She popped her gum and gave a little shrug as Vin turned to her with a look of annoyance. At least Paloma assumed it was a look of annoyance. Cats were hard to read.
“Oh, me? I’m just from the neighborhood,” said Paloma innocently lying as she gestured vaguely to somewhere over there. As if she were rich enough to live in the Circle. Owning a house? Pshaw! What was she, a millionaire? She could barely afford to live in an apartment by herself out in Jungleland, the locals name for the Westwood neighborhood that was so bad it made the rest of the South look like the North. It made her wonder what this David Smith did for a living? Nothing honest, judging by the kind of dangerous company that came to his door.
Her eyelids fluttered rapidly and her face looked as if she were attempting to suppress a sneeze as, unbeknownst to her, Vin’s spell detected the Samaritan within her. It was a good thing that Paloma was still so unattuned to actual magic. The Samaritan was her little secret, one she was deeply worried about getting out; there were all kinds of horrible, awful people out there that would abuse such a thing. She would’ve been pretty upset if she realized that Vin had sniffed it out, like, the nerve of some people. Just sticking their nose in business that wasn’t their own. So rude! Who would dare do such a thing?
Anyway, before Paloma just wanted a word with David Smith. Now, with the way Vin was talking, she was just dying to know what Gideon’s men wanted with the guy. It had to be something totally scandalous if they were possibly going to whack him, not realizing that the danger Vin was referencing weren’t them but the thing inside of Mr. Smith’s house.
“The boss doesn’t have to know anything. It could be our little secret,” said Paloma, biting her tongue to stop the urge of asking what they wanted with David Smith anyway.
She took a few more cautionary steps forward, stopping several arms lengths away as the tiger fixed her with a glare and holding up a handle signaling that she was no threat. With the thin line of guiding light from the Messiah Complex still threading around the weretiger’s tail, Paloma was confident that the Samaritan would protect her from anything that the thugs thought about throwing at her. She just didn’t want to deal with the fallout of what came after she was protected by Everyone’s Sweetheart. Plus, the Samaritan was persistent that Vin needed help with something. Finding an affordable tailor, perhaps, given how agitated they seemed to become when the limited wardrobe was brought up.
A funny little look crossed Paloma’s face as Vin told her not to scream or she'll regret it. She turned her head to look down the street and gave a theatrical inhale. Depending on how quick the cat was they might have a chance to react, but the aura would see to it that Paloma would be protected and able to scream. Only, the scream never came as a word that Vin said clamped a hand over Paloma’s mouth: It. Her scream would alert It. Not Mr. Smith. Not him. It. Weretigers were a known entity with pictures and stat blocks that she had seen while thumbing through monster manuals. Its were unknown, and unknowns could actually be dangerous.
The playful light dimmed in Paloma’s eyes as she stared at Vin with narrowing pupils. Hear her scream? Surely, it would’ve already heard the door be kicked in. A part of her wanted to run, but she couldn’t let herself come to a dead end with her one and only lead. Pieces of what Vin had said earlier—here to check up on you, it ain’t safe here, assumin’ he’s still alive,— rotated and clicked into place. Maybe they weren’t just some thugs sent to hurt David Smith after all. Maybe it was quite the opposite.
“What do you mean by it?” she asked, her squeak dropping to that of a mouse trapped in a corner between a bookshelf and a wall with a housecat fishing at it with its paws. No, if there was still a chance that Mr. Smith was okay then there wasn't any time for explanations.
"Nevermind. Mr. Smith needs help, right?” Paloma attempted to slip by Vin, who depending on their intention would easily be able to stop her from rushing ahead, and called out into the home, raising her voice, “Mr. Smith!?"
Even if Vin hadn’t tried to stop her, Paloma would’ve halted anyway in the entrance hall as her voice expanded her aura out through the home with no new trails of light appearing, her eyes widening at the sound of something shuffling from the other room.
The Evergreen Commons Apartment Complex, South Side, Westwood “Jungleland” Sunday Evening, An Ungodly Hour
The sound of shattering glass and blaring car horn beat Paloma’s alarm by five minutes this evening, interrupting the marathon shouting match started by the neighbors two apartments down that had already pulled her back into a semiconscious fugue state. Paloma groaned and reached for her phone, hissing like a vampire that had stepped into sunlight as the screen lit up her room like the flash that comes with the dropping of a megaton bomb. The hissing noise became a steaming shower head, a staccato shout of alarm squeaking out of Paloma as the hot water ran out and she ran out of the shower, hitting her shin on the edge of the tub with a clunk. The broken toaster clunked as the mechanism to eject the homemade bread got stuck as Paloma, back turned with a towel wrapped around her hair as she put the final touches of freshly cut strawberries on top of Barbie pink cupcakes, head turning as she sniffed.
A half-eaten burnt piece of toast was carried in Paloma’s mouth as she left her apartment and entered the hall, precariously trying to balance a tri-stack of glass containers with one hand and her knee as she locked her door. The shouting was clearer out in the graffitied hall, a crying baby joining the chorus as the slamming of something on the ceiling from the floor below became the beat. Shifting the weight of the baked goods as her eyes watered at the acrid taste of the remnants of burnt rye mixed unfortunately with the fresh stick of cinnamon gum, Paloma popped a pair of earphones in and set the mood for her hike to work as she ignored the wisp of luminescence as she stepped over the body of a drunk man sleeping in the hall. She hummed along to the music, an off-rhythm thunk causing her to turn her head and giving her just the right amount of a heads up to dodge with deftness as the door of the shouting neighbors burst open and a large man bowled through the frame.
His face red with anger, a strand of light tugging on his collar as another roped through the door towards the voice shouting over Paloma’s music. The tension in the man’s face dropped as he saw Paloma, the rage becoming embarrassment as his eyes followed hers down to the bleeding cuts on his knuckles. He began uttering some kind of apology and asking her if she was okay. Paloma leaned her head to the side to look into the apartment, catching sight of a red-faced woman holding a now screaming baby and noting the dent in the drywall, the woman’s eyebrows raising and a smile coming on her face as she waved to Paloma and said good evening. The screaming baby immediately stopped as Paloma said evening back, turning to Paloma and starting to reach towards her as he cooed and drooled on his shirt. Paloma’s face brightened as she gave the baby a little wave and received a giggle in response, her smile dampening as she noticed the lights leashed around the mother and son as they had also been around the father.
“I don’t have time for this, Sam,” muttered Paloma to herself as she dipped out of view of the doorframe. The man said something to her, prompting Paloma to pull out one of her earphones. “Huh?”
“I said it’s Matt, but you can call me Sam if you want,” said Matt. “You going to work, Paloma?”
“Matt? Matt? You should offer to give her a ride,” said the woman’s voice around the corner
“That’s what I’m doing here!”
“It’s dangerous for a young woman to be walking out there by herself.”
“I know! Dammit, Mickie, that’s why I’m going to fucking ask her. Stop butting in all the time. You always butt in. You always do that shit!” yelled Matt, anger resurfacing.
“Why are you being such a fucking asshole?” yelled the woman.
“Oh, let’s, um, let’s maybe stop yelling yeah? It’s cool, really. I actually enjoy the walk. Need the exercise, y’know?” said Paloma.
“Are you sure, Paloma? It’s no issue at all,” said Matt, the anger gone in an instant.
“You should invite her over to have dinner, Matt!” hollered the woman. “Show her that we can be neighborly!”
“She’s right, Paloma, you should really come over sometime. Mickie might be a,” the veins in his forehead popped as he screamed and turned his head back towards the apartment, “STUPID! FUCKING! BITCH!” His voice softened as he turned back to Paloma, “But she makes an absolutely killer veggie lasagna.”
Paloma let out a nervous laugh, “Oh, yeah, um, maybe, not tomorrow, but, yeah, I guess, another time, look, I really have to go if I want to catch the ferry.”
“Oh, okay, yeah, some other time,” said Matt, stepping back into the apartment. He started closing the door then paused, “You sure you don’t want that ride?”
“Thank you, you’re very sweet, but I’m sure,” said Paloma.
She gave Matt a kind smile that faded as she turned and heard the sound of the apartment door latching. Within a few steps the shouting match was back on and the kid was crying yet again. Paloma shook her head and went to replace her earphone, but the subject had changed from whatever they were arguing about to now Matt and Mickie arguing about Paloma. She couldn’t help but listen in. Matt was shouting about Mickie trying to drag their annoying and nosy neighbor into his business while Mickie shouted about Matt trying to screw the stupid slut right in front of her. Paloma’s jaw hung open as their conversation centered around absolutely trashing her, united in their hate yet still going at each other’s throats. Paloma closed her mouth and shook her head. It didn’t matter what they thought of her, really. She should just move on.
Moments later, she was knocking on their door.
Mickie opened it. She looked positively delighted to see the woman she thought was trying to steal her man. Paloma smiled at her, a look of mischief in her eyes as she pushed past the woman and entered the apartment. There was no resistance to the trespass, Mickie almost absentmindedly giving Paloma permission to enter as the young woman stepped by. Her eyes scanned the one bedroom apartment. Identical to hers, but feeling so much more cramped thanks to the addition of an entire of another person’s shit, the pack and play, and other baby bullshit taking up half of the living room. Matt looked up from the sink where he was wrapping his hand in a dirty towel and gave Paloma a warm regard as she set her cupcakes down on the folding card table that was stacked with dirty dishes, overflowing ashtrays, sliced rubber bands knotted together and burnt silverware.
She was happy to be wearing gloves as she reached out and grabbed an empty syringe off the ground, going the extra mile to add a second degree of separation by picking it up with a tissue from her pocket instead of directly with her gloves. Mickie stammered something about Matt having diabetes and needing insulin shots. Paloma shrugged, not really caring. Paloma tossed the syringe and tissue into the sink in front of Matt, wiping her hand on his shirt. She moved towards the crib and kneeled down over the baby boy. She carefully pulled off her gloves, set them on the floor, and lifted the child. Paloma wiggled a discolored finger in front of his face as she bounced him with one arm, pulling the finger back as he reached for it and letting him grab onto a handful of hair instead, wincing as he gave it a tug. She turned to the parents, cradling the baby. Instincts pulled at both of them to confront the stranger who had just grabbed their child, but they were unable to make such a move, the air of ease around Paloma telling them that they could trust her—or rather, forcing them to feel so.
“He’s a cutie. What’s his name?” asked Paloma.
“Michael,” said Mickie.
“Michael,” said Paloma, making faces at the baby to get him to giggle. Michael. The deck had been stacked hard against the kid. What a fucking lame name. If the kid didn’t already have it bad enough with these two as his parents, he was now forever going to be a Michael, a Mike, or, god forbid, a Mikey. She watched as the guiding light of the Samaritan winded its way around Mikey like a snake. What the hell could she do about his life? Call child protective services and shunt the kid into foster care purgatory, gambling on the odds that he winds up in a better situation than a worse one? This was unfair. She wasn’t the one who got knocked up. He wasn’t her responsibility. The light around Michael intensified as it corded around the child’s neck.
“I already told you, Sam. Cut that crap out. Be realistic,” she sighed. The light died as Paloma put Michael back in the crib, staring down at him with stars in her eyes. She pinched his little foot as her stomach tightened and cramped. She never should’ve entered the apartment. “You’re going to break a lot of hearts, cutie.”
Paloma walked back to the table, grabbed her cupcakes, and stared at Matt and Mickie who were looking at her dumbly. It was a common look Paloma had experienced since becoming Everyone’s Sweetheart, the look of someone who should’ve been pestered by her that instead was forced to be delighted, the mental hoops that they had to jump through to come to that conclusion temporarily short circuiting the brain. Or perhaps they were just high and she had failed to notice, distracted at first by the juxtaposition between their shifting rage and adoration. She could help them. She could change things. But it wasn’t her choice to make, was it?
“It’s late. The two of you should be more considerate to your neighbors and keep it down,” said Paloma, her Good Influence putting its hand on the back of their heads and nodding them up and down.
A frail gesture at being a good neighbor which did little to ease the bubbling anxiety in her chest, but at least the rest of the building would have a quieter, more peaceful night. Paloma sighed as she left the apartment and closed the door, snapping the piece of gum in her mouth. The voices no longer carried through the walls. She caught the eye of an old woman peering through a gap in her door, the chain latch still in place so that it could be opened no further, another nosey neighbor curious to see what all the shouting had been about. The old woman gave her a big, dentured smile as Paloma closed the distance to the gap, seizing the opportunity to cure herself of that creeping feeling of guilt that was mixing poorly with the burnt toast in her belly.
“You won’t believe what I just saw,” said Paloma, cupping a hand up to her mouth as she leaned forward and gave the old woman the dirt on Matt and Mickie. The old woman’s eyes were wide by the time Paloma finished up, “...It’s so sad, really. Oh well, what can be done, right?”
There. Paloma felt a weight lift off of her shoulders. It was the old bat’s responsibility now.
It was quite the hike to the ferry. With the dark settling fully over the broken shell of a city that made up South Cloverfield, the pushers and the bloodsuckers paraded out of their holes where they would run and terrorize the downtrodden left out on the streets for the night. Still, Paloma was undisturbed in her walk. She chatted briefly with a haggard woman on the corner who had said she liked Paloma’s outfit, returning the favor by complimenting her fishnets and pump boots and offering her a cupcake. She politely waved off a gentleman who tried to pass her off a “sample” in a plastic baggie but accepted the joint, returning it when he told her about the extra punch of fentanyl it was laced with. She returned a tip of the cap from a police officer with a polite smile that faded as she heard the sounds of violence coming from the alley he’d strategically parked his cruiser in front of to block anyone’s view.
All in all, it was a typical walk to work followed by a typical commute—the other third shifters shifting around to make room for Paloma on the ferry and then on the bus, offering her their seats up front, even when there were plenty of open spots in the back. That was followed by a typical night of work at the hospital, scrubbing, cleaning, and also slacking. Nothing would happen to her anyway even if she was caught shirking her responsibilities, other than a coddling reassurance that they believed she was simply trying her best, but the bribe of cupcakes to the other cleaners and night nurses would hopefully keep the hard feelings away when Paloma wasn’t around.
Interactions:The Big Cat Burglar @Fernstone South Side, The Circle, David Smith’s House, Monday Morning 9AM
Before she knew it she was back on the ferry and then back on the streets of South Cloverfield, her clothes smelling of the faintest hint of lemon and bleach. The morning light cleared the roads of the “undesirable” and replaced them with honest, hard working blue collars and stupid teenagers pretending to be wise guys. The visual deterrent of earbuds was the only thing keeping strangers from talking to Paloma on the streets. Before the Samaritan she had always felt unsafe on her commute, one headphone out at all times, listening for footsteps trying to sneak up behind her, taking wide berths around alleyways and idling cars, keys threaded between her fingers. Now she merely felt a little annoyed, mostly at herself for still feeling obliged to return every smile and wave that came her way. She should just ignore them. After all, they weren’t really the ones being nice.
She had ditched the large cupcake containers at work, letting the morning shift fight over the remnants. In her hand was a small carryout box she’d snagged from the cafeteria at work with one final extra special strawberry cupcake inside. In her other hand were two pieces of paper. One of them was a printed out map with a list of directions from the ferry, the other was a torn bit of notebook paper with a list of addresses. About a third of them were scratched off, all of them sharing one thing in common: they were the listed address online for all the David Smiths in the area. Perhaps, unlike the last two, this one wouldn’t be a dead end and actually be able to provide her with some information. She confirmed the street name with the paper and tucked them away into the pocket of her button up sweater. She disappeared around the corner before jumping back and pressing her back against the wall with a panicked look on her face. There was a trio of rough looking guys outside of David Smith’s house. Paloma placed a hand to her heart, telling herself everything was okay. She’d be in no danger and besides, who knew if they were even bad guys? She peaked around the corner and witnessed the cute one of the group rap on the door.
”Oy, David Smith, open up! This is one of Gideon’s men- I’m here to check up on you! To make sure you’re alright?”
She tucked back away. Gideon? As in Gideon Cross? She didn’t know him personally, but everyone in South Cloverfield knew of Gideon Cross. Nothing but good things were said about the man in public around here, largely because everybody had a different horror story about what happened to the last guy that talked shit about Gideon within earshot of his boys. Paloma mouthed a silent scream and thrashed quietly back and forth in frustration. As if hunting down strangers and interrogating them wasn’t annoying enough already. Maybe they’d move on if David didn’t answer. Surely, they would move on? A polka dot ribbon peaked around the corner, followed by a pair of alert eyes that only grew wider at what she witnessed.
The cute guy was getting undressed and she also probably wasn’t a cute guy after all. Paloma made a hmm noise that became a sound of disgust as the cracking of bones echoed down the street and the person started to shift, muscles expanding, fur and tail sprouting. Paloma blinked with confusion as their underwear grew to fit their new body, begging the question of why they bothered to discard the rest of their clothes, and silently hoping that this wouldn’t awaken anything inside of her. The last thing Paloma wanted to do was ruin her healthy, platonic relationship with Frosted Flakes by suddenly fetishizing its mascot. As if it sensed this concern and wanted to double down on it, the Samaritan took this moment to turn the Messiah Complex back on, a trail of light visible only to Paloma threading out to Tony (Tonya?) the Tiger. What? Were the two other guys unable to help the weretiger fit Mr. Smith into a nice pair of concrete shoes?
Paloma jumped out of her hiding spot as the tiger kicked down the door with one blow. She’d be screwed if her one big lead was eaten by a tiger. Paloma’s aura stretched out to Gideon’s men. If the other two were Paranormal like their tiger friend then they would feel the strange sensation that the weretiger felt when Paloma made herself known. The sensation wasn’t anything majorly disruptive, just Everyone’s Sweetheart skipping up to their physical forms and going in for a hug that was rebuffed by an Emotional Field. It was the feeling of a spiderweb brushing against the arm or a person with one spritz of perfume too many walking by, a mild sense of something’s off that soon became nearly unnoticeable.
“Oh, heeeeey!” hollered Paloma, leaning forward and smiling wide, her voice like helium squeaking out of a leaking balloon, her hands folded peacefully in front of her and still cradling the cupcake box. “Love the fur. Super trendy, and it’s cruelty free? Wow, amazing. You’re great. All of this is really great. Look, I don’t want to be a party pooper, and if anyone asks I wouldn’t dare say a thing, I mean, who would believe me? So by all means please feel free to carry on…in just a moment.”
Paloma took a tentative step forward, reminding herself that they wouldn’t hurt her, they wouldn’t hurt her.
“Um, first, would the two of you mind keeping your striped friend from doing anything violent?” asked Paloma, a wave of Good Influence rippling off of her. She doubted they were blind, but if they were One-Eyed Open they would be compelled to follow her request. However, if they had Emotional Fields perhaps they would just be gentlemanly enough to listen to someone as sweet and harmless as little ol’ she. She took another step forward, this one with a bit more confidence, her eyes on the weretiger. She held out the box. “I’ll even throw in a cupcake. It’s strawberry. Homemade. Full of love and sugar. I just want a word with Mr. Smith. Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking for. Just five. And then I’ll be gone. Forget I saw a thing. Because, I mean, what was there to see? Nothing. Nothing at all. So c’mon, be a good little kitty and just step to the side.”
A smirk crossed Paloma’s face as popped her gum and drew up to her full, unintimidating height of just shy of five and half. Shaking the cupcake box in one hand, she turned her other palm out to the tiger and with a wink said, “Or I scream and draw a crowd. Trust me, I can get really loud. Is that what you want? An audience? It’d explain the unnecessary exhibitionism.”
Sully engaged in some light stretching as the crew gathered along the cliffside overlooking Elysium Island, for once having an actual chance to warm up instead of getting tossed into a fight out of nowhere. He twisted and held with his left arm hooked under his extended right arm. This time there would be no random teleportation suckerpunches, no kicks in the nards, nobody forcing him to make out with a gun. He was on it. He had a cowboy hat pulled low and a bandana pulled high, with a strip of black grease underneath both of his eyes like he was about to approach the line of scrimmage. He switched arms and turned. The art bros had a limited supply of laser rifles, so Sully had the next best thing strapped to his back: the Soakem Mk V, a battery operated behemoth of a water gun with burst and stream options and sick LED lights. The bastard was so strong the guy at the store said it could strip the varnish off of a deck. It was a steal at only two hundred dollars.
Sully switched to some classic martial arts wax-on, wax-off posing that he’d lifted from some Jean-Claude Van Damme movies. Accompanying the Soakem Mk V were a pair of Pocket Rockets, single shot water pistols, one hidden in the pocket of his hoodie, the other in the hood. Rustling alongside the side piece in his pocket was a piece of paper torn out of a wide-ruled notebook, the little frayed edges tangling with the lint of the sweatshirt. Transcribed on that page was a fine little motivational speech Sully had poured his heart and soul into, something to give the boys and girls that little last bit of hurrah before setting off into the breach. Sully gave a spinning karate chop, letting out a yelp as his hand stopped just inches away from decapitating the beret off of someone in a balaclava and trenchcoat. Sloane took off her sunglasses, her expression seemingly unphased by almost getting her bell rung, and pulled down her face covering.
“May I have a sip from the Chalice?” she said, sounding absolutely exhausted.
Sully’s face lit up. “Hell yeah, dude. Open wide.”
“Wh—ugh!”
Sloane’s head recoiled violently as a blast of water hit her in the forehead. Sully winced and attempted to apologize to her, heavily sabotaged by his laughter making it impossible to get an entire sentence out. Sloane narrowed her eyes at him, took a finger, and squeegeed some of the healing elixir onto her lips. The exhaustion that was plaguing her was lifted, but a dark cloud still hung over the woman as she sharply turned from Sully, taking off her beret and pulling the balaclava off to use as a towel. His laughter, which had mostly been at the shock of having missed from such a close range, died off fully as Sully started to feel really bad. He called after Sloane and reached out to grab her shoulder, but she sensed it and jerked away before he could even grab ahold, firing off a look back at him that made Sully hold his hands up in surrender.
Sloane swore under her breath at Sullivan as she finished drying her face from the elixir, jamming her wet balaclava into the shoulder bag she was carrying, nearly pricking her finger upon the Brass Needle. A few other artifacts and Counterfeits were stashed away, should she need them, as well as a handful of knives with Hexmarks already prepped into their hilts and a few useless knick knacks she could use for Objects of Obsession. In her other hand was the Chrysalis Staff. She was going to pass it off to Sullivan, feeling that someone close to Leon should have it when the leash broke, but was too annoyed with the idiot to resist fantasizing about him being (lightly) mauled by the wolfman. Still, it should be in the hands of someone close by once Sully got his comeuppance. Her eyes scanned the “aggro” crowd, looking for someone in Sycamore she could trust with the Counterfeit. She shook her head, perhaps in disappointment, as she moved towards one of the few people she felt she could trust with responsibility—or at least she once had, some time not so long ago.
“Here,” said Sloane through clenched teeth, roughly shoving the Chrysalis Staff at Drake. For the first time in what felt like forever she didn’t avoid eye contact with him, a fresh shine of hurt reflecting in her gaze before it hardened as she motioned with her eyes towards Leon. “Just in case.”
There was a moment as she passed the staff towards Drake that her hand lingered on the object as if she had more to say. Instead, Sloane just rolled her eyes and walked away, ignoring the sharp pain that stabbed in her chest. She hesitated as the Eustis Veil went down, finally feeling the full weight of the gravity of the situation. She hung her head and pinched the bridge of her nose, fingers tracing over the ridge that had been healed by the Chalice after Drake had broken it. Her other hand gripped at her sleeve, remembering how Drake had jumped to her aid when she had nearly succumbed to the Rot. Her chest rose and fell with a heavy breath as she turned towards Drake, opened her mouth to say something else, and was poofed away by a teleportation spell.
Interactions (Sloane): Britney@Mixtape Ghost N, Artifact Group Cliffside
Sloane trudged along the south beach of the island towards the cover of the woods with the artifact team, the nausea in her stomach from the teleportation slowly settling. Why hadn’t she offered an alternative form of travel like her boat? Choppy waters sounded like a quiet comfort when compared to the absolute gut wrenching stomach fuckery that was teleportation. The dread of everything in this underbaked assault plan going wrong was overshadowed by the worry that if it actually went right then she was doomed to suffer through another unbearable jaunt through space and time.
Before she put her mask on Sloane took one final deep breath to fully settle herself and pretended to finish adjusting something in her bag, slinging it over her shoulder to catch up with the others, quickening her pace to pass the others and join up with Luca at the front—of all the people there she was still the most comfortable around the person who getting close to could kill her. She glanced at him, noting his already heavy breathing, eventually determining that it would be a wasted effort to attempt to convince him to divert to the support or communication group instead. She had to trust Luca that he knew what was best for himself, and that he wouldn’t push himself to the point of letting the Rot take control. And if he couldn’t, she had a contingency.
“Unless we’re in a pinch, let me handle the breaking and entering first before we resort to the Rot. Any security doors might have fail safes built into them in the case of damage, and in this scenario the Rot is effectively a battering ram. My spells should be able to tiptoe past those securities, preventing further headaches. I also have a spell that could distract the dog, but I imagine with it being a construct it just might not do the trick,” said Sloane, loud enough to address the group as she turned to look back at them. “So that one is on all of you.”
The sound of machine gun fire and explosions rang in the distance.
“That was a fast five minutes…” muttered Sloane, looking at her watch.
It hadn’t even been five minutes. Ruby’s plan was already falling apart, it seemed. She picked her Channeler out of her pocket and unlatched the clasp on her shoulder bag, ready for whatever was about to come. She heard Anya’s voice over the radio asking for a status update and turned her head, staring at the radio in Britney’s hand. Sloane fell back and, without a word, extended her hand out towards Britney in a silent demand for the radio. Her face was a wall of impassivity, but she might as well had screamed “give it up” by the way her fingers curled and beckoned towards herself in a c’mere motion. An argument could be made that Sloane should operate the radio simply because with her Hexmarks she could maintain it hands-free, but it was clear as Sloane’s chin lifted when the handoff wasn’t immediate that this was a challenge for authority.
[Baking] ⫻ Paloma’s passion sparked by a love of confections and an unhealthy infatuation for Noel Fielding. She’s actually quite good at it and generally finds the repetitive nature of it calming. Paloma almost exclusively bakes sweets and she’s prone to showing up to places with a sackful of sugary snacks. She’s even started posting photos of bakes online for a while. Follow her at Palomangina. Maybe one day she’ll update it. [Neat & Tidy] ⫻ She was always a bit of a neatfreak even before Paloma developed a passion for a hobby that gets flour fucking everywhere. She deep cleans her home regularly, keeps everything put away, clutterfree, and organized. She primps and preens herself constantly, always ensuring that her outfit is smooth, her hair is perfect, and her makeup is fresh. This extends beyond her own boundaries, ranging from basic good practices such as bussing her own table when she goes out to being an absolute menace who’ll lick her finger and wipe sauce off of a friend’s face. [Role-playing Games] ⫻ Yeah, yeah, yeah, but magic’s real well she still can’t be a half-orc barbarian named Swolga in real life or at the very least she doesn’t know someone with the spell for that yet. Pre-Cataclysm she used to play all the time, but a hospital getting dropped on her gaming group killed that campaign. Her attempts to persuade her friends to play have failed thus far. [Spunk] ⫻ Bravery. Pluck. Determination. Guts. Moxie. Grit. Cojones. Balls. These. Call it whatcha call it, Paloma’s got it.
Appearance
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"Aw, shucks. You’re not too bad yourself."
Paloma appears as a classic ingénue, an innocent little angel without a bad bone in her body, poise and politeness polished up and presented with a bow. Her face is all big, brown puppy dog eyes and chipmunk cheeks so perfectly rounded that she has grandmas vaulting over their walkers and shoving one another out of the way to get a pinch, plus a sweet little smile capable of melting even the coldest of hearts. Paloma’s long brown hair falls to her mid back. Her fair, youthful skin is heavily monitored and maintained, tackling any sign of aging through vigorous moisturizing, weird face masks, strange creams, and bulk packs of dodgy supplements. Any blemishes she cannot escape from she hides beneath what appears to be a light, tasteful amount of makeup, although in reality her scale noticeably shifts when she washes her face at night.
She is a fairly average height with a curvy build. She doesn’t have any real exercise routine outside of walking to and from the bus stop and being stuck on her feet while she works, and coupled with an irresistible sweet tooth her body is more cushion than muscle. She isn’t physically weak, per se, although nobody would ask her to help lift a couch. Paloma dresses in cutesy, modest clothing, favoring sweaters, long skirts, and comfortable sneakers. Her style is quite dated, and most of her clothes are old and second-hand, but never are they damaged or dirty. Paloma finds pride in having a neat and tidy appearance, all tucked in and buttoned up. Her hair is typically tied back by a ribbon when she goes out, and she regularly wears a pair of pearl earrings she inherited from her grandmother as her only piece of jewelry. She is rarely seen in public without a pair of long, colorful gloves that accent her outfit and cover up the scars from chemical burns on her arms she sustained during the Cataclysm.
Paloma has a very disarming and open presence, with expressive, curious eyes that hint at a level of mischievousness hiding behind her sweet demeanor. She hates the sound of her own voice, which she finds annoyingly high-pitched and squeaky like that of a cartoon character, and believes that it causes people to not take her seriously. Her posture is a thing of perfection and moves at her own pace, often looking around distractedly rather than focusing on the task at hand . There are people who have known Paloma for years that have never seen her without a piece of chewing gum in her mouth.
Psychology
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"I don't bite...unless that's what you're into."
MAIN GOAL ⫻ Money, money, money, money! When she was younger she wanted to be rich and famous, but as she grew older and wiser she realized the only really cool part about being rich and famous was being rich. Fame, on the other hand, is a massive hindrance. She wants a big house with an even bigger lawn surrounded by a massive privacy fence, a car whose previous owner didn’t leave a weird stain in the passenger seat, to never work another goddamn day in her life as a cleaner, to not have to deal with medical debt, and to have a harem of rich suitors, fit tennis instructors, and oiled up pool boys.
But first, she has a promise to keep.
PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Social change, a kinder, brighter world, yawn. Sure, Paloma supposes she could use her magic to usher in a better world for the future, but she’s living in the present and all it takes is a quick look at the past to see what happens to revolutionaries. She’s worked too hard to become some fucking martyr. Why break the system now that she can finally game it? Sure, she’s not an idiot, it needs a few adjustments. She supposes she could be happy with getting a smaller piece of the pie as long as she still gets a slice. Give the system a few more guidelines, a couple more checks and balances, one big smush towards the middle, maybe a few molotov cocktails through a couple of windows, just one single public execution of a bourgeois billionaire bitch. She doesn’t want to be the one to swing the axe, but she’ll get up close enough to get a droplet of blood on her face.
Still, Paloma ultimately tries to tune out these kinds of macro injustices, focusing on life at a more micro level. She lives her day by day following a personal and cliched creed of treating others how she wants to be treated, showing kindness and respect even to those who don’t deserve it, and saving her biting comments for when they are out of earshot. In short, be sweet. Nobody likes a suckup, but everybody is happy to receive a compliment. Paloma tries to stay on the latter half of the spectrum, a tad too twee but nothing that would make a person sick. And if someone doesn’t like her? Well, that’s fine. Who’d want to be liked by that cunt anyway?
SECRETS ⫻ Oh, there’s a whole bunch of them. A few notches in the bedpost she’d deny until the day she dies, a couple of white lies she refuses to admit aren’t true. Bad haircuts with all photographic evidence scrubbed from the internet, nasty text messages left on blocked numbers. A few minor crimes—shoplifting some gum, sneaking into a movie, some public indecency. Sitting and conversing with hospital patients when she was on the clock and should’ve been cleaning. Promising a young girl in room 513 that when her time came Paloma would take her to the Grove and wash her in the waters of rebirth, thinking at the time that it had only been a child’s fantasy, now becoming a whole thing that might require exhuming a grave.
She also plays it coy about being adjoined.
SEXUALITY ⫻ She might flirt and tease with all of the ladies until they get the vapors, but a quick glance back through her deleted contacts shows a steady stream of Liam Hinges, Brad Bumbles, and Dan Tinders.
FEARS ⫻ The special treatment she gets thanks to her abstraction has been novel but there comes a point, Paloma is sure of it, where the constant dotting and fawning will start to lose its luster. Perhaps it already has. Maybe just a little. Still, right now she sees the Blind as good old fashioned people who deserve to live their lives and make their own choices free from her or any higher power’s meddling.
But what happens when they start to wear on her? When she can finally hush that quiet little voice that says they only like her because she got lucky? When she stops seeing people as people and starts seeing them as followers, worshippers, sacrifices? Now that she has power the opportunity to abuse it is right there just waiting for her to reach out and grasp it. Getting everything she ever wanted would just be so. Fucking. Easy. She could’ve started a weird sex cult, like, yesterday. Yet, Paloma is afraid of being that person. Even more so, she is afraid of what the world would be like if anyone else had her abstraction, and is scared to think of what other magic there could be out there.
Also, dragons have now been absolutely ruined for her forever. Thanks, Princess. Now she’ll have to switch to Pathfinder.
WHAT DID THEY DO DURING THE CATACLYSM? ⫻ Paloma was at the last place anyone would want to be when the world is potentially ending: work. She spent several hours, perhaps even days, trapped beneath the rubble of the South Cloverfield Good Samaritan Hospital, listening to the muffled cries of friends and strangers, fading in and out of consciousness from the pain and blood loss, and coping with the fact that magic and dragons were real. She hardly recommends it. If not for a chance encounter with the Samaritan that day she definitely would’ve been dead. If the rescuers had taken one more day she probably would’ve been dead. If the Cataclysm was still happening at that time then Paloma missed out on the rest of the fun, getting evaced to a hospital in a nearby town that wasn’t getting acid pissed all over it.
FLAWS ⫻ Paloma is the absolute textbook definition of a busybody, always prying into other people’s business even when nobody asked for her opinion. Often Paloma is meddling out of pure curiosity or an actual desire to help, but sometimes it’s something else. See, unfortunately she’s also a chatty little bitch, so Paloma is simply unable to resist passing along the latest piece of gossip. While her private life is a thing to be treated with respect and kept on the down-low, other people’s lives are purely a source of entertainment, especially if they’re completely fucked up and messy. Telling Paloma a secret is the same thing as telling the whole world. Call her out rumor mongering and she’s quick to go on the defensive, acting as if she didn’t know it was a secret if not outright denying that she said anything in the first place. After all, sweet little Paloma? A malicious gossip? Who would say something like that? Was it Tiffany? Well, that’s funny, because Paloma heard that Tiffany…
Backstory
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"Once upon a time, there was this big, scary dragon..."
Her life was boring.
What else is there to say? Things didn’t turn out right. Grow up, go to school, attend college, dropout, get a job, sprinkle a good group of friends and smattering of boyfriends that seemed good at the time. Somewhere along the line something went awry. Or maybe it didn’t. She doesn’t know. Maybe the fact is that growing up in the Southside of Cloverfield means she was destined to achieve mediocrity. It wasn’t like she didn’t have ambitions or lacked dreams. They just fizzled out. It wasn’t like she had a bad family who didn’t support her. They just became background noise, strangers she saw for holidays and cookouts. Rent became a thing. Groceries became a thing. Her life became work, fuck around, sleep, repeat. Her job wasn’t too bad either, even if it was just cleaning the hospital. Just slap on some headphones, pull on some gloves, and scrub up some bodily functions. Her life was, well, it was happening, she guessed. Paloma wasn’t necessarily unhappy, not all of the time anyway. She was just bored.
Escapism became the key to enjoyment. Binge watching reality baking contests, imagining herself as a competitor getting that coveted handshake for her crumb game being on point, ignoring the smell of burnt cookies in the garbage. Delving into fantasy tabletop roleplaying games with her friends, slaying dragons and bedding princesses or bedding dragons and slaying princesses, depending on how much of a chaos gremlin she wanted to be that evening. Experimenting with an acceptable amount of drugs, none of that scary shit that involved injections or having a DIY chemistry set, but the fun kind that made the world kaleidoscopes and rainbows. Fall in love again and again, believing from the first kiss that each one was going to be the one, tucking and rolling out of the relationship the second the road got even a bit rocky. This was her life. Do it forever until she got stabbed in an alley or fell and broke a hip at the age of ninety.
Work was the biggest source of her boredom. Pop music and murder pods could only entertain Paloma for so long before she got tired of the same chord progression or by-the-numbers family annihilation. She started talking to patients in the hospital—not in the sense of the normal pleasantries she’d have about the weather or the game as she swapped out their trash bags or removed their dinner trays, but real, in-depth, sit down and get to know these strangers type discussions. All patients in hospitals are lonely, even those who have a family that came and visited. She thought she could ease that loneliness, even if just a little, even if it meant having to put up with that sinking feeling when she got to work and one of her tasks was to deep clean the now vacant room of one of her favorites.
See, the floor Paloma cleaned wasn’t the one where patients were sent to get better. It was the final cheap motel room, complete with free cable, a weird smell, and the view of the back of a billboard for a gentleman’s club. Most of the people there were elderly, or they were at the very least so hollowed out by the inevitability of their demise that they appeared old. So perhaps that’s why it was so shocking to her when she entered Room 513 and saw a young girl, no more than ten, who didn’t look all that sick aside from a scar on the side of her head. Paloma felt bad for the girl and, admittedly, she was curious. Why was she at the South Cloverfield Good Samaritan and not the Children’s Hospital?
Room 513 proved to be a tough nut to crack, not even answering Paloma the first time she introduced herself to the kid, but Paloma wasn’t about to back down. She visited Room 513 daily, choosing to talk to her if the kid wasn’t going to talk with her. She even came in on her off days, showing up with homemade baked goods and games to play. Eventually the kid asked Paloma why she was doing this, and from that day forward Paloma was in. She got the kid to dish out her life story. At the time Paloma assumed Room 513 had to be on some heavy duty painkillers or had some kind of brain damage with the shit she was talking about, rambling about this place called the Grove and its magical waters. Room 513 confided in Paloma that she wanted to see the Grove again. Paloma said she’d see what she could do, and so she came up with a plan that would end up killing three of her closest nerd friends.
The idea was a sweet one: run a little one-shot for Room 513 with Paloma’s friends, making her out to be the hero of the story, where she returns home to this place called the Grove and saves it from goblins. Okay, so the premise was simple and basic, but the girl was ten. Paloma poured her heart and soul into the game session. She drew maps, painted a little Room 513 mini, and baked a thematic Grove cake. She showed up to the hospital with her friends and set about to give Room 513 the funnest, nerdiest night of her life. Then, just like in every other previous game that Paloma tried to Dungeon Master, the session immediately went off the rails as the craziest thing happened—only this time, it wasn’t because of something in-game.
And to think, up until this exact moment in her life Paloma always thought it would be so cool to see an actual dragon.
Therapy. Medicatation. Doesn’t matter. Paloma can still sometimes hear the screams from that night. Her memories are a bit muddled from the concussion she suffered when the hospital came down. She can remember diving forward to grab Room 513 and run, twisting just in time as the floor above came down, the agonizing pain when the acid splashed her forearms ripping a scream out of her throat before something cracked against the back of her head. She can remember being buried, blinded by such a bright light she thought she had permanently lost her vision, unaware that the Samaritan had adjoined with her the moment she went to protect Room 513, realizing only later that it was the only reason she made it out alive. She can remember Room 513’s feeble voice comforting Paloma, when it should have been the other way around, telling her that it would be okay, promising her that if something were to happen to Paloma then she would take her to the Grove and have them bring her back. Because you would do the same for me, said Room 513. I would, said Paloma. It had been a question at the time.
Promise?
I promise, said Paloma.
The light got dimmer after that. Paloma would be one of the first ones rescued, rushed away to a hospital in a neighboring county for intensive medical care for her injuries and chemical burns, resulting in a lengthy stay, seemingly insurmountable medical bills, and a chance at life that her friends and Room 513 never had the opportunity to receive. When Paloma awoke from her coma the world was so much stranger. Everyone was so happy to see her—literally, everyone, not just the people she would expect—and she kept seeing streams of light, which she reported to her doctor but the scans and the tests came back showing no kind of cerebral or vision damage. Maybe a side effect of her medication? And the strange wisp of air she’d catch out of the side of her eye when she passed by a reflective window? Was that too a side effect?
She started to get a little freaked out by how nice everyone was being to her. Sure, she was always nice to others, but Cloverfield was full of assholes. Was this a bit? A weird, mean, fucked up prank? And why was hardly anyone talking about the actual dragon? Even when she snapped at people they still treated Paloma like she was an absolute sweetheart. It was driving her mad. And then, after having tried to ignore them for a few weeks, she followed one of the streams of light and quite literally bumped into someone who didn’t immediately apologize to her profoundly and excessively dote on her to make sure that she was okay.
This person turned out to be another Paranormal, and would serve as a kind of sherpa guiding Paloma into the world of magic. Around the same time she would begin to familiarize herself with that wisp she saw, an Apparition she called the Samaritan, who during the day would keep quiet but at night fill her head with gut wrenching, nightmarish memories of an impossible promise she had made with a young girl whose name Paloma had never even bothered to learn. And as Paloma went about learning ways the Samaritan could help her achieve this stupid promise of hers, as well as dipping more than just a toe into the world of magic, she couldn’t help but to sometimes think that maybe she missed her life when it was boring.
Abstraction
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"Gosh, it’s so hard being this popular."
TYPE ⫻ Aberration (Adjoined)
ABSTRACTION ⫻ The Samaritan, a protective, guiding spirit that can mass influence the behavior of people and apparitions.
ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻ Although it takes its name from a nearly two thousand year old parable about showing kindness strangers, the Samaritan is a relatively new apparition. More than just acts of charity and kindness made manifest, the Samaritan is an apparition born from the anxiety and desire felt by people to appear to others as if they were kind, generous, and caring—less love thy neighbor and more what would the neighbors think. Budding in the late 19th century with the rise of philanthropy, the Samaritan grew throughout the time of radio and television before fully manifesting with the advent of social media. The Samaritan has no real physical manifestation outside of its host, appearing as a kind of wispy, ethereal entity with no definable form.
While the Samaritan is a proper capital G “Good” spirit that wants to do good, its grasp on morality is flimsy at best. Perhaps, as a newer apparition, it is simply naive. After all, it’s the creation of the guilty voice that makes you donate your change to charity at a fast food burger joint operated by people not making a living wage and the reason you deleted your Instagram after being ridiculed for not waiting the proper (and unknowable) amount of time required before following up your thoughts and prayers post with a thirst trap. Regardless, for the time being the Samaritan lets its host be its moral compass as it gains more knowledge of how the world works. Since the host is serving as the Samaritan’s baseline for good, the host won’t be compelled in any way by the Samaritan to act against their nature. However, the host does get a “gut feeling” when the Samaritan doesn’t like what they are doing.
When Paloma uses the Samaritan’s abstraction it is almost entirely subtle.The Blind and One-Eyed Opens see nothing and do not feel the influence, the compulsions coming to them in a way that feels natural. Those with Emotional Fields feel like someone is watching them and can get the sensation that something is trying to scratch through their defenses to suggest how they behave, but there is no obvious immediate tell that the source of the influence is radiating from Paloma. The abstraction works as an aura radiating off of Paloma, influencing those who can feasibly sense her. The aura can extend even through technology, affecting those who see her on a screen or hear her on a phone. She can add aspects to the aura or suppress them as wanted.
Everyone’s Sweetheart ⫻ Paloma’s version of the Samaritan’s default aura. Those affected by the aura are compelled to treat Paloma with familiarity and friendliness, as well as willingly and happily help her with reasonable things. This aura does not mean people are forced to notice Paloma or go out of their way to approach her (unless she is clearly in duress or if they were inclined to in the first place), only that when they do they will be nicer or more forgiving to her than they would be to most other people. This part of the aura is always on and cannot be suppressed by Paloma, but can easily be resisted by Emotional Fields to the point its lingering presence is almost unnoticeable. The main aspect of the Everyone’s Sweetheart aura is that while up nobody—human, apparition, or animal—can deal intentional direct bodily harm to Paloma. This aspect of the aura is so powerful that it fully bypasses Emotional Fields. While a Paranormal could still threaten Paloma with violence, actual attempts to harm her do not work—they pull the shot at the last moment, fire it over her head, or blast someone else. This part of the aura is also always on, but it is immediately suppressed for several seconds by the Samaritan if Paloma attempts to do anything violent herself, allowing for people to act in self-defense.
Good Influence ⫻ A secondary aura Paloma can turn on while Everyone’s Sweetheart is active. It is essentially mind control or powerful suggestion magic, although those under the aura of her Good Influence behave as normal until they receive commands. She can issue direct, complex commands to individuals by speaking with them, or subconsciously influence the masses to follow a simple order by putting out a mentally ordered “vibe check” through her aura. The orders do not need to necessarily be reasonable to the recipient, who retroactively see them as momentary whim, but they must be phrased in a way to make them sound good-natured or well-intentioned. While this allows Paloma to tweak her Good Influence if she ever wants to be shiesty, the Samaritan will outright prevent the aura from being used to incite violence, cause direct harm to the recipient, or are obviously cruel. This does not mean Paloma cannot use the Good Influence to put people in dangerous situations. Good Influence has a lingering effect that allows it to last once the recipient has left Paloma’s aura, lasting for a full 24 hours. This lingering effect can be extended indefinitely by exposing the recipient to one of Paloma’s auras again, resetting the day counter each time. The aura can be resisted by Emotional Fields. While Paloma can attempt to punch through the Emotional Field by “pulsing” her aura, this triggers the self-defense clause and suppresses Everyone’s Sweetheart, leaving Paloma vulnerable for retaliation. For example, say Paloma was in a bodega and witnessed an armed robbery. She could command the robber to put down the weapon, go home, and reconsider their life while influencing the crowd to do nothing so that nobody tries to play the hero and gets shot. After that, she could command the cashier to give Paloma the money in the register as a reward for stopping the robber, then the very next day the robber, who the Good Influence has lapsed on, would revert to their nature and go out to rob another store. Alternatively, say the robber was Paranormal and resisted Paloma’s influence. She cannot command the crowd to rush them to stop the robbery, but she could command them to try to secretly call for the police even though it could harm them if they were to get shot by the robber when they mistook a reach for a phone as a reach for a gun..
The Bystander Effect ⫻ A secondary aura Paloma can turn on while Everyone’s Sweetheart is active. The Bystander Effect draws upon the roots of the Samaritan being created from people’s anxiety to appear upright and moral rather than a true drive to do actual “good”. By activating the Bystander Effect, Paloma can effectively shut down people in her aura and render them in a stationary, catatonic state. As long as they remain in Paloma’s aura, Bystanders are effectively frozen in time and space, resuming as if nothing has happened once she suppresses the Bystander Effect. Notably, people cannot be physically harmed in any way while under the Bystander Effect, although it doesn’t mean that they cannot be released from the effect while in a perilous situation. For example, someone driving their car hit by the Bystander Effect would lose control of the vehicle and it will crash. However, they wouldn’t be harmed by the crash, but they could be harmed when they tried to crawl out of the aftermath. Alternatively, the car goes careening out of Paloma’s aura and the driver is released from the Bystander Effect moments before it crashes. Paloma can use the Bystander Effect on crowds or individuals. If targeting individuals, Blind will ignore the bystanders as if they were never there. She can pair it with Good Influence, giving detailed commands to crowds of bystanders before dropping the Bystander Effect and allowing them to follow her orders. She can attempt to use it offensively, but the spell will have to break through someone’s Emotional Field and it triggers the self-defense clause of Everyone’s Sweetheart, leaving Paloma vulnerable. Alternatively, she can use it defensively on others to protect them from harm, assuming they let her through their Emotional Field. However, the Samaritan is unable to determine Paloma’s intentions, meaning that she still momentarily loses her defenses. Paloma cannot use the Bystander Effect on herself.
The Messiah Complex ⫻ A secondary aura that the Samaritan, not Paloma, turns on while Everyone’s Sweetheart is active. The Messiah Complex creates faint, trailing streams of golden light in the air around Paloma that guide her to people in her aura that are in need of help that Paloma is, in some way or another, capable of providing. The Samaritan is still in its infancy as an apparition, so the consistency and urgency on which this operates is very hit or miss. She’ll get pings ranging from the cliched, like a kitten stuck in a tree, to the bizarre, like a dweeby teen in need of a prom date to impress his friends. Pings will also sometimes be downright criminal, like the mafioso looking for a cleaner to help dispose of a body, to actual targets in need of life saving, like highlighting a dude choking on a meatball sub. Most of all, though, it is just annoying, as the lights get very distracting. Paloma can ask the Samaritan to suppress it, which it does temporarily, sometimes for several hours but occasionally for a few minutes before turning it back on much to her chagrin. The Messiah Complex can also serve as a kind of danger sense. Since the light is typically faint, a blinding halo of light trails can serve as a sign that Paloma is about to stumble into some real rough shit.
LIMITS ⫻ Paloma’s aura typically fills the room or the immediate area, but it essentially expands out from her as far as people can sense her be it by sight, sound, touch, smell, taste, or even extrasensory means. Her aura can be expanded through live footage or loudspeakers and be diminished by anything that would muffle/drown out her voice or obfuscate her presence. In general, the effects of her auras immediately end when she can no longer be sensed, with the exception of Good Influence which lasts for at least 24 hours. The Blind do not notice her aura either influencing them or leaving them, but the Paranormal can sense a difference in the air when they are within Paloma’s aura. Thus, while she doesn’t give off any clear indication that she is using an abstraction, any Paranormal paying attention would be able to notice that the vibe changed when Paloma walked in.
Everyone’s Sweetheart protects Paloma against intentional bodily harm. She can still be accidentally harmed by others or be a victim of collateral damage. Generally, she is as vulnerable as any other Paranormal to mental abstractions. As previously mentioned, it is also suppressed if Paloma ever attempts to do something violent herself or attempts to use her abstraction to brute force through an Emotional Field.
While under the effect of Good Influence, people will still behave like their normal self outside of following their orders. Good Influence can only have one lasting effect rolling at a time. Any new commands replace the last ones. As previously mentioned, Good Influence cannot be used to cause obvious physical harm to others or to the influenced, and cruel and unusual effects are typically negated by the Samaritan. Good Influence bounces right off of Emotional Fields unless Paloma tries to brute force it, leaving her vulnerable to retaliation.
The Bystander Effect can cause (usually) unintentional and catastrophic accidents when carelessly used out in public. The Bystander Effect bounces right of Emotional Fields unless Paloma tries to brute force it, leaving her vulnerable to retaliation.
On top of already being inconsistent, The Messiah Complex is purely reactive, not predictive. Something must have already put a person into a state of need before a trail to them lights up.
WEAKNESSES ⫻ The Samaritan is still a very young entity. As such, it has not learned the difference between beneficial applications of magic and malicious. Thus, all obviously manifestations of magic will not work on her as her apparition protects her. This means that powerful buffs, healing, and support will have no effect on her. She can still loophole her way into getting these benefits but it would depend on her committing an act of violence against someone. Thus, if someone wishes to heal her she must strike them first.
Other
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“So sweet it’s making me sick."
Paloma playfully refers to the Samaritan as Sammy, unless she’s upset with it, in which case she calls it Sam.
Currently, she works in the slightly nicer hospital on the Northside of Cloverfield but still lives in a rough part on the Southside. Well, rough for other people, perhaps.
[Baking] ⫻ Paloma’s passion sparked by a love of confections and an unhealthy infatuation for Noel Fielding. She’s actually quite good at it and generally finds the repetitive nature of it calming. Paloma almost exclusively bakes sweets and she’s prone to showing up to places with a sackful of sugary snacks. She’s even started posting photos of bakes online for a while. Follow her at Palomangina. Maybe one day she’ll update it. [Neat & Tidy] ⫻ She was always a bit of a neatfreak even before Paloma developed a passion for a hobby that gets flour fucking everywhere. She deep cleans her home regularly, keeps everything put away, clutterfree, and organized. She primps and preens herself constantly, always ensuring that her outfit is smooth, her hair is perfect, and her makeup is fresh. This extends beyond her own boundaries, ranging from basic good practices such as bussing her own table when she goes out to being an absolute menace who’ll lick her finger and wipe sauce off of a friend’s face. [Role-playing Games] ⫻ Yeah, yeah, yeah, but magic’s real well she still can’t be a half-orc barbarian named Swolga in real life or at the very least she doesn’t know someone with the spell for that yet. Pre-Cataclysm she used to play all the time, but a hospital getting dropped on her gaming group killed that campaign. Her attempts to persuade her friends to play have failed thus far. [Spunk] ⫻ Bravery. Pluck. Determination. Guts. Moxie. Grit. Cojones. Balls. These. Call it whatcha call it, Paloma’s got it.
Appearance
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"Aw, shucks. You’re not too bad yourself."
Paloma appears as a classic ingénue, an innocent little angel without a bad bone in her body, poise and politeness polished up and presented with a bow. Her face is all big, brown puppy dog eyes and chipmunk cheeks so perfectly rounded that she has grandmas vaulting over their walkers and shoving one another out of the way to get a pinch, plus a sweet little smile capable of melting even the coldest of hearts. Paloma’s long brown hair falls to her mid back. Her fair, youthful skin is heavily monitored and maintained, tackling any sign of aging through vigorous moisturizing, weird face masks, strange creams, and bulk packs of dodgy supplements. Any blemishes she cannot escape from she hides beneath what appears to be a light, tasteful amount of makeup, although in reality her scale noticeably shifts when she washes her face at night.
She is a fairly average height with a curvy build. She doesn’t have any real exercise routine outside of walking to and from the bus stop and being stuck on her feet while she works, and coupled with an irresistible sweet tooth her body is more cushion than muscle. She isn’t physically weak, per se, although nobody would ask her to help lift a couch. Paloma dresses in cutesy, modest clothing, favoring sweaters, long skirts, and comfortable sneakers. Her style is quite dated, and most of her clothes are old and second-hand, but never are they damaged or dirty. Paloma finds pride in having a neat and tidy appearance, all tucked in and buttoned up. Her hair is typically tied back by a ribbon when she goes out, and she regularly wears a pair of pearl earrings she inherited from her grandmother as her only piece of jewelry. She is rarely seen in public without a pair of long, colorful gloves that accent her outfit and cover up the scars from chemical burns on her arms she sustained during the Cataclysm.
Paloma has a very disarming and open presence, with expressive, curious eyes that hint at a level of mischievousness hiding behind her sweet demeanor. She hates the sound of her own voice, which she finds annoyingly high-pitched and squeaky like that of a cartoon character, and believes that it causes people to not take her seriously. Her posture is a thing of perfection and moves at her own pace, often looking around distractedly rather than focusing on the task at hand . There are people who have known Paloma for years that have never seen her without a piece of chewing gum in her mouth.
Psychology
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"I don't bite...unless that's what you're into."
MAIN GOAL ⫻ Money, money, money, money! When she was younger she wanted to be rich and famous, but as she grew older and wiser she realized the only really cool part about being rich and famous was being rich. Fame, on the other hand, is a massive hindrance. She wants a big house with an even bigger lawn surrounded by a massive privacy fence, a car whose previous owner didn’t leave a weird stain in the passenger seat, to never work another goddamn day in her life as a cleaner, to not have to deal with medical debt, and to have a harem of rich suitors, fit tennis instructors, and oiled up pool boys.
But first, she has a promise to keep.
PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Social change, a kinder, brighter world, yawn. Sure, Paloma supposes she could use her magic to usher in a better world for the future, but she’s living in the present and all it takes is a quick look at the past to see what happens to revolutionaries. She’s worked too hard to become some fucking martyr. Why break the system now that she can finally game it? Sure, she’s not an idiot, it needs a few adjustments. She supposes she could be happy with getting a smaller piece of the pie as long as she still gets a slice. Give the system a few more guidelines, a couple more checks and balances, one big smush towards the middle, maybe a few molotov cocktails through a couple of windows, just one single public execution of a bourgeois billionaire bitch. She doesn’t want to be the one to swing the axe, but she’ll get up close enough to get a droplet of blood on her face.
Still, Paloma ultimately tries to tune out these kinds of macro injustices, focusing on life at a more micro level. She lives her day by day following a personal and cliched creed of treating others how she wants to be treated, showing kindness and respect even to those who don’t deserve it, and saving her biting comments for when they are out of earshot. In short, be sweet. Nobody likes a suckup, but everybody is happy to receive a compliment. Paloma tries to stay on the latter half of the spectrum, a tad too twee but nothing that would make a person sick. And if someone doesn’t like her? Well, that’s fine. Who’d want to be liked by that cunt anyway?
SECRETS ⫻ Oh, there’s a whole bunch of them. A few notches in the bedpost she’d deny until the day she dies, a couple of white lies she refuses to admit aren’t true. Bad haircuts with all photographic evidence scrubbed from the internet, nasty text messages left on blocked numbers. A few minor crimes—shoplifting some gum, sneaking into a movie, some public indecency. Sitting and conversing with hospital patients when she was on the clock and should’ve been cleaning. Promising a young girl in room 513 that when her time came Paloma would take her to the Grove and wash her in the waters of rebirth, thinking at the time that it had only been a child’s fantasy, now becoming a whole thing that might require exhuming a grave.
She also plays it coy about being adjoined.
SEXUALITY ⫻ She might flirt and tease with all of the ladies until they get the vapors, but a quick glance back through her deleted contacts shows a steady stream of Liam Hinges, Brad Bumbles, and Dan Tinders.
FEARS ⫻ The special treatment she gets thanks to her abstraction has been novel but there comes a point, Paloma is sure of it, where the constant dotting and fawning will start to lose its luster. Perhaps it already has. Maybe just a little. Still, right now she sees the Blind as good old fashioned people who deserve to live their lives and make their own choices free from her or any higher power’s meddling.
But what happens when they start to wear on her? When she can finally hush that quiet little voice that says they only like her because she got lucky? When she stops seeing people as people and starts seeing them as followers, worshippers, sacrifices? Now that she has power the opportunity to abuse it is right there just waiting for her to reach out and grasp it. Getting everything she ever wanted would just be so. Fucking. Easy. She could’ve started a weird sex cult, like, yesterday. Yet, Paloma is afraid of being that person. Even more so, she is afraid of what the world would be like if anyone else had her abstraction, and is scared to think of what other magic there could be out there.
Also, dragons have now been absolutely ruined for her forever. Thanks, Princess. Now she’ll have to switch to Pathfinder.
WHAT DID THEY DO DURING THE CATACLYSM? ⫻ Paloma was at the last place anyone would want to be when the world is potentially ending: work. She spent several hours, perhaps even days, trapped beneath the rubble of the South Cloverfield Good Samaritan Hospital, listening to the muffled cries of friends and strangers, fading in and out of consciousness from the pain and blood loss, and coping with the fact that magic and dragons were real. She hardly recommends it. If not for a chance encounter with the Samaritan that day she definitely would’ve been dead. If the rescuers had taken one more day she probably would’ve been dead. If the Cataclysm was still happening at that time then Paloma missed out on the rest of the fun, getting evaced to a hospital in a nearby town that wasn’t getting acid pissed all over it.
FLAWS ⫻ Paloma is the absolute textbook definition of a busybody, always prying into other people’s business even when nobody asked for her opinion. Often Paloma is meddling out of pure curiosity or an actual desire to help, but sometimes it’s something else. See, unfortunately she’s also a chatty little bitch, so Paloma is simply unable to resist passing along the latest piece of gossip. While her private life is a thing to be treated with respect and kept on the down-low, other people’s lives are purely a source of entertainment, especially if they’re completely fucked up and messy. Telling Paloma a secret is the same thing as telling the whole world. Call her out rumor mongering and she’s quick to go on the defensive, acting as if she didn’t know it was a secret if not outright denying that she said anything in the first place. After all, sweet little Paloma? A malicious gossip? Who would say something like that? Was it Tiffany? Well, that’s funny, because Paloma heard that Tiffany…
Backstory
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"Once upon a time, there was this big, scary dragon..."
Her life was boring.
What else is there to say? Things didn’t turn out right. Grow up, go to school, attend college, dropout, get a job, sprinkle a good group of friends and smattering of boyfriends that seemed good at the time. Somewhere along the line something went awry. Or maybe it didn’t. She doesn’t know. Maybe the fact is that growing up in the Southside of Cloverfield means she was destined to achieve mediocrity. It wasn’t like she didn’t have ambitions or lacked dreams. They just fizzled out. It wasn’t like she had a bad family who didn’t support her. They just became background noise, strangers she saw for holidays and cookouts. Rent became a thing. Groceries became a thing. Her life became work, fuck around, sleep, repeat. Her job wasn’t too bad either, even if it was just cleaning the hospital. Just slap on some headphones, pull on some gloves, and scrub up some bodily functions. Her life was, well, it was happening, she guessed. Paloma wasn’t necessarily unhappy, not all of the time anyway. She was just bored.
Escapism became the key to enjoyment. Binge watching reality baking contests, imagining herself as a competitor getting that coveted handshake for her crumb game being on point, ignoring the smell of burnt cookies in the garbage. Delving into fantasy tabletop roleplaying games with her friends, slaying dragons and bedding princesses or bedding dragons and slaying princesses, depending on how much of a chaos gremlin she wanted to be that evening. Experimenting with an acceptable amount of drugs, none of that scary shit that involved injections or having a DIY chemistry set, but the fun kind that made the world kaleidoscopes and rainbows. Fall in love again and again, believing from the first kiss that each one was going to be the one, tucking and rolling out of the relationship the second the road got even a bit rocky. This was her life. Do it forever until she got stabbed in an alley or fell and broke a hip at the age of ninety.
Work was the biggest source of her boredom. Pop music and murder pods could only entertain Paloma for so long before she got tired of the same chord progression or by-the-numbers family annihilation. She started talking to patients in the hospital—not in the sense of the normal pleasantries she’d have about the weather or the game as she swapped out their trash bags or removed their dinner trays, but real, in-depth, sit down and get to know these strangers type discussions. All patients in hospitals are lonely, even those who have a family that came and visited. She thought she could ease that loneliness, even if just a little, even if it meant having to put up with that sinking feeling when she got to work and one of her tasks was to deep clean the now vacant room of one of her favorites.
See, the floor Paloma cleaned wasn’t the one where patients were sent to get better. It was the final cheap motel room, complete with free cable, a weird smell, and the view of the back of a billboard for a gentleman’s club. Most of the people there were elderly, or they were at the very least so hollowed out by the inevitability of their demise that they appeared old. So perhaps that’s why it was so shocking to her when she entered Room 513 and saw a young girl, no more than ten, who didn’t look all that sick aside from a scar on the side of her head. Paloma felt bad for the girl and, admittedly, she was curious. Why was she at the South Cloverfield Good Samaritan and not the Children’s Hospital?
Room 513 proved to be a tough nut to crack, not even answering Paloma the first time she introduced herself to the kid, but Paloma wasn’t about to back down. She visited Room 513 daily, choosing to talk to her if the kid wasn’t going to talk with her. She even came in on her off days, showing up with homemade baked goods and games to play. Eventually the kid asked Paloma why she was doing this, and from that day forward Paloma was in. She got the kid to dish out her life story. At the time Paloma assumed Room 513 had to be on some heavy duty painkillers or had some kind of brain damage with the shit she was talking about, rambling about this place called the Grove and its magical waters. Room 513 confided in Paloma that she wanted to see the Grove again. Paloma said she’d see what she could do, and so she came up with a plan that would end up killing three of her closest nerd friends.
The idea was a sweet one: run a little one-shot for Room 513 with Paloma’s friends, making her out to be the hero of the story, where she returns home to this place called the Grove and saves it from goblins. Okay, so the premise was simple and basic, but the girl was ten. Paloma poured her heart and soul into the game session. She drew maps, painted a little Room 513 mini, and baked a thematic Grove cake. She showed up to the hospital with her friends and set about to give Room 513 the funnest, nerdiest night of her life. Then, just like in every other previous game that Paloma tried to Dungeon Master, the session immediately went off the rails as the craziest thing happened—only this time, it wasn’t because of something in-game.
And to think, up until this exact moment in her life Paloma always thought it would be so cool to see an actual dragon.
Therapy. Medicatation. Doesn’t matter. Paloma can still sometimes hear the screams from that night. Her memories are a bit muddled from the concussion she suffered when the hospital came down. She can remember diving forward to grab Room 513 and run, twisting just in time as the floor above came down, the agonizing pain when the acid splashed her forearms ripping a scream out of her throat before something cracked against the back of her head. She can remember being buried, blinded by such a bright light she thought she had permanently lost her vision, unaware that the Samaritan had adjoined with her the moment she went to protect Room 513, realizing only later that it was the only reason she made it out alive. She can remember Room 513’s feeble voice comforting Paloma, when it should have been the other way around, telling her that it would be okay, promising her that if something were to happen to Paloma then she would take her to the Grove and have them bring her back. Because you would do the same for me, said Room 513. I would, said Paloma. It had been a question at the time.
Promise?
I promise, said Paloma.
The light got dimmer after that. Paloma would be one of the first ones rescued, rushed away to a hospital in a neighboring county for intensive medical care for her injuries and chemical burns, resulting in a lengthy stay, seemingly insurmountable medical bills, and a chance at life that her friends and Room 513 never had the opportunity to receive. When Paloma awoke from her coma the world was so much stranger. Everyone was so happy to see her—literally, everyone, not just the people she would expect—and she kept seeing streams of light, which she reported to her doctor but the scans and the tests came back showing no kind of cerebral or vision damage. Maybe a side effect of her medication? And the strange wisp of air she’d catch out of the side of her eye when she passed by a reflective window? Was that too a side effect?
She started to get a little freaked out by how nice everyone was being to her. Sure, she was always nice to others, but Cloverfield was full of assholes. Was this a bit? A weird, mean, fucked up prank? And why was hardly anyone talking about the actual dragon? Even when she snapped at people they still treated Paloma like she was an absolute sweetheart. It was driving her mad. And then, after having tried to ignore them for a few weeks, she followed one of the streams of light and quite literally bumped into someone who didn’t immediately apologize to her profoundly and excessively dote on her to make sure that she was okay.
This person turned out to be another Paranormal, and would serve as a kind of sherpa guiding Paloma into the world of magic. Around the same time she would begin to familiarize herself with that wisp she saw, an Apparition she called the Samaritan, who during the day would keep quiet but at night fill her head with gut wrenching, nightmarish memories of an impossible promise she had made with a young girl whose name Paloma had never even bothered to learn. And as Paloma went about learning ways the Samaritan could help her achieve this stupid promise of hers, as well as dipping more than just a toe into the world of magic, she couldn’t help but to sometimes think that maybe she missed her life when it was boring.
Abstraction
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"Gosh, it’s so hard being this popular."
TYPE ⫻ Aberration (Adjoined)
ABSTRACTION ⫻ The Samaritan, a protective, guiding spirit that can mass influence the behavior of people and apparitions.
ABSTRACTION DESCRIPTION ⫻ Although it takes its name from a nearly two thousand year old parable about showing kindness strangers, the Samaritan is a relatively new apparition. More than just acts of charity and kindness made manifest, the Samaritan is an apparition born from the anxiety and desire felt by people to appear to others as if they were kind, generous, and caring—less love thy neighbor and more what would the neighbors think. Budding in the late 19th century with the rise of philanthropy, the Samaritan grew throughout the time of radio and television before fully manifesting with the advent of social media. The Samaritan has no real physical manifestation outside of its host, appearing as a kind of wispy, ethereal entity with no definable form.
While the Samaritan is a proper capital G “Good” spirit that wants to do good, its grasp on morality is flimsy at best. Perhaps, as a newer apparition, it is simply naive. After all, it’s the creation of the guilty voice that makes you donate your change to charity at a fast food burger joint operated by people not making a living wage and the reason you deleted your Instagram after being ridiculed for not waiting the proper (and unknowable) amount of time required before following up your thoughts and prayers post with a thirst trap. Regardless, for the time being the Samaritan lets its host be its moral compass as it gains more knowledge of how the world works. Since the host is serving as the Samaritan’s baseline for good, the host won’t be compelled in any way by the Samaritan to act against their nature. However, the host does get a “gut feeling” when the Samaritan doesn’t like what they are doing.
When Paloma uses the Samaritan’s abstraction it is almost entirely subtle.The Blind and One-Eyed Opens see nothing and do not feel the influence, the compulsions coming to them in a way that feels natural. Those with Emotional Fields feel like someone is watching them and can get the sensation that something is trying to scratch through their defenses to suggest how they behave, but there is no obvious immediate tell that the source of the influence is radiating from Paloma. The abstraction works as an aura radiating off of Paloma, influencing those who can feasibly sense her. The aura can extend even through technology, affecting those who see her on a screen or hear her on a phone. She can add aspects to the aura or suppress them as wanted.
Everyone’s Sweetheart ⫻ Paloma’s version of the Samaritan’s default aura. Those affected by the aura are compelled to treat Paloma with familiarity and friendliness, as well as willingly and happily help her with reasonable things. This aura does not mean people are forced to notice Paloma or go out of their way to approach her (unless she is clearly in duress or if they were inclined to in the first place), only that when they do they will be nicer or more forgiving to her than they would be to most other people. This part of the aura is always on and cannot be suppressed by Paloma, but can easily be resisted by Emotional Fields to the point its lingering presence is almost unnoticeable. The main aspect of the Everyone’s Sweetheart aura is that while up nobody—human, apparition, or animal—can deal intentional direct bodily harm to Paloma. This aspect of the aura is so powerful that it fully bypasses Emotional Fields. While a Paranormal could still threaten Paloma with violence, actual attempts to harm her do not work—they pull the shot at the last moment, fire it over her head, or blast someone else. This part of the aura is also always on, but it is immediately suppressed for several seconds by the Samaritan if Paloma attempts to do anything violent herself, allowing for people to act in self-defense.
Good Influence ⫻ A secondary aura Paloma can turn on while Everyone’s Sweetheart is active. It is essentially mind control or powerful suggestion magic, although those under the aura of her Good Influence behave as normal until they receive commands. She can issue direct, complex commands to individuals by speaking with them, or subconsciously influence the masses to follow a simple order by putting out a mentally ordered “vibe check” through her aura. The orders do not need to necessarily be reasonable to the recipient, who retroactively see them as momentary whim, but they must be phrased in a way to make them sound good-natured or well-intentioned. While this allows Paloma to tweak her Good Influence if she ever wants to be shiesty, the Samaritan will outright prevent the aura from being used to incite violence, cause direct harm to the recipient, or are obviously cruel. This does not mean Paloma cannot use the Good Influence to put people in dangerous situations. Good Influence has a lingering effect that allows it to last once the recipient has left Paloma’s aura, lasting for a full 24 hours. This lingering effect can be extended indefinitely by exposing the recipient to one of Paloma’s auras again, resetting the day counter each time. The aura can be resisted by Emotional Fields. While Paloma can attempt to punch through the Emotional Field by “pulsing” her aura, this triggers the self-defense clause and suppresses Everyone’s Sweetheart, leaving Paloma vulnerable for retaliation. For example, say Paloma was in a bodega and witnessed an armed robbery. She could command the robber to put down the weapon, go home, and reconsider their life while influencing the crowd to do nothing so that nobody tries to play the hero and gets shot. After that, she could command the cashier to give Paloma the money in the register as a reward for stopping the robber, then the very next day the robber, who the Good Influence has lapsed on, would revert to their nature and go out to rob another store. Alternatively, say the robber was Paranormal and resisted Paloma’s influence. She cannot command the crowd to rush them to stop the robbery, but she could command them to try to secretly call for the police even though it could harm them if they were to get shot by the robber when they mistook a reach for a phone as a reach for a gun..
The Bystander Effect ⫻ A secondary aura Paloma can turn on while Everyone’s Sweetheart is active. The Bystander Effect draws upon the roots of the Samaritan being created from people’s anxiety to appear upright and moral rather than a true drive to do actual “good”. By activating the Bystander Effect, Paloma can effectively shut down people in her aura and render them in a stationary, catatonic state. As long as they remain in Paloma’s aura, Bystanders are effectively frozen in time and space, resuming as if nothing has happened once she suppresses the Bystander Effect. Notably, people cannot be physically harmed in any way while under the Bystander Effect, although it doesn’t mean that they cannot be released from the effect while in a perilous situation. For example, someone driving their car hit by the Bystander Effect would lose control of the vehicle and it will crash. However, they wouldn’t be harmed by the crash, but they could be harmed when they tried to crawl out of the aftermath. Alternatively, the car goes careening out of Paloma’s aura and the driver is released from the Bystander Effect moments before it crashes. Paloma can use the Bystander Effect on crowds or individuals. If targeting individuals, Blind will ignore the bystanders as if they were never there. She can pair it with Good Influence, giving detailed commands to crowds of bystanders before dropping the Bystander Effect and allowing them to follow her orders. She can attempt to use it offensively, but the spell will have to break through someone’s Emotional Field and it triggers the self-defense clause of Everyone’s Sweetheart, leaving Paloma vulnerable. Alternatively, she can use it defensively on others to protect them from harm, assuming they let her through their Emotional Field. However, the Samaritan is unable to determine Paloma’s intentions, meaning that she still momentarily loses her defenses. Paloma cannot use the Bystander Effect on herself.
The Messiah Complex ⫻ A secondary aura that the Samaritan, not Paloma, turns on while Everyone’s Sweetheart is active. The Messiah Complex creates faint, trailing streams of golden light in the air around Paloma that guide her to people in her aura that are in need of help that Paloma is, in some way or another, capable of providing. The Samaritan is still in its infancy as an apparition, so the consistency and urgency on which this operates is very hit or miss. She’ll get pings ranging from the cliched, like a kitten stuck in a tree, to the bizarre, like a dweeby teen in need of a prom date to impress his friends. Pings will also sometimes be downright criminal, like the mafioso looking for a cleaner to help dispose of a body, to actual targets in need of life saving, like highlighting a dude choking on a meatball sub. Most of all, though, it is just annoying, as the lights get very distracting. Paloma can ask the Samaritan to suppress it, which it does temporarily, sometimes for several hours but occasionally for a few minutes before turning it back on much to her chagrin. The Messiah Complex can also serve as a kind of danger sense. Since the light is typically faint, a blinding halo of light trails can serve as a sign that Paloma is about to stumble into some real rough shit.
LIMITS ⫻ Paloma’s aura typically fills the room or the immediate area, but it essentially expands out from her as far as people can sense her be it by sight, sound, touch, smell, taste, or even extrasensory means. Her aura can be expanded through live footage or loudspeakers and be diminished by anything that would muffle/drown out her voice or obfuscate her presence. In general, the effects of her auras immediately end when she can no longer be sensed, with the exception of Good Influence which lasts for at least 24 hours. The Blind do not notice her aura either influencing them or leaving them, but the Paranormal can sense a difference in the air when they are within Paloma’s aura. Thus, while she doesn’t give off any clear indication that she is using an abstraction, any Paranormal paying attention would be able to notice that the vibe changed when Paloma walked in.
Everyone’s Sweetheart protects Paloma against intentional bodily harm. She can still be accidentally harmed by others or be a victim of collateral damage. Generally, she is as vulnerable as any other Paranormal to mental abstractions. As previously mentioned, it is also suppressed if Paloma ever attempts to do something violent herself or attempts to use her abstraction to brute force through an Emotional Field.
While under the effect of Good Influence, people will still behave like their normal self outside of following their orders. Good Influence can only have one lasting effect rolling at a time. Any new commands replace the last ones. As previously mentioned, Good Influence cannot be used to cause obvious physical harm to others or to the influenced, and cruel and unusual effects are typically negated by the Samaritan. Good Influence bounces right off of Emotional Fields unless Paloma tries to brute force it, leaving her vulnerable to retaliation.
The Bystander Effect can cause (usually) unintentional and catastrophic accidents when carelessly used out in public. The Bystander Effect bounces right of Emotional Fields unless Paloma tries to brute force it, leaving her vulnerable to retaliation.
On top of already being inconsistent, The Messiah Complex is purely reactive, not predictive. Something must have already put a person into a state of need before a trail to them lights up.
WEAKNESSES ⫻ (DO NOT FILL THIS OUT, I WILL PROVIDE IT FOR YOU)
Other
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“So sweet it’s making me sick."
Paloma playfully refers to the Samaritan as Sammy, unless she’s upset with it, in which case she calls it Sam.
Currently, she works in the slightly nicer hospital on the Northside of Cloverfield but still lives in a rough part on the Southside. Well, rough for other people, perhaps.
Sully lagged a little behind the other members of Greenwood, his typical bombastic arrivals announced only by a low whistle as he took in the architecture of the Eleventh Path. Jack and Ken had done well for themselves. Maybe they would let him crash on a couch here once the winter ruined the novelty of a Greenwood campout. He was dressed in his typical lumberjack special. His eyes were red and puffy, and for once it wasn’t solely from standing too close to Ruby when she sparked up one of her booty blunts. Considering his closeness with Auri, Britney had given him the bad news earlier. The morning, simply, had sucked.
He had to basically force himself to show up for two reasons. The first was for Auri. The second was that he was Greenwood’s representative, a “fact” that he would’ve started to question (given that the top dogs of Greenwood had shown up today) if his mind wasn’t focusing on other things. Things like how he had this whole representative/politician bit planned out where he would’ve shown up in a suit with his hair slicked that was ruined by Father Wolf striking again, or what he was going to do now with a box full of “Vote 4 Sully” stickers, or why he had even thought the bit would’ve played in the first place. Then there were things like what he should do for Auri's sisters or her boyfriend, like if he should text them or go the extra mile and make a phone call, and then what would he even say, and if they would want to hear it.
Sully nodded his head along dumbly as Ruby went over the details regarding the raid. She had already briefed them earlier, so he had the jist: magic storm thingy, rich dude fuck island, Call of Duty Nazi Zombies, and a hungry puppy. His blank expression shifted to a sudden repulsion when Octavia mentioned Scott Reese. He perked up a bit as the art bros started introducing themselves, laser focusing on the sci-fi looking piece Riley was carrying. Were they all getting magic guns then? Were Sully’s years of destroying preteens at the Laser Quest, who had come for a shitty birthday party and instead got a laser ass whooping to the soundtrack of Grease so bad that they couldn’t Summer Nights without starting to shake, finally about to pay off? Had Octavia made a horrible mistake by offering up the weapons in their vaults?
The answer to these questions were: hell fucking yeah they better be, of course it would, and definitely not, what could go wrong?
“Sullivan McPherson. Call me Sully. I got a magic cup. The drinking kind, not the protection kind,” said Sully, introducing himself to the 317 with a little at-your-service salute. He pointed to Riley’s Plasma Launcher and gave Octavia a flash of the ol’ puppy dog eyes. “Can I get one of those bad boys?”
“Thank you, Jack,” said Sloane, lifting up the Brass Needle with delicate care as if it was fine china with a crack already in it.
She paused, meeting Jack’s eyes yet again, her stomach knotting. She should probably apologize to him for having been so curt with him as of late. His attempt to try and peek over the privacy fence she’d put around her as if he was a nosy neighbor had been irksome, but it had been with good intent. It was clear, between the effort he’d gone through with Ken to build this sanctum to putting his life on the line to retrieve an artifact that could right the wrong of another, that Jack was dedicated.
Sloane wetted her dry lips, rolled her eyes, and scooped the Stasis Hammer and the Map of Theseus up instead, awkwardly trying to juggle the artifacts back to her seat like the jackass at a grocery store who insists that they don’t need a shopping cart. Time was short and her stupid magic took too long. Besides, she doubted Jack actually even cared what she thought of him. She visibly winced as the artifacts dumped a little louder than she had anticipated onto the table before her, preemptively waving off Anya with the back of her hand in such an aggressive fashion anyway else would’ve read the sign of “I’m fine” as “fuck off”.
However, Anya did not turn, or at least not immediately, and Sloane’s hand fell limp as if all of the bones had been removed from her wrist as she saw that her friend was distracted by Olivia. Her jaw tightened as she sat back down, turning her shoulder ever so slightly to the pair. She pulled out her Channeler as she sulked, moving the card closer to the hammer, and stopping as she overheard Drake circle back on something she had missed. Scott Reese was alive? Then wouldn’t that mean the Stygian Snake could still…? Pieces of a puzzle clicked in place, or perhaps it was better to say that some rough mental gymnastics forcefully slammed them together until the cardboard bent enough that the pieces fit. A rare look of panic crossed Sloane’s face as she glanced across the table towards Lynn.
”I'm just worried because, unlike some of ya'll, I got other people on the line here. Other people that can't handle that monster.”
"Hey now, no need to fret, Blackmore! C'mon... 317 ain't exactly the benchmark when it comes to combat Adepts: No offence to you guys, of course, you do what you can. But Linqian was never one of our best either, right? I can handle her and Aryin at the same time, confirmed by several recent tests too. So, I think it's in our best interests that if Scott Reese shows up to play, you leave him to me," boasted Leon "Just give me whatever artifact you want applied to him that you think would weaken him, and boom: You lose one asshole for one asshole. Equal trade in terms of effort and power."
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, dude, where’s all the shit gonna go if we lose our asshole? And what’s this about worrying?” shouted Sully, giving Drake a slap on the shoulder. “Worrying? You’re worrying? Man, the one who needs to be worrying is that bitch ass Scott Reese. Look, check this out.”
Sully split the difference between Drake and Leon, gesturing from one and then to the other as he hyped them up.
“Over here we got the goddamn Thunder God Drake “Raiden” Blackmore and over here we have the Big Bad Wolf, Leon “Motherfucking” Richoux. You throw in me, the Water Boy,” Sully winced, gave it another shot. “The Juice Man!” Hard to say if that was any better. He said it again, uncertainly, “ You throw in me, the…the Juice Man…and what’s Scott Reese gonna do? Nothing. Scott Reese ain’t gonna do nothing. He gonna walk back in that ocean and disappear for another ten years. Squad up, boys. We got our Team Aggro right here.”
“Art bro! Strap me,” said Sully, holding his hand out in anticipation for the plasma rifle. His eyes widened as he finally fully processed what Leon had inferred about Linqian and Aryin, a hint of sadness being buried alive by a red nose and bright, curly wig as Sully reverted back to clowning to keep the mood light. Forgetting all about the gun that was surely being tossed his way right now, Sully lifted his hand up for Leon to give him a high five. “Oh, sick man. Nice!”
With all of Sully’s antics going on Sloane was certain that Lynn wouldn’t pick up what she was trying to nonverbally communicate. She sighed and pushed her hair out of her face. Whatever, it could wait for after their field trip to Elysium Island. She slumped forward, propping her chin up as the covens started to divide themselves into teams. Before this kicked off she’d need to hit up Sully for a drink. Hopefully the Chalice could heal fatigue.
“A coordinating group would be wise,” said Sloane, backing up Anya. She tilted her head towards Luca, “I’ll go with you. No doors will be safe between the two of us, and I might be able to disable their guardian.”
Quiet chatter and the clanking of silverware filled the dimly lit dining room of the fine restaurant, well-dressed couples in intimate conversations and groups of friends getting toasted on wine while laughing huddled around small tables draped with white cloths. Servers moved to and fro, delivering plates and pouring wine, dipping in the back to grab a new bottle or to bitch to the line cooks about needy guests. A piano in the front of the restaurant softly played a popular composition by Debussy, the keys operated not by a player but by some mechanical components, making one guest waiting to be seated loudly question why they had it in the first place at all instead of just getting a fucking muzak system and using the space for a few more tables while his date tugged on his arm in an attempt to hush him. The sound and sights of the restaurant all blurred and swirled together, darkening and becoming distant, as the light from a cell phone illuminated the face of a woman sitting by herself, a plate and wine glass set in front of an empty chair across from her.
Sloane frowned. She had already anticipated him not arriving on time and had made adjustments for that, but this was well beyond fashionably late. A text had already been sent with no response. She set her phone down and grabbed the glass of wine, staring into the red vortex as she slowly stirred it. Sloane was beyond stressed. She was suffocating. She had overstuffed her plate and was now choking on the consequences. Funeral preparations, counterfeit constructions, kidnapping cases, Rot removal, this Temple nonsense, Father Wolf, shit, she’d so much going on she was sure she’d forgotten a thing or two. Like how about tracking down her own missing counterfeits and artifacts? Sloane sighed and drank the wine like it was a shot, failing to appreciate the complexity of the bouquet or the palatability of the texture despite those being the reason why she’d even ordered the glass in the first place.
She had only wanted to give herself a little fun. She thought it would be nice. She needed a night of normalcy. What better way to pretend like her life hadn’t fallen apart then by catching up with a friend? It had been so long since she had seen him, and she was certain there would be enough to talk about to avoid the awkwardness of acknowledging that their friendship seemed to only manifest based solely by proximity, springing back to life whenever they were in the same city then immediately falling back into the grave once time zones had to be factored in when they coil place a phone call. She had dressed up for this, spent way too long styling her hair only for it to still fall flat for this, nearly poked her eye out while applying makeup to almost hide her utter exhaustion for this. She had thought that after one or two more of these, fidgeting with the empty wine glass, she might even have been able to work up the courage to invite him over after dinner. He was quite handsome, after all, and perhaps the distraction would finally chase away those intrusive thoughts of fucking stupid Jasp—
“Mademoiselle, we have a long list of guests waiting for a table. Perhaps if your friend is not arriving any time soon we could relocate to the bar and free the table up?” said the waiter, shaking Sloane out of her spiral.
“Just give me a moment, I’m calling him,” said Sloane, grabbing her phone.
It rang through. Sloane set her phone down on the bar next to what was now the second empty glass of wine, nodding tersely as the bartender asked if she wanted a refill, an appetizer of bread and oil sitting mostly untouched in front of her. Was she being stood up? Her face burned in embarrassment. This was stupid. This had been a stupid idea. Sloane tore at the piece of bread, violently stabbing it in the oil, thinking back to what Linqian had said the other day: unlike you, I actually have people who’d care enough to bury me. The bartender returned with the wine and the bread was left abandoned on the plate, soaking up the oil like a sponge. She drank deeply. The vintage tasted like vinegar. Sloane spat it back into the cup.
Linqian was wrong.
No, worse, he wouldn’t just no show.
Something else was wrong.
Sloane reached for the phone. He would pick up this time, with some excuse about traffic and cell signals. Or maybe he’d left after that horrible meeting and returned home, and he’d groggily chew her out for waking him up when he was trying to sleep off the jetlag. Or perhaps he’d just say that she wasn’t worth the time and his friendship was something she had just falsely perceived. Anything was better than where her mind was currently going. She called him again and gritted her teeth. Just fucking answer. Sloane hung her head. A few moments later, she tried to call again. Beneath her breath a cluster bomb of curses were unleashed, drawing the eyes of the bartender.
“Everything good?”
No!
She waved him off, calling again.
Elsewhere, a phone rang, the caller ID on the screen that would’ve displayed Sloane’s name and number obscured by the blood that had pooled around Bé’s phone.
Interactions: Group, specifically Jack @Blizz Today, the Eleventh Path
She knew. Even before Jack said it, she knew.
She just hadn’t known how bad.
Rough would be a generous way of describing how Sloane looked. Dead, or perhaps poorly reanimated, would’ve been more accurate. She hadn’t slept. Runny mascara that had been half-heartedly washed away still somewhat stained her cheeks upon close inspection and she was wearing the now wrinkled outfit from the night before, a provocative-for-her black dress beneath a dark jacket. If she had entered the Eleventh Path holding shoes in her hand instead of the Chrysalis Staff it would appear as if she was partaking in the walk of shame and, frankly, last night had ended quite shamefully. The bartender had to call her a cab after what had been, essentially, a public breakdown. Reset the waterworks streak to zero. She’d be long dead before she ever came close to breaking her record of not crying in public now.
Thankfully, between the wine hangover and the nuclear fucking meltdown at the bar Sloane was so dehydrated that she had no more tears to shed. Thus, when Anya looked towards Sloane during the moment of silence for Auri, Todd, and Bé she would see a hollow look of nothingness in her eyes. It wasn’t just the usual blaise look, the practiced expression of apathy from someone who deep down cared so much about so many little, stupid, insignificant things and was afraid that if they showed it then it would be unjustly taken from them. It was just nothing. Pure hollowness. A look of a defeat so total that what she had been playing for no longer even mattered.
Mechanically, Sloane opened up the notebook she had set out in front of her and pulled out the Quill. However, she didn’t activate the artifact, merely staring at the words on the page as her vision unfocused. The others were already moving on to discuss partaking in a raid or forming a commune where they could all live together. Both ideas were just ways to rush them all quicker to the grave. Sloane wasn’t ready to move on yet.
Shouldn’t they ask more about the deaths? Did it look like the three gave any resistance at all, like they were fighting for their lives, or did it appear as if they had been killed without knowing, as if a familiar figure had been the one to pull the knife? Didn’t they deserve more than a moment of silence at the very least? A few words? Acknowledgement that, despite how Sloane despised her, Auri deserved some credit for bringing everyone together and raising awareness about Father Wolf? Sloane’s lips cracked as they parted. She could hear Linqian’s words again. Would Sloane even be given a moment? Her fists tightened, a spark of anger reigniting something inside of her. It was funny—or maybe it was sad, really—how good of a motivator pettiness and spite could be.
What were they discussing? Living together? I don’t want to live with any one of you!
Except Anya, obviously.
The arrival of the 317 was a sign from the universe that it was still a good idea to keep her mouth shut instead of voicing her thoughts, as her voice would’ve been drowned out anyway. The first sign of life appeared on Sloane’s face when she smirked as Octavia introduced herself as one of the three leaders of the 317. It hadn’t been so long ago that Sloane had suggested the reorganized Sycamore run under the rule of three. Now their not-leader leader was dead, and Jack had apparently stepped in to be the unofficial replacement. Sloane’s vision sharpened as she looked over to regard the 317. Even if she wouldn’t bother returning the introduction, she could at least get some names tied to faces.
Yet her eyes darted away as quickly as she watched some of the members rush over and give Jasper a hug, feeling something in her stomach that was quite spitefulness or pettiness but of a similar strain. Her eyes landed on the artifacts that Jack had presented that, in her previous glazed-over existence, she had essentially ignored. She stared at the Brass Needle, then looked to Luca, then Lila, then slowly drifted back to Luca before her eyes snapped to Lila once again. Sleep deprivation aside, she was definitely more crow now wasn’t she? Sloane blinked rapidly and shook her head, refocusing on the person she’d promised to help. Being bird probably wasn’t great, but it was better than being walking compost.
Quietly, Sloane slipped out of her chair and approached the artifacts. There was always the possibility that, like the Apparition Killer, the Brass Needle may not work. Last meeting Luca had shut down the idea of the Brass Needle because he didn’t want to be without an abstraction. But inadvertently thanks to Father Wolf, they could have an option of granting Luca an abstraction. Plus, Sloane had a sneaking suspicion that it hadn’t been Luca rejecting the idea in the first place. It was best that she hold on to it before something happened, like getting lost…or rotted…in the upcoming fight. She began reaching for the Brass Needle, ready to snatch it up as long as Jack didn’t show any sign of disapproval.
“Since we’re all so keen on joining a fight that we really shouldn’t, we’ll need more weapons,” said Sloane, her voice clearly indicating her weariness. “ If we were just content on stealing artifacts I might be of some use, but if we’re certain of a fight I’d only get in the way. Perhaps I can Counterfeit something useful before the raid.”
“Also, Jack, you found Auri, yes?” said Sloane, looking at him under heavy eyelids. He could see her trying to subtly draw his attention towards Luca, hoping he’d be able to catch on to what she was trying to do. She wasn’t going to suggest de-Rotting Luca right this moment, hoping for once to prevent a meeting from instantly derailing. Nor did she really want to put a spotlight on someone she considered a friend in front of a bunch of strangers. They could handle it in private later. “Do you have the Butterfly Staff? I’d happily lend out my Counterfeit for the raid if I can hold on to the original.”
Antlers
Estylwen
FernStone
NoriWasHere
TokyoPewPew
Framing A Moose
Cao the Exiled
Raijinslayer
Mixtape Ghost N
AtomicEmperor
