Mcmolly

Hell on Earth: Supernatural & Demonic Detectives

_{With @BurningCold}

---

Well, she had been aptly forewarned. As the goons armed themselves and moved into what might have loosely passed for some kind of formation, Yam pulled the trigger on her contract. A chill washed over her, like someone was brushing cold paint down her limbs. Her skin shifted, her arms most noticeably; they didn’t grow larger per se, but they hardened like chitin or scale or some kind of hellish tree bark. They were heavier, but with that heft came a surplus of strength, which she quickly stoppered once she had enough to work with. Power was influence, and if she borrowed too much, it was harder to turn off. Bel’s strength was soda spilled on a carpet; water would dry just fine, but all the sugar and chemicals would take much longer to wash out.

She looked down at her hands, at the obsidian claws glinting on each finger. Her eyes—their eyes—flicked up at the goons, scanned over their weapons. Clubs, knuckles, miscellaneous bludgeons of dubious integrity. Nothing particularly sharp, and nothing that could blow holes in her. Seemed like they weren’t interested in adding corpses onto the list of whatever other shit they were dealing with.

“Less paperwork,” she said. Bel sighed, and the claws receded.

I give you hands to get dirty, and you still insist on wearing gloves.

The goons moved first. One came at Marty, and though she felt an instinct to cover him, two more lunged for her. She took hold of her righted chair with one bolstered arm and launched it like a fastball at the closer one. It connected full on with his chest, splintering like rotten driftwood and sending him sprawling onto his back. The second swung at her with his club, but Yam stepped in, took him by the arm and torqued around, lifting him up over her hip and slamming him hard into the ground.

Her mind went back to Marty, but before she could check on her partner, something hard connected with her face, and it was only by the split-second shift of Bel’s skin on her cheek that her jaw wasn’t shattered. She stumbled, blinking back her composure as the hulk of a goon drew back his brass knuckles for another swing. Yam whirled into it, meeting his fist with her own. Sturdy metal smashed into jagged demonic knuckle. The metal caved with a crunch, splitting skin and cracking bone. The goon yelped, clutching his bloodied hand back before Yam caught him in the gut with an uppercut and shoved him on the floor.

Finally, a moment to breathe. She tried to take stock of the rest of the bar, eyes darting to find whoever else might still be standing. She quickly found the man in the purple suit, who hadn’t deigned to get involved. Yet.

“Marty, you good?” she shouted over her shoulder, not wanting to take her eyes off the supposed leader of the bunch. Marty wasn’t the biggest or meanest demon she’d ever met, but, and this was important, he did have four knives.

Hell on Earth: Supernatural & Demonic Detectives

_{With @BurningCold}

---

“Just so you know, the neighborhood we’re headed to is a real shithole. In case you’ve never been.”

Yam resisted the urge to point out that the whole city, in fact, was a shithole. From the crime scenes to the homes to their own base of operations, New Helle was one flush away from a Richter scale sewage disaster, regardless of where you looked. But, the etiquette drilled into her from years of conversation with antsy tourists begged her: “What does arguing here serve?” To which there was rarely an answer other than “Nothing, but it’d feel good.” Besides, she wasn’t sure if shit was a sensitive topic, him being a fly and all.

Anyway, he was right. The Paradise was a shithole.

Worse than that, it looked like they’d missed a very lively, very relevant party. One could have been forgiven for assuming the last person in was some sort of bomb or a living tornado, which wouldn’t have been the least believable thing they’d seen today.

The tension shifted as soon as the remaining patrons caught sight of them; the gangs in New Helle might have been underhanded and sometimes terribly occult, filled with every flavor of demon and sleazebag and demon sleazebag imaginable, except rats. Even among the rat demons. Few things opened criminal mouths to authority ears in this city. Money worked, sometimes, but no one in Section 7 got paid enough for that, and anyway, they hadn’t come bearing a heavy briefcase. Talking was riskier, but, it could work—

If you didn’t instantly brandish a weapon or four.

She wasn’t sure what an intimidating voice would sound like coming from someone like Marty. Probably not like this, at least not to her ears, but maybe the incredulity was numbing her to his ferocity. She was afraid the gangsters would suffer a similar immunity.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “You’re the good cop.”

Bel chuckled in the back of her mind.

As rough around the edges as Marty’s negotiating prowess might be, she couldn’t deny that between them he was infinitely more personable. Did that mean he could sweet talk his way through a conversation with a group of gangsters he just threatened at knifepoint? She didn’t know. Better not to gamble.

So, while Marty stepped up to the diplomatic plate to bat, Yam picked a toppled chair over and set it back upright. She shucked off her coat and draped it over the backrest, flexed her shoulders and cracked her neck, then rolled up her sleeves. Mother’s runework slithered over her ashen skin, winding in arcane patterns that she couldn't have unwoven herself even at the height of her training. She grimaced; at least if things went sideways now, her mood was already ruined.

Yam pulled her tie loose and used it to bind her hair back into a frankly still-too-big tail. She considered wrapping her belt up in her fist, but this wasn’t a tussle on the street after bar-close. Instead, she held a mental finger on the trigger of Bel’s contract, ready to shift. If she’d learned one thing about engaging with the city’s underworld, it was that you didn’t go into it half-cocked.

On the bright side, Marty didn't seem physically capable of putting less than one hundred percent into pretty much anything, for better and, much more likely, for worse.

Hell on Earth: Supernatural & Demonic Detectives

_{With @BurningCold}

---

Yam still wasn’t used to getting picked last. Growing up, her arcane aptitude and pedigree had gone a long way in making her a first draft pick in everything from group projects to school admissions. At the time she’d enjoyed it, and then, slowly, she’d come to realize how much her mother’s name was carrying her through the aspects of social life that she wasn’t particularly good at. Being rid of it, accomplishing feats on her own, as her own, was validating; her hard work paid off in the Hexen, where eventually people stopped caring who she was and were more interested in what she could do.

Except now she couldn’t do, not like that, not anymore. Now she was saddled with a metaphysical anchor and no nepotism to smooth over her…charm. So, all said, she wasn’t surprised when the scene cleared out and all that remained was her, and the bug. Maybe that was a good sign; at least there was someone equally as despicable.

Well, two someones.

Hurtful.

“I’ll drive,” she said, fishing her keys from her pocket and following Marty outside, tossing the chief a farewell wave on the way.

She led the way to her car, a sturdy, compact thing with faded paint but, surprisingly, no dents. Just as surprising was the interior, clean and tidy, which might have counted for more if it didn’t still whiff of tar. As she settled into the driver’s seat, she repaid her brimstone parasite’s sass by lightning another cigarette and taking a long, thoughtful drag. Yam didn’t know if demons could get lung cancer, but she was willing on Bel’s behalf to find out.

She turned away at the last moment, blowing smoke out of the window when she remembered she wasn’t driving alone. This would be one of the few times she’d worked alone with the…enthusiastic demon, and while she certainly had her gripes with his attitude, she couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit guilty. It didn’t take long after Marty walked into a room to see how people felt about him, and though many of those feelings were fairly earned, others certainly weren’t.

“Good call back there. Good intuition.” she said, pretending like she was waiting to finish smoking before they left, like a responsible officer of the law. “Never seen magic like that before, infernal or otherwise. Weird. But I think you’re on to something with the whole…” she made a vague, flowering motion near her head.

There, a good deed for the day before whatever shit was waiting for them at the end of their trip. She flicked what was left of her cigarette onto the pavement and started the car.

“You’ll have to navigate,” she said. “I could get lost in a cardboard box.”

Hell on Earth: Supernatural & Demonic Detectives

---

The phrase ‘This is new’ was rote in Section 7. Whether it was gang wars, corporate espionage, or ritual zealotry, every single case had something(s) that got it ejected from the desk of whatever department should have been handling it, and put on the Easy Runner’s tab. New became norm, zebras became horses, and some days Yam was convinced all it would take to dupe their entire department was a cut and dry murder. Give them a jilted lover, and they’d likely spend a year trying to connect the victim to the Children of Helle, because Section 7 couldn’t see the forest through the trees unless it was on fire.

All that to say, this was new.

Not the scene itself, which was new in the old way. The shock and awe of a mass murder, smacking of weird and reeking of dead wannabe syndicate bigshots. But Armand was here, which was new in the new way; which meant it wasn’t actually new, because he’d shown up on a small number of cases before, but rather, it was now new in a way that made its old-new weirdness new-new weirdness. True-new. New plus. Suddenly every burning tree in the forest mattered.

Damn.

Yam crouched down in front of one of the flower-headed bodies. Lantanas. Interesting choice, which she did think it was—a choice. It wasn’t a bouquet, each of the eight overgrown victims sprouted the same flower, which meant they were chosen deliberately, or out of uniformity. Methodical inexplicability was the worst kind; there’d be rules, and Yam didn’t like playing games she didn’t know the rules to.

Thankfully, bugboy was on it. As grating as he could be—which was perhaps his most potent quality after his unshakable persistence—she hadn’t yet actually regretted having him on a job. His perspective, like his eyes, was manifold, and when you were dealing with weird, you wanted to see things from as many different views as you could.

Speaking of.

Yam shut her eyes, ignored the wriggling feeling beneath her eyelids, and then opened them again. She was, as always, keenly aware that they were no longer her eyes, but she saw through them all the same. Albeit, there was a subconscious tug, almost like an itch, trying to force her attention to certain places.

Thoughts?

Plenty, constantly. Bel’s voice was paved gravel, paradoxically smooth and also entirely too abrasive as it scraped across her mind. If that was a question, though, you’ll have to be more specific, and much more polite.

Yam blinked her own eyes back and shut him out. She wasn’t in the mood, not until she'd had a few cigarettes. Besides, there was enough here for her to go off of on her own, at least for now. She got back to her feet, surveying the rest of the carnage. Blood, bullets, slashes, stains. Whatever came through here wasn’t just big, it was too big.

“Think we’re looking for a human,” she said, moseying back to the others. “I’ve never seen a demon who could do this, and anyone who could would be wearing thirty pounds of curses. You don’t get that kind of work dispelled without people hearing about it.”

Hell on Earth: Supernatural & Demonic Detectives

Yam I Am

"Really easy to get blood on your hands in this line of work. Thankfully, these aren't my hands."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Name:

Yamiel "Yam" St. Sero

Age:

26

Gender:

F

Race:

Human

Description:

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

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

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

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

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

Background:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a while, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ability:

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

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

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

Mostly, she uses it to smoke with his lungs.

Artifacts:

N/A

Connections:

• Saliel St. Sero and the Hexen
  Yam's mother, and one of the premier members of the Hexen's families. Powerful and experienced, Saliel has spent most of her life in cursework, and has seen firsthand how important their job is to keeping New Helle safe. Mother of the year when there are no other contestants and the judges are in a coma. Yam will and has gone out of her way to avoid interacting with her.
  
  Yam's relationship with the Hexen in general is quite strained. She struggles to call them family these days, but can't bring herself to find out if the feeling is mutual.

Misc:

• Color code is 9173CA

Hell on Earth: Supernatural & Demonic Detectives

Yam I Am

"Really easy to get blood on your hands in this line of work. Thankfully, these aren't my hands."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Name:

Yamiel "Yam" St. Sero

Age:

26

Gender:

F

Race:

Human

Description:

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

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

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

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

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

Background:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a while, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ability:

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

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

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

Mostly, she uses it to smoke with his lungs.

Artifacts:

N/A

Connections:

• Saliel St. Sero and the Hexen
  Yam's mother, and one of the premier members of the Hexen's families. Powerful and experienced, Saliel has spent most of her life in cursework, and has seen firsthand how important their job is to keeping New Helle safe. Mother of the year when there are no other contestants and the judges are in a coma. Yam will and has gone out of her way to avoid interacting with her.
  
  Yam's relationship with the Hexen in general is quite strained. She struggles to call them family these days, but can't bring herself to find out if the feeling is mutual.

Misc:

• Color code is 9173CA

Mol's CS Thing

Yam I Am

"Really easy to get blood on your hands in this line of work. Thankfully, these aren't my hands."
_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Name:

Yamiel "Yam" St. Sero

Age:

26

Gender:

F

Race:

Human

Description:

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

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

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

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

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

Background:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a while, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ability:

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

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

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

Mostly, she uses it to smoke with his lungs.

Artifacts:

N/A

Connections:

• Saliel St. Sero and the Hexen
  Yam's mother, and one of the premier members of the Hexen's families. Powerful and experienced, Saliel has spent most of her life in cursework, and has seen firsthand how important their job is to keeping New Helle safe. Mother of the year when there are no other contestants and the judges are in a coma. Yam will and has gone out of her way to avoid interacting with her.
  
  Yam's relationship with the Hexen in general is quite strained. She struggles to call them family these days, but can't bring herself to find out if the feeling is mutual.

Misc:

• Color code is 9173CA

Amygdala Circuit

A hollow grew in Dahlia’s stomach. Not just for the fear and panic in Quinn’s voice, but for the fear and panic she felt herself. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure out what was going on; small town, big celebration, the water. For being countless miles away, every inch of Cantimine must have looked exactly like Hovvi. When she closed her eyes, she must have been able to see the fires, hear the skittering of monsters, feel the quake of the modir as they trampled her home into dust.

That’s how it was for her, at least. And that was with the benefit of being high above Illun, away from it all—though that left her with its own gnawing anxieties. There wasn’t a single day, sometimes a single hour, that went by when she didn’t think about her home. In the darkest and quietest hours of the night sometimes she opened her eyes to her father’s cold face, to Safie’s. The soft nest of blankets became the lining of a body bag, and she would watch in paralyzed silence as the zipper came up, closing over her, and only in the dark would she find the will to scream and jolt awake.

What could she say? What comfort could she ever offer someone in her position? Platitudes were balm, and lost their soothing touch the more they were used, and the last thing she wanted to hear from anyone these days was that what happened wasn’t her fault, or that she was strong, and brave. She didn’t want to be brave, she wanted her dad back. She wanted who she was before she knew how much she had to lose. Or at least, before she lost it.

Besca would tell her a story. She was good at that. She always had one, no matter what the situation was. There were times that Dahlia thought she was some kind of mystical being who had lived a hundred lives, was a thousand years old and that was why she always knew what to say, always knew how to empathize.

Dahlia wasn’t a thousand years old. She was barely an adult, and felt like less of one each day. She didn’t have stories, and it felt like she never knew what to say. All she had was herself, and the promise she’d made. She would never lie to Quinn.

“I don’t either,” she said, as much as it hurt to admit. “I…I wish I did. I really, really wish I did. It hurts enough waking up most days, I…don’t know how you do it.”

She slumped against the sim pod, the strength leaking out of her, leaving her with only a whisper. “You didn’t choose this life, but I did. You shouldn’t be the one down there, it isn’t fair. None of this is fair. But Illun doesn’t care, the modir don’t care. Whether we can do it or not, everything just…keeps going.”

A sigh worked its way up her throat, shaky and pitiful, but she didn’t try to hide it. No lying. “I miss you. I need you to stay safe. Please. I know it’s selfish, I wish there was more I could do for you from here but…but there’s not. I love you, me and Besca both love you. One day this’ll be over, and you’ll come back to us, and it’ll be better. But until then, just…” she clenched her fist, forced herself to stay composed. “I’ll always want to talk, even if I can’t help. Just to hear you’re alive. Nothing is too much as long as you’re still alive, Quinn.”

Amygdala Circuit

An orbit away, the Aerie was as silent as Cantimine was loud. Down to a single pilot, there truthfully wasn’t much for most of the staff to do; those whose job it was to monitor for singularities were, of course, working around the clock, and every brain in PR was hard at work spinning Quinn’s absence into positive news, but otherwise…

Well, Dahlia had a lot of time to train. And she had, extensively—excessively, according to Besca—but she knew there was no such thing as being too prepared. Frankly, sometimes she doubted she was prepared at all. Complacency was poison to pilots, but so too was doubt, and for a time Dahlia thought she had found a comfortable balance between them. But then the attack had happened, and whenever she stepped into a sim, or connected to Dragon, all she could think about were the six Modir who had come to kill Quinn.

She thought of it now, too, when she heard her voice. Always when she heard her voice. Panic, as sharp as the first time she’d stepped into the cockpit, squeezing her heart like a fist. It pushed her, gave her the drive she needed to rebuild, but sometimes it made her dull, made her glaze over details she shouldn’t miss. Like the tremble in Quinn’s voice. The relief was too much, mingled too excitedly with the fear, that she barely even heard the words.

“Great!” she said, the response automatic as the rest of her caught up. “I wasn’t expecting you to call—I mean, I’m glad, I just didn’t know you could. Things are great here! Not because you’re gone or anything. Actually I guess in that way they’re kinda awful, but other than that we’re good! We’re great. We miss you a lot. Besca’s still working all the time but she misses you. She’s in a meeting right now, I think, but I can message her if you want, I know she’d…”

It hit her hard, suddenly, that Quinn was calling her. She was alive, yes, but Quinn had proven so far that she was pretty good at staying alive. It was the living part that gave her trouble. There was a big festival happening in Cantimine, and Quinn was calling her. And there was, if she thought hard, a definite hitch in her voice. Something was wrong, and Dahlia could feel the brief moment of relief wither inside her throat. She sat down against the sim pod.

“How…” she started, coughed, tried again. “How, uhm, how are you?”

Amygdala Circuit

Cantimine moved in tides, its crowds ebbing here, flowing there, and keeping mainly to the shores. Paparazzi had set up shop outside of the CSC’s military zone, but for the most part the citizens and tourists were far too wrapped up in the celebrations to bother. After all, why rush? There was plenty of time before the duel, and either way, that was the event most of them had come to see. Perhaps they were waiting, not wanting to invest themselves too heavily into a pilot that might be dead in a few days’ time. Afterwards, one there was a victor, there would likely be a surge in people wanting pictures, and autographs, and to scream that they knew the winner would win, because it was obvious, and they never doubted.

At least for the locals that was not the case. Camille exited the zone to a fanfare of camera clicks and cheering, like some returning hero. Among the posters and signs of her, and Foudre, there were people wearing jerseys with her name on them, and the crest of the Cantimine high school, where evidently her fencing legend had begun. She met the crowd with expected temperance, but not unkindness. She spoke little, but signed and nodded and expressed quiet thanks to those who met her eyes.

The twins saw a smaller but still excited welcome, and as Quinn stepped into view there was the beginnings of a roar of appreciation for her as well. Then, suddenly, a surge of excitement, and all attentions and cameras and pointed fingers went skyward. The Saviors were coming down on the lifts. It was a brief but effective window, and Quinn was able to slip out of the zone without a crowd following after her.

Northwest. Neighborhoods. Parks. Cantimine was not terribly difficult to navigate, and even staying clear of the main roads, she was able to find that suburban delta where township trickled into residence. People were scarce, and those she passed hardly noticed her, likely thinking she was a local herself, or just out on a walk for some peace and quiet. The roads began to wind between roads of houses, narrowing and forking, looping, but distant trees towering over rooftops led the way.

Some of the parks were plain. Empty fields with one or two benches, designed more for pets than people. Others were playgrounds for children, who didn’t care much for the crowds of strangers and the loud noises. Eventually she found one empty, an amalgam of an open grove and the remnants of a metal jungle gym, with a small basketball court grafted onto it, a rainbow carousel, a pair of swings near a duck pond.

Save for the occasional quacking, and the distant festive rumble of the town, it was quiet. A whole space to herself, for as long as that would last. A moment to breathe. Rare. Cherished.