Mcmolly

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.

Amygdala Circuit

Camille huffed, lips twisting into an ephemeral sneer, a rueful shadow in her eyes, before she was statuesque again. She shook her head, and for a moment it seemed like she would simply turn and leave. This wasn’t her duty, after all. Keeping Loughvein alive was her lot, but stopping her from shaming herself was a challenge for the psychologists, and one that was seeming more and more unconquerable.

But, she didn’t, yet. She met Loughvein’s hollow eye with a hard, indifferent stare. She’d seen looks like this, the sort of blankness she’d come to associate with people who would become statistics in this field. She’d killed no small number of pilots with looks like this, but she could not kill Loughvein. The girl was not her enemy.

“Apologizing for a mistake means nothing if you make it again,” she said coldly. She sighed, her voice lowered. “People think pilots don’t make mistakes, and pilots think they can make as many as they want. The truth is a union. We make mistakes, like everyone else, and they build. Not just mistakes in the cockpit, though those matter, but everywhere. Here, in this shade, you have made a mistake. They are stones on a pile, added one atop another. Some people’s piles grow tall, and vast, some stout. All, eventually, fall.

“You will never know when. Never know which stone will be the one you can’t afford to place, or perhaps which one, deep in the pile, will shift after who-knows-how-long, and topple over on you even when you’ve not added one in a long time. We are not our mistakes, Loughvein, but we are beholden to them, and we do, inevitably, feel their consequences. Pilots only feel them once.”

She turned away, not to leave but to look, across the military zone and over the opposite border, to the town and the bay. “If you wish to avoid people, you should steer clear of the harbor. They set up carnivals there, every year, they’ll be doing it now too. Likewise, the community center, main street, and Henn road, where all the expensive restaurants are. There are parks in the neighborhoods to the northwest, which ought to be quite empty for the next few days. There is a nature trail as well, which will be tour-guided, but sparse—most people want to explore the town, not the forest. Eat here, if you must. The food will be cheap and packaged, but you will be left alone inside the barrier.”

Perhaps she had more to say. She was precipitously silent for a moment, teetering on the edge of something. Eventually, however, she simply muttered, “Dismissed,” and walked away, back onto the thoroughfare and out, into the town.

Amygdala Circuit

Cantimine was gorgeous, in a way which was at once distinctly Casobani, and distinctly unCasobani. Distant tree-topped hills swayed with gentle colors; the ocean shimmered and shifted on the breeze; the air was cool and welcoming. Built into a small bay, the town itself stretched like a broken ring into the flanking reaches of land. Buildings in the nouveau-assembled style of Euseran cities, blocky and bubbled and asymmetrical, retro of a time period that never was, rose in a haphazard skyline and, shirking the architectural origins that would have left them unpainted and bearing their bolts and parts-barcodes to the world, instead were drenched in clashing colors and ornamentation. It looked like a town painted by synesthesia, to the tune of something grungy, futuristic, and beautiful. Bubble-chic. Culturepunk. Two countries melded imperfectly, violently together.

Ships listed, drifting in the bay or bobbing in the harbor. More trickled in from the ocean waters, here a family catamaran, there a repurposed fishing trawler, a flag-laden pontoon, a cruise ship bristling with excitement and seasickness.

The noise was an undeniable testament to the sheer size of the visiting parties. A far cry from the quiet hum of the Ange’s dorms. The closer she drew to the barriers, the thicker the air grew with it. Like hands reaching out to her head, to her throat, to plug her ears and eye and drag her. The sparse crowd of personnel split around her as she stumbled, choked on her words, and summoned only meager sounds for her effort.

She bumped backwards, hit something, someone. A hand took her by the scruff of her jacket, hauled her upright. “Walk,” came the hushed, grumbled command. She was being push-carry-pulled away, out of the CSC zone’s thoroughfare and off, sidelong behind the pop-up buildings and supply tents, to the barrier wall.

The air shed its layers of clamor, they found shade and the sort of solitude that permitted the occasional, momentary rubberneck. The grip on Quinn eased but did not let go. It held her still, not steady, and kept her facing the blank, dry-concrete gray of the barrier.

“Control yourself,” Camille snapped behind her. “Stare at the wall. There’s nothing else. Stare at it.”

The captain’s shadow overtook hers on the wall, she was blocking them from the views between the makeshift alleyways. Camille’s silhouette was sharp, armored, longsword at her hip. She did not let go, did not raise her voice any higher.

“This is your duty—lament it if you must, but do it here. You bear more than your own dignity now, so control yourself. If not for you, for them. For Casoban. For Runa. You cannot break.”

Amygdala Circuit

The Ange was in motion. Days passed, things moved quickly; there was a tumult in command bleeding through the glass floors, permeating the station air with uncertainty, anxiety. They anchored their orbit to the nation’s coast, poised above the pastel deltas like a needle. Still there was silence, not strictly of confidence, but also abound was an uneasiness, an unwillingness to admit what they were doing there. Toussaint was scarce and unresponsive, save for the most brusque of responses, and the mild assurances that everything was well in hand and things were being discussed. Everyone would be informed in due time.

Ironically enough, he was right, they were informed—by Eusero.

Less than a week after the unprecedented ‘coincidence’, the Euseran media underwent an indignant conniption. In tandem step, nearly every news station began to report on Casoban’s treachery. The headlines, in amalgam, all distilled into a common sentiment:

In an act of supreme ungratefulness, Casoban has not only rebuffed Eusero’s diplomatic negotiations, but now insists on trudging up a settled, century-old territorial dispute over the province and town of Cantimine.

Naturally, rightfully, the denizens of the Ange didn’t believe a word of it. They came again to Toussaint and asked, in concerned unison, what the hell was actually going on. A week ago their relationship with Eusero was arguably better than it had ever been, and while no one had expected that to last, neither had they expected to fall into the nation’s political crosshairs with such vigor. One thing they knew for certain: if Eusero claimed this was a land dispute, then it was absolutely anything but a land despite.

And Toussaint said: “It’s a land dispute.”

Casoban and Eusero were officially engaged in Accord-sanctioned quarrel. Over a provincial zone not terribly bigger than Hovvi. There would be ostensible negotiations which would, of course, go nowhere, leading into another media frenzy, during which the area of Cantimine would become inundated with political tourism and Savior enthusiasts, because, inevitably, there would be a duel.

A blurred day and night, a few lip-service phone calls, and then Selen Dane and Olivier Moroux took to their respective airwaves.

“Since the fall of Aridea, the proud and beautiful territory of Cantimine has flown the Euseran flag,” they agreed. And then they stopped agreeing.

“Eusero liberated it from the Empire’s tyranny, protected it; we planted seeds here, of people, of progress, of a future, while Casoban was still a thrall.”

“Eusero took from us when we were at our weakest, and has since demanded we thank them for the privilege. These days, there seems to be no end to such demands.”

And so on, and so forth. They never debated, never took stock of their nations’ moods, and yet with apparent ease they whipped their populaces into a furor over a dispute most had only learned about in the preceding days. Such was the nature of the beast. There had never been the option for peaceful resolution, but, even if there were, Illun surged and cried out for justice.

So there the Ange hovered, Eusero’s station not far apart, while the town of Cantimine swelled with celebration and anticipation. Casoban, as the challenger, was to announce its champion first, and there was buzz throughout the station, as Quinn made her way to the bridge along with the rest of the pilots for their debriefing, that she would be taking her first, true steps into the shoes of a Casobani hero.

“Camille,” Toussaint said. “You’re up.”

There was a collective sigh in the room. Of disappointment from Cyril, of relief from Sybil, and of resignation from Camille.

“It’s your home, anyway,” he went on. “Makes the most sense.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, as if pretending she and everyone else in the room hadn’t known they’d choose her from the start. The twins were too inexperienced—if half eager—and Quinn was…on probation, of sorts. Camille presented the best odds; there were few pilots in Eusero’s roster with an even chance at her. Few, but not none.

“You’ll all be going down,” he said. “Cantimine may be Euseran territory now, but its people live in Casoban, and there’s a near-majority support for us among the citizens. Eusero will run its junkets, invite celebrities, but we’re going to be there on the ground, showing people why we’re better for them.” Fingers flicked across his tablet, beeps sounded from the pilots’ phones. “Preliminary schedules. Cyril, you’re due for an appearance at the town’s community theatre. I’m told the director there modeled his run of ‘L’intervention’ after your performance. Sybil, you’re donating three pieces to the town’s center for the arts, and you’ll be first judge for a portrait competition tomorrow evening. Camille, Casoban’s premiere fencing league is flying in—you’ll be giving them a demonstration. Light sparring. You’re teaching, not fighting—no injuries, and don’t get injured.”

A round of nods, duties assigned.

“Quinnlash,” Toussaint said, turning to her. “You are…tricky. Our PR team has determined that, given the current strain between Eusero and Runa, putting you front and center might push support among the locals away from us. We want you there, still, visible, but I’ve scheduled no events for you. You are, in a sense, free to do as you wish, within reason and under supervision. If you’d like, I can send you a list of places that would welcome your appearance, or you can feel out the area for yourself.”

He stood, and the other pilots stood as well, sensing the meeting coming to a close.

“You’ll depart this afternoon, make what preparations you will. The CSC will be occupying one of the local hotels, you’ll all have the floor to yourselves, just like here. Dismissed.”

And with that, Toussaint left. Camille joined him, and the two disappeared together down the hall. The twins remained. Sybil slouched back in her seat, while Cyril stretched, and an excited smile spread across his face.

“What a drag,” Sybil muttered.

“What? C’mon, this’ll be great!” Cyril said, looking over to Quinn. “I mean, it’s a little weird, but, a break’s a break!”

“She gets a break, not us. You and I have work.”

Cyril rolled his eyes. “At a theatre, and a painting contest. Oh, the woes and struggles are ceaseless. Quinn! You’re excited, right? I mean, I’m sure you could use the fresh air after, ah, well…it’ll be good for you! You finally get to see the sights!”