[hr][center][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/b3RmLjEwNi4wMGZhOWEuVUdGc2IyMWhJRWRwYkcxdmRYSS4w/perfect-smile.regular.webp[/img] [img]https://i.imgur.com/fQJYC7v.png[/img][/center] [right][b]Interactions:[/b] Vin [@Fernstone] [code]Thursday November 24th, The Hollow Tap[/code][/right][hr] Vin was able to easily free themself from Paloma’s weak grasp, a task that might’ve proven to be more difficult than it should’ve been if the Samaritan hadn’t misread Paloma’s lunge for Vin’s wrist as an attempt on the poor thug’s life. The momentary disabling of the Samaritan’s protective aura didn’t fully register to Paloma. She did feel the waving surge of panic that had accompanied it, brought forth by the Samaritan whinging inside of her, but mistook the feeling for simple nerves caused by being in the same place as Freya Collins. Paloma continued to steal glances at the star baker through the crowded bar, ducking behind Vin whenever the woman even slightly turned her head towards their general direction. [color=51684c]“...These kids're gonna punch her for me, ain'tcha?”[/color] "Right in the tummy!" The threat snapped Paloma’s attention away from Freya and towards the child soldiers that Vin was recruiting as the Samaritan reactivated its aura. While any Paranormals might feel a faint, barely noticeable tickle in the air, the heads of the children snapped towards Paloma as she gave them a soft, pitiful smile. While the mental image of a bunch of Southside brats lining up to gutpunch a Northsider tickled her funny bone, as an adult Paloma felt like she had some sort of responsibility to dissuade the kids from a stint in juvie–even if it didn’t take a clairvoyant to realize that was going to be an inevitably for a couple of them, especially the punk who’d spoken out. However, before Paloma could hope to steer the kids away from violence, Vin caught her completely off guard. [color=springgreen]“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You got it completely wrong, tiger. It’s not like that,”[/color] said Paloma, frantically waving off the idea that she was either pissy or interested in slapping Freya. Her voice dropped to a loud whisper as she strung together her version of the events. [color=springgreen]“I mean, this isn’t the first time though, and she said some really rotten stuff. Allegedly. But the response towards her has been really brutal. Some people are saying they should bulldoze her bakery–with her inside of it. I heard that there was a violent altercation there earlier this week. Supposedly someone got shot, but what I heard was that they were actually trying to shoot her. That’s why they closed her bakery. So it’s crazy that she’s out in public.”[/color] [color=springgreen]“But!”[/color] Paloma came just short of booping Vin on the nose as she pointed a shaming finger at them. [color=springgreen]“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear online. We don’t know if she actually said those things.”[/color] It was easy to believe that every Northsider out there was some malicious, uppity asshole who viewed every Southsider with the same disdain and disgust as someone views a piece of dogshit that they’d accidentally squashed beneath the heel of their shoe. Paloma herself had witnessed firsthand how the demeanor of people from the North had dramatically shifted towards being more polite to her ever since she and the Samaritan had Adjoined. However, it was crazy to just assume that because somebody was from the North that they were automatically a bigot. For all they knew, this was some fake bullshit spread to defame Freya Collins because somebody was jealous that she was popular online. Now, was Paloma a fan of Freya Collins? Well, yes, obviously, she had great recipes and offered fantastic baking tips. Had Paloma ever heard her say something disparaging towards poor people? Well, sure, there had been a few live feeds that never got a proper upload because something insensitive might’ve been said, but Freya had been practically a teenager. What teenager wasn’t a total asshole? Plus she was a sheltered little rich girl, how could she know any better? Was calling Paloma just a fan of Freya a bit of an understatement? Was there a chance that her relationship to the baker, whose cute little baking videos were really the only thing that had gotten her through her stint in the hospital and the depressive wave that had accompanied it, truly was so utterly parasocial that Paloma had avoided ever going to the Cozy Bakery despite it being like a ten minute walk from her work out of fear of how much she’d gush over Freya if she’d ever seen her in person? Maybe. Was it easier to make excuses for Freya then accept that someone who’d brought Paloma joy fucking sucked, had always sucked, and that by continuing to support it made Paloma herself, in some stupid way, also kind of suck? Maybe. [color=springgreen]“It’s just that if I had known she was going to be here I would’ve gotten up earlier to properly finish this batch of cookies,”[/color] said Paloma with a pout as she pulled back the lining on her basket to reveal the batch of pumpkin-flavored, hand-shaped cookies to Vin. [color=springgreen]“Without their proper accoutrements they just look weird, poorly-shaped blehs. When I’d dreamed of–er, I mean, since she’s here, it would be cool to see what she thought of my cookies. Just because, ha, just because she is a professional and it would be nice to have professional feedback or whatever.”[/color] Paloma gave the least casual shrug ever as her cheeks started to flush. [color=springgreen]“Really no biggie whatsoever. Actually, I got an idea…”[/color] As she rambled, the young boy in hand-me-down clothes who’d spoken up–Vin’s protege–grew bored, his attention breaking from the light lure of Everyone’s Sweetheart and returning to what truly had interested him: punching Freya right in the tummy. He pushed up the sleeve of his patchy, oversized sweater and rolled his shoulder a few times to loosen up his punching arm, making his fist in the way Vin had taught him. He turned his back from the nice lady who sounded like a cartoon chipmunk and took a few steps away from the group. [color=springgreen]“It’s rude to walk away when an adult is talking,”[/color] said Paloma, snapping a piece of gum as she hit the child with a bit of Good Influence, stopping the kid suddenly as her voice cracked into the back of his skull with an icepick and gave him a light lobotomy. The tingle of her aura rippled through the bar, more noticeable to Paranormals than before although not by much, like the temporary irritation one might feel when dust gets knocked free from a ceiling fan and scattered about the room. The boy turned towards her, looking at her with those same big, shining eyes full of wonder as before, seemingly undisturbed by what was happening to him. Although the implication was that he should rejoin the group, the boy did not move closer. If Paloma had thought about it more before she spoke she would’ve realized that the room was full of adults talking. Thus, unless the entire bar had a mouthful of turkey at the same time, the boy would be unable to move from where he stood. She made a conscious effort to not look at Vin, who quite possibly would pick up on the boy’s weird behavior, as she squatted down to be eye level with the rest of the children. [color=springgreen]“As I was saying, I have an idea,”[/color] said Paloma, her lip curling into a devilish smile. Originally the plan had been to get closer to Marco (ugh, where was he!?), but if she was able to become buddy-buddy with Freya Collins as well then wasn’t that just a little bit sweeter? As she readied herself to blast the kids with a wave of Good Influence, that annoying little tingle radiating throughout the bar, a sudden pinch in her stomach made her shut off the secondary aura. Her smile flickered but did not falter. If only it were a century ago. She never thought she would be one to curse Upton Sinclair and his fellow muckrakers, but it would’ve been nice to not have to consider the moral conundrum (or lack thereof) when it came to forced child labor. Stupid little bastards with their dumb shrimp fingers perfectly designed to get between all the dangerous bits of machinery that would otherwise easily get jammed up by and rip off the hand of a full-sized adult. What an absolute waste of resources. Paloma balked at the intrusive thought. Hopefully they would just play along anyway. [color=springgreen]“Instead of assaulting Ms. Collins, we try impressing her instead. Make it so that she’d never say anything nasty about our side of Cloverfield ever,’[/color] said Paloma, seemingly forgetting to add the word ‘again’. She jiggled her basket at the loosely enthralled children. [color=springgreen]“I have here all the ingredients needed to make cute, festive hand turkey cookies. Now, I was told by Mr. Cross that absolutely no desserts are to be had until after dinner and that Vin is here specifically to make sure that you eat every last one of your vegetables and, oh, there are so many peas.”[/color] Paloma made an overexaggerated look of disgust and glanced at Vin, giving them a pleading bat of the eyelashes and hoping that they’d take the bait, make that usual annoyed look they made at her, and sell the lie. The children glanced at Vin, even the kid stuck a few feet away from the rest of the group. [color=springgreen]“But if you help me decorate these cookies you’ll get to have one before dinner. And, whoever makes the prettiest turkey will get theirs presented to Ms. Collins to judge. Whaddya say? You in? Sounds like fun, right? ”[/color] asked Paloma, who realized she wasn’t even buying into it herself. It sounded like work, and even with the Samaritan’s aura going only a couple of the youngest, likely slowest cookie slaves were nodding their heads. She needed something else to spice it up. Her eyes lit up. [color=springgreen]“Oh! And the best decorated cookie also gets the super secret special prize! A…uhhhh…”[/color] Paloma’s face dimmed as she felt the chilly breeze from the front door run through one ear and out the other, not a single damn thing in the way of its path. [color=springgreen]“Vin!”[/Color] She gestured towards Vin like she was hosting a gameshow and Vin was the model hired to show off the brand new car. [color=springgreen]“Tell them about the super secret special prize!”[/color] All those stupid big, shining eyes were on Vin now, none bigger nor shiner than Paloma’s that now batted furiously at Vin as she tried to pass along a coded message: a plea for help. I-N-E-E-D-Something. Or could she have just mixed up some of the short bats with what should’ve been a long one and the message was something else, something sinister. I-K-N-O-W-W-H-A-T-Y-O-U-D-Another sharp blow of the early winter wind cutting through the crowd sent Paloma’s eyelids all aflutter, cutting off the message if there even was one.