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This is, I suppose, stemming from my deep distaste for the upper-class elite, my deep interest in civil rights and feminism, and my intent to create a character who controls smoke. I was originally planning for her to become a “Malcom X with breasts“-type of character, but by level 10 I was already bored with an admittingly flat personality trait, so I deleted an old character of mine and combined the two. She is still the female supremacist I wanted her to be, but she is finally the con artist I tried so hard to achieve in so many other characters. Lets see if it mutates into what I hope it does, eh?

Spoiler warning: Details about a player-created storyline, or information currently unrevealed about a character, follow.
Origin: Natural/Magic
Archetype: Scrapper
Security Level: 12
Personal Data
Full Name: Pel Baltos, formerly Pelicia Dana Barnes
Known Aliases: The Schemer, Estrogen Assassin(quasi-slur), Someone (former)
Species: Human, partially possessed by demon
Age: 22
Date of Birth: June 4th, 1985
Place of Birth: Washington, D.C.
Height: 6’2
Weight: 176lbs
Eye Color: Green
Hair Color: Dark Auburn
Complexion: Very little coloring to skin at all
Build: Athletically built
Biographical Data
Ethnicity: Irish
Citizenship: United States
Occupation: Vigilante, Con Artist, Socialite(former)
Education: Basic Military Education.
Legal Status: High School-educated. Accepted to but did not attend multiple Ivy League schools
Marital Status: Single
Sexua Orientation: Claimed Asexual
Known Relatives: Senator J. C. Barnes (Father, deceased) Michelle Barnes (mother, deceased), John Richard Barnes (older brother, deceased)
Base of Operations: Paragon City, Washington, D.C. (former)
Known Powers
Has the ability to generate, control, and to various degrees turn into a cloud of thick deep purple gas/smoke, a power known as “smoke-control”
Known Abilities
Expert-level sword-fighting skills, Aptitude for Confidence Trickery
Brown Trenchcoat, Sword she refers to as “Judas”


The Trip down the Highway to Pel

The First Mile

Pel's phone went off like an alarm, disturbing her sleep as she rolled over from her position on the worn-out couch to answer it. The news she heard would be considered sad, had it struck her as unwarranted or unexpected. After all, did she not herself threaten to slice his throat if he abused his wife or mistreated his children again? Had he not repeated his horrid crimes against womankind? Pel tried to stifle a smirk as she faked remorse and sadness at the loss of her “dear” brother to the doctor on the phone. Not that he could see her physical reaction, but Pel didn’t want to get into the habit of lying with an unstraight face. Not in her line of work. Pel got off the phone as soon as possible, under the guise of grief. Pel was ashamed to call any of them her blood. Her brother, her father, her mother: They all had been nasty sub-people, each leeches and cancers on society in their own way. In addition to her abusive brother, her father was an oppressioner of the most unrelenting kind, who subjugated all females he met, even his own family, trying to bend them all to his will. And her mother…well, she just allowed it all to happen, did nothing to try to slow the wave of sexism flooding her home. An appeaser of the highest degree. No, they all deserved nothing but what life, and Pel, had given them.

It was unusual to hear the name Barnes again, after all this time. It had struck her eyes like a cruel insult, a foul and crude statement that none such even speak of. She wasn’t always known as Pel Baltos, and was, in fact, born with that cruel word as part of her identity: Pelicia Ann Barnes, born on June 4th, 1985 to James Clifford Barnes and Michelle Patricia Barnes. She was the second of two children, constantly groomed to be daddy’s little show dog. Her brother would run the family vast shipping empire and she would look pretty, attract a husband who would be serve to raise the Barnes dynasty even higher on the social ladder, and eventually settle down produce a heir for the family “throne“. She would do this all in pursuit of earning the reward of calling herself a “Barnes“. It was not a life plan she was kept in the dark about. Ever since childhood, she was given the finest dresses and jewelry her parties increasing in extravagance as the years processed. Her fingernails were always immaculately cut and colored in flattering tones, her hair always cut in long and luxurious styles. Her ears always bejeweled by the most flashy earrings money, and lots of it, could buy. Ever since she could walk, her feet were trained to sashay in beautiful heels, befitting for a lady of her social stature. Flat shoes, she would be told, were for females of less grace and less elegance than those in whose veins flowed Barnes blood. At first, she had to admit to herself, the aspect of being “The belle of the ball” amused her, the attention and novelty even going so far as to please her. But things change, and when they do, they change rapidly and without warning.

Pel sighed and rolled out of “bed“ as her phone rang for a second time, this time coming straight from the offices of Mr. Mark W. Denaxas, the “Barnes Shipping” company lawyer. He seemed agitated, almost desperate and begged her to visit him as soon as possible. It soon struck her that she was the last member of the Barnes dynasty, the final surviving member and the one her father tried to damnest to keep away from the company. And yet, how ironic it was that she was the majority stock holder now. The outcast had become queen.

The thought of her father’s treatment of her sent Pel’s mind reeling back to her adolescence. It had been as she entered her middle to late teens that she first felt the burden of the life her father had engineered for her. Her father had tried to keep her away from the hard-hitting and stressful world developments that would surely be unsuited for the pretty little head of his darling daughter. Her parents had pushed hard for a private education, not wanting for her to associate with those they viewed as commoners. And she wore the schoolgirl uniforms and swore her oath to God and her father for a year short of a decade. It was only something as simple as a monetary disagreement that saved her from her living coma. It chilled her to think that , if not for the grace of a mishandled poker game, she would be the same mindless drone as her childhood “aunts and uncles”. It was in public school she learned she didn‘t want to sit around, twiddling her thumbs waiting for a man to sweep her off her feet. It had been in public school where she learned of war, of famine, of disease, of pain. It was in public school she came to realize the truth about the life she lived: That her earrings were dangling and distracting. That her hair was time-consuming and difficult to manage. That her clothing was cumbersome and served no purpose but to restrict her movements and make her into little more than a sex object. It had been in public school where she, without her parents’ knowledge and certainly without their consent, she began to associate with the intellectuals and the actors, hoping to gain an insight the friends her parents selected could not. Hoping these thinkers and performers would make her like them.

Managing to remove herself from her parent’s watchful eyes for increasing amounts of time, she joined the debate team. She participated in political rallies. These activities brought a feeling to her, a desire, she had not felt in all the preceding years. But yet, even they paled to what happened to her when she, on a whim, gave the school play a shot. It filled her with something. Not quite a warm fuzzy feeling, but more like a drug. The feeling, the adrenaline rush she got during her first play…the first time she said a line not as “Pelicia the Princess“ but as character of its own world, of its own story…it was unlike anything she had felt before or felt since. On weekends, she was wearing the beautiful dresses and the sparkling earrings, her parents left unaware of any change in their daughter. She kept living the rich girl “rebellious” lifestyle of drugs, booze, and boys, a life lived by those her parents “encouraged” her to hang out with a thus the phase of life was expected to have. But whenever she had a free moment, she was feeding her “addiction”: Acting, protesting, fighting for what she believed in. This was life. This was now HER life.

Mumbling her acknowledgement to Denaxas, she hung up the phone. She’d visit him later, if she felt like it. She was never really concerned for money. Not for some time. Rising up, Pel glared around for some clothing that hadn't been worn to the point of emitting a pungent odor. Checking to make sure the blinds were secure, Pel began to undress, her clothing following the same lifecycle her clothing always did: From day clothing to sleep clothing to discarded clothing on the floor. She had no doubts that she would be wearing the clothing again before it ever saw the inside of a washing machine. Moving over to the closet, she opened it with an unconscious dread. She hated her closet. It could double as a time capsule of her old life. The attire of an old persona. It was funny, in its own painful way. She had originally adopted this lifestyle of con artistry to escape the life she lived. A way to support herself after she couldn’t take living under her parent’s roof anymore and struck out on her own in the dead of the night. Who would have thought it would go full circle, and she would spend her days dressed in the exact styles and projecting the exact image she was forced to adopt years ago. Before, it was a lifestyle, now it was a talent. A trick to pull on the naïve and unsuspecting. The supernatural may have given her the blunt gift of smoke-control, but nature was not to be outshone. It gave her the subtle gift of charisma and personality. The ability to trick, to lie, to get away with both it and untold amounts of cash. The ability to have people fall in love with her with a warm smile.

She frowned as she pulled a brown t-shirt in her closet and slammed the door on the rest. Assuming the shirt was clean enough, flung a loose tan trenchcoat over it, putting a pulling on a pair of worn grey suit trousers to complete the outfit. This was her preferred uniform. Comfortable, effective, professional. She wished it could be her everyday wear. But her destiny had different plans for her and her abilities, and she was only reading the script off the cue-cards.

By day, she could dress like a person. By night, however, she would have to become Jenny or Ashley or Trish or whatever the fuck alias she was using. It wasn’t the first experience she has had with the duel lives between being feminine and being human As she was reaching adulthood, the same troubles dogged her. She felt the duel pressure of being herself and being her parent’s princess. She loved acting, but as she grew into her own, the fear her parents would uncover her ruse quickly diminished. She was too good. The adrenaline rush was drained from it. It was routine. Not that she didn’t enjoy it…she enjoyed it immensely. But she needed more. So she turned to the very skills that allowed her to get into acting to reach the next level. She started small: A few free tickets to the movies here, a couple of low-level casual poker games there. Nobody thought twice about the little “bimbo” who would look more in place at a fashion show than the streets with her crimson painted lips, stiletto heels, and tight dress. But they always underestimated her, her passion, and especially her intelligence. The job soon consumed her. While graduating with honors, a task her father saw no glory in as he felt she didn’t need intelligence to be pretty and fertile, she spurned college. Though the colleges begged for her attendance, she wanted only the teaching she got from the streets. Her date for the prom, hand-selected by her parents, arrived to give a corsage to a nobody. Pelicia has died that night, and was never seen again.


Someone does Something Somewhere

Baltos has just begun her journey of


Friends and Allies

Baltos is currently a lone warrior at the present.

Known Enemies

Powers and Abilities




Limited Martial Arts

Vulnerabilities and Weaknesses

Jessie has a resistance but not immunity to the physical effects of her smoke.


Spoilers end here.

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