He is 24 years old, and often appears as a slender, clean shaven young man in outdated clothing.
Eugene “Doc” Roe lives in The Dark Tower, a setting that is the dying heart of the universe; a nexus of doorways to every conceivable reality.
His journal, Eugene Gilbert Roe, has 16 entries.
Conditions are GM-assigned status effects.
Examples of Conditions include supernatural curses, enchantments, and diseases. Conditions are created by GMs and Playgroup leaders and are not subject to any standardized balance. Therefore, their effects may be altered or ignored outside the Playgroup where they were obtained. For example, lycanthropy may be contagious in one Playgroup, but not another.
Circumstances describe your Contractor's situation in various Playgroups.
Enemies, wealth, notoriety, status, contacts, fame, and imprisonment are all examples of potential Circumstances.
Doc puts his hands on you and begins to mutter to himself in french. The effect is instant and horrible. You begin to remember all of the sins of your past, all the ways that you've wronged those who loved you. All of the terrible, evil things you've done on these contracts in order to survive. Doc seems to be in the grips of similar memories, tears running down his chin and dripping onto his hands that are pressed tightly against you. At the point where your mind feels like it's about to break, it's over. Just as quickly as it began. You feel the toxins begin to leave your body.
Exert your Mind and spend 15 Minutes treating a Living target. During treatment, the malady you are treating does not progress or cause additional damage. You may cure any single disease or poison so long as you have diagnosed it. The disease or poison must be mundane and curable with modern medicine. Must be within Arm's Reach of your target.
As long as you are treating your patient, the progression of the malady you are treating is paused.
Doc reels from the hit and his form fades into nothing.
He opens his eyes to the snowy fields of Bastogne Belgium. The exact moment he left.
He starts to look around but seconds later pops back into existence exactly where he was when he was injured moments ago.
Spend an Action and Exert your Mind to phase yourself out for 3 rounds. You cannot perceive the outside world or take any Actions during this time, but nothing can interact with you in any way.
Doc puts his hands on you and begins to mutter to himself in french. The effect is instant and horrible. You begin to remember all of the sins of your past, all the ways that you've wronged those who loved you. All of the terrible, evil things you've done on these contracts in order to survive. Doc seems to be in the grips of similar memories, tears running down his chin and dripping onto his hands that are pressed tightly against you. At the point where your mind feels like it's about to break, it's over. Just as quickly as it began. You feel your wounds begin to close.
Exert your Mind and spend 1 Minute treating a specific Injury on a Living target. Roll Charisma + Medicine10 - 4. Each Success reduces the Injury's Severity by one. If you can reduce its Severity to zero, the wound is fully healed. Otherwise, it is partially healed and fully, Properly Stabilized. It will heal the rest of the way at its natural rate. Difficulty
You cannot target yourself, and you cannot target the same Injury more than once.
Doc always comes prepared and his mastery of triage is second to none. His Traiteur gifts have evolved to allow him supernatural proficiency to treat patients most doctors need specialized equipment for.
Passive, always in effect. All Stabilizations you attempt are considered Proper Stabilizations.
Doc sees the situation begin to degrade in slow motion.
Eyes widen. Hands reach for weapons. Mouths tighten against teeth in an ugly grimace. Shouts begin to echo around the room in garbled tongues.
While his body tenses, his soul feels tired. A man of peace cursed to exist in perpetual violence. His eyes linger on a man near him, assault rifle coming to bear against the people he came here with, when he feels power well in his chest between his lungs.
"Stop" Doc says.
The man, moving forward, suddenly stops: his feet rooted in place.
Spend an Action, Exert your Mind, and roll Charisma + Influence6 to Restrict a target within 20 feet. The target may contest this by rolling Mind, Difficulty 6 as a Free Action. Success fixes the target in place at their location, although they still can move their arms, use Powers, etc. Difficulty
The target may attempt to break free by making an attack against their bonds at +1 difficulty. Breaking the binding requires an amount of damage equal to double the initial Outcome. Damage from multiple attacks is cumulative and stacks linearly. Other individuals may also damage the binding by attacking it at +1 difficulty.
Trophies are special objects and equipment.
Examples of Trophies include healing potions, scrolls, sci-fi technology, or any supernatural item that was not created with The Contract's Power system. Trophies are not subject to standardized balance. Therefore, their effects may be altered or ignored outside the Playgroup where they were obtained.
Eugene G. “Doc” Roe Corporal Medic 101st Airborne 2nd Battalion Easy Company
December 22nd 1944 Bastogne, Belgium 5:47 pm
Eugene “Doc” Roe sprinted across the hard packed snow towards the sound of the voice. The Clack, Clack, Clack, Chink sound of M1 Garands shooting empty all around him as he darted between the exploded remnants of evergreens. His breath chugged steam like a locomotive.
German bullets whizzed around his body hitting trees and snow, but always missing their target of the small man with the flopping bag full of bandages and morphine. Eugene Roe had never been injured in combat but he had had dozens of men die in his arms. Men crying for mothers, men praying with lips that no longer moved, men dying with holes in their guts asking him to be there with them so they wouldn’t have to be alone. He carried the souls of these men with him as he carried the bag emblazoned with the red and white cross. Eugene Roe was Mercy in a place that had none.
In Bastogne, he was the only thing Easy Company had between themselves and the field at the end of the path.
A cry from a fox hole immediately off to his right made Doc pivot on his heel mid gallop. Wayne ‘Skinny’ Sisk lay there with his bloody hands over his privates. Roe jumped in the hole and pried Sisk’s hands away.
“They got me, Doc. Goddam’ krauts shot my goddam’ balls off.”
Doc went into his bag and came out with scissors, cutting the fabric away from the wound.
“They still there, Doc?” Sisk asked nervously.
“Yeah. Just a graze across the thigh.”
Sisk laid his head back and sighed heavily, “Mary Mother of God.”
Doc rolled as little gauze over the leg as he could and still have it protect, but not an inch more. Easy was cut off and he had been rounding up what little supplies there was to be had for days now. He needed it for later. He reached for morphine, but hesitated for just a second. They were running low on that too.
“Can you handle the pain?” Doc asked
“Sure, sure Doc. Tough as nails, you know me.”
“Good, I’ll be back to check on you. Keep applying pressure.”
Sisk nodded tiredly and Doc was out of the foxhole running hard moments later.
Doc Roe’s brown boots crunched through refrozen snow as he ran towards the forward fox holes. The mortars had stopped and were replaced by German small arms fire. Bullets thwaped through foliage and trees next to him, his medical bag absorbing exploding chunks of wooden debris.
Ahead and to his right. His mind registered the oddity of the call coming from well to the flank of 2nd Platoon. Probably some paratrooper shot down on his way back from the bathroom. He turned on his heel and headed towards the call.
Fog closed around him, and the woods seem to hush suddenly. Gunfire became muted and then faded out all together. Eugene Roe slowed his pace and began to walk, feeling wary and confused. The fog was thicker. He walked among the evergreens, noticing that these had not been destroyed by mortars. They were whole, tall, and very alien. The fog began to lift and Doc Roe realized he was entering a clearing in the woods. Ahead of him was the soft flickering of a campfire and he neared, drawn into that beacon of dancing orange. Moments later, he stood before the campfire, looking down into the glowing embers.
“Eugene Gilbert Roe” an amused voice to his left said.
He turned and looked at the most curious sight he had ever seen. A man of indeterminable age, wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots. He had on a denim jacket covered in buttons. The only one he remembered later was the yellow smiley face. He looked up from that button into a face that was a sick mimicry of the same expression. It could be called a smile, except the malice, hunger, and evil behind it made that word unfitting. His long, brown hair flitted about his face, making the man’s unwavering stare seem all the more imposing.
“Doc” the man said, his face breaking the intensity into an almost childlike look of amusement.
Roe didn’t say a word, but stood there, staring at Cowboy Boots, not quite believing what he was seeing.
The man held out his hand to shake, and Doc took it unconsciously. It was too warm for the temperature outside.
“The name’s Flagg,” Cowboy Boots said the name with the hesitation of a mind unused to lying, “Randall Flagg.”
Roe still did not answer, but let his arm fall limply to his side.
“You look pretty rough there, Doc. Guess it’s been a while since you’ve had a shave and a hot meal. Hell, it looks like it’s been years since you’ve slept. I can relate.”
“The men needed looking aft…” Roe began, but was silenced with an upraised palm and an expression that told him explanation was not needed.
“I know they have, Doc. That’s why I called you to me.”
For the first time, Roe seemed to process the conversation and looked confused.
The Stranger went on, “You see, Doc. I have troops of my own. Good men that need looking after by capable sorts. Capable sorts just like you, Doc.”
Roe started to speak but was cut off.
“Your grandmother was what they call, a ‘traiteur’, right?”
“Traiteur,” Flagg said again slowly, tasting the unusual Cajun word. “Faith Healer,” he continued, his eyes flaring with passionate greed.
“Yes,” Roe replied.
Flagg began to pace, smiling to himself. He ended up by the campfire and flicked his wrist absently at the embers. The fire flared to life immediately. The flames reaching out hungrily for oxygen in a way that reminded Roe of Flagg’s own greedy expression moments earlier.
“Traiteur,” Cowboy Boots and Blue Jeans said one more time, “Sounds a lot like ‘Traitor’, doesn’t it?”
Roe recognized the laziness of the question as a rhetorical one.
“I can’t abide traitors, myself. Traitors deserve painful deaths, right Doc?”
Eugene stared right into Flagg’s eyes, “No.”
Flagg erupted in another huge grin, “You have an honest face, Doc. It’s one of the things I like about ya!”
Randall Flagg walked up in front of Roe and squatted down on his haunches.
“Take a squat, Doc,” he said and Roe did, his oversized medical bag rustling noisily in the process.
“Liars sit, Doc. Honest men just sort of hunker down. And I’m going to be honest with you now. I have a use for you, Doc. Not now, no no. But in the future, I do. At another time, on another level of The Tower.”
Roe puzzled over the curious phrase, but instinctively understood the meaning.
“What do ya say, Doc? Wanna help a pal out? Save some lives? Be a hero?”
This close to Flagg, Eugene Roe was almost overwhelmed by the underlying malevolence of this man. No, not a man. This Stranger. He smelled of sulfur, and the smell made Roe feel like his soul was being torn apart at the seams.
Roe stood up and looked warily at Flagg as he began to back up. Flagg’s expression turned from one of good natured friendliness to one of deadly promises. Doc had no idea how he would get away from this creature. He had no idea of where he even actually was. It had suddenly dawned on him that while his surroundings looked somewhat like those near Bastogne, they were probably in reality no where near 2nd Platoon. He wasn’t even sure he was even on Earth anymore.
“C’mon, Doc. I’m trying to do you a favor,” Flagg said, attempting to salvage the situation and letting his broad grin make a reappearance.
Doc turned and broke into a flat out run. His boots dug deeply into the hard packed snow, slowing his sprint. But he still thought it would take Flagg a moment or two to get off his haunches and take up the chase. And it very well might be the moment or two he needed to put enough distance between himself and this denim-clad Dark Man. He swung his head around to see if Flagg was taking up the chase, but when he looked back, Randall Flagg was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly a hot hand slammed into his throat, gripped it tightly and lifted him off the ground. His eyes came back around front to look into the face of something entirely inhuman.
Still wearing the cowboy boots, blue jeans and denim jacket, this creature no longer had the human face and long hair of some deep country good ‘ol boy. Bright red leathery skin was stretched taunt over bony ridges appearing along its elongated skull. Yellow reptilian eyes peered through slits and a maw full of needle-like teeth opened with a deep voiced cackle.
Doc’s eyes widened considerably, but he actually wasn’t as scared as he thought he would be. At that moment he actually felt more alive than he’d ever felt, even though his wind pipe was being crushed beneath Flagg’s clawed hand.
“Whats’a matter, Doc? Don’t want to fuck me anymore?” Flagg laughed as he threw Roe backwards powerfully. Doc sailed through the air and braced himself to hit the hard packed snow, but instead was caught heavily and dropped to the ground. He smelled sulfur again. Roe looked up to see Randall Flagg standing above him with an all-too-human face looming down.
“I didn’t want to do this, Doc” Cowboy Boots said and his eyes rolled far back in his head.
Eugene Roe was assaulted.
His mind began racing through images of all of his friends and fellow soldiers in 2nd Platoon and Easy Company. Began shuffling through everyone he knew in the entire 101st Airborne and everyone he knew back home in Bayou Chene, Louisiana. And they were all dying. Dying out of reach, and he could do absolutely nothing about it. He couldn’t help them. They were reaching out for him, calling for him. Begging for him to help them. And he could do nothing but watch them die. They lay there, holding their organs in, crying. They peered at him through bullet holes in their eyes. They twitched spasmodically on the ground in their death throes. Family, friends, fellow paratroopers. Flagg killed them all. Because he refused to help. Everyone he cared about suffered because of him. They all died because of him.
“Enough?!” he heard Flagg scream from a million miles away.
Eugene Gilbert Roe nodded weakly and the darkness took him.
I write this journal entry as I sit on a bus headed for New York, New York. I made up my mind and the dreams and nightmares I've been experiencing have been growing stronger. There must be something to this vacant lot and rose. There must also be something to this horrible mansion full of doors. I know they're near each other, but I also know deep down they're not from the same source. The vacant lot and especially the rose fills me with wonder and calm. Like sitting on the lap of God while he reads to you from the bible. The mansion reminds me of Flagg. Horrible, but useful in it's own demented, terrible way. After I arrive, I'll need to start looking for these places.
I've been told that Manhattan is extremely expensive to live in and that I need to find work quickly. And that I might have to take up residence nearby first. Somewhere cheaper. Possibly even New Jersey, but I hope to avoid that. My friend told me before I left that if there was anywhere in the world you could get lost in, and stay lost in, it's Manhattan. There are people there who live on the streets who have no government numbers and go their entire lives hiding in plain sight. I found this remark from my friend strange.
But for now, it's the beginning of a journey. One with no known ending and one that takes place in a brand new world, far from the familiar bayous and avenues that I've known.
I've been thinking about New York lately. Having dreams about it. Manhattan, specifically. I keep dreaming about a vacant lot and a rose. And then I'll have nightmares about a house full of doors that's haunted. I can't go there yet I know. It's not time, but soon. I know that in my bones and know it as well as my face in a mirror. I can't quite explain it. I mentioned these dreams to one of my coworkers, an older black woman who had lived there when she was younger. She brought me a travel pamphlet for Manhattan and said if I keep having dreams about it, I should go visit. I seem like a local to her, with my accent, so she assumes I would probably never move away from here. And before and during the war, she would have been right. I never had any ambitions beyond getting back home to Bayou Chene and being with my family. Marrying some girl I met at church. Working my own piece of land with her and our children. But then the war happened. Then Flagg happened. And now I'm here in a Louisiana I don't recognize, in a time I don't recognize. My home destroyed completely by flooding about a decade after Easy shipped out to England to run drills for the invasion. What they call now D-Day. My family long dead. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren of the people I knew left in their place. People I'm related to by blood, but who I've never met before, who have never met me. And have probably assumed me dead in Belgium many years ago. Assuming they even knew about me at all. Some would say such revelations would make them feel free. Unattached. Free to do what they wanted in life rather than what their limited imaginations from years prior had conjured up. But instead I feel empty and alone. Ungrounded. With nothing left but dreams of Manhattan and a vacant lot, and nightmares of a mansion with too many doors.
From El Paso, I finally made my way back home to Bayou Chene, Louisiana. Well, the area formerly known as Bayou Chene. It turns out, in my absence, that the town went under. We never had much of industry or commerce, but it's still odd to think of an entire town you knew just gone. Most of the little towns near the bayou still exist and are apparently where everybody moved off to. My mamaw and papaw died there in their house by the big cypress tree. You can't see the house or the tree anymore since the entire area is now under 12 feet of river silt. My parents and siblings moved away when the school and post office closed down in '52 off to St Martin, where I'm living now. I got a job working at the feed store, and the owner set me up a little cot in the back for me to sleep in. The money's good (I think) and nobody asks me much about where I came from or anything. They can tell from my accent and my name, that I'm a local boy. But nobody brings up that nobody seems to know me.
So it's been a good month. First time since Bastogne that I haven't spent all my time off in the hospital. I could get used to this. The feed store owner says I should train to be an EMT, or go to nursing school, since fellas do that these days. It ain't a job for women anymore. I know from my time in hospitals that I've seen plenty of women doctors. Most of them seemed to be from India or Pakistan, but they knew their stuff. There were a bunch over in France, but I always assumed it was because all their fellas were off fighting the nazis like we were.
And one day, just like all the others, a man found me while I was on my cot in the feed store and offered me a job. This time in New Orleans, so not too far away. We had to get our fortunes told by a chinaman named Mr Lung. I agreed.