samson-hart

[samson-hart]

The countdown does nothing. He flinches at the scratch of the needle, more than he would've in the past. He sits. Still. Silent. Thinks with a flare of anger that this is pointless and it's not going to do anything. Funnily enough, the rage doesn't disappear. It might even be the injection, doing it's job. At first that's all it is. His breaths are deeper, stronger. His claws feel longer, the gentle eking out as they actually do become longer. A blink and you'll miss it change. His canines are subtly sharper, too, hidden beneath lips held firmly shut. When he speaks it's with an infuriating calm. He digs his claws into the armrests. Stands up, abruptly. One word at a time, now. He didn't want to talk! "Fuck. You." He barely contains his shout. Spit flecks the glass. He steps back. Tries to contain himself. It's the fucking same feeling as always: the wave of red. He can't stop it any more than an average person could control the tide. All Samson can do is shut his mouth a loud clack of his teeth. Tense every muscle and ball his hands into fists.

"But of course." He smiles at the man as deft hands work at a console, readying the chair with a responsive whir emanating from it. The machine inches down slowly as Adonis counts him down, the needle finding the vein and injecting the hormones into his bloodstream. The readings begin showing on the feed and Adonis hums thoughtfully. It needs a couple of seconds to metabolize, surely, but he can't exactly place the expression on Samson's face as he sits with the apparatus powered down behind him. "Alright, mister Clemens." He types down the readings and looks through the glass, seeing his chest rise and fall. Good, the man's not dead. "Do tell me how it feels—I just need a baseline emotional reading for you. One word at a time, now."

[samson-hart]

@buriedwithit ( for ed)

"You gonna sneak around all night, or fucking show yourself?" Richard growls through gritted teeth. The stranger is nowhere near it's size, but the mere fact they could be following him has Richard on high alert.

[samson-hart]

Samson's become a sullen presence around The Lady. He knows he's only being allowed this ... sabbatical because of his history with Seth. If anyone else was refusing to work they'd be thrown out. Richard's been refusing help from Seth, but after the poorly glued gash on his neck split open, he knows he needs a hand. He's not been particularly social lately, either. "Silas, right? I need a hand."

@samson-hart

He had just finished a set at the Bearded Lady and really needed rest. He had been feeling a bit under the weather, which was humorous seeing as he had health manipulation but it was wasted on him - his own powers not working on himself. "Dammit," he whispered as he ran a hand through his hair before turning his head at the sound of footsteps. "Yeah?" he asked, brow raised

[samson-hart]

Richard’s so lost in the overwhelm that he flinches when Seth settles on the bed behind him. His heart races and he can’t stop it. Can’t stop the tears. Can’t stop the tension. Can’t push Seth away. He doesn’t want to. He should. He’s the reason Richard’s curled up like this.

Seth climbs onto the bed, and it hurts all the more. His beard brushes against his bare shoulder, his voice barely intelligible. Sammy. Sam reaches back, grabs Seth by the wrist and drapes his arm over his side. He presses his rough hand against the middle of his chest, and winces, but he doesn’t let Seth move away. He needs this, a kind touch that won’t turn into something more. Just comfort. There’s no clear indicator of just how much time passes. Richard sobs till there’s no more tears to give. Till he’s only taking shaking, wet breaths. Finally, something gives and he finds his voice, “I can’t do this anymore, Seth.”

Sam says nothing; neither does Seth. He simply watches, and though his friend doesn't share them, he's audience to Sam's thoughts as those sickly yellow eyes drop down to examine the calling card Abel clawed into his chest. That damned cross: Seth is far from a religious man, but he at least knows the symbol to belong to a God who loves all of His creations, no matter their vices. This atrocity was committed under the same earthly purpose as the fires of Salem.

Seth sets his chin on his folded arms, watching, waiting, when slowly a wave overtakes Samson and he becomes racked with sobs. Such a raw show of emotion would've made Seth uneasy to witness if it didn't match what he'd gone through over the past few days, only Seth had the strange benefit of weathering the worst of it alone. He knows he can't do anything to make it easier, and so he only can do what he wished Sam could've done for him all this time: he crawls up onto the bed and curls up alongside Sam's trembling form, as close as he can get without brushing any of his wounds. If it doesn't bring Samson any comfort, it at least comforts Seth.

"M'sorry, Sammy," Seth rasps, barely more than a vibration between the sweat-dampened sheets and Sam's bare shoulder.

[samson-hart]

"Vic," he says, lightly scolding, at the mention of things he's doing that'll end him early. Richard knows this isn't his place to speak, he's nothing but a hypocrite though, and he thinks most people deserve better. "It nearly fucking killed me and I'm notoriously hard to kill." He scoffs, crossing his legs at the ankle. Hands held tight in his lap as he looks anywhere but Victor. His faux confidence is draining, he's wound tight on the bed and can't even feign relaxation. "I don't fucking know, only woke up a few days ago," he idly scratches at his chest, the itchy scabs beneath his shirt, "Why would you even help me? I'm only good for one thing and I don't even want to do that anymore."

He wonders if Samson would ever get angry with him—he's sort of known something of his issues with his rage, but he's never fully grasped what it was. Some parts of Samson were his own, and Victor respected that, but now, it seems like a gulf has stretched across them and it's one that he can't exactly fly over. He would if he could. He would if he'd let him. He would if he tried. Turning away for a moment, he returns to look at Samson as he hears words that could level him in an instant. You shouldn't come here again. It's petty, but he wants to be angrier about this, but the man's had enough on his plate. Something has it out for this place, and everyone in it. It's a good reason. Plenty of reason why he could stay away, if it didn't just compound over their—whatever they had. "I'm a big boy, Samson," he laughs, hoping that years of acting and PR training has given him enough muscles to refuse his emotions right now. "If the drugs don't get me, or the drink—I think I can handle someone trying to kill people here." Besides, he can always go to Seth. The man was a sponge, something to hold and control. Something that he can latch onto like driftwood off the wreckage of a boat. "How about you, then? Maybe you should find someplace else. I could... help."

[samson-hart]

Adonis answers with such casual confidence, he doesn't think to even second guess. The fallback plan isn't something he'll question, he will question the fact he's not being held down to the chair. The clinical nature of the room at least means it doesn't feel like the cage someone would use for an animal. Just a man. That alone is somehow comforting. Richard takes a seat. Sitting up straight, placing his hands and feet in what look like the obvious, clearly signalled spots. As much as he hates the thought of this, it's only the two of them and some sensors. NO-one else—as long as the glass holds up—will have to see him in this state. No-one else should. His heart already begins to race, bringing it up to a more normal human rate. It'll be nothing compared to when the test finally begins. "Do I get a countdown?" he jokes in an unsteady voice, leaning against the head rest with a straight neck.

"Depends on your persistence. And even then, I've got a fallback plan." The cocktail in the syringe sits neatly by his left thigh as deadly as a holstered blaster—it's an edited version of the Ihsan mix, one that won't leave a man in a coma. The apparatus behind Samson is a chair, with shots of adrenaline, noradrenaline and cortisol, in dark vials that point neatly at the base of his neck once sat. He logs the doses and hums, triple-checking the integrity of the systems with his tablet. His voice is clear, concise and direct, one that would at least hopefully give the man a sense of calm in the fact that Adonis knew what he was doing. "Those vials will simply inject hormones into your bloodstream that will simply simulate the anger response in your body. The cage is monitored through sensors and will give me a baseline evaluation of your body during the affected rage process," he says, looking down at his tablet. "After that, we can assess the comedown as you start to leave the rage state, so if you may—sit in the chair so we can begin."

[samson-hart]

The lights, pretty things he'd enjoyed during their sessions. Was it genuine, he wonders. The joy. Or had he lied so thoroughly to imself over the decades that he couldn't really tell what he did or didn't like? It's selfish of him to wish Vic would sound more upset. Instead he takes it as he should: the guy he pays to fuck looking worn down, beat up and saying he's quitting. There's plenty others to choose from, hell Vic doesn't even need to pay to get fucked! "I don't know." After a moment he sits up straight, feels self conscious enough that he won't relax fully. "You shouldn't come down here again," it feels hypocritical, and a little stypid. Worst of all it feels shameful. So he tries for neutrality that only comes out sounding defeated, "I didn't lose a fight I was attacked. Some... thing has it out for this place and everyone in it."

There's not much that stuns Victor into silence, but here it is. This was business, and somewhere along the line, Victor forgot about it. It doesn't feel good, he thinks, tasting the ashes of something that even he deluded himself into thinking was there. Maybe he shouldn't have come to see him? Or maybe he should have just said it was a social call, but he didn't know what had happened? It's all business. With that thought, the lights simply die out, as he feels something heavy sit on his chest. "Ah. Sorry." It feels impotent, quavering. But it had to end someday. "I mean, hey. Who am I to go against a career change? You know where you'll end up once you go to the, you know, reassignment place?"

[samson-hart]

There's a little bit of happiness as Adonis sees him relent, kept under lock and key by years of interfacing with his patients. All he has to do is get him to the private laboratories, under lock and key. Adonis wonders if Samson knows he'd made a deal with the devil, but he simply does not care—it's one more mutant for the rolodex of genes at his disposal, and it's one he'll put to good use. "Of course," he says, tapping his tablet and marking down the date. "A message will be forwarded to you through your communicator with all the pertinent information, mister Clemens. Have a wonderful day—and I hope to see you there."

END.

[samson-hart]

This was not what he expected. At. All. He's undecided whether it's better than being chained up. He scoffs at the comment, there's plenty of ways he could still get hurt. "This glass won't break if I punch it?" he raps a knuckle lightly against the glass, as if to test it's thickness. The only real concern is if he accidentally hurts the doctor.

for @samson-hart—

"Now, Samson," he says, looking over at the containment field. Glass, of course, enough to see him and enough to provide a barrier in case something goes awry. "I'm sorry about the lack of chains, but I would rather you not hurt yourself in my care. Is everything to your liking?"

[samson-hart]

The attempt at formality makes him scoff, not in any sort of annoyance. He's simply not used to actual professionalism. It does not sound like boasting when he sketches a rough idea of what other mutants he's dealt with, simply sounds like this is a man he can trust with this. The mood only sours at the mentions of chains. Somehow, it's still a more appealing thought than therapy. "Okay. Yeah, sounds good." He nods, it's enough he decides. If he keeps talking or asking qestions, he's afraid he'll back out. "Guess you can just give me an appointment, figure it out and go from there?"

Adonis wonders how his anger works—an increased surge of hormones, his body amping adrenaline, or perhaps the man has an intense healing factor. Either way, it's nothing that science can't particularly solve. Perhaps he can find a way to repurpose an emergency sedative or a firearm, but he can't really justify shooting a man yet. Not without dismembering him and leaving him to rot in a Dodge-fluid heavy vat of solvent, which he frankly does not have yet. He'll get to it, but contingencies should be made. "Mister—Samson. I'm a man who's seen mutants get angry, blast first and try to turn my mind inside itself and yet here I stand. Strength and anger is going to be an issue, yes, but I can't exactly say that your particular problem won't be handled." A pause as he tries to amend himself—to show competence, but to simply not give off the arrogance that puts off some of his less-inclined colleagues. "That said, we're going to have to test that anger first in a private and controlled environs, so I know what to expect. Because frankly, the thought of chaining you up every time I try to run a test isn't exactly what I want for you."

[samson-hart]

I don't know, Sam. It shouldn't start to sting, he thinks. He chose Samson, he picked it when his own mother decided to choose herself over him. Why keep Richard? It feels suddenly, more like a dog's name. The lights around Victor shifts to blue. It feels fitting. Sam—Richard makes no sign of moving. "If you already paid, I'll make sure Seth refunds you." It feels cruel even to Richard, the way he can talk like this is merely a business transaction. That's allit is, isn't it? That's what he realised lying, bleeding out in that empty street. He missed Christmas. Missed New Years. Wokeup with injuries so slowly healing he's actually earned some scars. He looks away from Vic, stares at his hands. Useless things that they are: what else is he good for? "It's not just a break, Vic. I'm not... I'm done."

Victor feels incredibly out of place. Nervous, even—and he doesn't even get nervous about things like this. He could charm the jockstrap off any guy he wanted, and yet standing in an ensemble that is more suggestion than anything, he feels like he's extremely underdressed for an occasion that he doesn't know the dress code for. Samson looks a little defeated, relaxed, with a buzz cut that Victor wants to run his hands through, and he feels something flutter. His lights shift color from a vibrant gold to a muted blue as he starts to approach, the shift in his stance evident. "Seth said that you were good for a session at the Lady now." It's what he took away, of course. He thought the man was taking a break. A small sabbatical, one he chafes at. "Felt weird because you usually come to my place, but I mean—you're allowed to ask me shit after a break like yours and—" he says trailing off. "I don't know Sam. I missed you a little, is all. Could you blame me?"

[samson-hart]

Seth said this room was free. Richard had wanted somewhere properly sound proofed to sleep without hearing the rest of the Lady's coming and goings. Of course it was a fucking ruse. Of course he wouldn't lose a working room for Richard to get a nap in. He's visibly surprised when Victor walks in. Richard doesn't wince when he sits upright but there's no slip into the Samson character. He's just some guy, interupted whilst relaxing, looking positively unprofessional. There's no good answer to that question so he answers with one of his own, "Did Seth say we had an appointment?"

for @samson-hart—

"Hey there, Sammy. Is it better if I ask or if I don't?"

[samson-hart]

Crossing his arms, the warning feels unnecessary. Everything makes him angry, eventually, at least this could potentially have an upside. Tedious and exhausting just sums up life, doesn’t it? He thinks he can handle that. Has handled that, if more tedious things were exhausting maybe he’d even have an easier time with things. Samson could sleep better, at least. “Yeah. Whatever it takes.” Besides therapy, or talking about it—it’s far easier to push himself to his physical limit. “Can you handle mutants who get... angry?” he asks whilst staring at the man’s shoes. The implication of violent hopefully goes unsaid, he doesn’t think he could make that confession just yet. 

There it is. Adonis sees the deep lines on his face contort into something angry and raw in front of him—it's almost close to breaking point for the man, and he starts to reel him back in. "I see." It's curt, of course, but not a denial. Appearing to think it over, Adonis straightens his back, a sympathetic expression on his face. "Perhaps we can both find a solution that works, Samson. Though, I do have to warn you, examinations and testing involving mutations aren't always straightforward. Progress will be—" Adonis sighs, despite himself. Laying out what he'll require, what it'll take for solutions is never easy, for people like Samson. Transparency is his friend, and every fine print is laid out for the man to take or to reject. "Well, it won't be slow, but it will stop and start in ways that might make you... angry. It might even require things that will be tedious and exhausting. Will you be prepared for that?"

[samson-hart]

The impulse to make someone hot and bothered is the same that makes him dig a thumb into a bruise. A sort of sick satisfaction and drawing out a strong feeling. Or at least the ghost of one. Miju doesn’t look. He doesn’t have too. Samson does get himself hard with no dramatics. In fact, Miju’s distant look has Samson finally shutting is eyes. Retreating into a fantasy of his own. Pretty lips, prettier eyes. It flitters between options, one he knows he should shove far away, another that’s safer and one that is embarrassing. Opening his eyes, he grunts. He’s standing at attention, clears his throat, hand still on himself. “How’s this?”

It's in this moment that Miju realises that subjects generally change in another room, out of his view. He has no idea where to look as Sam strips, so his gaze just wanders. He's here to be professional. He's here for work. So this is all totally fine and normal. Miju has drawn plenty of models live before. Maybe it's just the venue that's getting to his head. Sam asks if he should get himself hard and Miju drops his pencil. So much for his cool artist persona.

"Um." He is mentally begging Sam not to notice his shaky hand as he picks it up. "I-- I think that would be fine, yeah." His voice definitely sounds strained. Sam is making firm eye contact, and Miju is absolutely not returning it, looking quite pointedly at a fixed point in the ceiling's corner.

[samson-hart]

Seth talks but Samson doesn’t listen. It’s just background noise as his senses are assaulted by every ache and pain. Sam wants to see exactly what happened to him but he doesn’t want to move either. Fortunately (or unfortunately) a simple glance down stops him. There’s no recollection of this particular mark.

His stomach churns at the sight: a cross, carved into his chest. When he looks down he winces: the skin pulling at the back of his neck. Unbeknownst to him, it’s clumsily superglued together and pulls something awful. He has to tip his head back to release the pressure.

He’d been hurt before on a job. Nowhere near as bad, the effects had lingered more psychologically than physically. Now… it’s inescapable. The fact there’s nothing to help the pain, that he then looks over to see Seth looking like hell. Kneeling at his bedside, his eyebags dark and heavy. Like he’s been holding vigil on a deathbed. 

Richard can’t keep eye contact. He can’t look at anything. There’s no safe spot to land in this room. It’s for the best, then, that his vision begins to blur. Richard wills himself to not cry, wants desperately to suck the tears back in but they spill over. Burying his face in his hands is short-lived as the cut as his neck is pulled, his torso curving inwards only leads to a deeper ache. It’s all he can do: begin to sob. Whine as the shaking causes injuries to smart. The feeling overwhelms him and all he can do is turn inwards, on his side, an arm still guarding his stomach as he curls onto his side, facing away from Seth.

Seth's normally not one to follow orders, especially from friends or employees, but the urgency in Sam's growl has him lifting his hands in surrender and backing off. He's not offended in the slightest: he knows what it means to be vulnerable during a long healing process, having been there more than once himself, and has experienced firsthand the emotional discombobulation that comes with it. Honestly, he's still so relieved that he's even alive that Sam could spit right in Seth's face and he'd still be on cloud nine.

"Alright, asshole." Seth can't help but joke a little, but there's an apologetic wince to his tone as he sinks onto his knees at Sam's bedside, matching the one he wears as he watches Sam's attempts to move. He's given his friend plenty of shit for his miraculous regenerative body, but he'd never wish all this pain on him, not in a million years. "I can't give you any pain meds yet... you still got another hour or so. It's water or whiskey." An hour and three minutes, to be exact, thanks to the alarms on Seth's communicator that Sable helped him set.

Jesus Christ... he needs to call Sable.

[samson-hart]

"It's not normal anger," Samson says, a near comical display of the issues he's talking about. Samson hasn't exlained himself well at all, there's no reason for Adonis to understand what he means. "I fucking—I lose myself. Act less human." Become less human. His fangs always feel sharper, his claws more prominent. He clears his throat, before he stands up and begins to pace. He can't sit still and try to talk about this, he's already debating simply leaving. "Deep breathing. Exercisin'. Whatever else people do to calm down doesn't work. It's—" he growls in frustration. The words not there. Maybe Adonis would have to see him angry to really get it.

Oh, he's not looking for therapy. How quaint. Adonis looks up and down at him before tilting his head. "I'll get someone to write a perscription for you, Samson, but I figure that isn't exactly why you've come here?" Typing something down, he hums, and looks at him. Modified brain chemistry, a way to do neuroscience if the man has a sliver of a healing factor. "How... angry do you get, if I can ask?" A question that the man already knows the answer to, a useless one, but if mild irritation is already going to make the man maul him, Adonis might have to go and jury rig a shock collar. Or mix more of that insane horse tranquilizer cocktail. "Because if it's simply a matter of chemicals, I'd stop at the perscription. If it's something deeper—well, anger is supposed to be a normal part of life, you know."

[samson-hart]

Seth could never hold Samson back. At least in the literal, physical sense. It's wrong that he can do so now. That when Samson moves he feels his muscles ache and burn. The gentle pressure to hold him down sends a shock through him. Every muscle tenses. He's trapped.

The only reason Samson doesn't immediately lash out is the calm way Seth talks. Calmer and gentler than he's ever been. Like someone trying to lull prey into calm. Samson shakes his head. He couldn't move. That beast got him and he couldn't move. Another flash of that night: claws over his face, his vision red as blood dripped into his eye. A shaking hand reaches for his face. He flinches.

"Get off me," he says through gritted teeth. Pushing himself upright he guards his stomach with one arm. If Seth tries to stop him again: Samson knows he'll lash out. Grunting with the effort, holding back on a whine at the pain. It's not particularly bad pain, Samson's simply never experienced the lingering after effects of an injury. "Get the fuck off me."

Against all odds, Sam speaks again and God, does it fill Seth with every bit of energy he'd lacked ever since the night all this shit went south. As elated as Seth is to hold him back, his friend's touch healing hours upon hours of his own wounds, he at least knows that Sam needs to keep still. He lowers his hands to apply gentle, reassuring pressure to Sam's bandaged shoulders, but not quickly enough to prevent Sam recoiling in pain.

"Whoa whoa, just hold on, Sammy... You got fucked up real bad, love, you gotta take it slow, alright?" Still holding onto his shoulders, Seth sits beside him on the bed, making a concentrated effort to keep himself calm so Sam does, too (even though all he really wants to do is straddle him and make out for the next five hours, but maybe that comes later). "You're safe at my place. Been laid up for a while but it's all gonna be okay. Are you doing the healing thing now, can you tell?"