Doc Samson

He was here for training, apparently, like Bucky had guessed and to meet him? Bucky’s eyes narrowed. Why would that be important, unless he was just friendly? He wanted to shake hands as he introduced himself and Bucky looked at it for a moment but ended up shaking it for a moment anyway. “Bucky.” It was a quick, firm handshake and he didn’t elaborate anymore before he let go. “Pretty sure you knew that already, though.” People tended to know who he was, from the metal arm and his near constant proximity to Steve. That didn’t mean he wanted them to know him much better than that, though he was making strides in that department just not when he felt like this.      

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening even further as Samson kept talking. Having a difficult time? He sure was but he didn’t exactly want strangers pointing that out. “You want me to talk?” He made an ugly sound that was almost a laugh but bitter and derisive. “What are you, some kinda shrink?” What was he supposed to say? That after years of hard work, of getting his mind back, the fact that none of it fucking mattered was driving him a little nuts? That he was terrified of becoming someone else’s tool again? That there was nothing he could do to stop it and he couldn’t stop fighting either even though he was so damn tired? Bucky didn’t see much of a point. 

Samson also, apparently, wanted to learn how to fight better, how to improve his hand to hand but Bucky didn’t trust himself nearly enough right now. “That’s a bad idea. I don’t care how resilient you are, I shouldn’t fight anyone right now.” That sounded like an admission, at least a slight one, that Samson was right about him having a hard time. But then, apparently, that was obvious. Bucky took a step back from him, like he didn’t trust himself, clenching and unclenching his fists. The truth was he wanted to fight, badly, but his control felt tenuous at best right now and if he let all the rage and fear and pain come pouring out…well, he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself and that wasn’t good for anyone. 

-

He nodded, “A pleasure to meet you Bucky. Y’know I wrote a report on you in high school.” he chuckled, “Something about the kind of person you’d want to be like. I was a real weeny back then; before I got radiated to heck.” he gestured to himself, “So yea. I know you, and I know you’ve not had things easy for a very long time.” Over half a centuries’ worth of experimentation and repressed trauma, it was more than any one soul could be expected to bare. And it was his job to help shoulder some of those loads; even if the person in question didn’t want him to. Some might even argue that was an occasion where his help was even more desperately needed.

He shrugged, “Guilty as charged. But, to be fair, it wasn’t my desired profession. I wanted to be like Bruce Banner, a ‘real’ scientist.” he rolled his eyes, “My dad was a shrink and I though this job was a waste of time. Though I studied it some to keep him happy. And then, in the spam of about a minute, a became someone who wasn’t myself. I looked in the mirror and it wasn’t me looking back. And I don’t mean I looked different, I felt I looked better, someone who people looked up, literally.” he shook his head, “But, it wasn’t me. And that was terrifying. Like these... foundations I’d taken for granted all my life were suddenly just gone, and it felt like no matter what I did I couldn’t get me stable again.”

Despite his words, Samson let out a breath and smiled, “And then I talked to my dad, and he put me in touch with someone who helped. Turns out no matter how much science know-how you have, brains’ll still surprise you. For example, I bet you think you could really hurt me, probably kill me, just having a little spar, right?” he asked, tilting his head, “But, I know you won’t. Because I know the science of my body now and, from seeing you in action, I can make a pretty good guess at yours. Besides, I’m talking about the most basic of the basic; like I said I was a weeny kid, no one ever taught me how to throw punch. Every time I come back from front line combat I’ve broken a few fingers from punching wrong; I’d really appreciate you taking a little time to help me stop that happening?” Bucky wasn’t going to magically open up to him, so first they both needed to get a little more comfortable; he hoped this could be a step in that direction.    

The last thing Bucky wanted to do was socialize, was be around someone else while he felt so…raw. He felt raw a lot of the time but usually he could hide it better, could at least cover it over and be distant but polite. Now? The politeness had all been scraped away and he just wanted to swear at the guy (or shoot him) as he walked further into the room under some pretense of helping Bucky hang up another punching bag. As if Bucky couldn’t do that himself, though he’d probably just wreck the damn thing again. He needed to….he didn’t know what. There was nowhere for this frustration to go. The bags weren’t helping but he didn’t want to try weapons practice for fear of letting go too much and hurting someone. What did you do when faced with the notion that you were a lot more powerless than you realised? That all the work you’d thought you’d done could be swept away in one moment of alien chanting? Bucky didn’t know and it made him simultaneously want to crawl out of his skin and destroy things. 

Even with all that going on he’d tracked all of the other guy’s movements, saw him pick up the bag as if it weighed nothing. Clearly neither of them really needed the help hanging it up. Bucky managed to channel his anger into a tightly clenched jaw though his hand was by his holster again, without him noticing. He clenched it into a fist rather than grab the gun. The least he could do was hang a new bag up since he’d wrecked the last one but then he’d probably leave since the presence of the other man ruined his solitude. 

“Neither of us need help putting up a new bag. So what do you want?” Social niceties weren’t something he was capable of right now as he stalked over and easily hooked the bag up, eyes narrowed at the other man. The other guy had come in here for a reason (likely to train) but had ignored Bucky’s clear warning that he didn’t want company. Which meant he wanted something else and Bucky would have it out of him. He was in no mood for games. 

-

Despite the other’s irritation and increase to outright anger, Samson remained stoic and calm, each action was lashing out and given the amount of knew of Sergeant Barnes, he could understand why. A person’s mind was their inner-most sanctuary, meant to be a place in which they were gifted absolute security and peace. This man’s mind was anything but and with a lack of that space came everything from anger to paranoia or worse. Not that he’d be so blunt as to voice any of these thoughts aloud. “Well, I was actually coming here to try and do a little training myself, for all my strength I’ve a distinct lack of technique, you see.” he explained, stepping back as the other secured the bag. “And you just so happened to be here; we’ve yet to be formally introduced so I thought: one stone for multiple birds, I’d speak with you before I start.” he smiled softly, “My name is Samson, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extended a large hand to the smaller man and wondered if he’d take it; even in moments of high irritation, instinctual manners could kick in, especially if a person was raised with them.

“And,” he continued, “It doesn’t take a genius to see you’re having a difficult time at present. I thought talking to a disinterested party might help? I’ve some knowledge on the way our minds work. Only a little though,” he chuckled, “I don’t anyone will ever know the mind completely, it’s far too complex an organ.” That didn’t stop them trying though, even thought it loomed like a never ending Everest before them generation after generation took a few more steps forward each time.

“There’s also a slightly self-serving nature to this I have to admit,” he shrugged, “Like I said my hand to hand combat is poor and I’ve been trying to learn from some of the more able-bodied heroes in our midst. If you’d be willing to help me learn a little I would greatly apprecaite it; plus, you don’t need to worry about harming me.” he grinned, “I’m really quite resilient.”        

“What about your peers that learned your craft alongside you? Surely you would all be able to help each correctly if you all studied alongside the same mentor?” It was only after he spoke these words did he realize that many of them could have fallen victim to Darkseid. Most of the time the war was all he could think about, but it was always these tiny instances where he briefly forgot the world they live in now.

“I grew up on an island in Greece, separate from Diana,” He explained, gently lifting up into the air as soon as they made it outside. “Even though now I try to divide my time between all the safety zones, the residence that keeps my belongings is in New York. It’s a nice city, must have been a wonder before everything happened.”

Lifting his hands to the sky, Jason started forming parademon shaped targets out of the clouds, pulling them closer to where they stood on the roof. “These should make good target practice, wouldn’t have to worry about damaging them. Now, what to use to throw?”

-

Samson smiled, though it was more melancholy than anything. “Sadly, I lost contact with them as the Apokolips forces attacked Earth. I don’t think they survived the first few waves.” he explained. He’d never been that close to his school friends, they’d drifted considerably when he found his calling in dealing with powered patients. And even more-so after his experiments changed his appearance.

“It sounds like a beautiful place.” Greek Islands made him think of crystal clear seas perfect for swimming, lush greenery and sweet food. He doubted that was the exact case but his mind had always been rather fanciful. “They called it The City That Never Sleeps for a reason.” Samson chuckled, “There was always something happening.”

Samson’s eyed widened at this new ability, “My. You are skilled.” he tilted his head and looked around, spotting some spare roof tiles, likely used for repairs, in the corner, “Perhaps those?” he asked, “Unless you’re able to magic up something throwable as well?”  

The alley stunk of days old booze and piss — which were indistinguishable to Tanya as she unloaded the small, windowless black van. Every now and then she disappeared into the back door with an armful of boxes and goods for her upcoming dive bar. The space for rent was small, but doable — though it needed to function as an actual bar, Tanya had her sights set on getting together a new B.A.D Girls team; or at least, a team that wanted to make money during the end of the world. 

A difficult endeavor, she was sure, but Tanya held fast and continued to carry — and sometimes dragged — boxes between van and bar. The large, metal sarcophagus emptied out, little by little, until all that was left were a couple of lamps and a pool table. Now, she didn’t have to lift a finger when the van was loaded up, but now that the movers were long and gone, Tanya stared at the pool table with an air of frustration and her hands pressed to her hips.

Her focus slipped to the scattered passerby just beyond the van and in that second, her eyes lit up when she spotted someone with potential. With an offer of batted eyelashes and a coy smile, Tanya slinked over to the stranger before they could hurry out of view. 

“D’ya have a second to give a girl a hand? There’s a free drink in it for ya if you say yes,” she trilled; the beg in her gaze was obvious. While she could probably manage on her own — she didn’t really want to.

-

Samson didn’t spend as much time away from Genosha as he’d have liked; he knew the importance of trying to maintain even a little semblance of normality in their war-torn world and this provided him with the perfect excuse to visit New York should opportunity arise, they were one of the few places left that still had game shops. Sure new releases were hardly being made now but he’d managed to scoop up a few fun looking second-hand releases and a broken console he was sure he could fix up... or failing that beg one of the genius inventors in Genosha to do it for him in a spare five minutes.  

So, it was a good day, and he wanted to take a little while to just walk the city like he’d used to, watching the people pass him by and, as usual, attracting more than his fair share of glances. Admittedly he was a six foot six brick shit-house of muscle with luminous green hair down to the small of his back, but in a world where aliens were common place he’d thought that wouldn’t qualify as interesting anymore.

He stopped in the street for a moment to let some pedestrians pass him and looked over when he heard a woman speak. He blinked a few times and adjusted his pack back, “Well I suppose that depends on what you need a hand with, Ma’am. Though I’ll be happy to help if I can.”   

An arched brow further deepened his harboring disdain for the other. Though his memories were faint, he recalled the time when a certain individual prodded his mind. Or so he recalled. A twitch against the corners of his lips coaxed him to inhale through his nostrils, exasperating a groan.

“I can never understand why people can be so nosy with how the mind works,” he scoffed, “especially in your profession. My way of handling stress is fine. No amount of your practices could ever change that.”

He drummed his fingers hard against the counter, the tips of his black nails tightening in against the hardwood underneath, as though he was attempting to penetrate the surface. It would take another beat until he slightly relaxed his fingers, nails leaving only small white dots in its grasp.

-

“A little defensive, aren’t you?” he asked casually, taking a little sip of his drink and regarding the other with something akin to amusement. The other clearly had his issues (didn’t they all) but it was interesting how quick he was degrade his profession to ‘nosiness’ and affirm his coping mechanisms.

“This isn’t a charge, I’m no door to door member and I’m not about to try and convert or treat anyone.” he gestured to the novel on the table’s end, “I was just here to enjoy my book. Unlike a lot of the people I work with I’ve no desire to ‘fix’ everyone.”

So this was the only guy in the whole shebang qualified enough to give him the all clear? Peter didn’t have much confidence in that, but he’s sure enough been on the other end of that judgement table so he supposed he should at least give this a shot.

“At least it’s somethin’ harmless considering what’s goin’ on,” Peter returned as he thought back fondly on some of his more wilder years. “There’s a lot worse you can do to get your mind off of it.”

-

“And something that makes me happy.” he said with a peaceful smile, “Gotta keep that balance, if there’s no happy for too long then encroaching enemy forces may become the least of our problems.” They had to keep themselves as healthy as possible in all ways.

“I know a lot of people here who enjoy beating up a big bag or one another to get by,” he chuckled softly, “That one ever worked for you? I can’t really try it myself; one good punch and the bag flies off the chain and out the nearest window.”

Luckily it hadn’t landed on anyone.

Where: Genosha Headquarters When: Post Libertas Event @doc-samson​

Things since the last mission had been…rough. Since when did Darkseid have assholes who could fuck with your head? Since now, apparently. It just went to show that all the work Bucky had put in, all the careful hours, months, and years that had gone into recovering his mind could be swept away just like that. As much as he’d fought, as much as he’d tried to push against that sense of having his will consumed again, it hadn’t worked. If the helmeted juggernaut hadn’t been interrupted when it had, it would’ve had Bucky, had control of his mind, and that was not a realisation that was easy for him to deal with. He had no defense against it, no real way to fight other than his desire not to be controlled again but that clearly wasn’t strong enough. Bucky had thought he had choices now, that he was free of that, but if it could all be taken away again in a handful of moments? Then clearly he didn’t.

He couldn’t think like that, though, had to try not to let himself go there so he was in the training room beating on a punching bag. It wasn’t usually his style but he needed some kind of distraction, some way to get out of his head, and maybe this could help. He had music blasting, old Jazz that he hoped would take his mind back to dance halls and better days from before as he let out his frustrations on the bag.  

Longing. Rusted. Furnace. Daybreak. Seventeen. Benign. Nine. Homecoming. One. Freight car.

The trigger words repeated in his head over and over, like a mantra as proof that they didn’t work anymore, that he couldn’t be turned back into that. But each time he heard one in his head he hit the bag harder until he finally put a hole in it with his metal arm, punching right through the damn thing. Setting his jaw, he pulled his arm out only to hear the sound of the door, aware of it even through the music. He spun to face it, hand on one of his ever present guns before he could even think about it even though this was headquarters and anyone coming in here had the right to. Bucky only vaguely recognized the man and forced his hand away from the gun, walking over to turn the music down. It wasn’t like it was helping.

“Occupied.” He called, gruffly, once the other might actually have a change at hearing him. He wasn’t in the mood to share space or be in this…state with anyone else around to see him.

-

Samson hadn’t been chosen for the last mission, but he’d played his part, taking charge of the rescued prisoners, trying to take information from the, categorise who seemed in most dire need of mental support, get them settled or even resettled with some existing family in a few lucky cases. It had been several exhausting days and now he finally had a few moments to himself again. Not that he begrudged the work, it had been good to help people in a way he could do that didn’t involve flinging Parademons through the air (he’d have to thank Jason for helping him perfect that little trick.)

Speaking of, the man had also encouraged him to continue making use of the gym and working to control the finesse of his strength and he couldn’t disagree; sometimes knowing and being able to throw a much weaker blow could be very useful in battle and it was giving him a little more confidence, making him feel safer in himself for whenever he was inevitably sent to the front lines again.

He could hear jazz music playing loudly from the corridor as he approached. It grew louder still as he opened the door to the gym and clocked the man, Sergeant Barnes, inside. His mind worked quickly, the loud music, the hole in the punching bag and the hand precariously close to a holstered gun despite the location. The man might as well have put up a large sign saying ‘struggling to cope’ not that Samson was fool enough to point it out. “So I see.” Samson replied lightly. “But I think you may need a little help putting another bag up, strong as you are it’s more cumbersome than anything. And I’ve some experience of needing to replace those things.”

His grin remained peaceable, inoffensive and he walked over to the room’s corner where a replace bag was sitting (clearly in preparation for this moment). He hefted it up one-handed as though he were lifting a pillow; between that and his height Samson could easily put it o himself. “Shall I hold while you hook?”  

“Perhaps I will,” He agrees. Obviously the war took his toll on him, like it had everyone else, but Jason wasn’t a man of many when he thought he could possibly be burdening someone. “And what of you? Who do you talk to when you need to heal your mind?”    

He listened to the others concerns about being on the battle field, knowing there were others that must feel this way too. “Yes, but, uh, if I must admit, it’s sometimes fun to just use them as a shield anyways,” He says, shrugging his shoulders, knowing if Diana were here she’d give him a look. The parademons were annoying and sometimes in his frustration he liked to cause them grief. Hera knows they’ve done worse.

“Right,” He says, already moving to the elevator. “Maybe we should take this outside then and work on some target practice.” There’d be less chances of Samson causing damage if they were out in the open. Once in the elevator, Jason hit the roof access and turned to the other. “Where did you live before all of this?”

-

Samson chuckled slightly, “Are you familiar with the phrase ‘doctors make the worst patients?’ Because the same holds true for doctors in my profession; we tend to deal with our issues ourselves since, if anyone else tries, we’ll often tell them what they’re doing wrong.”

“But, that doesn’t mean I’m without friends, sometimes a good conversation or a little time at rest can work wonders.” Which they could rarely indulge in these days but he still tried. Even in these darkest of moments they still had to look after themselves and one another as best they could. “If that’s how you get a little joy who am I to rebuke you, I’ll even admit... sometimes those infernal monsters are a little fun to throw.”

But as always he tried to temper himself; not be lost completed to that simmering rage he knew churned within him. Following Jason he nodded and stepped back to give the other some space in the elevator. He stepped out and took a breath of the fresh air, enjoying the view, “I had a practice in New York. I still visit occasionally, but I feel my talents are best put to use here, to help those who struggle helping themselves. And yourself?”      

Curiously, Jason also tilted his head to the side. It was marvelous how evolved humans as a species became in regards to their mental health. There used to be a time where the only type of psychotherapy was through the theater of Epidaurus, where patients could freely act out their emotions in plays and tragedies. Now there were trained professionals like Samson who helped guide them. “If that is so, you must be very busy as of late.” The only ones running around without any difficult emotional processes were that clown and his girlfriend.

“Uh, both could work,” He says, before searching his brain for a more elaborate answer. As a student, it annoyed him when Hercules gave him vague answers so now that the shoe was on the other foot, he tried to do better. “Depending on how high they are, they could recover if you tried knocking them down. There is also the risk of hurting your allies on the ground if you succeed.”

“I’ve found that grabbing hold of them has many advantages. Doing so can allow you to use their bodies as a shield from enemy fire, you can also hurl them at another before rushing the stunned opponent.” Both things done by Jason many times during the fight with Darkseid’s enemies. “How’s your aim? Good as your strength?”

-

Samson chuckled a little and shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t think I ever stopped being busy. People were dealing with complex mental burdens long before Apokolips’ forces invaded Earth. The world’s made things physically easier for people the last few decades but mentally its only grown harder.” he sighed, “And now I’m just dealing with a different set of problems. Still, the mind is resilient and can comeback from a great deal if given the right help. If you ever need to talk, please feel free to come find me.” In that scenario he’d happily take the lead.

Right now though, he was very much a pupil who had a great deal to learn. “Yes, that’s my larger worry,” he sighed, “I know a great deal of others who fight on the front lines are nigh indestructible, but the same cannot be said for them all. I’d never forgive myself knowing I’d injured or, God forbid, killed one of my allies. Sometimes I wonder if I’d be better served never going to fight directly at all.”

“There are very few cases where I’d need a shield.” Like Hulk, he was incredibly hard to damage. “But, throwing an enemy...” he thought for a moment and a few times he’d seen Bruce throwing an unfortunate enemy into another with effective results came to mind. “That could be useful,” he grinned at the question, “I did win a darts trophy back in college.” Many many years ago.  

While it was safe to say that Peter dragged his feet the whole way to the good doctor’s office, the handheld and mini display of victory urged an amused snort out of him. It relaxed his shoulders some, but he still felt stand-off-ish about the whole situation.

“Chat, yeah. For, uh, Quill.” His eyes darted back to the gaming console and he had to ask, “Put a lot of hours into that thing?”

-

“Ahh right,” he nodded and quickly looked over his patient list for the day, “Peter right?” he looked up and grinned, “Come take a seat, “I’ll just put this away.” he opened a drawer and placed the console inside before standing and making his way to his own huge chair.

“Oh more hours then I’d be comfortable admitting.” he chuckled, “But it makes me happy. And we all need something to keep out spirits up these days, right?”

Samson was usually better at recalling when he had appointments, it was a little embarrassing to be caught red-handed doing a fist pump for winning a game on the small console in front of him. “Oh, excuse me.” he cleared his throat and gently set the device aside. 

“I take it you’re here for a chat? Or did you realise I have the best coffee machine in the place?” 

He lingered in the hall. A meeting with Samson, huh? Guess there was no avoiding it. It wasn’t his idea; due to the heavy stress the heroes of Earth were under these days, desperate to help the helpless while the ground around them cracked and blackened, Sue thought sitting down with him at least once a week would help clear his head. She probably wasn’t wrong but part of him hated that the suggestion came from her. 

He entered the office slowly, glancing around the pristine room with his hands stuffed in the front pouch of his hoodie. “I’m coffee’d out, Doc.” He nodded in appreciation of the offer and dropped down onto the couch, pushing air through his lips, his bottom curling into a pout. “I’m, you know…” his fingers drummed against his legs. “Fine and everything. Everyone’s worried, obviously, but it’s far from over. We’re fighting back. Hard.” He smirked after a brief, uncomfortable silence. “Did Reed break down in here yet? What about Ben? Geez, what are your sessions with Batman like?”

-

“And what about soda?” he asked, his voice cordial, friendly despite its deep cadence. Already he was painting a little picture of Johnny and there were quite a few things jumping out at him. Of course it would do him no good to point all these out and make the man uncomfortable, slow and steady was almost always the best approach when it came to therapy. It was just unfortunate so many wanted a swift solution.

“That we are. Suffice to say, Earth has never been in this kind of situation before even if some individuals have, it’s a difficult thing to come to grips with. And we both know I’m not allowed to talk about other people I may or may not see.” And clearly Jonny was looking for a way to deflect attention away from himself. “Right now, I’m much more interested in you.” he said with a small smile, friendly, non-threatening. “You’ve talked about fighting back, I take it you’ve been on the front lines on multiple occasions with your teammates, yes?” he questioned, settling back into his large, plush chair.    

“Must be a professor or something if you’re thinking those kind of habits are normal around here,” he snorted. The aforementioned gaze that caught the mutant’s attention dimmed, eliciting a quiet sigh upon hearing the other’s words.  

Hearing those subtle inhales only coerced the other to pull back, biting back a sneer. Surprise did not fill his expression. He had been in similar situations before. He removed his hand from his cheek, tucking it underneath an armpit as he crossed both arms. 

“Don’t worry about what I do,” he said. “It’s about what I want to do. If you’re not interested, then I’ll find someone else. Some of us have rent to pay at the end of the month.” 

-

“Oh not a Professor.” he said with a soft, deep chuckle. “But I am a doctor. I worked in physics for several years and the moved into Psychology. Now I work as a therapist; as you can imagine stress is more rampant than ever these days.”

Another quiet chuckle followed his words and he took a small sip of his whiskey, gently placing the glass back down onto the table. “Ahh, so you’re a working man, so to speak,” Samson gestured slightly.

“I wouldn’t know,” He replied, his face neutral. Like everyone else, Jason learned of his family through the stories told to him. Besides Hercules and, later, Diana, he never met any other members of his family, as large as it is. In his early years he did notice the occasional eagle or owl and figured his father or his grey eyed sister would keep an eye out on him from time to time, but that was it.

The good thing about a sweep was even with the strength of someone like Samson - it’s not a strike, therefore not really inflicting much pain from the kick alone. But, it did determine how high the victim - Jason, in this case - flew up into the air. He almost felt he was going to do a complete rotation in the air before hitting the ground, grunting softly on the impact.

He was quick to roll up though, excited at the opportunities that presented themselves. “Did you see the amount of leverage you have there?” He asked. Lifting his hand to mimic his body in the air and his other to pretend to be Samson delivering a blow to it. “Your opponent gets so much height during your sweep that you can easily use another strike to bring them down yourself - faster and harder. And with your strength, it’d be enough for you to move on to the next poor soul that has to go against you.”

-

Samson tilted his head slightly, the other was, ironically, telling him a lot by not telling him anything. One thing he’d learned in his many years as an acting therapist was that families, no matter how powerful, often had similar issues that made communication and relationships difficult. “There’s a story in a sentence.” he said with a small nod, “Forgive me, therapist instinct,” he explained, “My job is to help people go through difficult emotional processes.”

Samson watched, torn between fascination and worry as Jason all but flipped over in the air and landed with a thud. Still, the other seemed hardly phased by the blow which was comforting, he’d never learn much if he KO’d his teacher with what should’ve been an opening practice manoeuvre. He flexed his leg a little, it hadn’t been too tricky to pull off.

“You certainly got some air,” he said with a nod, rising to his feet, “So that would be the next logical movement? Flip a person, or in this case Parademon, into the air and then smash them down into the ground?” It sounded brutal, but efficient. “What about an enemy who possesses wings?” As so many Parademons did. “Would it make more sense to try and knock them down or jump and just grab them?” he ran a hand through his hair, “Because in truth that’s all I’ve been thinking to do.”    

Samson kept a full roster of patients. The attempted take-over of Earth and constant fight against Apokolips’ forces was enough to weigh upon anyone’s psyche so he made a point of having as many on the front lines come and meet with him regularly. There were some who were overtly against the process, Bobby Drake being one, but others were more open and seemed to be benefiting from having someone to talk to.

He hoped Johnny Storm would be one of those heroes. 

The man was usually so jovial but he knew well enough how much comedy could be a defence mechanism against difficult thoughts. He’d just finished a short game of alleyway on his phone when there was a knock on the door and a blonde man entered.

“Mr. Storm,” he said, his soft voice at odds with his hulking form, “Please have a seat, can I get you a drink? I’ve got good coffee, bad coffee and soda.” 

The persistence was present on the mutant’s mind. If it wasn’t the man’s scent, it was every visible aspect of his physical appearance that kept him enticed. He dared to inch closer to him, humming while letting the scent waft through his nostrils. 

“Let’s be realistic, though: who comes to a bar to read?” he asked, wrinkling his nose. A small sliver of his pheromones slipped from his pores as he spoke. Tentatively, he removed his other hand from his pocket and tucked it underneath his cheek, casting a nonchalant gaze at the man. 

“Someone must have brought you here and that’s why you’re not fully indulging in the pleasantries around us. It’s a shame, really. I have quite the track record around here. I’m very much in demand.”

-

Samson chuckled, “Realistically, not many people. But, I am not just any people. And ever since I was little,” both chronologically and physically, “I’ve enjoyed watching people. And where better to do that then in a bar?”

“The reading,” he shrugged, “Is something to do so I don’t look quite so odd.” Though, even in these times, his bright green hair tended to make him stand out. He inhaled and found himself, inhaling further, his body was naturally resistant to most forms of poison and venom, so he knew something was affecting him, but not so strongly.

He was on thin ice. Or, rather, a probation as they liked to call it. He was accepted once they’d heard his and the rest of the Guardians cause and how many times they’ve saved the rest of the galaxy without any of their knowledge - a surprise to all of them, no doubt. So Genosha was welcoming, if only hesitantly.

Peter didn’t blame them - he was an outsider, a stranger. Someone who had strange weapons and came from a strange place. They didn’t know who he was or if he was even telling the truth. Still, they let him in and allowed him to go see their ‘doctor’. The entire ‘therapist’ part of it went over his head as he likely wasn’t paying attention, but once he entered the room it was clear to him that this probably wasn’t the right place.   

“Uh-” Peter looked around the room before he glance back at the door. “-Dr. Samson?” He asked the man in front of him. The green hair and overall unusual appearance of the stranger didn’t cause Peter to so much as bat an eye - he’d seen stranger.

-

Samson paused the game he’d been playing and gently put the console down; he loved video games but given his strength had to be very careful when playing them or he’d break the machine. Once it was safely to the side he looked up at the man in the doorway, “Yes, that’s me; just call me Doc.”

He smiled, his soft voice at odds with his large frame. “You must be Peter Quill? The famous Star Lord?” his tone wasn’t mocking; he’d heard some Peter tell of some of his deeds, and those of his team, when he’d arrived and saw no reason to think he was lying. It seemed they owed the ‘Guardians of the Galaxy’ a great debt; if he could help he’d be happy to. But others with more power than him didn’t agree.

So here they were. “Won’t you please come in?” he gestured to the sofa opposite him, “It’s my job here to assess you before you head out on any missions, that I’m sure you’re keen to do.” he explained smoothly.