samson.

"Fuck you." It's a bad idea to poke the mutilated and rabid bear, but Adonis has to get more spikes in it to push his mutation to the limit, and assess from there. "Eloquently put, mister Clemens. Do the questions make you angry?" He notes the fangs, the claws, the ragged breaths showing up on the monitor that has Adonis' interest piqued. A heightened regenerative factor as well, perhaps? There's no gun here that could stop Samson, even with his heightened pedigree, and so he supposes that the cocktail full of Ihsan mix will have to do, even if it does feel heavy in his pocket. He hasn't broken the chair yet, at least—some small mercies abound. He types the readings, pushes the data forward to a secure server, a private server in case he needs to review it one more time. "There are tension implements, ropes to pull on either side of you. If you would, please try to pull them as hard as you can," he says, "I need to check your strength."

He's mocked. Already feeling raw, Samson can only see red. Everything Adonis says serves to rile him up—the lack of more verbal answers could make someone think he's calming down. It's the opposite as his nostrils flare, lips twitch and show fangs. His conscious mind slips away: only the sound of his blood rushing through his ears is bouncing round his skull. At least the only sound from himself. Adonis is still loud and clear: even louder even. Even if being told what to do annoys him, Samson listens. It gives him something to do. Gripping the ropes he pulls. His entire body weight goes into it, muscles rippling and growling as he does.

Now Seth is the one who flinches, and without meaning to he tightens his hold on Sam with a renewed, nearly urgent strength. "Of course we can," he reassures, forcing a smile to warm the words, touching his lips to Sam's shoulder in a feather-light kiss. "C'mon now, we've been through plenty of hard times before, haven't we? Stay here, get better. You just let me take care of it, I'll get it all sorted and then..."

"I thought—" his voice cracks, and he nearly stops himself but he pushes through, "—I thought I was gonna fucking die. I don't wanna die like that. For fucking this."

Sidestepping the sentiment of almost dying—whether or not Victor wants to hang around The Bearded Lady is something else, something between him and his withered conscience and self-esteem and something Samson's definitely cut out of at this point. He doesn't feel like V, right now. It was Samson's gift, taking the alias away and making him Victor for a moment, which makes this hurt more than it should, at least. "I don't fucking know, man. I like you," he says, rolling his eyes. "If you don't want that, then be a cynic about it. Say I'm a dumbass for it. There's still a couple of strings I can pull with my star power, couple of questions I can ask." He looks at Samson and wants to touch him,, but instead twiddles his thumbs uselessly. It aches. His whole body does, with the want of him. "If you don't want it now—well, offer's on the table. You can't give it back."

I like you. Richard scoffs but Vic's matching eye roll says it all. Be a cynic about it. He will, he won't say he's a dumbass. Vic's a client, a nice one. That might have been enough just a few short days ago to convince him to try and not burn this bridge. Instead he pointedly looks anywhere but Victor, feigns a casual air with his fingers interlocked, sitting flat on his stomach. It'd look casual if every muscle in hi sbody wasn't tensing: if his nostrils didn't flare with a few pointed, calming breaths. An offer is given to him, but it feels like a threat. You can't give it back. "You should take it back." He says with a finality he hopes stings, that Vic will see some sense and go find someone who isn't him to pine over. He's done enough damage to people, he can only try and minimize the intensity of those wounds.

"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."

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.

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

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.”

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."

"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."

"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."

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.

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?"

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."

END.

"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?"

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.