Post by Sam Sawyer on Apr 9, 2024 21:29:25 GMT -5
The gym starts to dissolve before their eyes. A tear of rage stains their vision of the black synthetic blur. A sad, pathetic, tear, the last residue of a once passionate fighter beaten and bludgeoned into submission; their last act before losing consciousness.
Carlos loosens the body scissors and the choke, but keeps hold of Sam's head, lifts it up and cracks it off the mat in frustration. When Sam comes to, they find themselves upright in his arms, staring into his eyes. He looks just as angry as they are.
Carlos: Come on. Let's go.
Sam glares back. They feel more like the student than the teacher.
Sam: Get Mitchell.
While they wait, they try to regain control of their body, making a stubborn blink in the face of the grogginess. The aches pulsing through their body are cast aside like they're nothing. When Mitchell comes to meet them he looks across skeptically.
Mitchell: ... You can do it, Sam.
He doesn't sound convinced.
Sam: Shut up.
Mitchell tightens his face, knowing the words mean Sam wants his best. The anger and bitterness is almost lost from their washed out face, but they stomp up to him with haste and throw a forearm at him. Then a second. Mitchell kicks them sharply in the gut, taking the air out of them, then hits the ropes and comes back with a knee lift. The impact sends Sam flying across the ring and they hit the mat like a heavy sack. They immediately start making their way up to their feet, apparently urgent but far too slow. Their eyes are vacant, and they're wide open for Mitchell's giant lariat. He gets the three count. Mitchell has worked no less tirelessly than Sam today, but he just crushed them in twenty seconds.
. . .
“Stop.”
They ignore the thought in their head and smash another forearm into Oliver as hard as they can. The force pushes him back a few steps. They quickly clutch their arm and try to massage the stinging pang out of their shoulder, while bracing for another hit from Oliver.
“No.”
Oliver strikes hard. The pain comes and goes as they fight to stay as awake as possible.
“Stop.”
Sam: No.
That stupid monotone voice, imagined in their head, talks like it knows everything. Like it knows what He wants. Oliver ignores Sam and waits for them to strike back. They can tell he's taking it easy on them. Sam summons all their anger and unloads it through another blistering forearm. Oliver recoils then without much hesitation returns the favor with a forearm just as strong. Sam simultaneously feels like ripping his head off and bursting into tears. In total desperation they close their eyes, try like fuck to keep their composure, and try to pull the strength out of the zen-like darkness. With perfect technique and every inch of their power they go for Oliver's head. The shot connects with a loud, satisfying smack, and it shoves Oliver backwards, his legs barely keeping him upright. Sam can tell from his expression that it hurt, but to them, they know it was weak.
“You're not good enough.”
Sam: Fuck you!
Oliver's eyes widen as Sam quickly narrows in on him, their eyes psychotic. They slap him so hard they have the sensation of blood and skin on their hand as it slices through the air after connecting. The sound can be felt ringing in the air even in the now silence.
Mitchell: Go Sam.
The slap sends Oliver careening away but Sam quickly tracks him down, grabs his arm to pull him towards them, then slaps him again. Mitchell and Carlos watch in awe as Sam slaps him over and over again. Even without the demented fury in their eyes, the slaps look like they couldn't have possibly been born out of anything but pure hate. Like an alcohol-fueled assault from your worst nightmare.
Every single slap sends disappointment coarsing through their veins, further motivating the next one. When they finally give up trying to reach the peak, they position themselves behind Oliver and hit a snap dragon suplex.
Sam: GET UP!
Oliver lays still on the mat but Sam can tell he's more stunned than hurt.
Sam: GET UP!
He starts to push himself up and slowly gets to his feet.
Sam: Wake up! Kick out!
Sam waits until they see that he understands, then runs over him with a lariat.
Sam: One! Two! Three!
They let go of his leg and kneel on his waist. They give a shaky, tearful sigh as they look at his sleepy face for consolation.
“That's still not good enough.”
Sam: Mitchell! Let's go!
They stare at Oliver in disgust, not really seeing the person, then get to their feet. When Mitchell joins them in the ring he's still smiling with pride a little.
Oliver is the worst of the three students. Mitchell is the best. He was training with Carlos during the match with Oliver, so it should be a fair fight. These days their record against him isn't great, but right now the result isn't what they care about.
Mitchell anticipates their forearm and goes behind into a waistlock. Sam makes an angry attempt to prise his arms away but gets German suplexed. As Mitchell pulls them back up he delivers a hard forearm to the back of their head. Sam hooks their boot around Mitchell's ankle and tries to elbow their way out of the hold. Mitchell dodges the brunt of most of the shots, then starts pounding Sam's head with more forearms. Sam pushes all of their weight into Mitchell, twisting their body sideways, and manages to get a hold and hip throw him over. He barely scrapes the mat and is back on his feet. Sam approaches to take a shot but gets kicked in the ribs with a roundhouse. He kicks them again in the side, then stiffly in the waist. Sam moans, suddenly looking helpless.
It's not the pain that hurts. It's the failure. Mitchell gives them a conflicted, almost angry look, then grabs them in a belly to belly and throws them up and around almost like a uranage. He grabs their arm and wrenches it in the air. “Let me hit you!” they scream in their head. They power to their feet and arm drag Mitchell off of them. He keeps hold of their arm and rolls right into an arm drag of his own, keeping the hold. Sam gets up again and tries to slap him with their left hand. Mitchell ducks the sluggish attempt, then boots them in the gut. He ducks under their arm and delivers a sick Saito suplex, dumping them on the back of their head. The life drains from their body and Mitchell senses it, quickly hooking their leg.
Mitchell: One! Two! Thr-
Sam kicks out with their legs and explodes to their feet. They slap him. He slaps back. They slap harder. He's still standing strong so they superkick his knee, then tackle him to the mat and lay into him with a storm of forearms. He fights back with his own shots but Sam barely feels them. They wish with all of their heart to hit Mitchell hard enough to knock him out. But no matter how hard they hit, his obstinate eyes just keep staring back at them. They see Him in them.
Sam: No!
Their face twists into disgust. They hesitate, doubting everything. Then they hit Mitchell with their hardest shot yet, their love for Him the driving force. “I am not weak! I am good enough!” They keep going until his eyes start showing fear and He disappears, but he still won't go out. They grab his shoulder and pull him up to his feet, trying to blot out the fatigue and the hopelessness. They urge themselves to want it, to believe, then smash him with their best forearm. For a second he looks like he's going to collapse to the mat, but then he rebounds with his forearm, powerful and still somehow full of life. Sam smashes him again, then again, then when he doesn't go down they apply a full nelson and hit a stiff, angry dragon suplex. They bridge for a second before rolling backwards, maintaining the hold, and hit another stiff suplex. Mitchell thumps into the mat again mercilessly. Sam feels just as angry as they did with Oliver, or even moreso. They measure Mitchell as he slowly tries to get back up, their eyes burning with impatience. When he's almost upright, they run past him to the ropes, then back off the other side, then put their entire soul into a furious, vicious lariat. They take a deep, incensed breath and hook his leg.
Sam: One! Two! Three...
Mitchell just edges up his shoulder before the full three. They knew it. They wait for what feels like an eternity for him to rise to his feet again. They feel a bitter nausea in their throat. Mitchell's eyes are already glazed over as Sam runs up and flattens him with another lariat, almost as powerful as the first.
Sam: One, two, three.
The voice doesn't speak, but it doesn't need to. Sam slowly climbs out of the ring and hops down to the floor. Their body is overcome with fatigue; those short, pathetic bursts of fury leaving them with nothing left to give. Carlos and Oliver stop sparring as Sam passes their training mat. Carlos extends a hand for a high-five but Sam just looks at him, barely acknowledging him, and walks straight past. They reach the mat where they left their water bottle and sit down, arms atop their raised knees. They know they should take a drink but they don't feel like it.
“Good. Stop.”
They're hopeless to argue. Vacantly, they watch Carlos and Oliver spar until Mitchell walks up.
Mitchell: That was awesome, Sam.
Sam frowns then turns back to watch the sparring.
Mitchell: You good?
Sam: ... Go work out.
He nods quietly then leaves Sam on their own. Sam watches as Carlos and Oliver switch from forearms to roundhouse kicks to submissions. Probably twenty minutes has passed. For a while they embrace the emptiness and the pain of leaving everything behind. But some part of them still wonders why they've gotten so weak, why they can't do it anymore.
“He still loves you.”
They know He does. But they want to be with Him.
“You can't. Nobody can.”
Poena can.
“He chose Poena.”
Why can't He choose them?
“You can't question Him. You know He's right. You know.”
Sam: No...
They whisper to themselves, trying not to listen.
“Forget about the X*Crown. Even if you win it, it won't change anything.”
Sam: No...
“You know it won't. That's why you're so weak. You don't believe in what you're doing. You know He's right. Seek His forgiveness instead. Punish yourself with pain. Show Him you really love Him.”
. . .
Sam and Carlos are out on the mat, both spent. Sam just kicked out of a powerbomb. They've been fighting for almost half an hour. Sam squeezes their eyes shut when a harsh knocking sound booms out in their head. Brief panic gives way to desperation and determination. They won't listen to it. It's not Him. He's not disappointed. He's not.
Sam chop blocks Carlos's leg and then tries to lock in a heel hook. Carlos scrambles over to the bottom rope and grabs it while Sam clings onto him. They both get to their feet and Sam hits a forearm. The knocking starts again. Sam follows Carlos's gaze to Mitchell. He's walking away.
Carlos: Ignore it.
Sam narrows their eyes at him, then realizes the knocking is real.
Carlos: Mitchell! Ignore it!
They wrestle through the knocking. Whoever it is is persistent, but knowing it's coming from outside now, Sam couldn't care less. Five minutes later, Sam finishes Carlos with a lariat. Outside the ring, they check their phone to see how long the match lasted. Not good.
Mitchell: Sam. Can I get rid of them?
The knocking. They forgot.
Sam: Sure.
Sam stares at the ring and replays the match in their head. They don't like what they see.
Oliver: What did you let him in for?
Sam gets to their feet. They can hardly believe their eyes when they see the intruder. It's their Uncle Javier.
Javier: Hey, Sammy.
Their mother's estranged brother; Sam's last living blood relative. He has a venomous smirk on his face.
Sam: Uncle Javier.
Their voice is cold.
Javier: Sammy.
He says their name sarcastically. Behind the smirk is a hateful glare. Sam isn't surprised.
Javier: I've been dreaming about this day. You shit. Ever since you had your Night of Champions Moment. Now this is mine. Perfect timing.
His Mexican accent is hidden under a nasty American one. He left Mexico when he was eighteen. Their mom said America changed him. Oliver snorts.
Oliver: What are you gonna do?
Javier: I know a few moves.
When their mom said America, she probably meant wrestling.
Javier: Sam... tell your friends to leave us alone.
Sam looks at the floor and rolls their eyes.
Javier: Did you just fucking roll your eyes?
Sam: No, sorry.
This is a waste of time, but it's the right thing to do. He's family.
Sam: Let's go to the cafeteria.
Javier: Let's go.
Sam leads the way. Javier follows without pause or comment, uninterested in the plush gym owned by his nibling. Sam is likewise uninterested in their uncle's opinion. They turn to face him when they reach the cafeteria. He just stares at them, his smirk gone. When he doesn't speak for a while, Sam carelessly breaks the silence.
Sam: What do you want?
Javier bites the inside of his lip.
Javier: ... Sammy.
Sam raises their eyebrows.
Javier: You don't like me, do you?
Sam stares at him coldly.
Sam: You're my uncle.
Javier: Yeah.
His glare grows sharper.
Javier: Pity.
Sam can't help but humble their expression a little.
Javier: I don't like you either, so don't worry about it. But you killed my sister, so... don't look so surprised.
Sam accepts Javier's words and intimidating glare without argument, keeping their face solemn and respectful. After a tense silence, they speak.
Sam: I'm sorry.
Javier: So you admit it. So we're cool now, right?
Sam: I don't know what else to say.
Javier: At least sound like you care, you cunt! I thought I was doing the right thing... by staying away. For your mother's sake. For your new family's sake. I thought maybe you were a good kid. It was those Heaven's Gate cunts, not you. But I was right in the first place, wasn't I? Little Mx. Poena. Wasn't I? You're a fucking psycho.
He snarls, pained anger in his eyes. Sam feels for him. They search for the right words.
Sam: I love her too.
Javier: She doesn't want your fucking love.
Sam: ... Sorry.
Javier: You want to make it up to me, Sammy?
Sam: ... Yes. Of course.
Javier: Well stand there... and don't fight back. I know you can handle yourself, but I'm your family. This is for your family. Don't fight back.
Javier slaps Sam hard across the face. The sharp pain stuns them a little, but they regain eye contact, looking patient and obedient. Javier's look of malice doesn't waver and he slaps them again. He stares at them for a few seconds, then slaps them again. Then after another pause, again. And again. And many times more, until Sam's face is burning red.
He keeps staring at them, unsatisfied. He probably knows Sam doesn't care about the pain, and just hopes he can make them know how much he hates them. For the first time Sam realizes his eyes are like their mother's.
Javier: Burn in hell, Sam.
He turns and walks away. Before he reaches the door, Sam calls out to him.
Sam: Uncle Javier!
He turns back around. Sam approaches him cautiously.
Sam: I was thinking... maybe you could... help us.
Javier: ... Help you do what?
Sam: Help us train.
Javier: How the fuck could I help you?
He sounds incredulous.
Sam: I don't know, but... I'm... I'm really struggling. I could use your advice.
He stares at them like they're crazy.
Javier: Go fuck yourself.
He starts walking. In desperation, Sam yells the first thing that comes to their head.
Sam: But we're family!
He spins around. As he marches up to them, Sam braces themselves for a slap.
Javier: The Rumble's that important to you, huh?
Sam: ... Yeah.
Javier: We're family.
Sam: Yeah.
Javier: Maybe you should help me find Mason then. That's the guy that murdered your mom, right?
Sam: Yeah. Yeah, of course.
Javier: Let's go then.
Sam's heart sinks as Javier steps aside, waiting for them to join him.
Sam: Now.
Javier: Now.
Sam: ... I can't.
Javier gives them one last stare, bitingly cold.
Javier: Too bad.
Sam watches him go. They can't think of anything else to make him stay.
Carlos loosens the body scissors and the choke, but keeps hold of Sam's head, lifts it up and cracks it off the mat in frustration. When Sam comes to, they find themselves upright in his arms, staring into his eyes. He looks just as angry as they are.
Carlos: Come on. Let's go.
Sam glares back. They feel more like the student than the teacher.
Sam: Get Mitchell.
While they wait, they try to regain control of their body, making a stubborn blink in the face of the grogginess. The aches pulsing through their body are cast aside like they're nothing. When Mitchell comes to meet them he looks across skeptically.
Mitchell: ... You can do it, Sam.
He doesn't sound convinced.
Sam: Shut up.
Mitchell tightens his face, knowing the words mean Sam wants his best. The anger and bitterness is almost lost from their washed out face, but they stomp up to him with haste and throw a forearm at him. Then a second. Mitchell kicks them sharply in the gut, taking the air out of them, then hits the ropes and comes back with a knee lift. The impact sends Sam flying across the ring and they hit the mat like a heavy sack. They immediately start making their way up to their feet, apparently urgent but far too slow. Their eyes are vacant, and they're wide open for Mitchell's giant lariat. He gets the three count. Mitchell has worked no less tirelessly than Sam today, but he just crushed them in twenty seconds.
. . .
“Stop.”
They ignore the thought in their head and smash another forearm into Oliver as hard as they can. The force pushes him back a few steps. They quickly clutch their arm and try to massage the stinging pang out of their shoulder, while bracing for another hit from Oliver.
“No.”
Oliver strikes hard. The pain comes and goes as they fight to stay as awake as possible.
“Stop.”
Sam: No.
That stupid monotone voice, imagined in their head, talks like it knows everything. Like it knows what He wants. Oliver ignores Sam and waits for them to strike back. They can tell he's taking it easy on them. Sam summons all their anger and unloads it through another blistering forearm. Oliver recoils then without much hesitation returns the favor with a forearm just as strong. Sam simultaneously feels like ripping his head off and bursting into tears. In total desperation they close their eyes, try like fuck to keep their composure, and try to pull the strength out of the zen-like darkness. With perfect technique and every inch of their power they go for Oliver's head. The shot connects with a loud, satisfying smack, and it shoves Oliver backwards, his legs barely keeping him upright. Sam can tell from his expression that it hurt, but to them, they know it was weak.
“You're not good enough.”
Sam: Fuck you!
Oliver's eyes widen as Sam quickly narrows in on him, their eyes psychotic. They slap him so hard they have the sensation of blood and skin on their hand as it slices through the air after connecting. The sound can be felt ringing in the air even in the now silence.
Mitchell: Go Sam.
The slap sends Oliver careening away but Sam quickly tracks him down, grabs his arm to pull him towards them, then slaps him again. Mitchell and Carlos watch in awe as Sam slaps him over and over again. Even without the demented fury in their eyes, the slaps look like they couldn't have possibly been born out of anything but pure hate. Like an alcohol-fueled assault from your worst nightmare.
Every single slap sends disappointment coarsing through their veins, further motivating the next one. When they finally give up trying to reach the peak, they position themselves behind Oliver and hit a snap dragon suplex.
Sam: GET UP!
Oliver lays still on the mat but Sam can tell he's more stunned than hurt.
Sam: GET UP!
He starts to push himself up and slowly gets to his feet.
Sam: Wake up! Kick out!
Sam waits until they see that he understands, then runs over him with a lariat.
Sam: One! Two! Three!
They let go of his leg and kneel on his waist. They give a shaky, tearful sigh as they look at his sleepy face for consolation.
“That's still not good enough.”
Sam: Mitchell! Let's go!
They stare at Oliver in disgust, not really seeing the person, then get to their feet. When Mitchell joins them in the ring he's still smiling with pride a little.
Oliver is the worst of the three students. Mitchell is the best. He was training with Carlos during the match with Oliver, so it should be a fair fight. These days their record against him isn't great, but right now the result isn't what they care about.
Mitchell anticipates their forearm and goes behind into a waistlock. Sam makes an angry attempt to prise his arms away but gets German suplexed. As Mitchell pulls them back up he delivers a hard forearm to the back of their head. Sam hooks their boot around Mitchell's ankle and tries to elbow their way out of the hold. Mitchell dodges the brunt of most of the shots, then starts pounding Sam's head with more forearms. Sam pushes all of their weight into Mitchell, twisting their body sideways, and manages to get a hold and hip throw him over. He barely scrapes the mat and is back on his feet. Sam approaches to take a shot but gets kicked in the ribs with a roundhouse. He kicks them again in the side, then stiffly in the waist. Sam moans, suddenly looking helpless.
It's not the pain that hurts. It's the failure. Mitchell gives them a conflicted, almost angry look, then grabs them in a belly to belly and throws them up and around almost like a uranage. He grabs their arm and wrenches it in the air. “Let me hit you!” they scream in their head. They power to their feet and arm drag Mitchell off of them. He keeps hold of their arm and rolls right into an arm drag of his own, keeping the hold. Sam gets up again and tries to slap him with their left hand. Mitchell ducks the sluggish attempt, then boots them in the gut. He ducks under their arm and delivers a sick Saito suplex, dumping them on the back of their head. The life drains from their body and Mitchell senses it, quickly hooking their leg.
Mitchell: One! Two! Thr-
Sam kicks out with their legs and explodes to their feet. They slap him. He slaps back. They slap harder. He's still standing strong so they superkick his knee, then tackle him to the mat and lay into him with a storm of forearms. He fights back with his own shots but Sam barely feels them. They wish with all of their heart to hit Mitchell hard enough to knock him out. But no matter how hard they hit, his obstinate eyes just keep staring back at them. They see Him in them.
Sam: No!
Their face twists into disgust. They hesitate, doubting everything. Then they hit Mitchell with their hardest shot yet, their love for Him the driving force. “I am not weak! I am good enough!” They keep going until his eyes start showing fear and He disappears, but he still won't go out. They grab his shoulder and pull him up to his feet, trying to blot out the fatigue and the hopelessness. They urge themselves to want it, to believe, then smash him with their best forearm. For a second he looks like he's going to collapse to the mat, but then he rebounds with his forearm, powerful and still somehow full of life. Sam smashes him again, then again, then when he doesn't go down they apply a full nelson and hit a stiff, angry dragon suplex. They bridge for a second before rolling backwards, maintaining the hold, and hit another stiff suplex. Mitchell thumps into the mat again mercilessly. Sam feels just as angry as they did with Oliver, or even moreso. They measure Mitchell as he slowly tries to get back up, their eyes burning with impatience. When he's almost upright, they run past him to the ropes, then back off the other side, then put their entire soul into a furious, vicious lariat. They take a deep, incensed breath and hook his leg.
Sam: One! Two! Three...
Mitchell just edges up his shoulder before the full three. They knew it. They wait for what feels like an eternity for him to rise to his feet again. They feel a bitter nausea in their throat. Mitchell's eyes are already glazed over as Sam runs up and flattens him with another lariat, almost as powerful as the first.
Sam: One, two, three.
The voice doesn't speak, but it doesn't need to. Sam slowly climbs out of the ring and hops down to the floor. Their body is overcome with fatigue; those short, pathetic bursts of fury leaving them with nothing left to give. Carlos and Oliver stop sparring as Sam passes their training mat. Carlos extends a hand for a high-five but Sam just looks at him, barely acknowledging him, and walks straight past. They reach the mat where they left their water bottle and sit down, arms atop their raised knees. They know they should take a drink but they don't feel like it.
“Good. Stop.”
They're hopeless to argue. Vacantly, they watch Carlos and Oliver spar until Mitchell walks up.
Mitchell: That was awesome, Sam.
Sam frowns then turns back to watch the sparring.
Mitchell: You good?
Sam: ... Go work out.
He nods quietly then leaves Sam on their own. Sam watches as Carlos and Oliver switch from forearms to roundhouse kicks to submissions. Probably twenty minutes has passed. For a while they embrace the emptiness and the pain of leaving everything behind. But some part of them still wonders why they've gotten so weak, why they can't do it anymore.
“He still loves you.”
They know He does. But they want to be with Him.
“You can't. Nobody can.”
Poena can.
“He chose Poena.”
Why can't He choose them?
“You can't question Him. You know He's right. You know.”
Sam: No...
They whisper to themselves, trying not to listen.
“Forget about the X*Crown. Even if you win it, it won't change anything.”
Sam: No...
“You know it won't. That's why you're so weak. You don't believe in what you're doing. You know He's right. Seek His forgiveness instead. Punish yourself with pain. Show Him you really love Him.”
. . .
Sam and Carlos are out on the mat, both spent. Sam just kicked out of a powerbomb. They've been fighting for almost half an hour. Sam squeezes their eyes shut when a harsh knocking sound booms out in their head. Brief panic gives way to desperation and determination. They won't listen to it. It's not Him. He's not disappointed. He's not.
Sam chop blocks Carlos's leg and then tries to lock in a heel hook. Carlos scrambles over to the bottom rope and grabs it while Sam clings onto him. They both get to their feet and Sam hits a forearm. The knocking starts again. Sam follows Carlos's gaze to Mitchell. He's walking away.
Carlos: Ignore it.
Sam narrows their eyes at him, then realizes the knocking is real.
Carlos: Mitchell! Ignore it!
They wrestle through the knocking. Whoever it is is persistent, but knowing it's coming from outside now, Sam couldn't care less. Five minutes later, Sam finishes Carlos with a lariat. Outside the ring, they check their phone to see how long the match lasted. Not good.
Mitchell: Sam. Can I get rid of them?
The knocking. They forgot.
Sam: Sure.
Sam stares at the ring and replays the match in their head. They don't like what they see.
Oliver: What did you let him in for?
Sam gets to their feet. They can hardly believe their eyes when they see the intruder. It's their Uncle Javier.
Javier: Hey, Sammy.
Their mother's estranged brother; Sam's last living blood relative. He has a venomous smirk on his face.
Sam: Uncle Javier.
Their voice is cold.
Javier: Sammy.
He says their name sarcastically. Behind the smirk is a hateful glare. Sam isn't surprised.
Javier: I've been dreaming about this day. You shit. Ever since you had your Night of Champions Moment. Now this is mine. Perfect timing.
His Mexican accent is hidden under a nasty American one. He left Mexico when he was eighteen. Their mom said America changed him. Oliver snorts.
Oliver: What are you gonna do?
Javier: I know a few moves.
When their mom said America, she probably meant wrestling.
Javier: Sam... tell your friends to leave us alone.
Sam looks at the floor and rolls their eyes.
Javier: Did you just fucking roll your eyes?
Sam: No, sorry.
This is a waste of time, but it's the right thing to do. He's family.
Sam: Let's go to the cafeteria.
Javier: Let's go.
Sam leads the way. Javier follows without pause or comment, uninterested in the plush gym owned by his nibling. Sam is likewise uninterested in their uncle's opinion. They turn to face him when they reach the cafeteria. He just stares at them, his smirk gone. When he doesn't speak for a while, Sam carelessly breaks the silence.
Sam: What do you want?
Javier bites the inside of his lip.
Javier: ... Sammy.
Sam raises their eyebrows.
Javier: You don't like me, do you?
Sam stares at him coldly.
Sam: You're my uncle.
Javier: Yeah.
His glare grows sharper.
Javier: Pity.
Sam can't help but humble their expression a little.
Javier: I don't like you either, so don't worry about it. But you killed my sister, so... don't look so surprised.
Sam accepts Javier's words and intimidating glare without argument, keeping their face solemn and respectful. After a tense silence, they speak.
Sam: I'm sorry.
Javier: So you admit it. So we're cool now, right?
Sam: I don't know what else to say.
Javier: At least sound like you care, you cunt! I thought I was doing the right thing... by staying away. For your mother's sake. For your new family's sake. I thought maybe you were a good kid. It was those Heaven's Gate cunts, not you. But I was right in the first place, wasn't I? Little Mx. Poena. Wasn't I? You're a fucking psycho.
He snarls, pained anger in his eyes. Sam feels for him. They search for the right words.
Sam: I love her too.
Javier: She doesn't want your fucking love.
Sam: ... Sorry.
Javier: You want to make it up to me, Sammy?
Sam: ... Yes. Of course.
Javier: Well stand there... and don't fight back. I know you can handle yourself, but I'm your family. This is for your family. Don't fight back.
Javier slaps Sam hard across the face. The sharp pain stuns them a little, but they regain eye contact, looking patient and obedient. Javier's look of malice doesn't waver and he slaps them again. He stares at them for a few seconds, then slaps them again. Then after another pause, again. And again. And many times more, until Sam's face is burning red.
He keeps staring at them, unsatisfied. He probably knows Sam doesn't care about the pain, and just hopes he can make them know how much he hates them. For the first time Sam realizes his eyes are like their mother's.
Javier: Burn in hell, Sam.
He turns and walks away. Before he reaches the door, Sam calls out to him.
Sam: Uncle Javier!
He turns back around. Sam approaches him cautiously.
Sam: I was thinking... maybe you could... help us.
Javier: ... Help you do what?
Sam: Help us train.
Javier: How the fuck could I help you?
He sounds incredulous.
Sam: I don't know, but... I'm... I'm really struggling. I could use your advice.
He stares at them like they're crazy.
Javier: Go fuck yourself.
He starts walking. In desperation, Sam yells the first thing that comes to their head.
Sam: But we're family!
He spins around. As he marches up to them, Sam braces themselves for a slap.
Javier: The Rumble's that important to you, huh?
Sam: ... Yeah.
Javier: We're family.
Sam: Yeah.
Javier: Maybe you should help me find Mason then. That's the guy that murdered your mom, right?
Sam: Yeah. Yeah, of course.
Javier: Let's go then.
Sam's heart sinks as Javier steps aside, waiting for them to join him.
Sam: Now.
Javier: Now.
Sam: ... I can't.
Javier gives them one last stare, bitingly cold.
Javier: Too bad.
Sam watches him go. They can't think of anything else to make him stay.