maskormenacelogs | Ebb and Flow

[Session number five.

Sam's been counting them down like tallies on a prison wall. Easier to tally the wait to his final probation hearing by marking off these Wednesday nights (right in the middle of the week, another needle of annoyance Sam's sure was intentional) than going day-by-day. The moment the clock strikes six tonight will mean only four more sessions to go. It sounds better than the reality of another month; cushions the blow.

Of course, if Chilton thought he'd find any enjoyment in making the shifter sit for therapy, Sam hopes he's dispelled that fantasy by now. Technically, he's been a model parolee: Chilton wanted him here, for whatever reason, and he's had him. Every week, like clockwork. Hell, he's been five minutes early to every appointment, even though it means heading straight from the vineyard without even the time to change clothes. He hasn't snapped back at the doctor, hasn't insulted him, hasn't risen to the many baits he's been thrown. Not yet.

That hasn't been easy, but the effort it takes to keep himself calm has been worth it, just for that moment when he gets to stand up and walk out knowing he's wasted as much of the doctor's time as he's had to. Sam hopes it drives Chilton crazy; he hopes every subtle stubborn refusal to play along crawls under the man's skin like an itch he can't reach.

You wanted this, Sam wants to remind him every time he leaves. You regret it yet?

As good as Sam's compliance might look on paper, it's been the shifter's pleasure to deny the psychiatrist anything more than surface-level pleasantries and comments about work or mood. Attempts at probing either get bare-bones answers or masterful deflection. During their first meeting, he didn't even take a seat - just stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, or leaned against the wall, idly offering little non-answers and half-comments to Chilton's attempts to engage him. The three sessions since, Sam's taken the wooden chair only since it became clear it could become an issue otherwise.

He takes it again this evening, settles himself in wearing jeans and boots and the button-up he wore to work. His watch gets a glance before he even bothers to look Chilton in the face.

Here we go. Sixty minutes. Starting... now.]

Evenin'.

Sammy.

[Chilton kept the habit of aggressive familiarity. It was something that quite obviously grated at Merlotte, and that was all the prompting that the doctor needed to continue such habits. It was only fair, figured Chilton, as Merlotte was so obstinate -- so defiant -- in his own trek for stability. He was the one who pursued punishment, after all, he had ignited this conflict all by himself.]

Feeling especially masochistic today?

[Though in all honesty, perhaps today was no different from any other.]

But now that you've made yourself comfortable. [A direct allusion to the chosen wooden chair, yet another symbol of his defiance.] Why don't we begin with your relationships? After all, how you interaction with individuals undoubted remarks about your own psychological hygiene. While some might call you quite the dirty boy... [Chilton, chiefly.] ... You have every right to defend yourself from such accusation.

Start with your sexual history.

Well you'd know masochistic tendencies better'n I would.

[you know. Because he's a psychiatrist. That's all.

Which he knows is a risky way to start their session, already dangerously close to an outright insult Sam can't afford to make until the doctor signs his papers. It's a cyclical argument in his head - the concern that Chilton will screw him over, the reassurance that the man would threaten his own reputation if he did, then the suspicion that he's smart enough to find a way regardless - that's becoming borderline obsessive on Sam's part. Like a dog chasing its tail, to use a too-appropriate phrase.

(Also something he's refused to talk about.)

With the mention of the wooden chair, Sam takes the opportunity to sprawl. His jeans hike up his ankles as he spreads both legs out and throws an arm over the back of the chair. Just the shifter lending Chilton's sarcasm some truth, because he's just that nice a guy. Only for you, Chilton.]

No warm up today, huh? [noted with a cocked eyebrow and a grimace too tight-lipped to be sincerely amused. Dirty boy. Christ.] Little uncomfortable with you divin' right in like that, Mr. Chilton. I get the curiosity -

[lest either of them forget the threesome offer his lover made once upon a time.]

- but I sorta need to be wooed first, conversationally.

Haven't met anyone here, if that's what you're askin'. How long did it take you 'fore you started dating here? ...Was Raina your first?

Would it help if I wrote out the word Doctor? Are you a visual learner, Mr. Merlotte?

[He leaned forward, head tilted, like a persistent professor lording over an under-performing pupil.]

Raina was not my first, no. She was my fourth. My longest.

[Christine. Karla. Danger.]

But I would question why you needed to know such information. It isn't for camaraderie, and I'm not the one requiring a parole officer. Whatever you may argue with regards to Mickens, he was still some part of you, and he alone was a walking personality disorder.

This conversation is for your benefit.

[Sam's lip twitched, wanting to curl up. He didn't let it. Instead he leaned back, closed his eyes a moment, and changed tacks.]

...I'll make you a deal. I'll start rememberin' you're a doctor if you stop callin' me 'Sammy'. Little truce between us.

[he'd begun the habit out of petty spite anyway, Sam can admit that. And nothing more than irritation and bitterness had kept it up since then. He wasn't holding his breath that there would ever be real courtesy between him and Chilton, they'd burned too many bridges for that, but maybe this was small enough to manage; a crumb of offered respect.]

But it's not a 'needed' thing. You've been here a long time, I'm just interested. [an interest further piqued by that number, partly out of surprise Chilton answered him at all. Were it not for that next comment, it would have been a line he'd pursued.]

I keep tellin' you we're different people. [stern, exasperated - firmly distancing. Defensive.] The folks who raised Mickens - there are things that can get beat out of a person. Shape you different. Like the way men who go to war sometimes don't come back as the men they were before. There are things you can't live through and stay the same.

You keep sayin' part of him has to be in me, but how much of that is just you still wantin' to take a swing at the guy who left you tied up in your hallway?

Of course you keep telling me that, Sam. [Truce accepted.] Of course you'd be an advocate of nature over nurture. But that's the rub: they are not two mutually exclusive factors. PTSD -- to use your example -- is something a man has, not is. Even the heavily afflicted are still recognizable on some level.

[It was almost fatalist of Chilton to argue that nothing could be escaped, not when it was wired into your neurological genetics. Minimized, controlled, muted -- yes. But rendered non-existent? Oh no, no, no.]

And how much of Sam Merlotte enjoys the memory of me left tied up in my own hallway? Beaten and choked.

[Chilton leaned forward an inch more over his desk, leering still.]

How much of you had considered that just rewards?

[the silence which followed was damning. All the smart aleck answers he wanted to give - 'more of him now than before', or 'and how much of you gets off on it?' - remain rolled up, bound and stowed.

Yeah, part of him felt Chilton deserved it. Could remember with some subdued satisfaction how the guy had whined and begged. Part of him wished Mickens had done more than throw him around a little - why waste all this punishment on a half-measure? Maybe if his counterpart had put some real fear into the psychiatrist, they wouldn't be having this conversation; Chilton would have known to stay away.

Little dog yapping through a hole in the fence, so sure the mutt on the other side couldn't dig through...]

...Look, what're you tryin' to prove, Dr. Chilton? [Sam leaned back finally, hoping to dull that leer. He hated the taste of that 'doctor' in his mouth - it felt like Chilton had won something.] That I need to be here? That you'd even actually care about helpin' me, if I did?

[he nodded towards the decanter he spied on the shelf behind the psychiatrist's head.]

'Cause it'd take more than you've got to offer to begin convincing me of that. We've all got fucked up parts to ourselves and our pasts - you might as well make every imPort sit down in here for an hour a week, if you're lookin' for problems. I've got my life in control.

[or he meant to, as soon as he slipped off probation.]

Edited 2016-08-07 07:34 (UTC)

You do need to be here, Sam. If nothing else, our interaction ought to prove that you are a walking time bomb.

[Chilton spoke with such emphasis, such conviction, that these words could have well been the first set stones of psychic driving. The doctor tilted his head to the side, his gaze still locked onto Sam. No reaction to those wandering eyes, to the glance at his decanter -- Chilton knew the placement well, he could follow that geometry.]

The funny thing is, Sam, I really have no need to sit down every imPort, as you suggested. I am not implying that we are free of psychological distress as a group or on individualistic level, but so few descend to breaking the law because of their problems. Breaking and entering, theft, assault and battery...

Does that sound like control to you? How can we best ensure it never happens again?

[Chilton then leaned back in his chair, his forearms sitting evenly on the arm rests.]

That is why you're here. You know you need it. You need to know you have a safety net, just in case. A switch to divert the worst case scenario.

[oh, but that did needle at Sam's insecurities. He could feel it when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled in response. "A walking time bomb. It wasn't like he hadn't thought the same thing, before. It wasn't like Sam hadn't focused on fixing just that issue since shooting Tommy in the leg.

Sam looked away a moment, frowning, made uncomfortable by Chilton's pinpointed attention. The list of crimes were Mickens', of course - but what the psychiatrist didn't know was Merlotte had the same rap sheet. Hell, he'd ported into Florida with knuckles still healing from when he'd torn another man's head open with them. Beaten him down until the bloody mess was barely recognizable as a human face. Sam was later told that the guy was in the process of dying when they'd managed to get healing V into him, that his breathing had stopped. Sam had nearly murdered him.

What's worse, it wouldn't have been the first time he and his rage killed someone.

Or the second.]

Look, I - know I've got anger issues. [the look he finally returned to Chilton was hollow, cornered. Defensive. He knit his hands together, and felt a physical twitch in his jaw at the thought of saying more than that. Sam was a private man. Defenses once built from necessity had long since become second nature. He resisted opening further. Particularly to this man, to a man who hated him, a man Sam felt would never let a weakness slip past him without comment or collection for later use.

But he had to explain. Make things clear.]

I've worked on 'em. I've been working on 'em. I've got self-control. It didn't come naturally to me, but there were people back home - [he hesitated and licked his lips, then remembered that Chilton knew already; he'd seen it. No use hiding.]

...Shifters run hotter'n other people. Physically and emotionally. I had some people I learned about that with, and we worked on it together, sorta informally. It helped a lot. I've learned to get a handle on my impulses.

So you're willing to admit it now?

[Chilton sniffed out the premise he had been pushing -- while Mickens' destructive fury may have been exaggerated through his natural environment, different as it was from Merlotte's, it hadn't been something that had come from nothing. There was some neurological mess in that handsome Southern head, and Chilton knew it lurked there; perhaps beneath layers of gritted restraint and personal paranoia, but it was there.

That was all Chilton needed.]

And the next time some supernatural nonsense brings out that darker side to you, what then? What is your escape route for that, Mr. Merlotte?

[Because, thought Chilton as he tilted his head in expectation of an answer, there would be a next time. This universe was not forgiving, but it offered a handful of similar chances to prove yourself. Undoubtedly Sam would see that, too, and likely sooner before later.]

You have a handle on your impulses within an environment that you had specifically practiced in. This one is different. And therefore, Sam, you require different techniques. You'll have to work with different people.

[He intended himself.]

Does that resonate? Does it make sense to you?

You can't - [he shook his head, exhaled harshly.] What do you want me to say? That's not somethin' you can plan for. You think I could've had any control last time? S'not like bein' a goddamn werewolf or somethin', when you know the moon's comin' and you can lock yourself away for a night. Wasn't a person here ready for what happened.

[he looked like he might say something else, but sucked on his tongue instead, sending Chilton's bookshelf a harsh look as his cheek hollowed and jaw twitched. Yeah, the point resonated. Like hell Sam was admitting that aloud - Chilton's smooth, self-assured questions rang like the tug of a lead he was determined to dig his heels in against - but he also couldn't deny the reasoning. Yeah, it made sense.

...Christ, but he missed Luna. Sam closed his eyes at a moment's brief heartache, breathing out. She'd have handled all of this better. He'd have her to rely on.

He wouldn't even be here to begin with.]

...Why the hell do you care, Dr. Chilton? Why are we doin' this? Are you just worried I'll come after you again the next time shit happens?

I am certain you'd come after me next time, yes.

[He spoke it with such conviction; Chilton had never been shy about voicing his frets over personal health and safety.]

But it is more than that, Sam. You do not simply represent yourself -- however screwball that entity might be -- you are part of us now. The imPort community.

[Quite contrary to the soaring spires of emotion that typically latched onto rhetoric like community, Chilton almost appeared aghast at the very idea that he and Sam Merlotte were indeed brethren of some nature. When one member of a group could disparage the entirety, order and control was all the more prudent. And this one in particular, this one had been chained to Chilton for a many layered reasons.

This one was his specific responsibility.]

You cannot escape that similarity.

Similarity between me and you? [Oh, there was a laugh. Sam had wondered more than once if Chilton wasn't, in some way, his antithesis - the other end of his magnet, diametrically opposed. Everything Sam felt good and worth living for in this world, Chilton seemed to sneer at. Like something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

Community, though. Community. Funny Chilton should bring that up.]

I've got no problem being part of this community. I want to be. And I've got plans for that. [adapting, shifting himself to fit in, yeah, Sam could do that. He'd done it before.] You can't think I'm the threat to the flock, here.

Or that you're the one to play the shepherd, honestly. 'Cause that's what's stickin' in my craw right now. [he cast Chilton a careful look. ] Even if I agreed I could use some direction, or just someone to - keep an eye on things, you've done nothin' to convince me you're the one to offer that.

Hell, I'm startin' to feel like every time we even share the same space, there's a risk we're gonna start a fire. Like oil and a match.

Nothing quite as cleansing as a fire, is there?

[Chilton only offered a faint smirk in reply, his commitment to his vision burned into the very mannerism of his words. There was nothing he would make translucent, not now, not when Sam had already made up his mind. There was no point in throwing an empty bucket at an inferno.]

You are making your choice as we speak, Sam. I'm sure that is something of a relief, to know you're still in control of your own choice.

[Because Chilton had a remedy for that, too. But another time, perhaps, another need later down the line.]

Have you said your piece?

Makes for less clean-up. [You know, if you don't mind scorched earth.

Sam dragged his hands up the thighs of his jeans, watching the psychiatrist intently. Then he nodded, slowly. He couldn't quite hide his surprise that said choice would be honored without further cajoling. Maybe this was progress between them, however small; some things you could only measure in degrees.

(And with a magnifying glass.)]

Yeah. I have. You said yours?

I've said all that you would hear.

[Another implied dagger. Chilton tilted his head, armed with a smile, and resisted the temptation to wink. He believed what he had said about Sam, and his rationale remained: if Sam Merlotte was a walking time bomb, then Chilton knew where to be when the blast went off.]

You know how to contact me, if ever you change your mind about things.

[Sam has had better months. At the very least, he's had months which didn't include picking up a doppleganger's criminal tab or getting caught in the middle of a supervillain's idea of a holiday bash. It's been stressful; he's been stressed. Not the best conditions for getting a business underway, but the shifter also doesn't want to put it off any longer or make Six wait. Getting his own bar up and running is the only thing Sam has to look forward to right now, and all they need is the funding. One good investor and he and Six can start shopping for a location.

Mark Vorkosigan, he's convinced, will be that good investor. So he set up the meeting, got out a suit, and sent Six the date. Sam's not terribly nervous when he arrives; he's never made a formal pitch like this before, but he can't see many ways this can go wrong. He and Six will lay out their business ideas, and they'll make it clear that their respective experiences will produce a bar and grill that both natives and imPorts will be drawn to enjoy. Simple. What more could anyone ask of them?

He waits outside the building for Six, to make sure that when they reach Mark's office it's together. He has some mock menus with him (Six's name included boldly, as he'd first requested) and gives his feline soon-to-be business partner a little smile while they wait to be let in.]

Well, it ain't throwin' lightning or fightin' evil monsters or anything, but I hope this keeps you interested. Just keep cool and confident - he's gonna want to get in on this, I don't think we'll have to sell it too hard.

[ Things Six hasn't done:

Tell Sam of his confrontation with Mark.

Spoken to Mark again since then.

Made any kind of decision as to what he's going to say to Mark, or to Sam, or to the both of them once this meeting begins. He has yet to decide what he's even going to do, but nevertheless, he is here: dressed in as close as a business approximation as his housemates can provide, meaning the slacks are pressed but the button-down is a bit...frilled. At least both are black.

His left arm is also in a sling and a brace, which is an additional thing he hasn't mentioned to Sam. He pretends it's not there. ]

All I ask for is a kitchen; the rest is a bonus.

[ He says, with hopefully convincing ease. ]

I'll follow your lead.

[ When they step inside, they'll find an office space that's fairly well-appointed - handsome Scandanavian furniture in the waiting area, tasteful silver lighting sconces, a sleek foreign headset on the sleek foreign receptionist. Who, it should be noted, does bat an eye at Six's strange appearance, but only bats an eye; she was, clearly, prepped for these two. And she leads them back at once, past a few private offices with gold nameplates - there are a number of small businesses in here, all of them too modest to support more infrastructure but all of them prosperous enough to drop money on looking cool - until she leads them to an office with the nameplate PKE.

Inside, Mark has...taken many, many pains to look cool. It's surprising what you can do with yourself when you're four-foot-eight and chubby-bordering-on-rotund and also have the face of a twenty-two-year-old and the bearing of a nervous seventeen-year-old: a tailor who gets paid enough and works with fabrics expensive enough can wrap even that disastrous package up in a black suit, silver cufflinks, expensive watch, slicked-back hair, creating a look that's somewhere between cool and James Bond villain. When they're shown in, his eyes go first to Six, and stay on Six for a while, before he looks at Sam and etches a smile onto his face. It's an oily, mildly sinister sort of smile. ]

Welcome. Please have a seat. Would either of you like coffee? Tea? Water?

'Course. You're gonna get that an' more. [ Sam smiles reassurringly, holding up their mock menu.] S'got your name on it, after all. Not gonna hide you away 'less you want me -

[Sam quiets when the receptionist leads them back, already shifting to a wide, practiced smile he hopes reads with a level of charm and enthusiasm that doesn't seem at all desperate. For all that Sam is dressed for the part, acting the part - he's never done this before. Merlotte's was begun on a bag of stolen money so investors never had to come into it before; this is all uncharted waters.

Probably moreso for his business partner, which he's also trying to keep aware of. He can't help but feel like Six is oddly tense. Nerves, probably. Not that he can blame the guy. Hell, if he currently had a tail it'd be halfway up his belly right now, probably.

The decor really isn't his style, but Sam works hard to keep his eyes on nothing but but their business host, who approaches looking more like a member of the mafia than he's comfortable with, but that's not polite to address. Sam holds out his hand immediately, going for the firm but friendly handshake and completely missing the look his partner gets.]

Hey, Mr. Vorkosigan. Thanks again for meetin' with us. I'm all right, far as drinks go, thanks. [he'll take the offered seat though, settling down with one leg loosely crossed atop the other.] Beautiful office. Hard to believe you haven't been here for that long. You do somethin' similar back home?

[icebreakers - setting the tone, opening the floor between them. Sam hopes it eases Six some too.]

[ It takes considerable effort not to clench both fists. As it is, he restrains the urge to just one, which curls tightly around the arm of the chair he's claimed. There's some satisfaction in how the leather and the wood creak; if he wanted, he could snap it in half, and the thread of violent thought lets him sit and stare right back at Mark, the tips of his ears sharply upright. He doesn't look at the office, not again after he entered, because all he needs is one impression to know: excessive, luxurious, smug. Flaunting wealth in a manner so reminiscent of home that seeing Mark himself, instead of the small, greedy paws, hilariously short stature, and flat, pastel stare of one of Ul'dah's merchant elite, is almost a shock.

It makes him want to spit. Needless to say, he doesn't offer out a hand and in fact, he doesn't hear Sam's first few sentences. His ears twitch somewhere around beautiful office and his eyes finally move, back to Sam, and he remembers he's not the only one with a stake in this.

He waits for a short break, says: ]

Water is fine.

[ Because if he doesn't say that, he'll surely say something else. ]

[ He can just about feel Six's eyes boring into him. He wonders if the cat would kill him if he had a chance. He can feel the hatred, and it half makes him want to laugh, high and hysterical and sick. There are so many reasons to hate him. There are so many ways he's fucked up, so many ways he deserves loathing. That Six chooses this, his profession -

He gets down from the chair. It's a long climb. And he goes over to his mini-fridge, and draws out a bottle of water, and hands it to Six without even looking at him. His eyes are fixed only on Sam. ]

Mark. If you want to be formal, it'd be Lord Mark.

[ He doesn't even know what he's trying to do by saying that. Seem impressive? Hah. No one worth anything is impressed by rank. Needle Six, masochistically feed the fires of his hatred? Maybe. Maybe just assert his link to the Vorkosigans, soothe his anxiety and unhappiness with that. You can't hurt me. I'm Lord Mark. I have a family. They love me. They love me. Your hatred means nothing.

He'd lie about his experience, but unfortunately, he's already been truthful to Six. Back in that kitchen, over a predawn breakfast. So: ]

And no. I'm new to this. I was...in the military back home. [ In the military. Close enough. Shaped and pressed and broken to fit the mold of a clone-assassin, a shadowy figure of dread and nightmare, trained in dozens of ways to kill - that's more precise, but also really longwinded and makes him sound like more than what he is: a fat, short, asthmatic kid playing dress-up. ] But I'm more interested in what each of you can do. You're an experienced restauranteur, aren't you, Mr. Merlotte?

[nobility titles. Okay. That's... different. And uncomfortable for an American business meeting. Luckily, Sam's smile hardly skips a beat.]

Well, if you're fine with 'Mark', I am too.

[maybe it will even work in their favor - make all this sound a little more like a discussion among well-acquainted friends. Just two friends approaching another friend for a large sum of money on the promise that they'll make him even more down the line. Sure.]

Military, I didn't know that. You've really taken to this then - maybe you've found your true calling. [but before he can lay it on too thick, Sam uncrosses his legs, nodding and leaning forward - putting on the charm. He's aware that between himself and Six, wooing people is meant to be his talent. It's a role he's come to appreciate between time spent as both a man and a dog - getting people to like him, being friendly. Harmless and helpful, that's old Sam Merlotte.]

That's right. Merlotte's Bar and Grill - the most popular bar in Bon Temps. [mostly because they'd have to drive one city over to get to a different one, but he neglects to mention that.] I've run that for more'n six years now. It became a staple of the community. I'd like this restaurant of mine and Six's to be much the same - for imPorts as well as Natives.

And I think Six has a menu to really whet people's appetites for repeat visits.

[an open invitation for his partner to chime in, clear enough on its own even without the fond, encouraging smile Sam shoots the cat's way.]

[ An ugly comment skitters across the back of Six's tongue, ready to be said - The lord of what, ego? Posturing? - but he swallows it down and concentrated instead one thing he DID do: prepare to do his job. His lips twitch in Sam's general direction as a sign of acknowledgement, and then he gets to his feet.

Six leaves the unopened bottle on a side table and then out of the convenient carry space his sling provides he pulls a file folder, clipped shut. He spreads it open on Mark's desk, displaying the potential mockups of the eventual menu, drawn by hand. ]

The foundation of our offerings adhere to a few straightforward rules: hearty, approachable dishes that pair well with the drink list, especially what's on tap on a nightly basis; local ingredients wherever possible; and rotating specials for the more daring that incorporates styles and themes from imPort worlds.

[ He turns a page and, for the first time, looks Mark right in the eye. ]

Our intention isn't to be novelty--nor so far up our own asses that we're unapproachable and unwelcoming.

[ The moment their eyes meet, though, Mark flinches and looks away. He can't bear to hold Six's gaze, too fearful under all the arrogance and haughtiness. It's fortunate, then, that the menus are under his nose; he can peruse those instead of looking up at either of them. Stupid, Mark. What's he going to do, claw your eyes out? Say something nasty? If he does that, you can just throw him out. Cut him off from the money he needs. Yeah, sure, and then they get no money, he turns no profit, and he's left with the misery of that hatred...The people you care about like you. Damn it.

He makes a great show out of reading the menus...and then, slowly, forgets Six and his conflict with him as he's drawn into the food there. This looks good. He'd eat the hell out of this. Pretty much all of this. And he's not exactly the most discerning eater, yeah, but this looks really excellent. So he rubs at the flesh below his chin - not quite a double chin, but getting there - and pushes down his enthusiasm to think about this critically. ]

A few questions. First, by making this an imPort-themed restaurant, you're making this venture somewhat...political. [ That's directed at both of them, but slightly more at Sam, who he assumes is more of the driving force behind the business side of things. ] A sound proposition, while imPorts are popular and riding high in public opinion. But what happens if our popularity starts to go down? What adjustments will you make?

[ And then, to Six: ]

And you, I know, have other allegiances. Including adventuring and being a hero. You'll notice that heroes have a tendency to be taken out of commission quite a lot. How will you ensure that, if you end up fighting some monster and have all your limbs broken, the kitchen will continue to operate without any change?

[ Then he folds his hands across his stomach and waits. He...wants to look down at the menus again and imagine eating that food, though he needs to play it cool instead. Oh - if he could get Barrayaran food put on the menu - that'd make Lord Vorkosigan and Miles really happy...He knows less about what Lady Vorkosigan eats, aside from not meat. What's Betan cuisine like? He'll have to figure it out... ]

[Sam turns his head, his focus grabbed in the moment by the flash of Six's sling. While Mark mentally drools over each carefully handwritten menu item, the shifter stares with open confusion at his partner's injury. When the hell had that happened? Sudden broken limbs should probably count as information to be shared between business partners, right? Certainly at least between friends.

But if there's one thing that's not going to inspire confidence in a potential investor, it's broadcasting that ignorance. Sam glances away quickly, brow furrowed, just in time to receive Mark's - sorry, Lord Mark's first question.]

Well, I don't want to argue semantics with you, but I've gotta disagree that it's "imPort themed" in the first place. [lightly countered, a warm honey in his tone and eyes.] It's not a gimmicky place. That's not the point. There might come a night I name a shot somethin' fun after an imPort, I could see that, but the draw's gonna be the food. It's gonna be the variety. Like Six mentioned, we'll have some rotatin' specials inspired by foods from imPort worlds, but it's not the worlds that'll be showcased there.

Now I'll grant you that just by havin' two imPorts run the place, I'd be naive to think our current popularity's not gonna play a part. Probably that will be the initial draw. But word of mouth's how I've always gotten on, and I think two months in people'll be gabbin' more 'bout delicious food 'n drinks and how cozy the bar is than about how it's popular with super-powered people. That's the goal. We turn ourselves into a neighborhood feature, get in with the community, and it won't matter if the public tide turns against us - you don't throw your neighbors under the bus.

[he spreads his hands, smiling at Mark warmly.] It's about breakin' down that 'us' and 'them' divide and havin' a place people can feel safe to relax. Where they feel like they know you. That's somethin' I know all about doin', and doin' right.

[as for adventuring and heroism, well. That's not Sam's area. He's more than happy to let Six take that question on, even as he tries not to let his eyes slide back to the man's injured arm.]

Ebb and Flow

Heropa hospital: Dr. Chilton (7/20)

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Mark & Six (7/23)

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