gladdecease: (*this stuff is just /weird/)
gladdecease ([personal profile] gladdecease) wrote2014-02-05 11:56 pm

thing the thirty-fifth [sam i am, actually featuring the sam in question!]

Jeez, has it really been two and a half years since I wrote something down for this? (Well, I've had thoughts. I've changed a few of the things that I did write down. But no, nothing concrete.)

And, well, that is a deplorable state to be in. So I think I'll take a few of those [community profile] originalfic100 prompts and address some of the big questions that are Sam. Well. I'll address them a little bit.

Who?

"Call me Sam," the gangly teen says. The square-jawed museum curator says. The thin-lipped duchess says. A weak-kneed senior citizen says. A toddler wails. Tatiana -

You get the picture. Sam looks like anybody. Maybe everybody? But if Sam ever looked like Sam, Sam doesn't remember. Not height nor hair color, nor race, nor sex.

It's not easy, being Sam. But being Sam does make some things easy - staying anonymous, for one. Taking on dangerous jobs targeting dangerous people who never forget a face, for another.

Sometimes being Sam makes things enjoyable.

"Call me Sam," the cruel mob boss says, approaching his confused underlings and grinning at his mirror image.

What?

Sam doesn't know. Sam has no memory of anything before this shapeshifting life. The first day, there was a beach house, and a woman... but every night when she made Sam sleep, Sam's body changed. Which she explained to Sam, after the first time, just wasn't natural. Wasn't human.

So, as for what Sam is, the best answer found so far is "not human". And honestly, who wants to look further than that?

Where?

Sam lives where there's room. Secret tunnels and forgotten bunkers, abandoned warehouses and neglected hotel rooms. Sometimes a place will last for awhile, become almost permanent... but with permanence comes people, asking after the nice young man who was living here just last week, accusing Sam of forging Sam's own signature just because these thicker fingers fumbled the pen slightly.

It's better to not be permanent. Or noticed.

When?

Here and now, of course! Sam doesn't know of any other time you can live in... with the exception of poor Jackie, stuck in one place but drifting through time, the opposite of everybody else around. Jackie is probably the closest thing Sam has to a friend - Jackie knew Sam before Sam knew Jackie, because of that whole drifting through time business, and not having that secret to worry about, or any of the other mess, made things easier.

Sam wonders, sometimes, what might happen when he meets a Jackie who hasn't met Sam yet. Sam wonders, sometimes, about the Jackies that treat Sam a little cruelly, the ones who don't know as much about Sam yet.

Sam wonders, sometimes, how Jackie got stuck that way.

Why?

An excellent question. One Sam gives very little thought to. Why? Sam wondered once, and came up with the following answers. Because that's the way things are. Because it's not actually Sam that's doing it, so therefore it can't be Sam's doing. Because it must be natural, if Sam does it unconsciously.

Because everybody's got to go sometime.

None of those answers really felt right, so these days Sam leaves such questions unanswered.

How?

If you're asking after the specific mechanism, Sam doesn't know it. If you're asking after the five second TV show previews version, the one with just a statement of premise that must be accepted as fact to continue, though... that, Sam can provide.

It goes like this: Sam wakes up as somebody, goes about doing the things Sam does, and eventually - purposefully or not - goes to sleep. And when Sam goes to sleep, the somebody Sam looks like dies.

How? That's a big question.

(Short answer: Sam doesn't like big questions.)