Sam Wün

Sam Wün is a character in MORITURI TE SALUTANT.

Description:
Sam normally is of reasonable height, standing at about six feet, with a medium build tending towards slim. His black hair is cut short, and never appears to get any longer. It contrasts his eyes, which have irises of a curious shade of red. He wears a brown trench coat which seems more ragged and worn than can be accounted for by simple age or neglect, and underneath that he wears, even in the coldest winter and hottest summer, a thin long-sleeved shirt and corduroy pants.

Sam’s an impassive person – in his line of work emotions don’t pay – but it’s also because his mind is a mess. He isn’t insane – he’s perfectly rational and a sensible person, but often he feels that many parts of his mind are disconnected from his consciousness, that they don’t fit with who he is – even his memories. Especially his memories. So he does what humanity has always been so good at, and ignores the incongruities completely, relegating them to subconscious obstacles to avoid. Which means it’s not that he can’t remember his past, but rather that to access those memories carries with it such a sense of absurdity that it unsettles him to think about it.

He’d like to say he’d prefer it that way, but for the curse of humanity that is curiosity.

Items/Abilities:
“Clothes make the man.” – Mark Twain

Sam is gifted with the power of cladomorphism – upon donning the clothing belonging to someone else, he takes on some of their characteristics – the more of the person’s clothing that he wears and the longer he wears it for, the more characteristics he takes on. They can be physical traits, like build or voice, or personality-related characteristics like mannerisms, attitudes and opinions. He can’t choose what traits he inherits, but physical changes are usually related to the article of clothing in question – for example a hat might change his hair style, length, color....or alter his intelligence or intuitiveness! Or all five!

There is a danger, though, in taking on another’s identity, and that is losing your own…

Biography:
“decanting…”

''White. Metal-white, a blur of motion and of blue, splash splash, liquid draining and that was the first minute of life for this child. No mother to hold her babe no soft crooning only doctorspeak “embryo, incubation” cold metal, latex, no warm arms no smell of mother only sterile, sterile, antiseptic clean air filtered air needles pain scissors cold fear''

Sam woke up, hands wringing the sheets of the cold sweat they’d collected in the night. Slowly, he pulled himself from the threadbare mattress, planting both feet firmly into the carpet, curling his toes into the thick cloth in an effort to dispel the memory of the dream. Or the dream of a memory, came his own thought from the place in the back of his mind that he so often tried and failed to ignore. a past you secretly crave

Sam brushed his teeth thoroughly, with all the correct strokes, followed by a flossing. The floss came away slightly bloodied, and he made a mental note to call the dentist (a mundanity muffling the constant trickle of unwanted thought that was always uncomfortably there). At 7:20 AM, he placed bread in a toaster as an antiquated coffee machine whirred and produced slightly granular coffee that yet still seemed to thicken to the unpleasant consistency of tar. But it was caffeinated. It was fine.

At 7:30, he stood in front of his closet like a condemned man.

Pulling open the closet door revealed a tatty brown trench coat. Beside it hung a neatly pressed suit, one that screamed “business” and other formal epithets – even more so once Sam had ironed its edges sharp on a worn ironing board and folded it into a businesslike leather suitcase. With much less care, he took a tired pair of corduroys hanging over the bedstead, wore them over boxers that shouldn’t feel awkward nor unfamiliar and yet and yet, then donned the trench coat to complete his attire. Clutching the suitcase, Sam stepped out the door – and at 8:00, he boarded the citybound bus. It hummed pleasantly, trundling on its modular monorail, and the sound l u l l e d

''Running down the corridors of burnished steel shouts behind, flimsy nightgown “Get that kid!” run run run small feet banging on the floor, pattering footsteps janitor’s closet hide! “Damn! Where are you, you little…” Boots. Heavy boots with steel tipped toes, belonging to a man of bearing – “If you’re not out from wherever you are by the count of ten! It’s latrine duty for you, kid!” The child quaked, snuffled slightly despite effort “One! Two! Three!” The boots paced, and then stopped in front of the closet door - looking around, only tools, mops, brooms, not a uniform in sight “Four! Five! Six! Don’t think about it kid, I’m catching anyone coming out of that closet!” peering about, trying trying to be silent, breathing fast too fast out of control small hands toying with the hem of… Sam’s brow furrowed as he stared into space as the bus drove on “Seven! Eight! Nine!” Nowhere to go never anywhere to go no escape no escape - “Te-” The child forced the door open with as much strength as could be mustered ran again large hand grabbed collar lifted choking cruel face sneering “Oh no you don’t, kid. Back to drills for you.” Another meaty hand lifted to the face “WE FOUND H-”''

“-artford Station!”

The bus driver’s voice cut through his reverie, and Sam was on the bus once more as it pulled into his stop. He rubbed the tiredness – yes, it must have been, just have been, a brief hallucination from being too tired – from his eyes as he descended on a well-rehearsed path, down a walkway as it entered a community tower stretching from the waters below to the skies above, corridors and hallways moving past as he stepped into the elevator, its pneumatic hiss a backdrop to its rapid ascent...

The apartment was chosen for its proximity to the targets’, obtained with an exorbitant offer that could not be refused by any superintendent, and renovated in a marginally illegal way, i.e. stripped of furniture and converted into a station resembling a missile launch bunker. And in what was clearly the command chair, situated in the center of the main chamber, sat a sternly suited man – “Where have you been, Wün? You’re late.”

“I was kept up, Mr. Caines.”

“Your sleep travails are of no interest to the agency. Get dressed.”

He stood in the tiny changing room, looking at the suit with distaste. A little woven patch on its sleeve declared its owner to be Arkadiy Dmitryevich, Executive Mission Planner, Entente Operative Corps. Sam knew that the real Arkadiy would be asleep, drugged in one of the apartments near this command center, and he would be expected to take his place. Silently, he cursed Caines and the agency and their mad goals of infiltrating the Entente, and his own inexplicable collusion with them... they didn’t understand at all how it worked, how utterly dangerous it was…

''“It doesn’t pay to daydream.” The mantra echoed, kept in mind as strong leather shoes ran this time covering the grass outside outside no shouts no nothing the trench coat the corduroys were telling mind mine my mind no, not my mind! Escaping! Escaping that hellhole then get far away, ditch these damn clothes they’re too big for me but they aren’t arms fill out the shirt fine, the sleeves not tight but comfortable not baggy at all not familiar nothing was right too strong too straight, wander long hate hate no more oppression no more no more who am I? My name is my name is Sam sama it feels right more right must hold myself together my self to gether tether rope tie yourself keep yourself together get a grip keep moving forward forward away it was perfect, no one questioned the exit of Michael Michael this coat belonged to him these clothes are his my mind is mine my mind is mine my kale Michael my name is Sam, Sam I am, old books salvaged from the scrap heap education of the wrong sort they said why does it feel wrong why does it those are real memories those are mine those are Sam’s forget Michael Michael you’re still there and I’ve stolen your clothes I’ve got everything that is you but I don’t want it I want to be myself shouts! Shots! Not far enough, not far enough, can’t ditch the clothes hold it together hold it together who am I who am I who am I, I am Sam, what else is about me? I am…I am… Sam... I’m seventeen and I don’t want to stay there I’m not this body body has mind of its own its own identity I’m Sam I’m Sam how how old where what’s my favorite color just forget it just forget everything remember you’re not this body you’re Sam the same the…''

who am I

He didn’t want to think about that it didn’t make sense nothing about that past made sense and nothing about the other did either the past was past was past…He clutched at the fabric of the suit – it calmed him, it calmed him...the past didn’t matter no matter how much he told himself that it never seemed to ring true and the present was what had to be lived and he’d had worse assignments yet that one time with the Danish debutante had gone oddly smoothly, don’t you think, Sam?

And then he disappeared.