A younger version of Sam, somewhere between 17-19. Sam is a Cirrus Network Repo, a type of agent that is specially dispatched to retrieved compromised information and/or clean up those within Cirrus that have done specified illegal crimes deemed a "danger to those in society" through Cirrus's predictions.
Coincidentally, Sam is tasked with fishing out the right-hand man of the leader of sex trafficking ring that Sam and his family have been after for a while. Alright Sam isn't the head of his family yet, he takes full responsibility in spearheading this operation takedown by using a "black widow" assassination approach. he targets those that lure and round up victims for the ring and takes them out. it's become unhealthy though as the memory watcher will sense themselves without it needing to be explicitly expressed, beyond the general degrading nature of it. Sam has started to see it as much as his only choice to feel anything with anyone, and he's been called enough derogatory and derisive things before, during, and after these sessions that along with the acts has affected his already warped sense of self-worth even though there is someone who's trying to help him.
Things become difficult for Sam when he's compromised only to realize that he's been betrayed (in different ways) both by his employer and by someone he thought he meant something to.
CWs { NSFW, sex trafficking. implications of kidnapping, potential underage drinking, illegal use of drugs, violence & abuse, self-loathing, objectification, dubcon/noncon, sexual assault. }
You're here because you want to be, you remind yourself. No one made you come, but you're feeling the pressure and consequences of playing the game and luring them in. At times like these, you have to work extra hard to not drop the act, to not let your anger and disgust get the better of you. these types of people are the worst because they prey on the helpless.
And they're preying on you all the same.
— but, unlike all those other victims, you're far from helpless, and they're really not preying on you at all when you have each one of them tightly strung about your fingers, are they? You just have to play the part for now, just like you play parts every waking second of your life. They're all just for show, of course, or a means to an end, because the rest is empty.
You smile, laugh, flirt, concede, tempt even as with each second that passes, internally, you want out of here more and more. And then you're being invited to the back of the club, to the private lounges and are given an offer to have 'a good time' with them.
You go, and you steel yourself for it (what you'll see, what you'll hear, what you'll do.)
It's a debauched scene of alcohol and sex, and your eyes scan the individuals involved as the pleasers (like you) compared with the ones in the expensive suits. You're looking for hints of duress, of pain, of fear, of no choice— anything you can use to take this place down a couple notches and make the monsters running this ring pay where it hurts them the most. Before you can do that, though you have to play along a little more, get your hands dirty, let them think you're the one they can play with and not the other way around.
It needs to be convincing enough that, when you're with them intimately, you have them so obvious and unaware of your intentions that, when blood spills from you sitting their throat during climax, the only expression there is still pure ectascy.
It's the third individual tonight, and you're left feeling exhausted, hollow and numb. You don't particularly care about taking these lives, but the scummy feeling that cakes on your skin invisibly never goes away.
( But it doesn't matter: the best tools are well-used and dirty because they get the job done best.
And you— used goods beyond any hope of being valued as anything even semi-worthwhile and absolutely filthy— get this job done better than anyone. )
You sink back against the door to the room in the dark, needing a moment to rein in your thoughts from spiraling. You briefly wonder if you're helping anyone in the long run, if anyone is really being saved, or if you've just made yourself a whore with a cheaper-than-free price tag in some disallusioned campaign for justice that's faker than your own smiles.
You know it doesn't matter, either. You've come too far to just come this far. The only choice you have is to keep going. There's no one to turn to, no one to save you from what you've agreed to accomplish. Besides, at least you're useful to someone in the moment, even if that someone is the person you're tempting and luring to their death for their crimes.
Your father could have figured out how to take this operation down if he were still alive without degrading himself. Duran could have done this so much better that even if he had to use tactics like this; he would have managed to take out the heart of the ring already and watch it die from the inside.
You're just you, though. Who are you, anyway?
Who are you?
A derisive chuckle escapes your throat at your mind's own momentary lapse into naivety.
You're nobody and you're nothing— other than what people in the moment demand you to be.
Your blood runs cold, your heart clenches so hard in your chest it's more painful than the blow to the head that knocked you unconscious and got you into this mess. You don't understand: this wasn't in the information, this wasn't part of the objective, this person shouldn't have anything to do with this—
"I should have known when they said it was a whore with some of the bluest eyes they had ever seen," he says with a layer of ice coating it smoother than silk. "Pity. Should have just kept your head down, Sam. We could have been good together."
"You..." you choke trying to say their name, your jaw aching as you clench your teeth, trying to swallow the overwhelming feeling of anger and a pain you can't quite describe feeling (you think you did once, though, with Vira, but the memory of that day was taken from you along with all the others of your life, so you can't be sure.) You did so much for this person, you opened your dead heart to this person thinking maybe something could come of it because they came from the same world as you, didn't care that you had no memory or recollection of being who you are supposed to be. This is the son of a another prominent Mafia don, afterall, and he had shared your desire for less exploitation of innocents in the underground for monetary gain. (Supposedly, anyway.) So why ... why is he here in this place sitting with you being forced to kneel at his feet? What kind of fucked up situation is this? How did you not know when you work for fucking Cirrus and they provided you the files on this case? This wasn't even your own botched thing. You aren't acting on your own right now, you're simply acting as an agent for the Organization— and yet...
How has this become so disgustingly personal?
"Why did you come here, Sam?" he asks softly, almost tenderly as if it pains him to be in this situation. You stiffen and refuse to answer, causing him to use his foot to lift your head a bit higher until it's uncomfortable and he can catch your gaze with his own. "Don't look at me like that. You're being unfair using that face of yours against me. I didn't ask for this to happen."
You don't believe him. You will never believe him or anyone else again. You will never ever trust anyone again for as long as you live. If you couldn't trust this person, then there's no one in this world that is safe to trust, especially not with what you are.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," he continues, one long gloved finger tapping slowly and idly against his jaw as he watches you. "I can have them untie you, we can go to my room and... talk this out like we have so many things before."
How could you be so stupid? How could you fuck up like this? How could you ever think this might have been someone you could find something with in this empty void of a world?
"...Or, we can do this the hard way. And I guarantee you will not feel good after I'm done with you if we do it the hard way."
Seconds of silence stretch to infinity between you both, your heart pounding like thunder as much as like a bell's death toll.
"...Last chance, Sami," he exhales, using the nickname affectionately (it only makes your skin crawl now when you once felt a warmth in your chest,) still controlled and gentle as he uses his foot to tilt your head one way or another uncomfortably— as if he twists you the right way you'll start functioning properly to his liking.
"...Sam."
"Go fuck yourself, Ren," you growl venomously before you can even stop yourself, your voice raw and laced with pain with a hurt you've never even heard from yourself.
Ren's expression darkens before he sighs, as if exasperated by a child's tantrum. "What am I going to do you with you and that mouth of yours?" He uses his foot to push painfully into the soft skin under your jaw before moving it and kicking you across the face. "The hard way, then."
And as he gets up from his chair, as his men hold you down, as you spit blood from your mouth, you know you'll block this from your memory because it'll be too much to deal with. You'll compartmentalize it so well, block it out so it never can cross your mind even by accident— but you'll remember the only thing that clearly needs to be remembered:
You can't trust anyone (ever again.)
They'll leave you. They'll betray you. Or they'll do both.
( You choke back a scream, not willing to give the other the satisfaction. Ren's voice brushes against your ear, hot as he whispers, "Don't hate me for what's your fault." )
They always have. They always are. They always will.
( Of course it's your fault. It's always your fault. These people leaving you, betraying you, making you vow to never give anyone the smallest chance to hurt you again is and always will be your fault. )
memory. (cws below)
You're here because you want to be, you remind yourself. No one made you come, but you're feeling the pressure and consequences of playing the game and luring them in. At times like these, you have to work extra hard to not drop the act, to not let your anger and disgust get the better of you. these types of people are the worst because they prey on the helpless.
And they're preying on you all the same.
— but, unlike all those other victims, you're far from helpless, and they're really not preying on you at all when you have each one of them tightly strung about your fingers, are they? You just have to play the part for now, just like you play parts every waking second of your life. They're all just for show, of course, or a means to an end, because the rest is empty.
You smile, laugh, flirt, concede, tempt even as with each second that passes, internally, you want out of here more and more. And then you're being invited to the back of the club, to the private lounges and are given an offer to have 'a good time' with them.
You go, and you steel yourself for it (what you'll see, what you'll hear, what you'll do.)
It's a debauched scene of alcohol and sex, and your eyes scan the individuals involved as the pleasers (like you) compared with the ones in the expensive suits. You're looking for hints of duress, of pain, of fear, of no choice— anything you can use to take this place down a couple notches and make the monsters running this ring pay where it hurts them the most. Before you can do that, though you have to play along a little more, get your hands dirty, let them think you're the one they can play with and not the other way around.
It needs to be convincing enough that, when you're with them intimately, you have them so obvious and unaware of your intentions that, when blood spills from you sitting their throat during climax, the only expression there is still pure ectascy.
It's the third individual tonight, and you're left feeling exhausted, hollow and numb. You don't particularly care about taking these lives, but the scummy feeling that cakes on your skin invisibly never goes away.
( But it doesn't matter: the best tools are well-used and dirty because they get the job done best.
And you— used goods beyond any hope of being valued as anything even semi-worthwhile and absolutely filthy— get this job done better than anyone. )
You sink back against the door to the room in the dark, needing a moment to rein in your thoughts from spiraling. You briefly wonder if you're helping anyone in the long run, if anyone is really being saved, or if you've just made yourself a whore with a cheaper-than-free price tag in some disallusioned campaign for justice that's faker than your own smiles.
You know it doesn't matter, either. You've come too far to just come this far. The only choice you have is to keep going. There's no one to turn to, no one to save you from what you've agreed to accomplish. Besides, at least you're useful to someone in the moment, even if that someone is the person you're tempting and luring to their death for their crimes.
Your father could have figured out how to take this operation down if he were still alive without degrading himself. Duran could have done this so much better that even if he had to use tactics like this; he would have managed to take out the heart of the ring already and watch it die from the inside.
You're just you, though. Who are you, anyway?
Who are you?
A derisive chuckle escapes your throat at your mind's own momentary lapse into naivety.
You're nobody and you're nothing— other than what people in the moment demand you to be.
Your blood runs cold, your heart clenches so hard in your chest it's more painful than the blow to the head that knocked you unconscious and got you into this mess. You don't understand: this wasn't in the information, this wasn't part of the objective, this person shouldn't have anything to do with this—
"I should have known when they said it was a whore with some of the bluest eyes they had ever seen," he says with a layer of ice coating it smoother than silk. "Pity. Should have just kept your head down, Sam. We could have been good together."
"You..." you choke trying to say their name, your jaw aching as you clench your teeth, trying to swallow the overwhelming feeling of anger and a pain you can't quite describe feeling (you think you did once, though, with Vira, but the memory of that day was taken from you along with all the others of your life, so you can't be sure.) You did so much for this person, you opened your dead heart to this person thinking maybe something could come of it because they came from the same world as you, didn't care that you had no memory or recollection of being who you are supposed to be. This is the son of a another prominent Mafia don, afterall, and he had shared your desire for less exploitation of innocents in the underground for monetary gain. (Supposedly, anyway.) So why ... why is he here in this place sitting with you being forced to kneel at his feet? What kind of fucked up situation is this? How did you not know when you work for fucking Cirrus and they provided you the files on this case? This wasn't even your own botched thing. You aren't acting on your own right now, you're simply acting as an agent for the Organization— and yet...
How has this become so disgustingly personal?
"Why did you come here, Sam?" he asks softly, almost tenderly as if it pains him to be in this situation. You stiffen and refuse to answer, causing him to use his foot to lift your head a bit higher until it's uncomfortable and he can catch your gaze with his own. "Don't look at me like that. You're being unfair using that face of yours against me. I didn't ask for this to happen."
You don't believe him. You will never believe him or anyone else again. You will never ever trust anyone again for as long as you live. If you couldn't trust this person, then there's no one in this world that is safe to trust, especially not with what you are.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," he continues, one long gloved finger tapping slowly and idly against his jaw as he watches you. "I can have them untie you, we can go to my room and... talk this out like we have so many things before."
How could you be so stupid? How could you fuck up like this? How could you ever think this might have been someone you could find something with in this empty void of a world?
"...Or, we can do this the hard way. And I guarantee you will not feel good after I'm done with you if we do it the hard way."
Seconds of silence stretch to infinity between you both, your heart pounding like thunder as much as like a bell's death toll.
"...Last chance, Sami," he exhales, using the nickname affectionately (it only makes your skin crawl now when you once felt a warmth in your chest,) still controlled and gentle as he uses his foot to tilt your head one way or another uncomfortably— as if he twists you the right way you'll start functioning properly to his liking.
"...Sam."
"Go fuck yourself, Ren," you growl venomously before you can even stop yourself, your voice raw and laced with pain with a hurt you've never even heard from yourself.
Ren's expression darkens before he sighs, as if exasperated by a child's tantrum. "What am I going to do you with you and that mouth of yours?" He uses his foot to push painfully into the soft skin under your jaw before moving it and kicking you across the face. "The hard way, then."
And as he gets up from his chair, as his men hold you down, as you spit blood from your mouth, you know you'll block this from your memory because it'll be too much to deal with. You'll compartmentalize it so well, block it out so it never can cross your mind even by accident— but you'll remember the only thing that clearly needs to be remembered:
You can't trust anyone (ever again.)
They'll leave you.
They'll betray you.
Or they'll do both.
( You choke back a scream, not willing to give the other the satisfaction. Ren's voice brushes against your ear, hot as he whispers, "Don't hate me for what's your fault." )
They always have.
They always are.
They always will.
( Of course it's your fault. It's always your fault. These people leaving you, betraying you, making you vow to never give anyone the smallest chance to hurt you again is and always will be your fault. )