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Now Samson wasn’t deliberately classist, but there was a dark joke to be made from the components of ‘what do you get when you mix a bunch of wealthy people who have never seen a hard day’s work in their life with zombies who hunger for human flesh?’. Having been raised on a homestead (with five brothers no less), the concept of money itself had been foreign to him up until the point when he’d struck out on his own for the first time, and had been summarily beat in the face with the need for cash. Life had taught him that those who could not afford to purchase everything, had to learn to make due. For him, this meant that he built nearly everything he used by hand. It was therefore this implicit suggestion that anyone with a plush bank account must surely be lazy. Not that Sam would have ever said as much, because he believed deeply in both respect for people, and that every member of a society had their place. Perhaps it was arrogant to believe that these men and women could not take care of themselves, but he knew, in that same line of thought, that they could touch the stars, where he could only watch the sky from his place on the Earth.

He was on alert. Which was to say that he’d attempted to eat some of the horderves floating around on silver trays, things like bacon wrapped fig and something that looked curiously like snail shells, and found them not to his liking. He was doing his level best to blend in. He’d worn a suit, the finding of which had been its own Herculean task, because there weren’t a lot of places that catered to men who had to duck and turn a little to the side to get through most standard door frames. His hair was up, and he’d even been sure to clean up his facial hair a little bit. Naturally, he had a weapon or three on him. He didn’t even have to hide them particularly well, because of the state of Harper Rock.

Somewhere close by, a champagne cork popped off, and before he knew what was happening, one of his hands had found the grip of a gun and it was half drawn in the direction of the noise. There was, in that moment, a number of eyes on him, looking at him as if he had just shot someone’s grandmother right in front of them. Nervous laughter shook itself out of him like a bear roaring from the deep cavern of his chest. Then he carefully pushed his gun back into place, and turned to walk away. Not that he could really blend in with the crowd, even if he’d wanted to. But at least he could put some distance between himself and the tiny scene he’d made. Samson was not a ‘center of attention’ kind of guy.

He wanted to get a drink, because that was probably the best way to relieve some of those social anxieties. Of course. Duty called, and that meant he was going to have to keep dry for the evening. Not that a single flute of champagne was going to do much to him anyway. So he was just going to have to get buzzed by association.

And oh look, a prime candidate.

Actually, there were any number of people indulging. But the one Samson had in his sights, looked terribly over the whole thing. Or maybe he was just one of those people gifted with the natural ability to seem aloof effortlessly. Either way, the mountain of a man gravitated towards the man. “Fancy party.” He rumbled by way of greeting. This perhaps highlighted just how totally inelegant Samson was.

In a second, Samson knew immediately who the man with the cocked brow and the cool, intelligent eyes was. He didn’t know him by name, nor by reputation, but by attitude alone. And in knowing this man, Sam knew that there was so very much he didn’t know about him, all at the same time. He came across immediately as aloof. One of those people so brilliant as to make their wit seem casual, who was ‘over’ everything to the point where very little or nothing seemed to impress them. He was the sort of man who could scoop up the worth of a person in the palm of his hand, rifle through the contents with an outstretched finger, and discard any portion he found to be wanting. There was this ease with which the man, with his shiny black shoes, dismissed what Samson considered to be a socially intimidating situation in such a throwaway fashion that it seemed second nature.

The Paladin subconsciously straightened his back and let his shoulders roll backwards, broad as they were. He might have been a bear in a previous life. In truth, he felt a little bit in over his head, and yet he was immediately intrigued. This was the sort of person Sam had never really met before. The kind of person who belonged at one of these parties. His legs were long and lean - and despite the fact that Samson was taller, the way those murky blue eyes followed the lines of a body made it feel as if the man with his handsomely dimpled chin should have towered over him. The paladin realized he needed to say something equally droll, but he was completely drawing a blank. “I wish I were gettin’ paid.” He commented.

Which was not at all witty. It never even occurred to Sam to try and obscure his reasons for being at the party.

“I figure a place like this with the pampered and pretty ain’t too safe nor secure. Don’t want the best and brightest fallin’ victim to no brain suckin’ monsters.” And then he realized exactly what he’d just said and cleared his throat, attempting to keep the redness from the backs of his ears and neck - where it liked to gather when he was embarrassed. This was, in a nutshell, why Sammy boy did not often talk. He was comfortable with silence and enjoyed the illusion of stoicism. He had a habit of saying the very wrong thing when he did let his words speak for him. It did not help that the man in front of him, with his quick mind, near-perfect skin, and disinterested gaze cut quite the imposing figure in his own right. Which was a ‘fun’ role reversal for the mountain man.

Of course, Samson did what he always did when faced with adversity (even adversity he created in himself), he soldiered on like a marching army. “So I guess you could say I’m here to secure you and keep you safe.” Of course. Some armies marched blind. “And everyone else.” He added on. Which didn’t help with the warmth burning along the top of his spine.

And suddenly his throat felt very very dry so he grabbed a passing flute of champagne and downed it, which earned him a curious look from the server, who paused when Sam held up a lone finger as if to say ‘wait a sec’. The tall man then grabbed two more flutes and poured them down his throat as if they were water. What had that been about not drinking while on the job?

He then held out his hand in greeting. “I’m Samson. What you doin’ here if this party’s got you bored?”

Samson struggled for a moment to figure out what was funny, why the man across from him, with slap-dash styled hair, which looked both effortless and nice; why this man was laughing. He realized the answer was him. Of course he was. Sammy-boy was putting on quite the show wasn’t he? Or at least, that’s what he realized when he played back the previous few moments in his head. Wasn’t that a feat of irony. He’d been assuming these people with their silver spoons and yachts, and riches wouldn’t have an ounce of sense between them. He had assumed they wouldn’t have that primal human ability to survive in a world which was ultimately extremely hostile. Yet here was a man who seemed to be able to sniff out the Paladin’s fear, like some sort of graceful wolf. Of course, that was the only thing about Fitz that reminded Samson of a canine. He was more...more like one of those fickle, bored cats, playing with its food.

“I’m sure you can take care of yourself just fine.” He responded. If need be, the scholar could always stare down the undead (for all that Samson knew). The Paladin did not spot any weapons, but he also knew from experience that some people didn’t need those. Naturally, questions arose. Sam decided not to ask those, because he wasn’t the kind of person to delve into someone else’s business unless invited, and even then he usually just dipped a toe into those foreign waters. He had learned over the years that while he loved people on the whole - getting too close to individuals could be sticky.

Not that Sam had much of a chance to contemplate just how sticky things might get with Fitz. He found himself trying to figure out if the other man had just cracked a very deadpan joke or if he was being serious about the whole zombies bursting in so that he didn’t have to give a speech. That he could not immediately tell was both unnerving and oddly amusing. Especially when Fitz wore that expression which might have been described as a scornful smile. It was oddly fitting on the scholar’s face.

“Careful what you wish for. Harper Rock might as well be called ‘Press-Your-Luck’, because if something shitty is gonna happen, it’ll happen.” In fact, the giant of a man glanced towards the doors, easily able to see above the heads in the crowd. It didn’t seem like there were undead bodies behind them trying to get inside. Maybe he was superstitious. Speak of the Devil and all of that. “There are worse things too, things that ain’t so dumb, nor slow. Might even be some of them in here right now.” He commented, though the last was said less to Fitz and more to the empty air around them.

The two flutes he’d downed before were gone, removed by someone with a tray, and so his hands were empty. One of them laid against the flat plane of his abdomen, so he could just lift it and grab one of his guns if need be. The other slipped to take his new companion’s hand, give it a shake that was firm enough to rattle bones. He had a solid grip, though not intentionally. If a man cut his own firewood for long enough - well. Hand muscles just naturally developed. He peered down into Fitz’s eyes, because he believed in holding someone’s gaze when he was meeting them. “Samson. Most call me Sammy though. Tell me about this speech you’re meant to be giving.”

The answer was vague, coming from the realm of broad strokes. There were a few explanations for this, the most likely being that Fitz just didn’t feel like going into detail, though Samson had to wonder if the man planned to ‘wing’ it. Samson didn’t ask, though he wanted to, because no matter what way that particular cookie crumbled, it would have revealed more about the self-described academic and what was going on in his head. Though why the Paladin was so interested in knowing that was another mystery. What reason did he have to care? “A whole hall?” he asked. “If you were anyone else, I’d think you were braggin’.” He commented, though he didn’t get that impression really at all. Not from Fitzgerald. No, the scholar was too far above the need to impress, or at least to try and impress someone like Samson. Then again, salt of the Earth goodness wasn’t usually awed by things like that, so maybe Fitz picked up on those vibes.

Which wasn’t to say that Samson didn’t care about the nature of the event. He hadn’t just shown up to make sure nobody got attacked. Despite his lapses in education, he found the pursuit of intelligent endeavours to be important. It was education and science which produced technology, after all, and while he wasn’t a fan of most of the up-to-date newfangled things - he did appreciate their purpose in the modern world. And how many times had he been called on to construct a temporary electrical grid in some small country nobody had ever heard of? There were times when he missed his nomadic life, being able to go anywhere at the drop of a hat and do some real, visible good for the world. But. He had sworn to himself that he would lay down roots somewhere, and now he had responsibilities in Harper Rock. As long as there were people to protect from blood-sucking monsters, he couldn’t leave.

He chose not to respond to the comment about magic. There was a hint in there about what Fitz was, or what he could be. He knew there were all manner of supernatural beings, some veiled by light and some shrouded in darkness. He honestly wasn’t sure which category Fitzgerald fell into, because there were seeds of both there. But then, Sammy also had the habit of over-simplifying things. He knew this of himself.

He didn’t have much time to think about it, because his thought process was derailed by someone tapping and then speaking into the mic. Talk about suspicious. The whole thing had the ear-markings of a case that needed to be solved. The question was - was it one of his things? Was it a supernatural matter? Or something better tackled by fully human police and detectives?

He decided he couldn’t really risk it. If there was something going on, sitting in ignorance wouldn’t see it addressed. What if the dean had been attacked? Or turned? Or what if there was something else going on? Like a planned attack? Paranoia wasn’t pretty, but it also ensured survival.

“Yeah, looks like you are.” He commented, though he was clearly distracted, trying not to be rude. “If you’ll excuse me, I gotta look into this.” He said. He doubted all hell was going to break loose while he went to investigate, and if it did - he was close enough to do something about it. Despite his size, he was quick on his feet. He inclined his head towards Fitz, and then stalked along after the man who had given the little speech. The best source of information was ‘from the horse’s mouth’, and it had been pretty obvious that Timothy knew more than he was saying.

The man did not disappear into the crowd, but instead took an exit through one of the doors near the dais; this set off its own set of red flags. When Sam pushed his way past the door (which thankfully was not secured), he was met with a long hallway and doors which branched off into other hallways and offices. He could make out the faint sound of foot-falls, and began in that direction.

There was a book Fitz had glanced at once. Something about confidence and the first seven seconds of any meeting. All it took was seven seconds to secure a first impression, and if one did so with ego and confidence and surety in oneself, then the cat was in the bag. Everything was smooth sailing from there out. To be fair, Fitz hadn’t read the book. He hadn’t needed to. These were vital life lessons he had learned on his own; these were the things that now came naturally to him.

It hadn’t always been that way, of course. As a child Fitz had been awkward and he’d eventually screamed to be homeschooled because he hated school so much. He hated how the other kids could be so cruel. He’d never fit in. He’d been too much of a weirdo. He’d liked to pick up dead things from the road to observe their innards, to see how they worked. He carried a pet moth around in a jar; it had died. He got another one. And then another. Until he knew what their natural life cycle was, and how best to keep them alive for the duration of it. Moths had been his first love. Not many kids continued to love their first loves. Fitz was an anomaly.

There’d been therapy. Even a family of sorcerers could not fix a weird child. The therapy had helped, to a degree. In that – it helped Fitz to realise if he didn’t want adults to meddle in his affairs, then he needed to keep those affairs to himself. He went back to school. He pretended everything was fine.

It was highschool and puberty when the powers had manifested and he’d used them, of course, to torture the other students. Not seriously, of course. Not morbidly, as much as he wanted to. But enough to keep them off his back. Better to be a loner than to have one’s ribs broken by the kick of a steel-capped boot or one’s head stuck in a toilet bowl. At University he had flourished; the rift had opened and Harper Rock had become a city vibrant with magical zest; he’d had power before, but now he didn’t need the other instruments so much. He just needed his hands, and his own will. He was in his element.

And now here he was here with this hulking man who Fitz just wanted to make blush again. Samson, who declared, not in so many words, that Fitz was unlike anyone else. It fed the sorcerer’s ego.

And then Samson was excusing himself, wanting to go investigate. And Fitz… well, Fitz was far too curious, now. Something untoward had happened to the Dean and Fitz wanted to know. And he’d never been good at curbing his curiosity. The champagne flute was deposited onto the nearest flat surface and, without being asked, he tagged along behind Samson, who might not have realised he had a shadow until they entered the calmer, cooler passage of the hallway.

No one stopped them.

”Pretty sure the toilets are this way. It’s been a while since I’ve been in this hall…” he said with a wink, overpassing Samson to make his way down the hall. He could hear Timothy. He could hear a woman – the Dean’s wife. She was sobbing into a phone, talking to the authorities. The University’s resident security guard was standing at the door. Too late for an ambulance he muttered, the words distinct.

Fitz peered over the janitor’s shoulder. Wife was off the phone, and an unknown man was taking her by the shoulders, shaking her, trying to get her to look at him.

• Where’d it go, Patty? Which way? We have a hall full of guests! Where did it go?!

But Patty was a mess, she was no use. She just stood there shaking her head, unable to take her eyes from her husband’s body – the body at which Fitz stared with a barely contained fascination. He should have been horrified. Deep down, there was a twitch of remorse. But it was deep, deep down.

The Dean’s body was ripped to shreds. It was hard to tell what was flesh and what was immaculate penguin suit. His head was no longer attached to his body. The guts were missing. Where the guts?!

Had Samson his way, he would have preferred to work with either the police or military. The term ‘vigilante’ was not one that he liked, because it opened an ethical can of worms he didn’t want to think about. He was pleased, for that reason, that there were no laws protecting vampires, as he wasn’t entirely sure he would have been okay with violating the laws of the land. He operated, along with the other Paladins, in a sort of gray area (and Samson hated gray areas). Morally, it was for the best that he step in and intervene to both save and preserve human life. However, the logistics of having to operate under the radar made some of his actions necessarily duplicitous (which he also hated). That was one of the reasons he was pleased with the formation of the Militia. Not only did gun toting, protection of innocent citizens of Harper Rock appeal to his very American sensibilities - the Militia itself gave him adequate cover and reason to be in a number of places and in a number of situations he previously would have been forced to explain.

Fitz had followed him. He very nearly wanted to bark at the man to get back to the party. He didn’t need the distraction of the attractive man with his length of dark, not-entirely-put-together hair. Samson also didn’t want harm to befall the man. Sure, the academic had hinted that he wasn’t entirely human, that there were things he knew and that he could do. Sammy was naturally a bit of a bear - his instincts to to protect were strong, and he had always trusted his gut over his rational mind. Eyes could be fooled. Ears could be deluded. Time and again, he’d learned to trust himself though.

The only thing that stopped him from saying something rude was the realization that the other man knew the facility better than he did, and could presumably explain away their presence should the police show up. Samson could not lie. Which meant that he could not use his membership in the Militia to his advantage - because he had a sneaking suspicion whatever had happened had nothing at all to do with zombies.

He grunted a response with all of the eloquence of a mad dog.

His jaw set.

His gaze lifted above Fitz’s waist as he followed along after him, where the commotion seemed to be coming from. He came to a halt when they arrived at the scene. It was gruesome. Samson had seen a lot of blood and death in his time as a Paladin. He had come to accept that being a citizen of Harper Rock meant that a person never totally got to feel like they were clean. The woman named Patty was distraught. Seeing her in the kind of pain she was in boiled his blood and made him want to act immediately. That, moreso even than the headless, disemboweled corpse.

He wanted to offer her support. A strong shoulder to lean against.

He wanted to promise her that her loss would be avenged. That she would not be alone in whatever terror she felt.

Samson knew that there wasn’t much time. He was an excellent tracker - had picked up the skill at a young age. Growing up on a homestead meant that he and his siblings only got to eat if there was a surplus of food grown, hunted, or raised. There had been some lean years, when they hadn’t been able to support the Krahn Clan with its 6 growing boys, so he’d been forced to learn how to track, hunt, trap, and fish.

This left him at a crossroad. He could sneak off and track whatever it was down alone, or he could bring Fitz along with him. The way the other man looked at the dead body was...what was that expression? What did it mean? With a snarl, he gripped the academic by the shoulder, wheeling back, dragging him around so they were face to face. He leaned down a little. Eye to eye. His voice was a low, but firm whisper. “We’re goin’ huntin’. I don’t know what we’re gonna find, so I tell you to get your *** out, I want you to get your *** out.”

He pulled away then, nostrils flaring as if he expected to pick up the scent of...something. He could almost sense something dark and sinister in the distance, down the darkened end of the hall. He reached for one of his guns, only to realize gunfire would just draw attention. As he reached for a hunting knife, he silently wished he’d thought to bring an axe. He always preferred an axe. Then he began in the direction of whatever it was he had picked up the trail of. He moved quickly, because the last thing he wanted was for the monster to get past some doors and have a room full of living people to attack. Thankfully, he had some long legs, and he was able to cover quite a lot of distance in only a few strides.

He was approaching what looked like a turn in the hall. Already, the area was blanketed in darkness. There was a shift in the blackness in the distance and Samson paused, those muddy blue eyes focused on the caliginous wall. Lips peeled away from teeth when he saw movement again, and then a claw came crashing towards him. There wasn’t a ton of room to maneuver in the hall, so he tightened his grip on his blade and steeled himself for the thunk of the claw into his shoulder. It was immediately painful and shredded his suit jacket and shirt.

His eyes widened. A too-ivory smile blossomed. His knife sank into the beast at the juncture of elbow once. Twice. Three times. The limb fell away, dissolving into what looked like shadows. And then Samson dove for the hulking chest of the monster. Yeah. He definitely should have brought an axe, but the knife would suit just fine.