Summary: Sam and Rose, Sam and Raiden, and Sam and Vamp. Lots of Vamp.

Rating: K+~T

Genre(s): General


"…the resemblances are just uncanny, that's all. I think I might have actually mistaken you for him at first sight…"

—she professes as she uses the tapered handle of the comb to part Sam's hair down the middle and separate out a section before tucking the remainder behind his shoulder. She runs the comb through his tresses several times over, evening out the tiny bumps that hadn't been tamed from the iron. The two wayward locks of hair that jut out from the rest of Sam's even hairline continue to remain obstinate against all forms of spray, gel, and mousse. Unruly and free-spirited, just like their master.

"Tell me more about him," the Brazilian murmurs, eyes closed, soaking in the sensation of her slender fingers in his hair. "He sounds… interesting."

"To be honest, I've never actually met him in person…"

She's recreating the image of the man entirely from her memory. There was a photo of him in the database, right next to the ones of his colleagues whose nametags later hung from his neck.

"Are you alright with makeup?"

Soft, breathy chuckling. "Why not? Go all out, Senhora. Let's give blondie a good scare."

They're cruel for pulling such a prank on Jack.

'Tacky' is the word that flashes through Rosemary's mind as she culls a few choice bottles from the flagrant array of cosmetic products in her medicine cabinet. Sam was several shades away from her own skin tone, despite the fact she had tanned quite a bit over the past year. But—ah. Vamp was pale. A sickly unnatural sheen of pale, bordering deathly white.

Bottles and jars, all different shapes and sizes, line up the sink counter, along with powders, pens, brushes, and sponges.

Chocolate hues open momentarily to address the cascade of cosmetics that tumble from the cabinet; there is a sliver of a grin that matches the amusement in his eyes.

"Did Jack think fondly of this…rival of his?" Sam asks.

Rose pauses, practically visualizing her husband's grimace in her head. "…I highly doubt it."

"Oh?"

"I don't think Jack saw him as an actual rival…" she trails off there, too occupied with scrutinizing the label of a tiny bottle filled with flesh-toned liquid.

Sam raises an inquisitive eyebrow at Rose's resounding ambiguity. "A one-sided rivalry, eh?"

Probably. She shudders at the thought of all of the other (dead) rivals Jack had stuffed in his closet.

"Now, I'm truly getting curious about what type of relationship Blondie had with this man…"

Rose makes a noncommittal noise as she chucks the bottle into the waste bin. This is getting out of her jurisdiction. If Sam had further inquiries on how Jack's view of the ex-Dead Cell member, then he might as well directly ask Jack himself. Choosing a pallid cream foundation from the line of cosmetics, she closes in on Sam from the front, muttering,

"Try to hold still."

She gets to work. Altering one's natural skintone is more difficult than it looks, and it takes a few tries to achieve that unearthly sallow shade she's looking for. Several strokes of pencil eyeliner raise the slants of his eyes and a layer of concealer masks the long vertical scar that defines Sam's face. His cheekbones are dramatically emphasized, made to look more prominent. The 5 o'clock shadow turns into midnight. The most challenging task is creating the illusion of a soft widow's peak, but even that she is able to accomplish with a moderate degree of success. She's amazed at her own ability to manipulate a person's image—but then again, it had practically been part of her job description back then.

Fake bullet wounds, though—that is out of her area of expertise. There's nothing she can do about the ears, either.

"What was he like?" Sam utters mid-cosmetic session. "…his mannerisms, I mean…"

By then, she's too distracted with re-ironing the Brazilian's hair to readily give an answer. "I already said I never met him…"

"But Jack has told you about him, hasn't he?"

"Mmh…"

There are many things Jack has disclosed to her throughout their marriage; Vamp wasn't exactly one of them. He was outstanding enough to carve a mark in Jack's memories, although a large portion of Jack's memory of Vamp consisted of 'that murdering sonofabitch killed Emma Emmerich.'

Let's see, what else was there…

'He was a real hassle to defeat,' according to Jack. (Oh yes, Vamp had regenerative abilities, she recalls now.)

'He was creepy.'

'He had a habit of licking my blood off his knife.'

…and that pretty much summates everything she knows about the Romanian vampire.

"Senhora, you have to give me some sort of information," Sam interrupts her musings, "if I am to imitate the man well enough to fool blonde into thinking his former enemy has returned from the dead."

Was that even part of the plan? She had been under the assumption they were just going for the replication of physical looks.

"Jack said that Vamp's movements in battle were like he was dancing…"

Rose is far, far too engrossed in perfecting her creation to see Sam's face confront with a terrible expression.

"…dancing…?" Sam lets out a tiny huff before adding, "Was he a swordsman as well?"

"He was a knife specialist," she replies automatically, immediately unlocking the memory of that one codec conversation with Jack. "He could parry bullets with them."

"…as can I."

Why does that even matter? It then suddenly strikes Rosemary that Sam is taking this way too seriously. The Brazilian's interest in Vamp exceeded mere curiosity. What was he trying to accomplish from all this? Did Sam want to see how he measured up against his predecessor as Jack's rival—see how he compared—see who was better? The idea was absurd.

Vamp wasn't Sam, despite all their physical resemblances. What Jack shared with Sam—a genuine camaraderie based on dick-waving rivalry and dusted with respect—far surpassed whatever relationship he had with Vamp half a decade ago. Jack regarded Vamp with annoyance mingled with some disgust. Vamp was a nuisance. But more than that, Vamp was a courier of the unwelcome past; his very existence was shrouded with bad memories, having appeared in front of Jack during the most vulnerable and volatile periods of Jack's life.

Jack actually held enough affinity for Sam to forgive him for the undisclosed wounds he inflicted on the blonde during their first encounter. The fact they had once been on opposite sides in the past where Sam had actually harmed Jack—that alone was enough for Rose to hands-down object to her husband's decision to welcome Jetstream Sam into Maverick.

("…he's not as bad as you think he is, Rose."

What proof did Jack have that Sam wouldn't backstab his new employer, she had argued.

"I can handle him if he decides to turn on us." There was a dark gleam in her husband's eyes.

"And anyway…every PMC contractor is fitted with a range inhibitor…so…")

Months down the road, the strained enmity between the two somehow morphed into reciprocity and some level of trust… enough trust that Sam wouldn't in fact stab his blonde partner on a mission.

"How did this man—Vamp—die?" Sam asks out of the blue.

"Jack… killed him."

('He…asked me to kill him.')

"…I believe Vamp came to Jack… seeking death."

Sam closes his mouth.

The rest of the time passes in surprising silence, devoid of unrelenting questions. After much toil, Sam's wild hair ultimately surrenders to the steamy authority of the straightening iron and Rose wipes the sweat from her brow.

"It's done," she finally announces, taking a step back. "Have a look at yourself, Sam."

Sam turns around. That man in the mirror only remotely resembles Samuel Rodrigues. It is a stark, pale version of Sam with luxurious, shampoo-model hair. Sam's expression, though, is warm for some reason, and it detracts away from the severity of Vamp's otherwise stony demeanor.

"Ah. So this is…Vamp."

With a single hand, he reaches out and gently presses his fingertips against the mirror to touch the face in the reflection.