Michael
Sam treaded down flight after flight of stairs to the second floor. Of course, the first day he wants to actually go somewhere in this totally-not-a-prison, the elevator was broken. Granted, he *Did* Only get here yesterday, but as far as elevators go, 50% is a pretty nasty success rate. Hopefully, they get that fixed by the time he goes back to his room. Or a meteor hits the building. As far as he's concerned right now, they sound pretty close to being equally attractive. Hey, at least he's getting his steps in. 

He finally reached the second floor, stopping to rest for a second before proceeding down the hallway. 201... 202... 208.... 212.... Finally, he reached the room number he had been given in the message. He knocked, perhaps a bit too harsh in his tense state "Hello?"
Samuel
Owen only seemed to consider that he was perhaps too giving with the only room he lived in *After* He had had enough time to run through every nightmare scenario ranging from awkward to unhinged, twice over, backwards and already scripted for hindsight. Oh, well. Melancholy won tonight, he decided—he'd been homesick lately, more than usual, and there seemed to be no new arrival without casualty.

A surprised thump sounded from his room, and then Sam was looking down at a boy with long, rust-coloured hair, eyes fixed pointedly at his forehead, and of course, the goods in his freckle-spattered hand opposite half a mug of lukewarm cocoa.

"E-evening!" He shifted his weight, attempting to muster a pleasant expression despite lack of sleep softly tugging his head down.
Michael
Sam would stumble when the door opened, he had perhaps put a little too much weight on the door when it happened. He eyed the cocoa, suddenly feeling more homesick. He'd have to ask how to get some, provided he didn't decide after this to try and escape, or that that damn meteor doesn't hit. 

Fortunately for Owen (and the rest of the inhabitants of the school and town), flinging space rocks is not one of Sam's abilities. Given this reality, he would instead do his best to muster up a smile despite the fairly evident unease he felt. He reached into his pocket, something shiny emerging for a second before disappearing into his hand. Although not *Quite* As effective at dispersing his control over electricity quite as well as say, a properly grounded electrical system, the metal disk he carried with him should *Largely* Mitigate the flares associated with his stress. As long as they don't start fighting over possession of the disk for... Who knows what reason, everyone should be fine. At the very least, the habit of fidgeting with it helps him to relax a little more. He also suddenly released the person he had been talking online prior had never quite given them their name. Hopefully, he has the right room. "Orchidforge?"
Samuel
The newcomer's fiddling made Owen visibly relax a little; perhaps he got ahead of himself by habit, but he took nothing that shrunk the divide between himself and anyone for granted.

*(Maybe not so literally, though—he could certainly forgive Uriel for being tall, and maybe Ares if he was being agreeable, but how close had this guy been standing to his door?)*

Craning his neck up, the boy nodded quickly. "Right! Right, yeah, it's- it's Owen, uh, in person." His shoulder rested on his doorframe, an easier, crooked smile coming to his face. "You're 'Mist'? Else you're a neighbour and I'm doing your head in with the amp again, *Hah*..."

Something about the dry air almost tickled, but Owen dismissed it as the brighter light from the hall.
Michael
Sam managed to quickly catch his balance and back up slightly. Perhaps learning on the door that opens wasn't the greatest development towards the advancement of standing, but hey, not much that can be done now. 

"Nice to meet yo-"
*Did you just threaten to kill me with a guitar amp?*

*He backed up further, was everyone here some sort of monstrous psycho killer? From the Viking person who climbed walls with suckers, to that horrible employee who threw a roll of bread as hard as a brick at his head, to this new person that just threatened to... Beat him up? Sparks leapt off the piece of metal he had in his pocket, not that it would be very visible still. What would be apparent, however, would be a growing smell of ozone. He took a few more steps back before looking back at the stranger*

"Yes, I am mist, please don't kill me with an amp"
Samuel
Owen yelped at the same time, seemingly queasier at the misunderstanding than the guy who somehow now thought he had lured him up to his room to *Clobber* Him.

"*I'm not go-going to kill you with an amp, I'm just* Noisy, *Like,*" He squeaked, wide eyes darting wildly between Sam's face and the wall behind him. 

The hair stood up on the back of his neck; quick, irrational thoughts bounced off every piece of metal in his room behind him, and without a second thought he had scrambled a few steps back into the hall as well, staring like a spooked cat at his open window. Nothing but wind blew through—barely enough to rustle the flags over his bed, or the papers spilled on the floor—but the redhead elected to stay clear, tiny flecks of gold curling at his wrists, under his jaw.

"S-sorry, I..."

Owen blinked hard, shaking out his head, hoping it would look something like him going back to normal.

"Y-y-your name's 'Mist', then?"
Francisco
Sam seemed to relax a little. Perhaps the stranger isn't actually scary. 

*Or, perhaps that's what he wants Sam to think, because he actually is a killer! Hmm, probably not a super beneficial line of thought right now.*

"Oh, that makes way more sense, my name is actually Sam, but I don't mind being called mist." 

*Sam would take another step or two back, just about tripping on a bad fold in the carpet* 

"Ah!"
Samuel
"S-sorry! Ah! I've stopped moving now. Thought, thought I, um. It's nothing."

Owen's teeth clacked on the lip of his mug as he slugged more of his cocoa back, his ears burning red. A sharp little star of pain bloomed deep in his shoulder. *What was that*? Itching it with his thumb didn't do much through the thick, silvery scar tissue peeking through the collar of his shirt. *No way in hell it could reach him from back there, right?* 

"Anyway. Business! Proper pigs' shit, your day so far, so here's to it getting perhaps a little better, mate."

He tore his eyes from the window and tossed his bag of promised snacks up in his hand, then lightly at Sam's chest.

"Catch!"

The rain came down outside, but the air around Owen was a few degrees warmer despite the wind.
Francisco
Sam raised an eyebrow, catching the snacks with one hand. He studied Owen, noticing how tense he seemed. He was about to say something when-

BZZT 

Sam's hair stood up on end, there was a flash like a weak lightning bolt, a loud noise, and then...

Just Sam again, like nothing happened, except now he looks like he leapt into a just-extinguished campfire, ragged and with a few burns. Having been knocked down by the "Blast", he stood back up, dusting himself off. He'd smile, trying to act like exploding was perfectly normal. 

Are You alright?
Samuel
Cocoa splattered on the carpet, but the only sound Owen could think to make was a hoarse squeak, the rest of him stuck in place. His shell leaped from his skin in an instant, vibrant splashes of deep red and orange and coppery-gold curling around him and haphazardly hardening into a shield like blown glass, a morbid crystal grown in the shape of splayed veins over his arms and face. It practically oozed heat now, dully murmuring his quickened heartbeat.

Behind it, Owen's hands were clamped on the sides of his head, eyes shut against the bright light. A deep breath in, and his eyes shot open, as though he had forgotten Sam was there for a moment. 

"*Cachu hwch*, man, y-y-you shat a *B*-a bloody *Sprite!!!*"

The boy was clearly more jittery than mad, vigorously shaking himself out head to toe like a wet dog. His eyes always made it look like he was about to cry, despite the furiously-whispered curses in his mother tongue that were shooting from his mouth, dissolving into nervous, crackling laughter. He would have thought that after hanging around Finley for so long he'd be used to this, but his drummer at least had a more obvious sneeze wind-up. 

"*Ffyc*, lad, are *You???*"
Michael
After the initial blast, Sam seemed more startled and confused by Owen's ability than by the lightning incident. Perhaps that's because this isn't the first this has happened.

"It wasn't a sprite, just... Why we don't mix water with uncontrolled electricity. I'm fine, just a bit burned. It would probably be best if we closed the window."

"Are you *Sure* You're alright?

*He looked at owen's shield, trying to figure out exactly what it was. Didn't seem to be made of any material he had seen before, but this also definitely was not the most normal of places. Still, probably not the best time to study the people he almost just fried with lightning. 

Trying to act like he hadn't been scared himself, and that the burns weren't that bad, he would open up the bag of crackers as nonchalantly as possible, eating a few.*

"Thanks, by the way"
Samuel
Owen took a shaky breath, white knuckles forcibly loosening around his mug handle. The liquid flames melted closer to his skin, settling like armour over his hands and seeping hesitantly under his jaw, deep through his neck; it made a raw sort of a sound, like wet branches snapping underfoot.

He nodded yes, after a second.

"Y-yeah. Yeah! I-I have a friend, who does that sometimes, I'm just jumpy. Bad, uh, well, see-for-yourself," He managed, words tumbling from his mouth quick and all out of rhythm. 

His sleeve, pulled aside, showed a bolt of lightning seared permanently into his bicep, cut off suspiciously cleanly somewhere above the elbow. He smiled, nervously.

"Nearly did me in, it did. *Hahah.*" The boy's gold-shot eyes scanned Sam, looking for any similar fear; none, at least that he could see. Which, admittedly, wasn't all that well. "No, eh, no problem, though. L-like I said. I remember being in your shoes."
Michael
Sam studied the liquid flames curiously. Neat trick, he supposed, but he also had zero idea how that worked, not that he knew that for anyone else's abilities, including his own. 

His focus snapped back when Owen started talking again, and he would seem curious when he mentioned another lightning-wielder around here. Maybe it would be nice to eventually know other people with similar abilities. 

His attention would be dragged again, this time to the scar. What exactly did *That,* He wasn't sure. If that really was the other lightning user, Sam had a lot to catch up on. He was pretty sure he couldn't do that, although he also wasn't sure he wanted to. 

Sam noted the last remark before finally replying to all of it.

"If you don't mind me asking, when did you get here? It seems like you know this place pretty well"
Samuel
"Two..." Owen shifted his weight, seeming to soften in on himself a little. "Around two years ago, now. It—it sometimes feels like a long time, but." 

But what? It was an era ago that he was a sixteen-year-old whose world was the lone amp distortion bouncing off the walls of his room and a nasty heartbreak he was nursing.

"The first few months felt the longest. Probably because I was even more jumpy then, *Hahah.*"

Owen cracked his knuckles absentmindedly, never not in motion. The soft firelight-glow melted between his fingers, as though it were a sheepishly sheathed weapon that had mistaken a snapped twig for a beast. The boy it vanished into as quickly as it had emerged from looked much the same, in his eyes that never quite met Sam's, the disarming quality of his quiet chuckle.

He only hoped he hadn't made the first impression of a *Total* Ass. It wasn't this guy's fault his powers frightened him—Owen of all people would know about that.

"Sorry about my, uh. Reaction. Electricity, is it, yeah?"
Michael
I'll get to this today
Francisco
With things having calmed down, sam now had a chance ti focus on other things besides the fright. Like his hair. Already a mess at all times, his hair had only incrementally moved from its straight-up position that resulted from the massive electrical charge that moved through his body. He did his best to quickly fix it with his unburned hand, keeping the injured one hidden behind his back so as to avoid concern or the fear that Sam truly couldn't control his abilities. While doing this, he'd look back at Owen.

"Yep, it was the first one I learned, blew myself up quite a bit worse than this the first time." 

Despite his attempt to imply the memory was a positive one, it seemed he was having to convince himself of the idea just as much as he was trying to convince open, memories of that incident, the blast, the fire, the smoke, the eventual hospital visit for the untreated burns he left hidden, all flashed through his mind. He'd snap out of it a moment later, again facing Owen. 

What about you? Some sort of shield? Neat trick, especially around here.
Samuel
"Aye, that's how it goes." Owen laughed lightly, resting his hands in the crooks of his elbows like explosions were just something to laugh about. After everything, they must have been, else it was about time to start crying again.

His thumb brushed the edge of his scar, though, a silent sentiment: *You're far from the only one*. Sam's skittish fussing didn't fly under his radar, traced by that gold-flecked gaze. He could feel the charred boy's heartbeat from where he stood.

"Shield, yeah, is what I've been calling it," He answered, that soft red light curling around his left arm, shot through with orange, quietly glinting gold. Its edge lapped like a river's shore against the edge of the scar, retracing its old steps.

"Give it a name, and it grows into it, right? Better that than the 'Screaming Shell of Molten Doom,' metal though that is."
Francisco
Sam would watch the shield, anything to avoid thinking about that first day. He assumed having some sort of actual panic attack was not the best first impression he could offer his new friend. Regardless, any evidence of this would be barely contained, and while it would be unbeknownst to him, Owen could probably detect that Sam's heart was absolutely flying at this point. More visibly, Sam would be more jittery at this point, overall seeming more on edge. Oh, right, he's supposed to be watching the shield and *Not* Thinking about this. Trying to focus as much as attention as he could, he'd note the molten comment. Curious, he'd finally speak again. 

"It definitely looks molten, but is it actually hot? Would be neat and all, but perhaps also a fire hazard?"
Samuel
Owen bit the inside of his cheek, humming a low note. So that made both of them, then, sweating.

"Yeah, just like it looks. Not hot enough usually to cook my insides, it's not, but, ah..." He held out his hand, stiltedly prying it out of where it was folded; palm up. Joints crackled over the softly glowing red flesh. "It doesn't set anything alight, really, it's more of... A fluid? It's... Just my body, I guess."

The quiet wonder with which Owen spoke of it was hard-won; it showed in how he softened when he did, like he were cradling something small and warm in his hands, half fearful still to draw it too far away from his chest. Perhaps the muted display of vulnerability would put Sam at ease? Maybe? The other didn't seem keen to talk about himself, or whatever ordeal he'd just been through. His eyes jolted from point to point, just like his heart, the exhaustingly familiar search for a way to climb out of his skin. It took restraint not to ask directly—dancing around the issue sounded only like it could make things worse and worse, and he felt like he was going to explode just being in close quarters, but the boy had come to realize it was rarer than he'd thought to think that way.

Ought he ask questions now in return? Keep up the small talk? He nervpusly sipped what was left of his cocoa.
"Can toast bagels with my hands, even. Dead cool."
*Hmm.*
"Are you... Feeling alright, mate?" Sincere brown puppy-dog eyes looked up at Sam.
*Fail.*
Michael
Sam would try his best to look more relaxed, like he hadn't just been flashing back for a bit now. He thought about just focusing on the bagels, because he did like a good bagel. Not toasted though, that made them too burnt. Aaaaand now we're getting distracted again. Back to the story. Sam would eye Owen, trying to decide how much he could tell him for both of their sakes. He'd sit on the floor outside the room, still trying to leave enough space for passersby to get through. "It's just been a rough few weeks and I can't get some of it out of my head, that's all" You seem on edge yourself, are you alright? *He'd focus his attention on the shield, the glow an at least partial distraction from the images in his minds.
Samuel
"I'm—yeah, I-I'll be alright, just a reflex. I don't—I didn't mean it personally, um, freaking you out."

The heavy door clicked closed as Owen sat in front of it, tired shoulders hitting it with a dull *Thump*. About a person's width between him and Sam, arms draped over his knees. For a stretch of moments, the only sounds in the hall were breathing and that soft crackling.

"And... I figured," He replied, softly. "Hardly left this room for *Months* When I got here. Insides as strange as your outsides, nowhere feels like home anymore; nothing to do but scratch yourself raw, yeah?"

The shorter boy pulled at his fingers, one by one, watching the flowing red, his heart turned out toward the sky, crack over his knuckles with orange. Owen wasn't much for looking at people he was talking to, but he did very much try to listen.

"Just... Know that you're still you in there, is all. Despite all the horror."
Michael
Sam looked at Owen with a bleak expression, worn down and putting serious effort into not going on some long rant that he's pretty sure his new friend wouldn't appreciate. He'd settle for a question instead. 

"How can you be so sure? You barely even know me, and you definitely don't know who I was before this awful place. It's only been a week and I already feel worse."

Sam would curl up into a ball, his head in his arms. He'd listen to the steady crackling, at least it was something consistent. He'd look back up at Owen after a moment, desperation on his face. 

"Do you know if there's any way I can just get rid of this curse and go back to my life? I can't be here."
Samuel
Owen's fingernails dug into his palm, flushing away the healthy pink and momentarily drawing up an angrier red. *Right. Too forward, too sure.* He erred on that side often, when it came to figuring out what people would believe, and what they needed to hear before that. Craving it made the build up shorter, but circumstance made it wind, the individual a complex system of flexible roots and hard stones under the trunk he was looking at above.

"Ruh-right, ah, I guess so," He mumbled, eyebrows knitting together. "It does get worse, um, before it gets better, I'll admit. I-if blunter honesty's what soothes. Just—just that we've that much in common, I think, so..." He hummed impatiently, trying to wrap the last bit of the sentiment into words. "I trust you're alright, and all."

The boy's feet tapped on the carpet, a fast but steadily kept rhythm from a band practice far earlier. He always found his center in a good pulse, his order in the invisible pattern breathing, walking, one stanza after the other. He breathed, the hallway air cold in his lungs.

Heavy-lidded downturned eyes met Sam's, sort of, as close as they got. Owen hoped it was comforting; he could afford to squirm a little, he reckoned. The onslaught of information wasn't unfamiliar, at least, just electric, his new friend's (yes? He hoped?) expression laden with fresh, vivid sorrow.

"Ah... That really depends, mate. On its origin, 'n that, whatever it could want... I'm sorry. *Cachu hwch*! All of this! Hence I'm hoping I can make it a little easier."

Owen gestured tiredly at the goldfish, this uneven smile attempting to tug at his cheek once more. It tasted bitter to be earnest when saying something nobody really wanted to hear, but for his own sake he believed it was still the way to do things. All he had a grasp on, really, was the things he believed, despite how loud other people's skulls were sometimes.
Michael
Sam didn't exactly believe Owen when he said that things would get better. However, in the interest of being a good guest, he would nod and and offer a slight, fake smile. It wasn't that he didn't trust Owen, it's just that things getting better seemed impossible right now. This place was his hell, a literal prison he was thrown into when he was supposed to be exploring his newfound independence. 

He nodded again faintly at owen's statement of him being alright, doing his best to act like someone with at least some hope for his future. 

"There's no need to be sorry, it's by no means your fault I'm in this mess. I got myself in here. Still, though, I appreciate it."

Sam would watch the goldfish swim around it's bowl. It was somewhat relaxing, and besides, the fish seemed confident in where it was, something he couldn't say about himself.