<div class="floatleft">(http://img818.imageshack.us/img818/2395/samatclashofthetitanslo.jpg)</div><br/><br/><strong>Name:</strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 16pt;">Sam Washington</span><br/><strong>Age:</strong>28<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Beat his senior officer to death with a heavy duty stapler from the L.A.P.D.'s copy room while singing the national anthem.<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Prison Cell<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Group 1<br/><br/><br/><hr/><br/><br/>The wound was beginning to itch. Unfortunately, as he moved around impatiently, the blood drenched cloth of his bright orange jumpsuit kept grazing against it. It caused the annoying stinging sensation to continue endlessly, adding to his already irritated state. Sam wished they'd at least given him some paper towels to keep the blood from staining his clothes further, but he wasn't willing to test the NYPD's patience right now; not with his record, at least. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to calm himself, his thoughts too scattered and chaotic.<br/><br/>A voice derailed his train of thought. It was a shaky, female voice. Turning his head, his eyes focused themselves on a middle aged woman. She probably looked the most out of place here, among the captives stuffed in a too small cell. The questions she asked weren't exactly ones he felt like answering. Or rather, he wondered what her angle was. Those weren't the sort of things you'd just ask without any sort of motive or without trying to imply something. Taking a deep breath, he responded slowly, giving the woman a steely gaze in the process.<strong>"Sam Washington. I was supposed to attend the therapy group session, but I ran late... By the time I arrived, the building already had smoke spilling out of it,"</strong>he told her, stopping briefly halfway to gasp lightly, feeling the wound sting again.<br/><br/><strong>"And you are?"</strong>he asked in return. Before he got an answer though, a guard tossed them some old bread and a snide remark. This place certainly wasn't scoring high on his list when it came to hospitality, that much was sure. Right now Sam wasn't really feeling hungry, with death looming as near as it was. The thought of the chair was truly terrifying him. How could he have messed up so much? Where did it go wrong, he wondered. Turning to the glass wall, he stared at the faint reflection of himself.<br/><br/><em>"Fuck. It's her fault that you're stuck here. Jesus, fucking, Christ. Time in jail hasn't taught you a mother-fucking-thing. How the fuck did you end up in jail? By harping on some bitch you don't even know and following her around. Now the cops think you did this. Fucking fantastic. The only way to get out of here is with your ass frying in the chair."</em>The voice inside his head had appeared out of nowhere, without warning, leaving Sam to blink in confusion as his mind to slowly process the words. It was blaming Natalie for his current situation. What absolute tripe. How was this the fault of a young girl? Had it not been Sam himself who knocked down his guards, stole the keys to undo the cuffs and dash inside in an attempt to be a big damn hero? His first partner during his time on force, an older, more experienced LA cop, had told Sam many times he had a "saving people thing" and, while admirable, might some day become his undoing. Guess the man was right then, wasn't he?<br/><br/>A new voice appeared. It was a familiar, but certainly not welcome, voice of a male, a smoker by the sound of it.<em>"Don't worry, it's fine. You'll get out of here soon enough, they'll let you go before you know it. They have to. You didn't do anything wrong, and they've got nothing to prove you guilty."</em>The voice cracked near the end, and with it the entire facade fell apart as it broke into raucous laughter.<em>"HAH! As if! You're fucking screwed is what you are. Good job taking one step closer to the grave."</em><br/><br/>The taunt was followed by a second voice, which attempted to dispute the smoker's words.<em>"Don't listen to him."</em>The female snapped,<em>"They will let you out, because they don't have anything to prove you guilty. Anything could've set that place on fire. Anything. And the doctor's death was purely accidental, they can't blame that on you. Just be patient. As the old saying goes, patience is a virtue."</em>Her argument sounded weak and feeble next to the smoker's.<br/><br/>Sam shook his head furiously, trying to shake off the voices as if they were bugs in his hair. He knew it wouldn't help cure his insanity, but at least it helped him distract himself from their annoying presence as a light headache began to settle in. His reflection was beginning to look worse for wear, skin looking a tad pale and little red tears having formed in the white of his eyeballs. He really needed some sleep, but the voices, pain, and fear of his impending doom wouldn't allow him to rest.<br/><br/>The celldoor was yanked open and a group of police officers entered the cell. Helplessly Sam watched as one of the women<del>   </del>a younger woman, not the middle aged one who had approached him a few minutes ago<del>   </del>was grabbed and hauled off. All his instincts told him to act, step forward and tell them they should leave the girl alone, to not harm her. However, his mind protested, preventing his body from doing more than stand there with tightly formed fists which shook with anger and annoyance. "I'm in deep enough shit already," his mind argued. If Sam wanted to avoid the chair he'd have to act like a very, VERY good boy now. Just shut up and look the other way. Be a goddamn coward...