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[The few days it's taken to adjust have been, well - Sam is not going to use the word 'Hell' because he's actually been, and this is crappy but it doesn't come close. Still, anyone who hasn't seen him yet might be a little alarmed at what's being broadcast: six feet and four inches of sickly sasquatch, valiantly trying to address the network, appallingly pale, sallow-faced and bloodshot-sunken-eyed.]

Hey. Uh - Sam. I'm new. I guess this is a, uh, a thing that, that people do. Is introduce themselves. And I get that - we're all looking for a way out.

[Auspicious beginnings. Who knows if anyone's even getting this? Nevertheless, he continues.]

Okay. So. No promises, but there's something I can try. Kinda like a ward, or a spell. [Magic exists, surprise. The few people he's already talked to have expressed a kind of varied interest in this sort of thing, so caution be damned.] Anyone wants to help, I'll need a couple things.

First is - salt. Table salt, any kind will do. Second? Matches, a lighter, anything that can make sparks, even for a few seconds. And then I'll need something to write with, marker, pen, spray paint - I don't care. Anything along those lines.

[He looks at something off-screen, mouth briefly twisting in what might best be categorized as 'disgust'.]

I have food to trade for it. Heard that's kind of a limited resource these days. Food and, uh. [He squints at something.] Neosporin. If anyone, y'know, needs that.

[Yeah, he doesn't get it either. He jerks off frame for a moment, face buried in his elbow. It's not enough to fully stifle the ragged, fierce coughs that leave his shoulders shuddering. Finally, signs of life trickle back through the feed, albeit muffled and with their subject mostly lurched off camera as he mutters in his more characteristic deadpan, wearily sardonic, 'so-done-with-this-shit' tone.]

Also. If anyone happens to have some aspirin on them, that'd be great.

[There's the rattling of trembling, uncoordinated fingertips trying to navigate the tablet, and the feed snaps off.]

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[He pulls reflexively against the fluid closing-and-dragging of fingers over his elbow, but he soon acquiesces to the tug and drops wearily on the edge of the bed that he supposes is now his by default. Thanks, hotel.]

Yeah, I know. [Clearly, that's the best coping mechanism - resorting to that dry and self-deprecating veneer in the face of how completely, obviously vulnerable Sam is in an unfamiliar environment.] Don't worry, I'll live. [Pause.] Probably.

[When she feels him pull back, she lightens her touch, and when he sits down on the bed, she takes a step back, giving him some space.]

I hope so, because given how this place treats the living, I'm not sure I want to see how they treat the dead. [A small, wry smile. She takes the pen out of her pocket and holds it out to him.] Here you go. May I ask—what are you going to be doing with it?

[That elicits a rough noise of amusement, something that might've been a humorless bark if he'd been able to put any energy behind it. 'Dead.' That's funny, in a morbid sort of way.

He accepts the pen and turns it over in his hands, nodding. This is good. This'll work.]

Gonna try to see how much I can get away with, in essence. Scratching symbols on the floors is gonna be the most ideal.

[And potentially damn useful, given that Gabe's here. There are sigils to keep him out, providing Sam can remember them.]

[Una's met all kinds of people who are convinced that they can work magic by scratching—or painting, with a wide range of materials—symbols on floors. Some of them are actually correct. Which category does Sam fall into, she wonders?]

Does that sort of thing work for you often?

[She's careful not to sound scornful or overly sceptical. It's a genuine question.]

[He's got a battered journal out and is flipping through the pages, the paper a mess of scrawled handwriting, stapled-in newspaper clippings, and a disordered array of untidy symbols. Despite how weary and worn Sam looks, the actions are rhythmic and familiar, helpfully reminding him of what an equilibrium feels like.]

Mm, kind of. I've done this before, if that's what you mean.

[He pauses to glance up, surveying the room with mingled trepidation and suspicion.]

As for what it'll do here, I have no idea. Some places block signals like that. But, y'know. Worth a try.

[Some people who keep journals that look like that are pretty seriously unbalanced. But—even though she admittedly has barely spoken to him, Una has a hunch that Sam isn't that kind of person. So. Magic. All right. She can work with this.]

Trying out a distress beacon? Who's on the other end?

[Or what?]

It wouldn't be a beacon by nature, exactly. More like - by necessity. Magic leaves traces. People can pick up on those and follow them. Technically, anyone.

[It's just the case of hoping the right 'someone' does that. It's a risk he's willing to take.]

In fact, any sort of straight-up distress beacon's probably off the cards. It's gonna be a pretty simple setup, seeing as we're pressed for resources.

I see. Lighting a fire and hoping that someone sees the smoke, as it were. I can appreciate that. [A pause.] And the risks. But I suppose that we only have so much choice for the tools at our disposal.

[She's been a soldier. She knows the drill.]

[He inclines his head.] Basically, yeah. I mean - do we have any other choice?

[Pressing the journal flat against one knee with the butt of his palm, he gently rips one of the blank pages near the back out and begins sketching a symbol over it with short, sure motions, a sprawling geometric rune gradually taking shape.]

Not really, no. If I had any of my usual tools to try and get a signal out, I'd be trying too.

[She watches what he's doing, curious. It's not anything she's ever seen before.]

Is there anything else I can help with?

[Read: I'm not in the way, am I? Or, shall I leave you to it, then?]

[Recalling the flow and edge of the lines is taking the majority of his attention, but it's disturbingly automatic; all that instinct is still rolled away inside him, even if it's been years since he's had to make use of it. The sigil soon comes into being, something sprawling and triangular and deceptively simple but for the odd, wiggly symbols at its tines.]

Hm?

[He looks up briefly, the latticework of red webbed over his eyes stark.]

Uh, no, this - this should be fine.

[He indicates the page with a loose flutter and holds the pen back to her, his expression grateful.]

Thanks. Ideally I'd paint it on the floor but that's not looking really doable at the moment.

[She takes the pen and tucks it away into an inner pocket of her tweed jacket.]

Glad to be of assistance. If you find you need it again, don't hesitate to ask.

[He actually smiles, one-cornered and rueful, and it cuts through the pale ashen of his skin.]

Thank you. I should be fine now, I think.

All right. Good luck.

[She hesitates a moment before turning to go, then pauses to add:]

In the event something notices your "smoke" that shouldn't—I can't promise to be much help, but I'll be more than willing to do what I can. For what that's worth.

[He hesitates, then nods slowly. Everyone banding together is likely to do more good than Sam trying to fix the entire problem on his own, and the more people he knows who are willing to help, the better.]

I'll - keep that in mind. No guarantee that it'll do anything, but I can let you know.

All right. And again—good luck.

[She lets herself out, and returns back down the hallway to her room.]

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