Snippet #2180969

Samael had a rather poor sense of time. Spending much of his life sitting around doing nothing had done that for him; he could have floated in the tank for half an hour or three hours and it wouldn't have made much difference to him.

But considering he never looked forward to getting out, the half an hour he was submerged often went by quickly.

Two of his 'handlers' approached the tank. The circus employed a number of heavily-built men who helped with various tasks around the place, and a few of such men were assigned to move Samael around when the time came for it. One of the two now at his tank moved onto a small step ladder to open the top of the tank, tapping on the glass to be sure he got the mutant's attention, and then dropping the key to Sam's shackles into the water. Samael's gaze drifted to the key as it floated down before him, and he extended a hand to catch it with practiced ease. Using the shackles at his ankles as an anchor to pull himself down with, he crouched toward the bottom of the tank to unlock himself. A turn of the key and a distinct click that resounded underwater, and he was free to float to the surface, key in hand.

He did not gasp for air as might be anticipated upon breaking the surface. Breathing after going without air for extended periods of time was not easy, and the sudden use of his lungs where they had held still for so long was uncomfortable. As soon as his arms reached out to clutch the edges of the tank, the handler beside him on the step ladder grabbed him to haul him out; the handler being very strong and Samael being very light, it was an easy feat to sweep him out of the tank and carry him to the ground, where both handlers swiftly moved to grab onto either side of him - not only as a means of restraining him, but also to be sure he could stand and walk, as after not doing so for half an hour it took a few minutes for Sam to get his footing again. The muscles in his legs shuddered at the sudden pressure of standing, and they might've given out under him if not for the men holding him up.

He knew oxygen would help his muscles recover faster. Reluctantly, his lungs expanded with what felt like an audible creak, and air crept up his nose. His frame tensed at the ache in his chest of his lungs churning back to life, but again his handlers made sure he was kept standing.

Samael hated this part. The nagging pain in his chest, the weak feeling in his legs, the cold of the open air collecting across his bare, soaked skin. His hands were wrinkled with saturated moisture. His bandages clung to his arms and emphasized the chill of the water's absence. One of the handlers messed a towel about his hair in a haphazard effort to dry it somewhat, before draping the towel around his shoulders for him to dry off with in his cage later. But for now, the two held him before the tank while he roused his legs, so the patrons drifting around the tent could gather to notice he was alive after the promised half an hour submerged. There was only modest applause, but mostly hushed exchanges, often in regards to how unnatural it was not to have to breathe.

Samael gazed on emptily, like he wasn't really looking at the small crowd but more into some other plane of existence. His dark eyes were hollow, defeated, and utterly apathetic to the attention paid him. His frame was shivering with cold, and his breath was rough while his lungs grew accustomed to functioning again. The key to his shackles, which he still gripped absently, was briskly pried from his hand by one of the men at his side, before the handlers pulled his arms behind him to begin cuffing his wrists in what was standard preparation for escorting him back to his cage.