SAMPSON CROWE // STYLIST

Oh. You wanted a show? 

Well, you came to the right place babe, you're looking at the brand new sequel! It's a breathe of fresh air, really, the announcement of Sardonyx Crowe came as a surprised to a few, but stylists are hired young, and retire even younger. There's a constant eye for the next brand new thing, and there's only one thing better than a queen: 

an heir! 

Sardonyx and Sampson both knew it, she would keep her show and keep her kid, and they would pick up the slack as a stylist. Copernicus Fenwick and his father sat across the ironwood desk, Sampson impulsively tapping their nails against the table's face. A few of the Fenwick's employees littered the room as well, but it's just business- hell, just a family affair at this point. 

The Crowe's and their management, Sardonyx had been fighting with them for the better half of her career at this point, wrestling for the rights to her own name and Sampson had sat back and kept it simple. They weren't in the limelight, the most they had to a claim was that Opal was their god-mother, and they hadn't even seen Shore since they were a teenager. 

"So,

do we have a deal?"

"Oh, absolutely fucking not-!"

"Sure!" they said, eyes trained on Copernicus. "Where do I sign?"

And if looks could kill, Sardonyx may just have a body count to her name. She may have known more than Sampson, sure, they had watched the eyebags form under their mother's eyes and washed her wine glasses after she passed away another night. Opal and Justice and Nico, they all said it behind the curtains too, this must fuckin' suck.

For them! 

It was a minute of consideration and then an eh fuck it. Sardonyx had two pride and joys and as much as Sampson loved her, they knew they weren't one of them. She couldn't keep up with both the styling and the interviews, and Fenwick refused to let her go, so. 

What's a kid to do? "I mean, doesn't sound like there's much of a choice otherwise, yeah?"

"Samp, if you don't let me take care of this, I swear."

"Well, Miss Crowe, it looks like they get it!" 

"Yeah ma, maybe I do!"

They didn't, but that's besides the point. Sampson kept his eyes fixed on Copper until they had to put pen to paper, staining the ink with that same tie they both knew was there all along. Sampson would be working for the Fenwicks, alongside Copernicus, for as long as the two of them had a reason to fear his old partner's father. It's always a strange way that legacies bring people together, Sampson smiled as they slid the papers across the table once again. 

That petty moment falls under the noise of Sardonyx fighting with Sampson and her's management- "until that child is out there filing their own goddamn taxes, nobody gets to claim 'Sampson' as an identity but fucking me!" 

"Are you their manager?"

"Are you his mother?!"

But Sampson knew it'd come to this eventually, growing up and working in the old stations Sardonyx owned. Factories on top of factories, warehouses that groan in the night and exist only to home the families of mannequins and sequins. They'd never be able to take over as Sardonyx, the host, the personality, the doll, but dressing it? Any quiet child in the capitol could learn how to do that. 

They'd sit patiently, needle between their teeth and fabric draping their slouched, sitting body and picture this moment. It's somehow better that Copper is here, something savory in it. 

Just a little salt, for a wound sewn clean.

"I believe we are set here, Crowe's. Sardonyx-"

"no."
"Yup!"

"you will set aside your position as the ordained stylist for district one, and Sampson-"

"Yup yup!"

"NO."

"you will be her replacement, and when the time comes you'll be expected to take over as host of The Roost, too. Now, we understand you're hesitant, but it is a purely scripted show, and we will aid you make that transition as well. Of course, your position in the Fenwick network will remain stable with the cooperation of-" Copper's father looks at Sardonyx, "-both of you talents."

"We'll be business partners, ma!" Sardonyx about killed them, staring them down in a way that procured a defensive slouch and a grin from Sampson. "You better stop talking until we get home."

And they just shook their leg and smiled. Copernicus and Sampson, partners once again, just with a minor twist. There was tension in their throat, but they just pictured what was waiting and continued. "Are we finished here, mister?"

"I believe we are, Mix Crowe, congratulations." 

The two of them stood, and shaked hands one last time. 

And so the Age of Sampson begins.