Roland Deschain (
ka_sera_sera) wrote in
thecapitol2015-07-08 08:04 pm
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Entry tags:
mostly open
Who| Roland Deschain and the Signless; Roland and you
What| nothing big, just roland waking up
Where| central commons, district twelve, district four
When| week five, a little bit after Roland's death
Warnings/Notes| no warnings that I know of. I hope the way I did the prompts is clear, but if not just have your character meet Roland anywhere.
The room Roland wakes up in is well familiar by now. The worry he wakes up in, though, that's new, and for a moment it shoves the more normal questions of where and when and what into the back of his mind. He wakes with Alain's name on his lips, already half-sitting up and looking around - but no. Alain isn't here, is he. That wolf is dead. Killed before it could do Alain any damage. This does not mean that Alain is safe.
He lets himself fall back, runs a hand over his jaw and stares at the ceiling. But there is nothing he can do for Alain, not anymore. His old friend will be interesting enough to bring back after this arena, or he won't. Roland steels himself to this, to the waiting, and then sits up, breathes. Heads out.
The lobby of this building is as busy as it usually is, newsmen and hangers-on and sponsors, people in all manner of outfit with all manner of things to say. It's strange after the isolation of the arena, life and movement all of a sudden everywhere, and for a moment Roland simply stands near the center of the room, not caring whose way he's standing in. (A)
After that he makes his way to the bar, spends some time leaning on the counter even after he's gotten his coffee. Just looks around, less focused on whether he accidentally makes eye contact with anyone (though that ought to be a real concern on this particular level of the tribute tower) and more concerned with stirring in a good amount of sugar. More than he'd usually use but, though his body is refreshed, Roland's mind is still certain it's spent the last few weeks sleeping badly, and it isn't as if this place doesn't have the sugar to spare. Witness Roland Deschain, indulging himself. (B)
Once he's got a better feel for this place he heads up. All the way up, almost, and doesn't bother to explain himself to any residents of district twelve who may see him wandering around there. He peers into the common room, the kitchen, then heads to the mentor suites and opens one of its doors with nothing more than a brief, brisk knock. This particular room is one he's been in many times, and the way in which the Signless has it decorated is intimately familiar. The most familiar part of that room, though, is missing, and Roland still does not bother to explain himself as he heads back out of it. Surely anyone living on this floor will be familiar enough with the sight of him. (C)
Finally, to the level for tributes of district four. Given all the floors are arranged the same and the avoxes quickly clean any identifying clutter, there's little reason for the familiarity that greets him here. But the fish in their little bowls all around the common room are familiar, the view outside is familiar. He spends a moment in just standing there and then snorts to himself, more focused on his thoughts on that familiarity than on explaining to anyone who may be around to hear. (D)
(closed to Signless):
The tea sitting in the kitchen cupboards too, thankfully, is familiar. There's more coffee up here, but he's made tea so often in this room that that is where his hands first head, and he lets them. That is, until the metal teapot slips out of a loose grip, bounces off the counter, and clatters onto the floor.
"Shit," he says, and the frustration in his voice is not at the noise nor at the spill, although he does watch the water spread for a second, lifting up his right hand and running his fingers under the small metal box sitting where his lack of fingers used to be. The skin there is red and inflamed, and the hand's two mechanical fingers don't curl as the other ones do, instead sticking out from the metal all still and stiff.
What| nothing big, just roland waking up
Where| central commons, district twelve, district four
When| week five, a little bit after Roland's death
Warnings/Notes| no warnings that I know of. I hope the way I did the prompts is clear, but if not just have your character meet Roland anywhere.
The room Roland wakes up in is well familiar by now. The worry he wakes up in, though, that's new, and for a moment it shoves the more normal questions of where and when and what into the back of his mind. He wakes with Alain's name on his lips, already half-sitting up and looking around - but no. Alain isn't here, is he. That wolf is dead. Killed before it could do Alain any damage. This does not mean that Alain is safe.
He lets himself fall back, runs a hand over his jaw and stares at the ceiling. But there is nothing he can do for Alain, not anymore. His old friend will be interesting enough to bring back after this arena, or he won't. Roland steels himself to this, to the waiting, and then sits up, breathes. Heads out.
The lobby of this building is as busy as it usually is, newsmen and hangers-on and sponsors, people in all manner of outfit with all manner of things to say. It's strange after the isolation of the arena, life and movement all of a sudden everywhere, and for a moment Roland simply stands near the center of the room, not caring whose way he's standing in. (A)
After that he makes his way to the bar, spends some time leaning on the counter even after he's gotten his coffee. Just looks around, less focused on whether he accidentally makes eye contact with anyone (though that ought to be a real concern on this particular level of the tribute tower) and more concerned with stirring in a good amount of sugar. More than he'd usually use but, though his body is refreshed, Roland's mind is still certain it's spent the last few weeks sleeping badly, and it isn't as if this place doesn't have the sugar to spare. Witness Roland Deschain, indulging himself. (B)
Once he's got a better feel for this place he heads up. All the way up, almost, and doesn't bother to explain himself to any residents of district twelve who may see him wandering around there. He peers into the common room, the kitchen, then heads to the mentor suites and opens one of its doors with nothing more than a brief, brisk knock. This particular room is one he's been in many times, and the way in which the Signless has it decorated is intimately familiar. The most familiar part of that room, though, is missing, and Roland still does not bother to explain himself as he heads back out of it. Surely anyone living on this floor will be familiar enough with the sight of him. (C)
Finally, to the level for tributes of district four. Given all the floors are arranged the same and the avoxes quickly clean any identifying clutter, there's little reason for the familiarity that greets him here. But the fish in their little bowls all around the common room are familiar, the view outside is familiar. He spends a moment in just standing there and then snorts to himself, more focused on his thoughts on that familiarity than on explaining to anyone who may be around to hear. (D)
(closed to Signless):
The tea sitting in the kitchen cupboards too, thankfully, is familiar. There's more coffee up here, but he's made tea so often in this room that that is where his hands first head, and he lets them. That is, until the metal teapot slips out of a loose grip, bounces off the counter, and clatters onto the floor.
"Shit," he says, and the frustration in his voice is not at the noise nor at the spill, although he does watch the water spread for a second, lifting up his right hand and running his fingers under the small metal box sitting where his lack of fingers used to be. The skin there is red and inflamed, and the hand's two mechanical fingers don't curl as the other ones do, instead sticking out from the metal all still and stiff.
B
Harley Quinn, currently wearing a professional looking suit...or what passed for one in the Capitol complete with glittery fake gemstones sewn into the fabric. She adjusted the pair of glasses she had perched on the tip of her nose and studied him curiously as though seeing him for the first time.
And with how much time had passed since they'd been imprisoned together, it might as well be the first time. Since Susannah had vanished into District 13 Harley hadn't felt a particular need to speak with the stiff man, but this might be an interesting test for her.
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He also remembers 'Wheels on the Bus'. Hours of it. This is also not an impression which fades.
The only thing about having not seen Harley, at least up close, for so long, is that she also now reminds him of Susannah. But there's no point in being confrontational now anyway, is there?
"I don't even know what gruffy scruffy means," he points out, and rubs a hand over his face. No matter how hale his body may think itself, his mind is tired. "Suppose you take yours with nothing but sugar, hm?"
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"Three shots of espresso, four sugars, with whipped cream, cinnamon and caramel on top. They call it an Espresso Kaboom." She chuckled. "And if I'm feeling really needy a shot of whisky or some other foul tasting alcohol that blends well with coffee."
Funny how that had become more frequent lately, she blamed the Capitol.
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"Don't know what express-o is either," Roland says and shakes his head, unwilling to spend the effort puzzling out these nonsense words she keeps spitting at him. Not on purpose, those unfamiliar words are too rare and spoken too casually to be on purpose. This is only one of those consequences of living in a culture not your own, a consequence he'd been familiar with even before his extended stay in Panem.
"If that's why you came over here in spite of me, go ahead and order it." He waves his right hand toward the bar and hesitates a moment before putting that hand down, gets stuck staring at it. Hadn't been able to move that arm at all in the arena, and those two mechanical fingers had been covered in a glove. Waving his hand now, seeing the way the cogs and gears of those last two fingers shine even through their thin rubber covering, is almost like seeing them for the first time. His wandering mind realizes that he'd pretty well forgotten they were there.
Nevermind. He lowers his hand, makes the effort to focus. "I'm not going to get in your way."
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"I appreciate the permission, but that's not why I'm bugging you. I...actually wanna know how you're doing."
She doesn't give him long enough to react before adding "I know, it's like...why should I care right? Well I'm trying something new and that means trying not to irritate the hell out of people who lack a sense of humor who I would previously have gone out of my way to annoy."
So far she was not off to a great start.
"That and...well you're the only other friend of our dearly departed I know so I wanted to make sure you were holding up alright."
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Caution, of course. Caution, same as he's used since the day he'd got here and their dearly departed friend had told Roland just the kind of situation he'd been pulled into. "I'll do," he decides, "although I haven't been back in the Capitol long enough to know what I'm meant to be holding up in spite of. Has something happened that's prompted this new thing you're trying?"
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Her drink arrived and she took a sip trying to let the sweetness take the bad taste out of her mouth.
"Or it could be the fact that everyone I was close to last year is dead and gone and the only people left either hate me or just don't care. So since I can't change the world anymore...I figure I might as well try to change me."
One of the benefits of having psychological training is the ability to self diagnose with some reasonable amount of insight.
"I never thought I'd actually miss being in the arenas. At least there I could work out some of my frustrations."
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The rebel attack, if that's what happened, is interesting but nothing he can't find out more about elsewhere. She seems more inclined to speak on herself than the rebels anyway, which is fine by him. 'Those horrible rebels,' she'd called them. Does she know her dear Susannah is one of them? Doesn't matter, he decides. One such as Harley will likely be more attracted to the chaos of the war, should that war finally reach them, than to any particular side.
If she's here, and apparently willing to talk about herself, he ought to listen. Anything he can learn about this potentially chaotic element might do him good, one day. "I thought you loved those arenas, even while you were in 'em. What is it you're trying to change? The way people look at you, or what it is they see when they do it?"
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"Yeah I guess I did make it pretty clear how much fun I had. But I mean...I guess it's a matter of hindsight. Because on the one hand." She held up a hand as if she could indicate more clearly that way "You've got adventure, battle, sweat and tears and drama. Real human emotion. On the other hand, going pee outside and starving. Plus the inevitable dying thing which is only cool if it happens fast and flashy like when I saved Babs or took out Shepard after she clotheslined me. If it's slow and painful like...well both times that Susie Q put me out of my misery? Not so fun."
"Honestly? I don't even know. It's like...maybe I'm the one who needs to change right? But then if I do am I betraying everyone who died before me? Am I betraying myself by letting this place turn me into something different?"
Clearly she had too much time on her hands if she was thinking of things like this.
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"I'd be surprised if you could avoid it," he decides, moment of thought completed. "People change. Time changes them. When Cuthbert-" He pauses then, looking more surprised than he should to hear the name of that old dear friend aloud, considering he's the one who said it. Surprised that he's saying it to her. But the situation he's going to speak on does apply, it isn't as if he's saying it just to share. "We were boys together when I knew him best. He was a boy when I knew him here. And I wasn't. Foolish of me, to try and keep him close as I did expecting that nothing had changed."
Roland realizes he's looking more into the distance than at anything in the room and focuses, looking back over at her. "You've changed, even if in ways you don't know about. We all will, before our time here is done. Will it bother you so much, at the end of all this, if some of that change has been deliberate?"
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"You've got a point. I once knew a guy, he used to say the greatest power humanity had was it's ability to change." She smirked nostalgically. "Funny thing was this came from a guy who wore the same five polo shirts every week to class because it provided him with stability. I guess we all cope with stress different ways."
But back to the topic on hand.
"Someone asked me real early on in all of this to do what I did best back home. Turn things on their head. Be baffling and weird and annoying. Drive everyone around me as nuts as possible. Sounded easy at the time but the only people I've done that to are other tributes. So I guess I'm afraid if this place changes me I'll never go back to that girl who used to run circles around the best and brightest back home by being looney tunes."
"And lets face it, I dunno who I'm gonna be. And people are always afraid of what they don't know."
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"How'm I doing so far? Should I throw in more serious gazes and self deprecation? Maybe an anecdote about how you remind me of a professor I had once or how Susie forgave me in the Mall arena?" Unless he'd already seen that on the recordings of course.
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And /end <3
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And, alright, there's a secondary motive. The strange illness that afflicted the tributes at the ball still weighs on his mind. In particular that hollow feeling it gave him has haunted him. It had disappeared with the rest of the symptoms but the memories it stirred up -- already at the forefront of his mind thanks to Celebrus and some very stressful conversations -- hadn't. He wants to talk about that with someone more removed from the situation and whose reactions to it won't be based on such an intimate investment in what happened. He knows Roland is the last person who will judge him for past crimes.
"Here," he says, stooping to pick up the teapot and set it back on the counter along with the oven mitt he was smart enough to wear. "Is your hand alright?"
He can't pretend to know the first thing about technology that delicate. He can't tell from a glance if anything is wrong, but Roland might be able to.
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He isn't thinking of that, not really. Doesn't want to think on it, and there's a much more pleasant thought right here in front of him anyway. If anyone'd told him he'd been in the arena not even five weeks he wouldn't disbelieve, but it felt like longer than that. Long enough to be getting on with, anyway.
Once Signless is done with the teapot Roland steps closer, neatly avoiding the puddle of water, to slide a hand into the hair at the side of Signless' head and bend down, fully expecting no obstacles to the kiss he's intending to plant onto those black lips.
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"Missed you too. I didn't leave you waiting long, I hope?"
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"Only arrived today," he says, and runs a fond thumb over the side of Signless' face. His thumb, at least, still works as it ought, and though that hand's first two fingers hold themselves stiff and away from the side of Signless' head the rest of Roland's hand is happy to stay there, keeping him close. "And you? Must've been waiting here. Nothing too urgent, I take it."
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"I had some things I wanted to talk about-- just some leftover worries. I thought having someone else to listen and stop me from thinking in circles might help."
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Roland easily quiets his curiosity, makes a noise of agreement, and draws back, lifting his left hand to briefly squeeze Signless' shoulder as he pulls away his right. "Let me clean this up first-" But, on looking around, he stops. In a kitchen where avoxes are expected to attend to every resident's every little need, no one thinks to stock cleaning supplies. Not so much as a rag.
Roland sighs.
"There'll be a towel in the washroom. Come, you can talk while I get it. Ah- unless this is one of the times when you'd use one of your piles." He stops in the kitchen's doorway, looking over his shoulder. Foreign custom - even one he does not quite understand on the same, instinctive level that a troll would - is important, and Roland can wait to hear what Signless has to say until they've completed it.
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"It is. It's not necessary," he adds, in case Roland needs an out. He knows some troll customs are still strange to him. If Roland is going to spend more time trying to puzzle out how to pile properly than he'll spend actually discussing things it might not be the best idea. "But it would help. I haven't had a pile since..."
Since the makeshift pile the Psiioniic made out of half of Roland's closet and that, in his opinion, is far too long -- and that wasn't even a proper pile.
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Then he stands in the kitchen doorway again, taking in the clean, dry floor and the teapot and tea leaves, now back on their proper places in the cabinet. If Panem trains their military anywhere near so well as they train their servants, it's no wonder they won their war.
Nevermind. He slips into his room, closes the door behind him, and holds the large, fluffy towel out for inspection. "Didn't need it."
There's no need to walk on eggshells with Signless and mention avoxes not at all, no matter that the Initiate is still near somewhere and that Signless still grieves. But there's no reason to mention them more often than he needs to, either. "How's that coming along? Need more of those clothes to thicken it a bit?" He may be looking over Signless' shoulder and studying the budding pile as if he'd like to strip it down to its component parts, figure out how it works, but he is going to let Signless take the lead on making it. This time, at least, he's capable of doing so, and the Signless knows what kind of setup he wants.
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"It's coming along well, I think. If you could get me any of your clothes that don't have too many sequins or buttons on them, I'll add them in and then it should be ready."
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He's guessed -- correctly -- that so far Roland's only experience with piles has been the hastily-made one the Psiioniic threw together after his breakdown. It served its purpose well-enough but it was hardly exemplary of what a pile could or should be. This will be a chance to show him how piles usually go.
"Here. Climb in." He settles himself back in the dip in the center, leaving enough room next to him that Roland will (hopefully) be able to arrange his leggy self comfortably.
please use that icon always
And another moment when he does the natural thing and curls his arm around Signless' shoulders, relaxing just a little more at the feeling of their sides pressed together. And yet - still not settled. He realizes his right arm, out of habit, has hung awkwardly down this whole time, still and unmoving. Not a habit he wants to keep. Nor one he needs to, for that matter, and Roland reminds himself of this by rolling his shoulder, feeling himself make an automatic grimace at the pain his body expects there, and placing the unused hand carefully in his lap.
Right. Now he can turn to Signless, ready, and he does, marveling at the sight of him, and so close. "Now," he says, and lets go of the shoulder under his hand to slide the backs of his fingers down over Signless' face. "What troubles thee? I'd hear, if the two of us are settled well enough for your piling."
i will attempt to use it at every opportunity
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