thecapitol | [open]

Entry tags:

[open]

Who| Roland Deschain and anyone in the detainment center
What| tiny freakout and moping, mostly
Where| the Detainment Center
When| soon after the D12 battle
Warnings/Notes| nothing I'm aware of.

A.
It isn't the nights that are hard. They're a pain in the ass, but he's slept alone all through those damned arenas. Thought he'd have a break from that once he was brought back from that latest, and there was a break, for a little while. A familiar warmth and a familiar body near to his. A little while is better than he could have asked, probably. Besides, he's dealt with the nightmares on his own for a whole lifetime, hasn't he? It's time to get back into that habit again, that's all. For a while. But his mind will not allow him that illusion, not without an amendment: with luck. With luck, it'll only last a little while.

No, it's these mealtimes that are hard. For the brief time the Signless had been here with him this is where they'd made up for those nights spent alone, and be damned to anyone who wanted to whine about the display. But now, with Alain in that rebellious district, the Psiionic and Karkat, and now Signless taken there too - it's good, isn't it? It's good. They're safe.

The corner of a napkin bends up under his fingers, flattens under his hand against the table. Then that corner is pinched together, and the mechanical finger doing the pinching gives a twitch. Roland scowls down at it for a moment, sighs loud and heavily, then raises his other hand to trace the raised outline of the necklace that's barely visible underneath his shirt. It's a gesture he hates, was well sick of making by the end of that last arena and thought he was done with. It makes him feel sour, feeling the thing under his fingers. He does it anyway.

B.
They didn't waste time. It did take a little, presumably to go through what they know about him and find the perfect leverage - but now that the person with which they held him here is freed, they'd have to find something else. Of course. Roland's thinking dazedly about that, about how he'd known there'd been something coming, he'd been expecting that much, and then he turns a corner and there's a peacekeeper there. His mind is slow, focused on what he'd been shown back in that room, and it is in fact so taken up with this image that his body is caught up in it too.

Roland realizes that the moment he'd run into that peacekeeper his hands had dipped toward his hips, reaching for smooth sandalwood grips which haven't sat there for a very long time. He forces himself to raise his hands before they get down there, forces them open in a gesture of peace. Open and unarmed. He forces himself, too, to speak, knowing it ought to be done quickly.

"Cry your pardon, s-sa, sa- sir." It's good, probably, that he's made that habit of speaking his own world's words even though he knows the Capitol's machines will turn his tongue to their own. He wouldn't have thought to throw that stutter in himself, not in this state. If he needs to seem cowed now, that stutter probably helps.

"I meant nothing by it, just paying too little attention." He shakes his head, needing the extra moment to compose his expression into whatever it's supposed to be. It's a moment he doesn't usually need, but it isn't as if these people will wait until he's really able to stay on his guard. That's not what being on guard means.

C.
(Something else? Feel free to write something up yourself or contact me so I can set up a starter that works better.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Firo barely swallows the growl in his throat when Roland's shoved; he whips around to track the peacekeeper with his eyes as they walk away. All the while his hands are clenched into fists with the effort that it takes to hold back.

Not surprising. Not fucking surprising at all. But that doesn't mean he's happy about watching their guards swagger around like that.

He pauses again before speaking, unsure of how to proceed. His voice is low when he starts up again. "The hell was that about?"

'Are you okay' is more along the lines of what he's thinking, but that's not the kind of thing he'd like to ask man-to-man. Especially not in a place like this.

[ooc: I think this is good! Thank you, though.]

"Wasn't it obvious?" It's a genuine question. Was it obvious? Would he be able to tell, right now? "I wasn't-"

But the prospect of making that excuse again, telling Firo he hadn't been looking where he was going just as he'd said it to the guard in an attempt to seem harmless and afraid, makes his mouth go sour. He raises a hand, feeling the rubber coating his two metal fingers dragging over his jaw. He may not be able to fight, but Roland is going to keep his dignity.

If he can. If he can get to his cell before the rest of his reaction to that threat settles in, the threat he'd been taken aside and sat down and spoken to very calmly for. He still does not quite welcome Firo's presence, but it looks like he needs it a little while longer.

"Would you see me to my cell? Warn me if anyone more comes around a corner before I, ah, before I see them?" That Roland might not be aware enough to notice someone coming is something he does not like to admit, but if Firo is going to be clear on what Roland needs from him then he needs to.

Obvious? Not as near as Firo can tell. "What do you--?"

A question for later, probably. There's no privacy here, but there are some places that allow a little more cover, especially from the other prisoners. Every gangster learns that you have to watch your fellow inmates just as closely as you would the guards. Any weakness shown in the open is blood for the sharks.

Firo balks again at the request, but only for a second. It's strange seeing Roland anything but totally calm and assured, and it's even more strange to think that he would need Firo's help with any of that. But that's not important; all that matters is that Roland says he needs this and Firo is going to be damned if he doesn't deliver.

He bobs his head once, firm and serious. "Yeah, I've got you. Which way?"

He's already up light on his toes, neck craning back and forth for a preliminary sweep of both directions in the hall.

He knew he liked Firo. The boy doesn't ask for extended explanations, doesn't push him. Only acts.

Which way? For a second Roland can't remember which way. But then, of course he wouldn't. He hasn't done this part before. He doesn't know this building. After a couple very long seconds, he nods down the hall and starts toward it. He could use a distraction now, could very much use one, but it does not occur to Roland to ask. His head is too full. He's only focused on that cell, which offers just as little real privacy as this hallway, with one wall open as it is waiting for the invisible walls which their gaolers turn on at night. But it does have some place to sit, and once he reaches it he will lean forward, run still-shaking hands over his face, and stay that way, only breathing.

(ooc: I'm probably going to do this a lot this thread because of how unresponsive roland may be, but tell me if you wanted them to do something in the hall rather than just skipping to the cell, or if firo needs more to react to.)

Firo's quiet as well as they make their way down the hall, his focus occasionally switching from lookout to checking on how Roland is. Not good seems to be the answer, especially when Roland folds into the chair without hardly saying anything.

Firo glances over his shoulder, then moves to position himself between the opening and Roland. There's not much else he can do to block any prying eyes.

He wants to know what's going on pretty badly--not simply because of curiosity, but also because he's pretty sure he can't leave Roland like this. Shaking, silent, seemingly disoriented. And how could the guy be okay after what's happened? Roland always struck his as the resilient type of guy, but everyone has their limits.

No matter how lacking Firo tends to be in that area, this is plainly something that requires delicacy. So he doesn't ask again about the problem just yet, instead looking around the cell for something to jumpstart his mouth. "This place is cleaner than I thought it'd be, at least. I haven't seen a rat yet."

His eyes are locked on Roland, his mouth quirking up in a hesitant smile.

[ooc: Makes perfect sense! I think this is good, thank you. I'll ask if I need a little more at a later point.]

Roland looks up at the voice and blinks a couple times, mouth open a little. He's clearly forgotten that Firo was there. "Rats...? Oh. Oh, sure."

He looks around the cell as if for the first time, noting the total lack of places any vermin might crawl in. There aren't even any cracks in the walls. "I expect you won't, either. Keeping a shoddy place - even a set of cells for a gaol - seems beneath them. You won't see a rat while you're here, I think. Not unless you've got some fear of 'em."

Roland ducks his head again and pulls his hands slowly through his hair. The gesture doesn't feel quite as satisfying as it had always looked when Signless did it. Roland's hair isn't thick enough, probably, although the rubber on those two mechanical fingers makes his right hand pull a little more. He thinks for a second of Signless, who is usually here whenever Roland begins to feel this way, and then thinks on the men who'd put him in this state in the first place. Which reminds him, he'd had something to say, hadn't he?

"Then they'll show you plenty," he murmurs. "Aye. See if they don't."

Firo laughs, a little, breathless thing. Roland does have a point--monsters these people may be, but they'd never dream of letting a speck of dust get out of place. It's not all that funny, but it's all he has to laugh at.

He watches Roland feel through his hair, disappointed that his attempt has already fizzled. He'd thought that he should wait before getting to the heart of things, but now seems as good a time as any. It's never going to be easy. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and takes a deep breath. "Is that what this is about?"

"About? Oh. Mhm. Of course. Everyone has, um." He rubs his eyes, leans back and tries to focus on Firo's face. Thinks about standing up to pace, thinks better of it. "Everyone has something, don't they? I was hoping they didn't know, but of course, it isn't so easily hidden. You see. There are memories in my head, Firo, too many of them which insist that I am there and then, that the here and now is-"

He leans forward again, elbows propped on his thighs, and covers his face. Not the best posture for a man trying to distract himself from that dark space behind his eyelids, but it's better than keeping his sights on Firo's face as he explains this. It's a necessary explanation and a shameful one and Roland knows it, it shows through in his voice, a little muffled by his hands.

"It's easy to forget. Difficult to remember, without Signless reminding me. Gods, I hope- But even if he isn't, I must stay. Stay and fight. Without argument. Without tricks. I have to." And if his voice shakes over those last two words, well, maybe he's half-forgotten again whether anyone else is here. Maybe he still would have sounded like that even if he hadn't. Nevermind. It doesn't matter.

Firo feels ice run down his spine at the mention of too many memories. Could it be something like what he has with Szilard? But, no, too much of the rest of what he says doesn't align with it... Frustrating as it is, perhaps it's best that this lead is a dead end.

He tries to listen, he really does. This is actually important, after all. But there are so many things he just doesn't understand and it's all coming so fast.

He holds a hand out, even though Roland can't see it. Then he moves that hand to rest on Roland's shoulder instead, trying to push him back a bit so that he'll look up. "Hang on. Back up a minute. What's sayin' you're 'there'? And where is that supposed to be?"

At the touch Roland jerks straighter, a little, hand blurring out for the hand that'd touched him. He blinks at Firo. "There- There is, it's the door. The wind. I always feel the heat."

Goosepimples, in contrast to his words, begin to rise over Roland's arms. "But I never-" He frowns at Firo's hand, follows it to Firo's face. "It's not for you. The Tower. You came after. Didn't you?"

He gives his head a quick shake. It doesn't help. "They said they'd send me back. But I don't feel the heat. And you aren't there. I'm alone. They wouldn't send you out from their world too, would they? Then it wouldn't work. Firo, I need you to, to tell me, tell me where-" There's an end to that sentence but Roland runs out of will before he reaches it. His attention, to be fair, is pretty well spent on other things.

A door, wind, heat... And The Tower. It still means nothing to him, and Firo wonders quietly if the man is drugged. Maybe driven off the edge by whatever torture was visited upon him.

He tries to scoff, the attitude keeping his voice from wavering. "Where the hell do you get off tellin' me I'm not here, huh? Could I do this if I wasn't?"

He takes the hand he has planted on Roland and gives the man a firm but not violent shove. Both the gesture and the profanity aren't motivated by anger but by nerves.

Seriously, what the hell did they do to this guy? If Firo weren't so concerned with getting him back to reality, he'd be making plans for just how slowly he'd take his time cutting off the limbs of those responsible.

"Where--" He intends to ask Roland where he thinks he is, but that same drive makes him wonder if that was what Roland was trying to ask him. "You're in the Capitol, remember? In the prison."

Even in this state Roland reacts to the shove by grabbing for Firo's wrist. His hands, operating independent of his mind as they often do, are more than quick, and if he catches Firo's wrist his grip will not be gentle. He does not seem to notice even a little bit of what his hand is trying.

"The Capitol," he says, looking around and trying to see the here and now which the boy mentioned, instead of seeing that place which will always lie in his mind which can only see that room, and that door, can only feel the horror he always feels in that one moment. He listens for something new, some sound that might pull him away from that place, and for a long and disorienting second only hears his own unsteady breathing.

"The prison. Tell me about the prison. There's too many- too much and I can't, can't find it."

Firo grimaces, both with discomfort and disappointment--he should've seen that coming, probably. He can't avoid the grab, and he doesn't try to wiggle out of it after the fact either. Maybe it'll help ground the man.

"Well, uh..." Shit, where to even start? Luck would know how to do this is an artful manner--he's the one who read all those books. Firo figures the best he can go with is the obvious first.

"There's three walls around us--the one part a' the cell's open. No bars or anything." No door. Is that important? "They're all white. Real clean, not run-down or anything."

He turns back to Roland, eyes carefully open for any sign that he's returning to earth. ...Or any sign that he's getting worse.

Roland nods, looking toward Firo's face. His expression's sharp, very intent, but his gaze is focused somewhere just to the left of Firo's eyes. "That sounds familiar, but- Tell me your life. Something of it. Something you haven't told me. A memory wouldn't be able to do that. Prove to me I'm not, that I'm not-"

He has to take a moment, prepare himself even to say it, to even admit the possibility aloud. "That I'm not there again, there and dreaming that I'm here. Or worse-" Roland shakes his head sharply, feels his hand squeeze around something. Looks over, watches his grip around the boy's wrist.

But where is there? Firo flicks his eyes to the side and tries to peek in the direction Roland seems to be looking. He sees no clues. He feels the grip on his wrist intensify, and he lets out a slow breath as he tries to keep himself steeled from moving too much.

"About me? Uh..." He gropes around for something new. In his haste, he reaches for the first thing that comes up, something that's never far from his mind... "I've got a girl I live with back home, Ennis. And she's got a little brother, too, Czes, he stays with us. Our friends brought him as a... well, a 'present' for her after a trip. Isaac and Miria--those're their names. He met 'em on the train--the 'Flying Pussyfoot.'"

Specifics. The more specific he is, the less likely it'll seem like something from a figment of Roland's imagination, right? There's not much Firo pays attention to more closely than people, their names and faces, so he figures he should offer what he can in that area.

Roland's eyes drift across Firo's, might even for a second or two meet the boy's gaze. "What a curious name for a train," he murmurs. "Wonder if it really does fly. It's good thing they found one another. And your girl."

And then, then he really does focus on Firo, even if his gaze seems to have trouble settling there. He's smiling too, faintly but enough to put little wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. "Your girl. I'm glad to hear you had one, Firo. I didn't know."

His smile fades as that last statement takes him back here, to what he's supposed to be doing. "I had no idea. I would remember something like that. I wouldn't forget. Which means-"

He looks over to Firo's wrist again and, slowly, begins to loosen his grip. He doesn't want to. Clearly the move pains him a little, and he can not quite bring himself to finish letting go. The touch, the solid living skin under his, it's an anchor, but- "Have I hurt you?"

There's regret in his face, regret and shame. He ought to let go and take a look, check for bruising or worse, and he can not quite bring himself to.

Sadly, the train doesn't fly. Firo's opening his mouth to tell Roland about how otherwise impressive the thing is supposed to be, when--oh god.

It's hardly the thing to be worrying about now, but worry Firo does, his face turning bright red. "M-my g--? I-it's not like that! She's just--"

He trails off. It's not as if Roland's actually wrong--at least, Firo'd like it to be true. But the more important thing is that Roland looks more attentive. Less foggy, at least--did it work?

He blinks to see something like sadness or guilt on Roland's face. There's a second when he doesn't yet connect it to the grab and fears that it has something to do with that mysterious other place the man had drifted off to. When he realizes, he's quick to shake his head. This is something he'll gladly put up with if there was a chance that it helped.

"No. I didn't even feel it." He responds quickly. He tries to smile, and it's easier now than it ever has been recently; he's glad to see Roland looking a little more present. For all their other problems, this is something to be happy for.

It's not that Roland doesn't trust Firo, but that response was fairly quick. Both Roland's shame and his more natural urge to take care of his own come together and he tries to pull Firo's wrist - and, subsequently, Firo - closer, down in front of his face. He turns it slowly over, prodding here and there with careful fingers.

"When I- When this happens," he begins, not looking up, "my mind is- I'm sorry, Firo. You deserve a better explanation, but I don't know that I can give it. The Capitolites, they didn't do this to me. They only discovered it. I was hoping they wouldn't, but-"

Roland pauses, shakes his head. "I was foolish. It's happened a couple times since I arrived in Panem. Three. Three times. If I remember rightly, which- well. In any case, these people have each in their records. Suppose it was only a matter of looking through those records and finding it. There's a place. A place I've been. A place I can't- I won't- A place they'll send me. So they say. If they've sent me already-"

He's squeezing Firo's wrist again, he notices. Noticing it brings him back. He hasn't looked up from what may or may not be Firo's bruising yet, and as he talks Roland bows his head. "A gunslinger ought to have more control than this. Especially toward one who's only trying to help. Firo Prochainezo, I cry your pardon."

It's a name he doesn't usually use, a set of sounds which, while new, is much more at home on his tongue than any of the speech Panem forces him into. While Firo's never actually told it to him he's heard the man's full name, heard Panem's announcers using it, and a statement like the one Roland just made is not quite complete without one.

Edited (ugh sorry 2nd edit to make this a bit more canon compliant re roland's italian accent) 2015-12-14 00:04 (UTC)

He moves forward with the pull, trying to hold still as Roland pokes around. The fussing reminds him of Sena patching him up back when he was younger, a sudden pang of nostalgia that's quickly overtaken by the present.

Damn. He knows it's serious when someone's bothering with his full name. While he's secretly pleased to hear somebody say it so well, he blinks, taken aback by the formality. He shakes his head. "N-no... You don't hafta make it out like it's some big deal. But, sure, you've got my pardon if you want it."

Is that how he's supposed to respond to that? He hopes it's enough. There is a very small handful of people Firo actually cares about being polite to. Roland is lucky enough to be in that category.

It's the other stuff he's more worried about, though, and more eager to respond to. He at least has an idea about where to start. "They haven't sent you already. You're here." He doesn't want to risk Roland sliding back into that place, if it really is so much worse than here. "Who even knows if they can send you back?"

The pardon is enough and on hearing it Roland's posture loosens, a large piece of his tension draining out of him. So rarely does anyone react that way - they all tell him they hadn't needed him to ask it in the first place, and Roland tolerates this because for the most part it isn't the way of their world, they've no way of knowing. But hearing it accepted, for once, and given, rather than batted away in a fit of nervous discomfort, it sets something a little easier within him.

"I wouldn't know if they had," he says absently, trying to hold on to the fact of Firo's pardon with his conscious mind so he can say this without thinking. "Not after, not after, not-"

He squeezes his eyes shut but only very briefly, slides his grip from Firo's wrist to his hand and squeezes that too, frowns, pained, up at Firo's face.

"Tell me of your girl. Sit on the bed and stay a while, if you would. I shouldn't like to be alone just now. Her name was - what was it?" He sighs, not liking the gaps and holes which now run though his usually agile mind and knowing very well that the cause of those gaps is very clear to both of them. "Sorry, Firo, I don't recall. Sit, and tell me of her."

Roland doesn't even need to ask. All the same, Firo's relieved for the invitation; there's a good chance he'd insist on hanging around anyway, but it's easier to be welcome.

He nods and eases down onto the bed. "All right." He's reluctant to disentangle himself from Roland's grip, so he doesn't, leaving his hand wherever Roland wants to keep it. He thinks it helped, at least a little, and the way Roland still seems to falter scares him just a little--he has to do whatever he can to keep him here.

"Ennis. That's her name." Where to go from there? The difficulty is that everything about Ennis is important to Firo, but he imagines there are some things about her that won't help Roland much at all.

"She's got short, red hair. Wears a black suit all the time, which a lotta women don't really do back where we're from. Really pretty." He doesn't notice he's saying it until it's already out of his mouth; his whole face turns red again.

"Um... Ever since she... lost her old boss and started stayin' with me, she spends most of the day helpin' out at our friends' resturaunt or takin' care of Czes. He's the kid I mentioned. She's a lot better with him than I am--more patient, I guess." He continues, with much more certainty, "It doesn't matter what she did before. She's a good person. Kind, too. I think that's why he likes her."

Roland listens closely, as if what Firo has to say to him is news of the utmost importance. It is. It's worth noting, too, that after Firo's first couple sentences Roland's eyes start wandering over to the side and staring into the distance only a little; after a couple more, they hardly do it at all.

Part of his mind is remembering the room where they had told him, convinced him, they know where he came from, if he shows the first inch of disloyalty, if he is ungrateful, they will send him back, they will send him back-

Firo's hand is in his, sitting comfortably between the two of them. Roland squeezes it, and the motion stops his own hand trembling.

"She does sound very fair. And your, ah, your Czes? What else does he like about her?" Even frightened and only half-calm as he is, Roland has spoken to young men who're taken with a woman before. He knows the way of it and he's glad, too, to hear. Many a man has fallen for a prostitute, in his and every world - for that, from the way of Firo's speech, is what Roland is assuming Ennis did before - but fewer fall before even bedding her. He's assuming that, too, and does not think that he is wrong. He wonders if he should mention it. There are few things, after all, that take a man further from horror and dread than watching a boy blush when asked a little of his young love.

Firo notes the declining wandering of the eyes with satisfaction. That has to be a good sign, even if the guy isn't completely relaxed.

Talking about what she means to Czes is almost easier. This whole crush thing is, after all, pretty embarrassing. "What else? Well... She's really smart, too. He's a sharp kid, knows a lotta random things, and I guess she's more on his level. She reads a lot, when she has time. But she'll go out and do things, too."

He pauses, something more important coming to mind. "...And he can trust her, I think. He showed up outta nowhere, but she doesn't ask him any questions or anything. She just looks out for him without askin' anything for herself."

Firo doesn't realize the full depth of Czes's trust problems, but the kid does put off the impression of almost being relaxed around her. And no one could miss the selfless care that Ennis gives him. Firo smiles just thinking of it.

Roland watches Firo smiling and his own lips twitch. Not much, but they do. True smiling is rare in this place, and even now - especially now - it's good to see it. "So your Ennis is kind, and intelligent, and beautiful. What else? Doesn't your lady-love have any faults?"

Not that he's looking for any. What he's looking for is Firo's reaction to the question and he's looking very closely. Too closely, maybe for such a light topic, but turning the full and considerable force of his focus away from- turning it toward something new is quite a job, and though it's getting easier, Roland looks at Firo like a man who's afraid to look away.

It's hard to look away from that intensity but hard to look at it too. Firo does both, his eyes cagily glancing around as he tries a casual shrug. This is still better than Roland looking off into nothing, at least, so Firo is determined to his best in bearing it.

Does Roland fear that she's made up, maybe? A fictional woman--and Firo is mildly offended just thinking about this--probably wouldn't be enough to keep the guy together in reality. Or maybe it's just an idle question. There are still gaps in Firo's picture of the situation, something he doesn't mind quite as much when he gets to speak on such a lovely topic.

Firo is, at least, not blind enough to pretend that all his friends are perfect. There is a little something about Ennis that stands out as not quite right...

He rests one elbow on his knee to slouch. Then forces himself to sit up straight to continue keeping an eye on his friend. "She doesn't look out for herself enough. Not that she can't, but she's... She's just too hard on herself. She acts like she doesn't deserve things."

Things as basic as life or the ability to act a little selfishly. And Firo doesn't want that for her, especially not when she can finally taste freedom after living for Szilard her whole life. It makes him ache even more knowing how well she can hide such feelings.

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