thecapitol | Open!

Entry tags:

firo prochainezo

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Who| Firo Prochainezo and you!
What| Dealing with prison life
Where| Detention Center
When| Covering the week before the District 12 mission and the week after
Warnings/Notes| Likely talk of imprisonment, war, and usual Capitol awfulness

Having lived life the way he does, Firo’s not surprised to be in prison. Again. He would, however, be lying if he tried to say he was not incredibly displeased with this turn of events. For one, what was the point in being in this place as opposed to Alcatraz? At least back home he was helping Ennis as part of his imprisonment. The other, even bigger reason is that his friends are now scattered to the winds and he’s unable to do a thing about it.

It really, really sucks.

But what can you do? Though the thought of finally letting go of his control and showing the Capitol just what he thinks of them is tempting, it’s not on the table. Because to risk his neck like this is to risk Ennis’s and he’s not prepared to do that to her. So for now, it seems that quiet acceptance it is.

At their break for meal time, Firo tries to take full advantage of the ambient distractions to keep from thinking too hard about the situation they’re in. Whether they’re friend or stranger, Firo grunts to the person next to him, “I’m surprised they don’t have us doin’ the lockstep. That still happen in prisons where you’re from?”

Not to imply that you look like an expert or anything, buddy, but a guy has to kill time somehow.

[Closed to Eowyn]

There aren't many towering Amazons hanging around Panem, so Eowyn is usually pretty easy to find. Firo's never been more grateful for this fact than he is right now. She sticks right out when the soldiers are let go for their free time, and he makes his way over to her as quickly as he can without prompting suspicious looks from the guards.

When he's nearly at her side, he waves. "Hey." He hesitates, unsure on how to continue. Asking her if she's okay would just be stupid--are any of them okay right now? But he has to say something. "...How're you settlin' in?"

She's tough, he knows. But he also knows that this likely isn't the kind of place someone like her would be used to. Hell, he isn't even used to it.

[ooc: If you’d like a more tailored/specific prompt, just message me or go ahead and make something up!]

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The good thing is, he knows what he's fighting for now. It's unfortunate that it took him as long as it did, that he spent so long being confused and pulled to the wrong side, and it's unfortunate that they had to do all the things they did to fix him, but now he knows. They helped him. They made him all better.

... mostly. He still has the headaches. But they fixed his stuttering. They stopped his anxiety from constantly overwhelming him, a dull ache underneath now. And they corrected him - they saved him. Now they're taking care of him. They've given him a nice room, decent amenities. It's only fair that he return the favour.

Even if the food leaves something to be desired, sitting there untouched on his tray as Jeremy stares at it like it's about to start doing backflips in front of him any moment now. But he is startled from his thoughts when the fellow at the table beside him starts talking to him out of nowhere, and at first he isn't entirely sure what he's asking, stuck in that familiar fog for a brief moment before it clicks. Strange topic for a conversation starter - doesn't he appreciate what the Capitol is doing for them?

"Not sure ..." Jeremy answers with a shrug, turning his gaze back to the food tray in front of him. "Never been. Bad guys keep getting away with it."

That part in particular bothered him the most, and he was grateful for the reminder.

The food is worse than that of Alcatraz; to be fair, the prison set a surprisingly high bar for food quality. But Firo digs in anyway as he listens carefully to the man's response. It's definitely not quite what he expects. Who's worrying about putting more people away at a time like this?

"Bad guys, huh?" Firo smirks faintly, raising an eyebrow. "Who're you thinkin' of?"

Firo knows that he likely fits the category, whether in Panem or back home. It's the kind of thing that rarely bothers him--really only when it came to things as bad as murder. Otherwise, it was something that was a little fun to poke people about. And fun was in such short supply here.

She looks at him for a long, long moment, genuinely unsure how to answer. Her pride stops her from telling the truth where their captors can hear her, but it lingers at the tip of her tongue, a bitter taste waiting to be loosed: Like an eagle settles into a cage, or the wind into a box. Like my skin is too tight, like the only way to breathe is to rip down these walls, with my bare hands if need be. Like settling into deep-freeze, but knowing it every moment. I would kill or die for one breath of free air, for a world with more colour than this blankness, for the right to choose my fate.

"Restless," she says, at last. It's the most honest she can be without baring her soul, and besides, there's no point hiding it. "I take poorly to confinement. I think I begin to wear a groove into my cell's floor with pacing." She doesn't smile. "And you?"

He thinks he understands that long pause, and he looks away to the wall as he waits for her answer. It sucks, not being able to really know how she feels, but of course you have to hide your feelings in a place like this. He forgets that this isn't Alcatraz and that next to none of their fellow prisoners are actually criminals. All the same, there are the guards to worry about too.

He finally looks back at her after she answers; his attempt to smile results in a lopsided little thing that probably isn't very convincing. "I won't lie to you and tell you that it ever gets good... but you do get used to it. After a while. And it could be a lot worse, don't you think?"

No. No, she doesn't think it could. She cannot think of anything less bearable than mouldering away in silence and stillness day after day. Torture is better, death is better. Anything is better.

She thins her lips, takes a deep breath in through her nose. "I suppose they think it mercy," is all she can bring herself to say, the closest she can come to accepting the Capitol's decision.

He sighs, not succeeding in keeping all of the resentment out of his voice. "I guess they do." In a way, Firo does wonder if this is really such a nice alternative to being killed outright. At least then they'd have their dignity.

...But, no, they have to keep going. At least, he does, for his friends back home, and he'd like her to keep going with him. Still, he can see that she doesn't seem much convinced. While he hates to come even close to defending the Capitol, he feels the need to try to brighten things up for her.

"I mean, at the place back home there was this special row a' cells called 'The Hole.' No light at all. Sometimes they'd chain guys to the wall so that they couldn't even move. The only way to tell the time was by when you got your food, and then the guards would sometimes switch up the times just to mess with you." He bobs his head. "At least we're not there, huh? I knew a guy who got stuck there for days."

There. That's got to be more convincing. He looks up at her hopefully; hearing about such an awful place should make this one seem more bearable by contrast, he hopes. It's how he tends to stay positive, and he doesn't realize that it may backfire with other people.

Actually, it works. Her smile is thin and hard, but a smile nonetheless, even if it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You ought not to give them ideas," she chides him, but gently. What he's describing sounds like hell on earth to her, a place pulled from her worst nightmares. Nothing but silence, and the crushing weight of your own uselessness, and no light or air.

By comparison, she can almost make-believe that this place isn't so bad. At least here she can breathe. She's not at all sure she could even survive a cell like the one he describes; thinks she might rather dash her own brains out against the wall.

"What bites at me," she tells him, with a sigh, "is this uselessness. I do not ask for a sword or a spear. I am not that stupid, and nor are they. But I hate this idleness. If they would only give us something to do..."

A smile is something! He does his best to return it. "You're probably right." What an awful thing that would be, he realizes as he suppresses a shudder.

He grunts his agreement, scowling. "Yeah. There's nothin' to make the time pass and--" And it means they're not helping anyone. Particularly the people he knows they both want to help: their friends and the rebels. "...And there's just no point. All this hangin' around, we're not doin' any good to anybody."

"Don't think they'd be very happy if we tried to practice a fight even without weapons." He tries to smile wryly, like it's a joke. It kind of is, because saying anything with substance right now is hard.

"I doubt they would." Éowyn sighs. "Though it chafes to accept it so meekly. I have never been so useless." Even in Edoras, in the worst times, she'd never been without a duty: she'd kept the accounts, organised the household, seen to her uncle's care, been useful. She longs for a sword or spear to fill her hands, but she'd settle for a loom, or a needle, or something. She would give much to be allowed to muck out a stable, or sweep a floor, or do anything but pace and seethe.

"Do you think," she says after a moment, a little tightly, "they would give us something, if we asked? Even if it was only wool to spin or clothes to mend. Better that than idleness and atrophy."

He folds his arms around himself, nodding in sympathy and agreement. This is torture in more ways than one, especially for active spirits.

"You'd really wanna do somethin' like that?" For them? is the objection not so well-hidden in his voice and scrunched-together eyebrows.

"No," she admits. "But I would sooner that than nothing at all. The thought of stagnating here, hobbled and caged..." It makes her skin crawl. She will never fight for the Capitol. Nothing will induce her to that (or so she believes, at least), but to have something smaller to do... that, she could bear. And it speaks to how much she hates this place and her own activity that she would stoop even to that. "I have never dealt well with boredom."

She will go insane. She can feel it building, like a shadow gathering force between her ribs.

It occurs to him rather belatedly that not everyone is from the same world with the same prisons and the same legal systems. Panem was more than proof of that, of course, but Jeremy was absorbed in his thoughts and the fog in his mind was thick. It took a long minute before he even remembered he was having a conversation with another person at the same table.

"Nobody important," Jeremy replies once his head clears. He looks as though he's still in somewhat of a daze, and he hasn't touched much of the food on his plate. "Someone where I came from. They did something terrible, and they were never caught."

He definitely doesn't like that person, that's for certain.

"Doesn't matter anymore, though. Can't do anything about it from here."

He smirks. Not dealing well with boredom? "You coulda' fooled me."

"I think if you told 'em you wanted to do somethin', they'd tear it up in front a' your face just to spite you." Bitter? No way.

But maybe... He doesn't know if memories will drive her deeper into despair, but he figures this is worth a shot. It certainly won't make them any more bored. "Is that the way you killed time back at home? It's kinda hard to imagine that..." He has a difficult time imagining her doing many things meekly and quietly.

"And yet." She shakes her head. "I was never killing time. It felt that way, often, but... when Théoden King ailed, I spent years running the court. I helped in the kitchens, spun and wove with the other women, I saw to it that the hall was clean and well-thatched, I mended my clothes and the King's linens. Stood in the shadows and watched with meekly downcast eyes." There's no joy or humour in her smile, only rueful bitterness. "I hated it. Being meek and mild, standing back, being soft and overlooked. But I did it, because it needed doing, and because it was better than sitting and stewing. It was better being forgotten than being useless. Here, I do not even have that choice."

"No, you can't." Firo shrugs and holds his hands up. What're you gonna do?

"But you could tell me about it, to pass the time." Sure, it's no great justice like putting a presumably guilty guy in the slammer, but Firo would find it a good turn. "Actually, there was a guy around here who had kind of a similar problem."

Phil had mentioned the killer and how the man got off scott-free. Of course, that story was so bizarre that he doubted this guy could come close or top it.

He nods as he listens quietly. "...Yeah, I get it. At least it was somethin'. Sorry." He normally wouldn't apologize about possibly sounding dismissive of someone's activities, but Eowyn is special. And she has a point that makes all too much sense in here.

He lowers his voice. "And you're really not gonna fight if they offer?"

He respects her for it. If anything, he's certain that his decision to go along with their offer is worse than useless--he'll be working against the closest thing to good this world has.

He's not surprised that he's not the only one. Justice systems seem to be heavily flawed no matter what type of world one comes from. It's remarkable than Panem has managed their own so well in comparison - at least they're in the process of making the guilty ones pay for their crimes.

"Serial killer," Jeremy replies, the disgust obvious in his tone and the dinner fork in his hand in a tight grip. Some details didn't have to be shared - too gruesome, too unpleasant, and just too sad. "I was trying to catch him. Almost had him, too."

Then he points to the set of dark, circular scars making a line across is forehead. "But he got rid of me first."

"I will not," she says, and lifts her chin, as if pride can shield her from the consequences of that choice. "There are lengths I will not go to, not even in this hell. This is not our fight, and I am not theirs to order."

A bold assertion. Especially since she doesn't go out of her way to lower her voice, either. So far as she's concerned, the time for subtlety is passing by the day.

Another one, seriously? Firo raises both eyebrows, more with surprise than horror. He wonders to himself if Panem just likes to pick people with the weirdest lives.

Resting his chin on his palm, his eyes idly wander over the scars.

"Personal or business? Why you were goin' after him, I mean."

He asks both because he's curious about the story and because he's curious if this guy is a lawman or just some righteous everyday guy.

Firo moves to rest his hand on her shoulder. "I'm not gonna try to talk you into it, so quiet down, okay? I don't want you gettin' carted away."

He wishes he could say the same things as her and mean them; maybe then he'd feel less like the scum of the earth. Because she's right, this isn't their fight at all.

"Just thought I'd ask. I can't see why they'd trust any of us, but... seems like it's the only thing they've got in mind for us to do."

"It does," she agrees, and seems to visibly settle, albeit back into depression rather than peace. If they only have fighting in mind, and she refuses to fight, then the days are set to continue in this long, interminable stretch, a blank white expanse stretching on for who knows how long. "Will you? If they ask?"

... huh. That was a very good question.

Jeremy had no personal connection to those children, he didn't know anyone in the restaurant at all. He'd been brand new to the job, and everything had just happened so fast. He felt compelled to do something, to try and figure out what exactly was going on, but looking back on it now, there was no real reason for him to risk his own life trying to solve a mystery. A mystery that made him look utterly insane to anyone who would've looked at his notes.

"I don't really know," he eventually answers. "Guess I just ... wanted to help."

Weird. "Sorry, it doesn't really make much sense."

Firo squares his shoulders and looks straight ahead. He doesn't relish having to give this answer, but it's only fair.

"It's not our fight. So that means I have to set aside anything I feel personally and do what's best for my Family."

And nobody else. Nobody else matters. He tries to tell himself that to turn off the guilt, but he can still feel that uneasy clenching in his chest. This is wrong, and he knows it.

"So, yeah. I will fight for 'em if that's what gets me home."

She's quiet for several moments. That isn't what she wants to hear, and it's clear, but she can understand. It might be easier if she couldn't, if she could blame him. As it is, it makes her wonder whether her choice is the right one.

Home. With Faramir, and Éomer, and Elessar and Arwen, with open horizons and her own horses to ride and no-one watching her every second of every day. This is not her world, not her responsibility. Why is she so set on saving it, when she could be putting her energy into returning home?

She reaches out and squeezes Firo's shoulder, taking a deep breath. "Then I wish you all the luck in the world, when it comes to it."

Once he's found Firo in the cafeteria, Jack slumps into the seat next to him. He'd come out to the detention center to visit, to make sure his friends hadn't gotten themselves into trouble with all the chaos and upheaval that gathered like dark storm clouds over the Capitol.

Or killed, because that could be just as likely with how things were nowadays.

"Haven't heard of that one, for all the prisons I've been in. What's it entail?" He's acting like his usual self, the picture of total nonchalance, as if nothing were different.

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