thecapitol | [closed]

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Who| Roland Deschain and Firo Prochainezo
What| talking about sad things
Where| the detainment center
When| late february
Warnings/Notes| nothing really, mostly talk of death and war, etc

When he's not trying to keep his body in good condition - and there's something insulting about the fact that he has to, that becoming withered and weak and no longer being able to count on his body, the one thing which, through everything, he has always been able to depend on, is even a danger here, on top of everything else - Roland is trying to keep busy. Not much way to do that, in this place, but it's all he has. He sits in this prison's open rooms, where at least other prisoners can come and go, where there are people.

He doesn't pay much attention to them. Everyone he'd care to pay attention to is gone. Nearly everyone. He only needs them to be there, needs the guards to be there, too, a reminder. Something to keep him still.

Signless is still out there, somewhere. Alain is still out there. Alive and fighting. They might be, anyway. Doesn't help as much as he needs it to.

He takes apart those two mechanical fingers, sometimes, sets all the pieces out very neatly, cleans them, puts them back. The first time he'd taken them apart in this place with the dull, sorry excuses for tools which are all the guards will let him use, Signless had just returned. He'd needed the other man's hands to keep his own steady. Roland's hands are very steady, now.

Other times he sews. He doesn't need to. Roland hadn't thought, back before this Panem's rot had broken into real war, that he could give less of a shit about clothes than he did then. But the guards will let him use a needle, they will let him have thread, and so when the cogs and gears of those two fingers are as shining and clean as they are going to get he sews useless loops around the edges of the collar and sleeves and every edge he can find. Something to do.

Something to keep him busy, and he does it all with singleminded focus, with the sort of look about him that tends to make anyone passing take a second look at whatever's in his hand, trying to figure out what it is that's so important about thread or needle or splayed out metal bits of him. He pays no mind.

This does not mean he is not aware, of course. If he has nothing else, he has his instincts. He has always had those, and it would take more than even this long, slow sink into this mire of isolation and grief to convince him to abandon them. A part of him is aware of anyone entering whichever room he's in, will note it on the rare occasion that it is someone he cares to know. He'll look up, watch with an intent, steady focus, and if they pass by he will look back down at his hands and start them moving again. Something to do.

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Firo doubts that; Luck's about as smart as Roland and he can't be more than a few months older than Firo. He shakes his head, laughing. "I don't know about that. I know some things, though. I could teach you how to pick a pocket sometime."

Roland's taught him so much. It's only fair that Firo teach him something in return.

That sounds like that old familiar habit, habit of prisoners, of soldiers, of those in situations which some deep part of them does not expect to come out from. Making plans. Building somedays between one another, as Roland has done before. In this very building, too.

Well. Maybe Roland's still got one or two somedays left in him.

"Will you? Very kind. Maybe then you'll let me finish teaching you how to make a stitch." And here Roland casts his eyes at Firo's 'work' with Roland's shirt, expression dry. There's a shirt he may not be wearing any time soon.

"Besides, what makes you so quick to assume I don't already know?"

Firo follows his eyes and sighs at the sight of his own work. Well, he tried, didn't he? "...Fine, yeah. But I thought you weren't gonna give me the answers?"

Hang on, though--the next thing Roland says is more interesting than being pouty. Firo blinks; something like childish glee spreads over his face, and he jostles Roland's side. "Come on, you? Are you serious?"

This is great. Maybe Roland isn't such a stick in the mud.

"Been a while, of course, I've let the skill lie fallow a long time. Maybe too long. Probably couldn't do it with these fingers."

He wiggles the fingers of his right hand, watching the two metal ones move, but not feeling them. No sensation there. That'd make things harder.

"Why not me?" Again, Roland recognizes that they've hit one of those spaces where he isn't sure how Firo sees him. He doesn't mind, really. But it's interesting.

"Don't get me wrong, mostly I just don't think about how you're a cop." Isn't he gracious, forgiving Roland his sins? He shrugs, still grinning at this revelation. "But you are, and I thought you were the straight arrow type."

Like Edward and Victor but not terrible. They're not the best of company, in Firo's opinion, which is why he tends to put Roland in his own category. An exception.

"Besides, based on what you said just now, I wouldn't think a guy who just stole stuff like honey would need to know how to pickpocket."

"I've needed to know a great many things, in my time. But your cops, Firo." Roland straightens a little, turning toward Firo. This may be a silly little conversation, mostly without point, but it may be exactly what Roland needs. He's not thinking of anything much, right now. He's thinking of Firo, his friend warm and close beside him. He's thinking of Firo's world, his cops which are so like, and maybe so unlike, the old gunslingers of his own world. Compare him to the Roland of perhaps a quarter of an hour ago and he's much changed: his posture's easier, his expression lighter. The sorrow's there, that trapped feeling, that restlessness, but he isn't thinking on it just now, and it almost doesn't show.

What shows is curiosity, focus. This is another world, another culture, the home of a man he loves. That makes it important. "Are there some skills they're forbidden from learning? I may be like them, but I'm not of them, exactly. Haven't asked you much about them, either, have I? Perhaps I should have."

Firo's never sure what's going to be important with Roland, so he takes note of the straightening, the sudden change in his expression. There's a lot he just can't understand about his friend, but he can at least use those scraps of information to guide him to what he hopes is the best thing.

That's why, as well, he puts a finger to his chin and gives the question much more thought than he otherwise would. "I don't think so, not really. They can pretty much do whatever they want--Edward even used me to catch a murderer once and took all the credit." He folds his arms. Maybe elbowing Roland a bit, but he figures it's more important to be close than to avoid that.

"A guy on his beat--that's the area they patrol--does whatever. They can pinch stuff from shops, get free drinks, anything. I don't think they really bother with pickpocketing. A lotta guys don't, even guys in my Family or other... well, you know. People like me. With the cops, I guess they never have to be that sneaky."

He looks back at Roland, carefully watching his expression.

Edited 2016-05-28 05:16 (UTC)

The expression Firo will see is a thoughtful one. "No wonder you thought so little of me when you found out what I am, if that's what it means to you. A man in my own world, back in the days of my home - well, there probably were plenty of sheriffs who acted so, they and the men who followed them. Especially in the outer baronies. But a gunslinger caught making a habit of those kinds of acts would have been sent west, stripped of his guns and his title. Hm. Is that why you think I was the kind of boy who insisted on following every rule, because the men of law in your world wouldn't know honor if it bit 'em on the ass?"

“I keep tellin’ you, I don’t think anything bad of you. You’re different.” They’re beefless, remember?

He chuckles, “Yeah, I guess that’s why.” His expression becomes a touch more contemplative—and much more skeptical. “They’d really do that to a gunslinger? What if he paid ‘em off?”

Quickly, “No offense or anything.” Roland seems to have just as much admiration for the customs of his people as Firo does for his own. But it’s hard for Firo to reconcile that with the realities of life he knows. “That stuff never happens to people back home—especially if they’re high up there.” And he’s gotten the impression that the gunslingers definitely are.

"In your world, aye. Suppose it must have happened in mine, too, but never to a one of us." Roland's thoughtful, still, there's no reason to fear Roland being offended. Firo knows very little about Roland's world, and how would Roland explain? He knows that there are things no true gunslinger would ever do, simply by virtue of who they are. What they are. For many people - not only those from other worlds - this is not enough, they need it explained and laid out in front of them in great detail. Roland does not have that detail to lay in front of anyone. He only shrugs. He knows what he knows.

"There'd have been no one to pay off, anyway. The Lord of Light, even before my father gained the title, always was himself a gunslinger. Who else would there have been to go to? Was that corruption so great in your world, Firo? Or only your part of it?"

Edited 2016-05-31 17:53 (UTC)

Likely only his part of it, but his part of it is all Firo knows. He doesn't care for things that don't affect his friends or Family, and corruption is an integral part of that little world. He shrugs. "Almost everybody's got their price if you look hard enough. We never could pay off Edward, but his supervisors were on the take."

Which is why the feds took him. Thinking of that, Firo thinks he may be able to understand this gunslinger stuff a little more.

"So it's like The Bureau of Investigation. Gunslingers only take guys who won't take bribes? And then the 'Lord of Light' is the best gunslinger?" Lord of Light, huh? Well, there's a lofty title if Firo's ever heard one--it sounds more like a king than a president. So Roland's some sort of prince or something. Weird.

The wrinkles on Roland's face crease and stretch, and- Is this a smile? A wide, true one? Well, that last question is one he wasn't expecting. Like something a child would ask. Firo is no child, of course, and would take deep offense at the comparison. He supposes it's a reasonable question, to someone who wasn't raised in the heart of Gilead, as Roland and his old friends were.

"Are you trying to flatter me, Firo? Through my father?" Roland shakes his head, his grin lingering and fading out slow. "I don't know anything about 'best'. It's more complex than that. There were probably more politics involved than I appreciated at the time, but by the time I was growing old enough to understand that part of it the time of politicing was over. But as to your other question, no, gunslingers didn't take men. They took boys. Added to our ranks with the most skilled boys from every part of In-World, tutored the whole of us alongside the children of Gilead's lords and ladies and taught us, besides. It wasn't a matter of tasking men to believe in one thing or another only once they were chosen. We always knew what honor meant, how to hold it up and use it where we could. Most of us."

"But this Bureau of yours. They're a different animal from your cops? What do they investigate?"

Edited 2016-06-03 03:35 (UTC)

Smiling! Firo hadn’t intended it to be funny, but he’ll take it if it means Roland can smile like that. For his part, he watches the display with a baffled grin and a shrug. "No, I just wasn't sure how else you'd do it. That's how we got our boss." Kind of. It helped that Molsa Martillo was the one who started the Family, but Firo's pretty sure he's the best.

Firo beams even more at the description of their training, pleased. Because that sounds a lot more like how his Family does things—at least with him—than how the government does. He likes finding that Roland's people may have more in common with his own than the law of his world. If the cops and feds were in the business of taking in kids and teaching them their ways, perhaps Firo’s life would’ve been very different. "And that's why you went to school so much... Sounds more important than just math and stuff."

When it comes back to the BI, though, no more smiling. He just shrugs. “Us. People like bank robbers or people who cross state lines, too. The cops look at stuff in the city, but the feds--the Bureau--look at stuff all over the country.”

Roland nods. "'Maths and stuff' can be more useful than you make it sound. But your Bureau. That sounds like the gunslingers of old, back when my grandfathers patrolled the very edges of the outer baronies. Is speaking on them truly so terrible?" Because he did notice the way that smile disappeared. His voice is dry and amused because, mostly, he's teasing. Partly, he really does want to know.

“Yeah, but it’s not as important. A lotta people don’t just pick up how to be a stand-up guy.” Math, by comparison, is a relatively common skill.

Much as Firo likes to think he can do his friendly duty by amusing Roland, that tone only makes him pout. “Don't say they're too similar to you guys..." That's just disappointing. "And of course it is. I know some of ‘em and they’re bastards.”

"I've been called a bastard too. Not by you, though I suppose that's only a matter of time." He shrugs, amusement still lingering in his voice. "I'll not be investigating your Family any time soon, anyhow, so any similarities shouldn't worry you overmuch. I could promise you so, if it would ease your mind."

Matter of time? If Firo were more inclined to even entertain this notion, he might concede that he could definitely see how Roland--with his deadpan voice and disappointed frowns and blunt remarks--would be considered a bastard by some. Many, probably. But he doesn't go down that path of thought, instead stiffening with offense. Does Roland really think he thinks that? After all this time?

"I don't think you're a bastard. I don't have a problem with you--you're my friend."

Roland's different from Edward and Victor and all of them. And that's good enough for Firo.

That requires a moment of study. Roland's smiling a little and looking surprised, too, because he is. It says something about him, something even Roland can figure, that this sentence feels so alien, and it probably says something about Firo, too, that he'd even say it. Or at least, that he'd say it to Roland. Ah, well. "You say that as if where one goes, the other must follow."

It's still very strange. "I've never had a friend say such a thing to me. Nevermind it. You'll understand some day."

"I used to hate hearing those words as a child," he adds, as it occurs to him. "Ought not have said it now, I guess. Some day is never any help with the here and now. Do you think so of all your friends, Firo? That you've no problem with them, so long as the two of you are friends?"

Firo blinks. "Well, maybe I'd call someone like Claire or Berga one if we're jokin' around... But not like that." 'That' being how he'd say it and mean it with real hatred for his law enforcement acquaintances. It's strange to him, too, because Roland's more a friend like Maiza to him--the kind you may joke around a bit with, but always respectfully.

Though he'd hesitate to call himself a child now, Firo does hate to hear about this supposed far-off understanding too. Indeed, he frowns right as Roland says those words. Yeah, like that's something he's never heard before. The retraction, though, is something he's never heard--no sarcasm here--so the look quickly softens.

"Nah, not exactly. Me and the Gandor brothers, we've been friends our whole lives, but we're in different Families. So we know we could have to kill each other one day if we go to war. But we've got an alliance now, so that's probably not gonna happen."

Now time for his questions, because he's pretty sure he's not the weird one in this matter. "Do all your friends say they hate you that much?"

"It isn't about wanting to kill." Hm. This needs some work, following Firo's thought here. "Most of those who've loved me have been gunslingers. Most of them. Maybe that has something to do with it. But hatred doesn't always choke out love, Firo. The two can live in the same heart, for the same man. Or woman. Have you never felt so?"

Enjoy that skinny little elbow suddenly trying to jab you in your skinny little ribs, Roland. Though Firo finds it harder to maneuver when he's already pressed against him, he tries to make it work. “Oh, come on, your lectures aren’t bad enough to make me hate you.” He grins. He’s funny, right?

“Um, seriously, though, I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about. Shouldn’t all your gunslinger guys not hate you even more than anybody else?” It’s hard to say ‘love,’ especially when talking like this, but Firo thinks his point stands. Roland’s friends being his fellow gunslingers explains nothing; it just makes it more confusing.

Roland shifts automatically away from the jab, blinking down at Firo's elbow as if it surprises him. It does. It's pleased surprise, though, getting used to the gesture, a tease he hasn't had aimed at him in what feels like a fairly long time. Then he settles against Firo again and thinks, because here's another fact of life he hadn't really thought on until Firo hadn't understood it.

"I can't explain it, Firo. Not with words. Part of it is that the gunslingers were the ones who knew me best. But perhaps some men simply aren't capable of feeling that way even for one they know very well. Perhaps you're one of them." He shrugs. How to determine that for sure, after all? You don't. Not much point in worrying on it if they can't explain it to one another.

“What, so you’re sayin’ people are gonna hate you when they get to know you better? What the hell’s that say about you?”

Mostly a rhetorical question, because that’s not the message Firo’s interested in getting out right now. Yeah, that’s right, it’s time for Firo to try doing the lecturing for once. At least he fancies himself more direct than Roland’s typical methods.

He frowns and eyes Roland very seriously. “You shouldn’t hang out with people who don’t treat you right.” Firo has an idea about what hate is, and the actions it causes are the opposite of those caused by love and respect. Maybe that’s part of why they really can’t explain these things to each other, but he figures he should at least share that one important statement. For his friend.

It's time for Roland to be surprised again. Firo's doing that a lot today. It's that serious tone that does it, the serious expression when he says the words. Roland gives the arm around Firo a brief squeeze, his expression warm, amused and appreciative. "Right, hm? What does that mean, precisely? Just how should I be looking for my friends to treat me?"

Obviously Firo has a latent gift for comedy, considering how funny Roland seems to find him. This might annoy him at other times, but right now he's just glad to see him looking not upset. Happy, maybe, if he can be so bold.

“Well, it’s…” How to explain? He’s never had to before, which he imagines wouldn’t surprise Roland if he told him so. “It’s mostly about watchin’ your back, and I know you said they did, but it’s more than that too.”

He thinks very hard for a few seconds. That’s a long time for Firo. “I can tell you what it’s not. When I hate people, I wanna pummel ‘em, and that’s definitely not how you treat a friend right. And even if you insult ‘em, you don’t really mean it like you would if you hated somebody. And you probably wouldn’t do it in front of other people, because that’s when you really need to back ‘em up.”

It’s so natural to him that it’s hard to describe. There are always exceptions and qualifiers to each piece of this puzzle, too, and he figures that’s probably too much to go into now. What it comes down to, really, is closing ranks around your own.

[closed]

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