The Long Wait
The Long Wait
Summary: Roubani comes to visit Damon in the Kharon's brig.
Date: PHD085 (12 July 2009)
Related Logs: Scorpia logs
Players:
Roubani..Damon..

Kharon - Main Brig

Damon is currently in the brig, under guard, and by himself. He's been removed of all of his belongings, including his 'cop' gear and has been outfitted with a pair of comfortable Kharon issue sweats. Inside of the protective walls of the cell, he's back to old habits it seems. Pumping away at a load bearing bar, Damon is in the process of doing pull-ups. There's no telling how long it's been, but a light sheen of sweat coats his neck and arms, wearing a simple tank top over his torso.

Dressed in his officer blues, Roubani puts himself through the indignity of questions and brief searches outside before he's allowed into the narrow corridor between the rows of cells. His boots make soft sounds that he doesn't attempt to mask as he comes up to Damon's cell and stops, his purpose not being to sneak up on unsuspecting prisoners.

Damon continues to work out, arms pumping as he lifts himself up to chin height and then stops, dropping to the floor. His feet make very little noise. Looking over his shoulder to see that it's Roubani, he grabs the front of his tank top to wipe the sweat from around his eyes. "…my first visitor, Poet." He nods to Roubani, leaning against the wall. "…what brings you down here?"

Roubani slides his hands into his pockets, leaning a shoulder against one vertical bar. "They told me they were holding you here. I wanted to see how you were." Simple words, simple tone. They're pretty sincere.

"They're not mistreating me. I didn't expect that we would." Damon replies, stepping a little closer to the edge of the cell, his arms resting across his muscular chest. He doesn't lower his voice to conspiratorial levels, but it's easier to talk to someone when the distance is simply less. "Now begins the long wait till airlock or service. I'm calm." He raises one of his eyebrows.

Roubani nods twice, his head not moving much. "All approved…and what each feared for himself they bore with patience," The young Ensign murmurs the scriptural passage. "Is there anything that would help pass the time? They might allow some books or something innocuous like that."

Damon pauses for a moment, considering the offer, a small blank look crosses his face as if being told he has five minutes to clean a kitchen that has dirty plates stacked ten feet tall. "I haven't read a book in years. I wouldn't know where to begin." Damon shrugs. "If they allow it, reccommend something to me." He looks back to Roubani's face. "I haven't met with my legal counsel yet, so I'm not even sure if this is a general detainment until things get decided on, or even what kind of time frame I'm looking at. Could be a while."

"I doubt that," Roubani replies, matter-of-factly. "Each day you're in here, you're a mouth to feed that isn't making this ship move in return. They won't wait too long." He takes his hands from his pockets and folds his arms, his hands mostly hidden in the crooks of his elbows. His arms are loose, not a defensive posture. "What made you decide to come up?"

Damon unfurls one of his hands from their crossing over his chest. Scratching his collarbone, he stares off towards the wall over Roubani's shoulder. The long time felon and prisoner's mannerisms are quite alien, a product of two distinctly different lifestyles. "Sooner or later I've got to get out of prison." He says, looking to Roubani's face. "I would have been ensured my life, at least for a while down there, but sometimes a life sentence is worse."

"Sometimes," Roubani agrees, softly. "I suppose it is true that one must live free or die. I often wonder if those two things are really such opposite choices as they're made to sound."

"They're not." Damon says with a shake of his head. "In the end you have to decide if death is your means to living free. It's something that causes people to hang themselves in their cells. It's the same thing that makes a man decide not to kick and scream as he's led into the gas chamber." He shakes his head, leaning against the wall. "No this, this is where I find out how well I trust in my ability to read people. I took a chance on a few people coming here. Guess all I can hope for now is that this ain't a waste."

Roubani shakes his head. "It won't be. Either way this road leads to freedom, one way or other. That's a lot of trust to have placed in those few people…I will pray they continue to earn it."

Damon shrugs, it's one of those 'what can you do?' shrugs. He shakes his head afterwards, dreadlocks shuffling. "If we're all that's left, it's the best I could do." He mutters, resigned to his fate to a large degree, that sliver of hope having infected him in a negative way. "Do me a favor, if they execute me? Be there."

Roubani's brows draw. There's a brief hesitation, but then he nods. "Alright. I will." He glances down at his feet, as though needing a second or two to steel that promise, then looks back up. "Are you a religious man?"

An eyebrow lifts in a resigned gesture as Damon shuffles his weight from one feet to another. "A priest came to see me when I was in lockup, talking to me about scripture. He promised he would give me the libations so that I could face honest judgement in the afterlife in the face of the Lords. Never could tell if he was cursing me or not." Damon pauses, shaking his head from left to right. "I don't know anymore, Poet, but I'm not afraid of it. Know which Lord a murderer should pray to?"

Roubani chuckles under his breath, very softly. "I suppose it depends not on the deed in question but the more unseen truths around it. What do you want, Damon? Justice? Vindication? Forgiveness? Peace? Or perhaps none of the above."

It takes Damon a long time to answer, his words dry with the conviction of a man who's led a violent life behind them. "Forgiveness is impossible. There's no justice in what was done." He shakes his head. "Peace." He says simply, watching the wall. "From the moment my transport to the execution rolled over I've been on second-by-second bought time. I never expected to make it this far. Now that I've come this far I've got to ask myself if I want to buy into surviving this as long as possible, or just letting the seconds pass and not caring about the future."

Roubani lifts his chin, glancing up at one of the sections of bars above their heads. "When Hermes, holding staff in his hand, was journeying to Arcadia and saw two snakes with bodies intertwined, apparently fighting, he put down the staff between them. They separated then, and so he said that the staff had been appointed to bring peace. Some, in making caducei, put two snakes intertwined on the rod, because this seemed to Hermes a bringer of peace. Here, too, is Hermes. May he then announce good tidings to the free." The quoting of scripture is rhythmic and low, and his eyes then return to Damon. "Perhaps the messenger god is the one to open yourself to. The swift bearer of peace, protector of those who must journey."

Turning to lean against the solid section of structure in the brig, forcing him to turn his head to watch Poet, Damon squares his back against the cell and contemplates the words. His lip tugs into a smirk, huffing softly at the irony. "I used to think I served Hades, back in the day. Never worshipped, but just said we must, we were delivering souls to him." Damon reflects, turning his eyes to the cell bars, watching their stoic existence. "…and if I pray for life, to see this one through to learn to live differently and instead I get executed?" He looks back to Roubani, refusing to say how terrified of hope he really is.

Tough question. Roubani's eyes flicker to the bar near his face. "We cannot ask the gods to grant our wishes, Damon. Part of prayer is opening the desires of one's soul to the gods, but kneeling in ultimate surrender to their will. It doesn't mean not to fight, or not to cry for mercy, or not to believe they are listening when we suffer." He looks back at Damon's face. "Remember that the gods will not read our hearts. They only see what we do."

Damon's eyes slowly blink as he turns a definite ear to the words, paying respect to someone he may be considering a friend. After a long moment of contemplation, his eyes quickly raise and lower before he turns his head towards Roubani. "I've always wondered if it was an accident or not that my car crashed on the way to my execution." He pauses. "It drills into your veins, that line of questioning. If the Lords exist and luck that I've never believed in didn't cause that boulder to shake loose and hit my wagon, leaving me free to escape…then why?" He pauses. "It's made me think. Frak, Poet…I was ready to die." He shakes his head. "Lots of good people died, and as far as I've seen I'm the only one so far that's survived that didn't deserve to."

"Do you think there is a person alive who hasn't questioned 'why me?'" Roubani answers, quietly. "We are all guilty of things in our lives…we have all hurt each other in innumerable ways. I suppose…now in our guilt we try and shape this as some kind of reward, our survival. But perhaps it isn't. Perhaps now comes the real test of who allows their questioning of the gods to destroy them, and who allows it to make their faith stronger."

Damon's face doesn't break into a smirk, but the idea in his eyes exists. "Frak that…if I don't get executed I owe it to myself and to everyone to fight this one through. I've decided that if I'm allowed to keep my life that I'm going to be with the marines here. That's where I'm best. I got my life back for just a little while longer. Long enough to see some things I hoped I'd see again before I died." He looks to Roubani. "…I doubt I'll survive this one, but that won't be because of my doing."

Roubani smiles slightly at the mention of fighting it through. "Frak that, indeed." His mild voice makes even the swearing sound so damn proper. "Ares insatiable in battle, blazing like the light of burning fire in his armour and standing in his chariots…" His fingers curl into a fist at the bars, the quoting rhythm gaining some momentum with the quiet force behind it. "And his running horses trampled and dented the ground with their hooves. And all the grove and the altar were lighted up by the dread god, Ares, himself and his armour, and the shining from his eyes was like fire…"

Damon's head nods as the words start to flood in. He's not versed in scripture, not one bit, but the imagery isn't lost on him. "I can get behind that. I got nothing to avenge down there, no one to hate them for. I'm sure that sounds bad but I knew no one and had nothing left alive. Those bombs killed so many faceless people to me. Placed I'd never go." He tightens his fist instinctively balling it with his words. "…but if they let me keep my life, I'll crush them beneath my feet if there's a chance of me being free when all of this is done. Every last one if I have to."

Roubani watches Damon's face, his dark eyes intense as he nods. "I could never condemn someone who couldn't feel for the faceless what they can for their own lives. It's not the mark of coldness. I could only condemn someone who backed down in the face of a threat on their doorstep. There are many things you may be, but I know you are no coward."

"No…no I'm not." Damon says flatly, glancing around the cell. The likelihood that their conversation is being recorded ranges from unlikely to damn near guaranteed, but that doesn't stop him from looking for cameras. "My logic, Poet, is that at this point I'd rather jump on top of a grenade to save the human race than to die, unceremoniously, strapped to a gurney." He looks to Poet, nodding to him. "You can look away, you don't have to watch, but before it all went down it'd be nice to see someone in the crowd that doesn't look at me like a criminal."

Roubani makes an absent glance up as Damon does, but he seems unconcerned. His eyes come back down. "It's not my forgiveness you're asking. I could not be so patronising as to behave as though I had the right to grant it." He shakes his head. "I won't look away. I can't tell a man to be willing to face his own mortality without being willing to face it too."

"Well spoken." Damon replies. "Every last person in the room should watch, and not turn away. That's the way these things go. If there's an audience, that audience owes the man being killed that debt of memory." Damon nods, scratching at his upper arm a few times. His lip curls at the edge. "Don't suppose you know a way a brother could get to watch a movie up here, maybe get some barbecue do you?"

Roubani smiles a little. "If I came through here with barbecue, it would be bones by the time I got past security. A movie though, perhaps. I may be able to get a portable player. What genres do you like?"

"Ain't seen a movie in years either." Damon replies with a quiet smirk. "When I did though, I liked action movies, drama, those ones with the guys on the wires running up walls, shooting guns…" He trails off, shaking his head a few times. He balls up his fist and presses it to the wall of the cell, as if to fistbump. "You're a good man, Poet."

Roubani regards the hand tentatively. Initiate program: Social Failure. It does seem to occur to him after a few moments that he should do something, so he unfolds his arms and fistbumps as intended. The contact's very, very brief. "I'll see what I can find. And, well…I do good things. I do bad things. So do you, I suspect. Just makes us men, for better or for worse."

Damon retreats his hand after the fistbump, knowing well the guards watched the response, as if to worry that he'd pull Poet's arm into the cell. His hands move to his sides, so well trained. "It does, doesn't it?" He replies to Poet, eyes locking on him. "Either way this goes, it's been a hell of a ride."

"Sometimes that's the best we can hope for," Roubani murmurs. As he retracts his hand he notices his watch, glancing at it. "I've got to get to shift." It's not apologetic, just the way the military goes. "I'll see what I can find, books or film or something. Keep your head up, alright?"

Damon nods upwards once, sharply as he starts to back up towards his bunk. "Will do. Take care on your shift, Poet. Keep their heads ringin." He says with a bit of the street style, words spoken darkly. Turning his head, the rest of his body follows, and he goes to sit on the cot. More waiting, more nothing. The pure boredom of brig life settles in roughly.

Roubani straightens his blue jacket as he steps away from the cell, turning on his heel and heading out. First stop: change into something that can get dirty. Second stop: get dirty..

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