Until Proven Innocent
Until Proven Innocent
Summary: After the bunker's medical area quiets after Kai's return, Damon and Roubani are left to discuss murder, guilt, and innocence. You know, the lighthearted stuff.
Date: PHD077 (5 July 2009)
Related Logs: Direct continuation from the end of Reunited

Scorpia - Bunker (Medical)

Damon looks to Kai, keeping Roubani in his peripheral vision. Lighting a new cigarette, he slides his foot along the floor to rest against the wall, knee propped up with his elbow hanging over it. "I make no bones about the fact that this is going to be a leap of faith, judging the safety of your own folk versus the good of the few. I look forward to the conversation." Damon says, knowing well what he's going to have to explain to them. The hardest sell of all is he's not the type to beg. He props his rifle on the wall beside him and nods again to Kai. "Sleep well." He offers, turning his gaze to Roubani. "So which one are you, what's your callsign?"

"You too. And you, Ensign." Kai cuts his eyes toward Roubani again, then Salazar for a few concerned moments as the doctor finally rushes in. His help isn't needed, and would probably only be hindering at this point. Plus, he has a report to hear and some planning to do. So, off he goes.

Someone's still talking. The lag between Damon's question and Roubani's answer isn't so much rude as that the Ensign's head was elsewhere. His eyes move once the knocking at his mental door gets answered, regarding Damon. "Poet." He has one of those voices that's naturally soft, but by no means timid. "And your name?"

"Damon." Is the reply that comes from the black man's lips. A drag is taken off of the cigarette and exhaled. Rising, he moves to stand in the doorway again to smoke, ashing out into the hallway as he watches Salazar in his peripheral vision. "Poet? Had a guy in my crew named Poet. He was on his way to getting a contract…" Damon trails off. "…what do you fly? One of the Vipers or those bigger ones?"

"Flew." Roubani corrects the man's tense before answers. "Vipers." His eyes track the man as he moves, or more accurately they track the cigarette. Someone always just has to light up. After a second or two of silent deliberation, he gets to his feet, moving towards the doorway. A very wide berth of personal space maintained between the two of them, he pulls a cigarette from his front pocket and starts hunting for a lighter. "You're quite the salesman."

"I don't beg." Damon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a disposable lighter. "Hey." He says to get Roubani's attention before he lofts it over to him. He continues to watch Poet, keeping Salazar within his vision, protective of her as mentioned before for a more than likely selfish reason. "I don't mince words very well. If I attempt to hide what I am, I'll appear dishonest. If I appear dishonest…I have no leg to stand on."

Roubani catches the lighter with his tightly wrapped left hand. "Thank you." It's flicker to life, face turned towards the hallway so the initial thick curls of smoke drift out instead of in. The cigarette stays between his lips until the lighter's given a light toss back, and he considers the man. Eyes on eyes. "Murder?"

The lighter is caught easily in Damon's left hand, sliding it back to his pocket. He then moves his hand to rest on his gunbelt. "Yeah. False conviction. Mother with child." Damon says with a slow nod. "Bitter irony, I took such good care to burn every newspaper article they had back at the cabin only for this one guy to come along and tell them all I wasn't a cop." Damon's lip smirks, bitter irony indeed. "I'm amazed I was allowed to keep my weapons, but I've got some of the folks back at the cabin to thank for that. Was either that or the marines figured I could be turned into mist before I could cause trouble."

How much Roubani does or doesn't believe of that is tough to tell. There's neither smile nor snort; Damon might as well have told him he thought it might rain tomorrow. He leans back against the opposite part of the wide doorframe, lifting his chin. "Cabin?"

"Most of the survivors, save Salazar, were holed up at a cabin and a resort up in the mountains. That's where I was the day the bombs went off. More floated by. On one occasion we had some people attack us with guns, raiding for supplies." Damon replies, watching the man as he talks. He pauses to take another drag from the cigarette. He speaks as he exhales again. "Salazar took off from there after a while."

Roubani nods slightly. As Damon talks he gets a drag off his cigarette, and at the mention of Salazar his eyes make an idle flicker that way. Then back. "But you weren't with them when they came here." Half-statement and half-question, that.

"A group of you crashed near the cabin. I got them to a cave system." Damon replies. "I've straggled behind in portions, but I've been following." Damon answers, ashing his cigarette into the hallway as his words come out dryly. "Some of the resistance would say I'm a stand up person, some would probably say it's too dangerous for me to be around." He initiates a pregnant pause. "I'm not looking to get shot in the back."

"I can't say that I blame you," Roubani replies, a little drily. His thumb flickers against the cigarette at his leg, sending a little ash tumbling off to just outside the doorway. After a moment he says, "What were you before they called you murderer?"

"When you're in an orange jumpsuit and your prison transport crashes, killing a cop inside, you don't run wearing the jumpsuit." Damon says with a small smirk, shaking his head from left to right. "Before the conviction I was in arms dealing, smuggling…" He scratches his arm just beneath a dirty, sewn in patch for the local sherriff's office. "…sometimes you gotta protect yourself or protect your field. Sometimes that meant killing people." He raises his eyes to Roubani. "People that were just as guilty as I was." He averts his eyes and stares off towards Salazar's bed. "When you kill innocents, the cops frenzy. You lose."

Roubani glances at the patch. Then back at Damon's face. "We are all guilty of something." That's left out there unexplained, given only a beat before he speaks again, attention shifting to Salazar. "You know her well?"

"Yeah." Damon replies, not long after he's asked. The cold in his eyes fades out, betraying the concern in his expression. Where he seemed so disinterested earlier, something important has been gnawing at him. Another drag off of the cigarette, the paper crisply burns with the small orange glow of the cherry illuminating his features lightly. "We knew eachother back in the day. We talked about my conviction. She's the only person left alive that can put her word behind who I was, and how killing that woman wasn't a part of my M.O."

That part of the puzzle solved to satisfaction, Roubani nods slightly. He watches Salazar a moment longer, then glances at his cigarette to check its length. His thumb flicks it again. "The doctor here is good," he replies. "She'll be alright."

Damon continues to watch her for a long moment, little expression on his face as his eyes do the talking. That concern for his own well being slightly betrayed, he may actually care for her own well being. His head dips in a slow nod, turning to ash his cigarette out into the hallway. Only a few more drags remain, one in which he takes now. He takes a long pull, dropping the butt into the hallway next to his previous one, crushing it with his boot. "What's life like, up on the Kharon." He looks to Poet, sarcasm on his face. "Should I take my chances with the radiation?"

Roubani is in the middle of a drag off the cigarette. Smoke makes a small puff from his nose as he makes an amused noise, not quite a chuckle. "You really do think they'd kill you." This observation is given with little indication as to whether he thinks they would or not.

"I was given what appeared to be a fair trial with no evidence to defend me." Damon says in reply, a matter-of-factly look on his face as he raises his gaze back to Roubani. "One more human or not, can you think of one person you know who would object having to share rations with someone who was convicted for shooting a pregnant woman five times, two of them in her womb?" Damon shakes his head. "Poet, if you had to choose between living down here and scavenging, maybe finding a group of people to lie to so that you can hide your past, or escaping all of this only to get shot out of an airlock…if you were in my shoes, which would you prefer?"

Roubani appears to take the question seriously, as he spends a few beats silent before he speaks. "I would prefer to go." His chin lifts slightly, eyes indicating the ceiling. The Kharon, one would guess. "I would rather die an innocent man than live like a guilty one."

Damon is quiet for a long time, nearly half a minute before he responds. His body language is rock hard, not fidgeting one bit, and his eyes continue to watch Salazar's bed as she's worked on. Then he simply nods, clearly thinking about his choice. "I need to get some rest." He says, changing subjects. His next question is a loaded one. "Keep an eye out for them, allright?"

Roubani is not a fidgeter either. His silence is reserved, affording the other man no encouragement. His attention drifts to the hallway while he works on his cigarette, until Damon's voice pulls it back. 'Them'. "Go on and sleep."

With a nod to Poet, Damon says nothing else. Stinking of sweat and needing a shower, he turns from the wall and heads back towards where his pack is. Keeping his vest on, he moves the backpack to act as a pillow and turns it so that he'll have his back to the wall and the beds in his field of vision. Laying down, he glances to his rifle and then Poet, closing his eyes.

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