(I know saying this twice in a row is weird or something but I'm not 100% sure whether it's ok to assume that Firo dragging the guy means he's already behind cover, I can edit if that's not the case.)
Roland stares at him. It's the stare of a man who's just been told something strange and unexpected. That the sky is green today, perhaps, or that the Capitolites have all found some god or another and so decided to give up their fame and fortune for a life of modesty. Something so unexpected that it takes time to fit it into your own understanding of the world. Firo doesn't understand the situation here. Roland takes a second - half a second, maybe, although it feels like much longer because it always does, at times like this - to process this fact.
Firo doesn't understand that Roland may get away for a while, for a few hours, maybe even a day, but after that? And Firo. Firo is here, too, there are men who know he was here. There's Firo to think of.
Roland knows what his own fate will be, after this. His hand tightens on the grip of the Capitol-issued gun, the one he hadn't known he'd been holding to. It doesn't feel right under his fingers. This grip ought to be wood.
It's Roland's fate, the one the Capitolites will leave him to once he's been punished for this. It's his, and no one else's. Firo has his own path to follow. If someone is going to go down for Roland's sake here, maybe it's right that the someone is Roland himself. It isn't alright - he remembers the light, the creak of hinges, that hot smell of dry earth baked too long under unrelenting heat, he shudders and does not remember it anymore, remembers only that deep and deeply settled sense of dread - but it is right, nonetheless.
Roland does not know how long these thoughts have taken. Maybe too long. Maybe not long at all. He looks at Firo. "You stay with him no matter what," he says, and hopes Firo takes that as an order, too. He nods. He watches Firo go.
Roland cocks his head; boots in snow, he thinks he hears. Coming closer now. Good. Good timing. Luck's with him here, at least in this.
He listens to those boots as he kneels, as he figures out the fastening mechanism of those cases the dead man was carrying and clicks them open. He sets them at his feet, in clear view behind him. His gun, the Capitol's gun, points with careful aim at the boulder Firo's made his way behind, and his bullet takes a chip out from the edge of it.
"No need to try and save him!" It's a shout now, designed to carry not just ahead of Roland to Firo, but well behind Roland, too. Doesn't matter. These Capitol men aren't quick, not the peacekeepers. Quick enough to notice the bombs at his feet, if his luck holds, wary enough of the power of one stray bullet to know not to try shooting at Roland or, if he doesn't take orders and decides to leave cover, at Firo. But not quick enough to think anything of Roland's voice, the deliberate reach of it. They'll only hear. They'll hear, and that will be enough. "He's done for. There's no saving the Capitol's plan now."
Not what the Capitol's TV Personalities would call moving dialogue, not precisely, but it says what it needs to. Roland tilts his head back and stares up at the sky, listening. Boots in snow, almost on him now. Alright. Good.
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Roland stares at him. It's the stare of a man who's just been told something strange and unexpected. That the sky is green today, perhaps, or that the Capitolites have all found some god or another and so decided to give up their fame and fortune for a life of modesty. Something so unexpected that it takes time to fit it into your own understanding of the world. Firo doesn't understand the situation here. Roland takes a second - half a second, maybe, although it feels like much longer because it always does, at times like this - to process this fact.
Firo doesn't understand that Roland may get away for a while, for a few hours, maybe even a day, but after that? And Firo. Firo is here, too, there are men who know he was here. There's Firo to think of.
Roland knows what his own fate will be, after this. His hand tightens on the grip of the Capitol-issued gun, the one he hadn't known he'd been holding to. It doesn't feel right under his fingers. This grip ought to be wood.
It's Roland's fate, the one the Capitolites will leave him to once he's been punished for this. It's his, and no one else's. Firo has his own path to follow. If someone is going to go down for Roland's sake here, maybe it's right that the someone is Roland himself. It isn't alright - he remembers the light, the creak of hinges, that hot smell of dry earth baked too long under unrelenting heat, he shudders and does not remember it anymore, remembers only that deep and deeply settled sense of dread - but it is right, nonetheless.
Roland does not know how long these thoughts have taken. Maybe too long. Maybe not long at all. He looks at Firo. "You stay with him no matter what," he says, and hopes Firo takes that as an order, too. He nods. He watches Firo go.
Roland cocks his head; boots in snow, he thinks he hears. Coming closer now. Good. Good timing. Luck's with him here, at least in this.
He listens to those boots as he kneels, as he figures out the fastening mechanism of those cases the dead man was carrying and clicks them open. He sets them at his feet, in clear view behind him. His gun, the Capitol's gun, points with careful aim at the boulder Firo's made his way behind, and his bullet takes a chip out from the edge of it.
"No need to try and save him!" It's a shout now, designed to carry not just ahead of Roland to Firo, but well behind Roland, too. Doesn't matter. These Capitol men aren't quick, not the peacekeepers. Quick enough to notice the bombs at his feet, if his luck holds, wary enough of the power of one stray bullet to know not to try shooting at Roland or, if he doesn't take orders and decides to leave cover, at Firo. But not quick enough to think anything of Roland's voice, the deliberate reach of it. They'll only hear. They'll hear, and that will be enough. "He's done for. There's no saving the Capitol's plan now."
Not what the Capitol's TV Personalities would call moving dialogue, not precisely, but it says what it needs to. Roland tilts his head back and stares up at the sky, listening. Boots in snow, almost on him now. Alright. Good.