1st race

[bleak_midwinter]

[Spam]

[Tommy walks the halls as if they belong ti him- it's not too strange, since they often did, back home. He walks as if's surrounded by hard men with razors stitched into their hats, with guns in their hands. It's easy to take offense to, but he'll be quick to reassure if anyone does.

He visits the Deck first, to smoke and to let it sink in where he is. After that, he makes the rounds, exploring: the dining hall for a good meal, the bar for some whiskey (Irish; always), the engine room. He spends a considerable amount of time in the common rooms, too, trying to figure out the TV's.

At night he's back on the deck, as high as he can go, as different as scene from his dreams as the Barge can provide.]

[Video]

[He's been on the ship for a full day before he announces himself. You might have seen him, or you might not have; for all he moves as if he owns the halls, his suit is drab enough that he can blend in when he wants.

He's in his kitchen now; there are patterned tiles, an old-fashioned wood stove, a china cabinet. It's cozy, if outdated for most of the Barge's inhabitants. Without his hat on, Tommy's eyes are a clear, penetrating blue. His voice is low, with a strong Birmingham accent. He's smoking, and it's obscuring his face in the already low lighting from the oil lamp on the table.]

From what I can tell, this place is all about 'forgiveness'. Not forgetting, but forgiving-- inmates and wardens alike. How long should forgiveness take? Are there things you could never forgive? People you'll always forgive?

Has your opinion changed, since you've been here?

Comments

[bleak_midwinter]

[This, he isn't used to wondering about women- he assumes they'd beat him, because he probably did something he deserved and he wouldn't resist the beating. But if she did, once, decide to fight him she would find he is calm in a gunfight, but vicious in a fistfight.

He smiles wider as well, and he holds out a cigarette from the pack he'd dug out of his pocket.]

I do. Sometimes that's a good thing. [It can send a message, after all.]

[witness_this]

[She considers that, and considers the imagery. Her knuckles, people expect to see bloodied. The juxtaposition might be an interesting one.

The meaning of the cigarette is a little less clear to her. She glances at it, then up at him, with a small quirk to one eyebrow.

She's never seen one in her life.]

[bleak_midwinter]

[Back home, people consider his hands to be bloodied all the time. They're more surprised when they're not. Then again, it's not an expectation he minds them having, and he makes a point of proving them right every so often.

He steps closer, casts his eyes down as he sticks it in his mouth- with his hands now free, he strikes a match from a matchbook, lights it, inhaling deeply.]

I'm told they're not good for you, but it's something to do.

[He exhales, then offers it to her. This is what he likes about strong women: the ability admit that they don't know something, and retain their dignity.]

[witness_this]

[She watches him closely, eyebrows lifting at the strike of the match. He breathes smoke, and Furiosa thinks of engine exhaust, so reaches delicately for the cigarette and takes it from him.

Furiosa is cautious by nature, so when she draws in a breath she holds it more in her mouth and throat than she does draw it into her lungs. It probably saves her from a hacking coughing fit. That, and years breathing in fumes and smoke and poisons. The first sensation she feels is pressure and heat and suffocation, and for a second she is keenly, absurdly homesick.

She coughs very slightly as she breathes the smoke out, but mostly just because the thought has made her laugh. She offers it back to him, pleased, if a little astonished. No verdict, yet, but she thinks she'd keep sharing, if he offered again.]

Who are you?

[bleak_midwinter]

[It's always a mix between embarrassing and charming to see someone smoke for the first time- he can tell she's not inhaling the right way, and the slight cough messes her up a little. But she doesn't seem bothered, and neither should he.

He takes it back, pinches it between thumb and forefinger while he smiles and inhales. It's more intimate to smoke like this, sharing a cigarette instead of giving one away. But she doesn't remind him of Grace, from her shaved head to her clothes to her accent, and it's what saves this from becoming uncomfortable.]

Thomas Shelby. [He exhales, slowly, and hands her back the cigarette.]

[witness_this]

[She watches him closely, sees the differences in what he's doing, sees the way that he breathes into his chest. When she takes the cigarette back, she answers, before trying again.]

Imperator Furiosa.

[The truth is, she isn't an imperator any more. Nor, however, can she keep introducing herself, just Furiosa, to all these people with their many names and ranks and conventions. But she can't exactly make up a title for herself, either, so she's left borrowing the old armor.

She manages a little better this time, gets a breath of it, and lets it out in a slow, controlled sigh. There. She offers it back.]

[bleak_midwinter]

[He takes it back, his smiling taking on an appreciative, nearly proud note. She took to that quickly, didn't she?

He leans against the wall when he takes a drag of his own, looking more relaxed- as relaxed as a man like him gets.]

What does that title mean, where you're from?

[witness_this]

I've been reading about that.

[She puts her own shoulders against the wall. It leaves just enough space between them for someone to get through, if they need, and it means she can brace herself and look at him properly.]

The closest thing to it in most worlds would be 'commander,' but it has more to do with trade where I'm from. We live in settlements, and I drive the War Rig and a crew of men, taking our veg and milk and water to trade for gas, guns and bullets. The roads are the battlefield.

[It's a generous answer, for her, so she doesn't hesitate now. Pushes;]

Who are you, Thomas Shelby?

[bleak_midwinter]

[She is pulling the truth from him with both hands, with a clear voice and strong eyes. She's a soldier, even if she says it's about trade; there is nothing that Thomas Shelby respects more than that.]

I was a Sergeant Major in the biggest war the world had ever seen. We dug tunnels, deep below the earth, so we could attack our enemies from all sides.

[He holds out the cigarette again, shows her how to tap the ash off before relinquishing it.]

I'm not a good man, but I try to be good enough.

[witness_this]

[That's dangerous work. Furiosa's mouth twitches, as she imagines the pressure, the claustrophobia, the vulnerability of putting oneself in that position. The grim, black tunnels underneath Citadel, and the slip of displacing sand against her skin.

She nods, and breaks eyecontact, which for her serves as punctuation. They can leave that, then. When she's had her breath of smoke, she steps forward, to offer it back to him.]

They don't ask us to be good here. Just, to be strong enough to steer someone away from being evil.

Come see something with me. Where haven't you been? The whole ship is-

[Unbelievably, really.]

[bleak_midwinter]

[He takes it and puts it in his mouth, not looking at her as he pulls out the pack again. The cap he's wearing leaves his eyes obscured, but only for as long as it takes him to light another cigarette off the one in his mouth.

He looks back up, hands her the fresh one.]

It is. [He understands- he's overwhelmed, even if he's not showing it. She can show him anything.]

All I've seen so far is the deck. The stars.

[witness_this]

[Furiosa thinks for a long few seconds, watching his face again, then the deck floor between their feet, so that she can focus.

He should see solitary, if he's a warden. He should know what his job entails, to do it well. She should show him the infirmary, just in case something happens, or has happened. It would be most sensible to show him the mess, because he'll be hungry sooner or later.]

We have to put these out.

[She says, instead.]

Ivy will yell at us if we get smoke on the plants. The garden is this way.

[It is, as far as Furiosa is concerned, the most important thing on this ship.]

[bleak_midwinter]

[He raises an eyebrow, cigarette still smoldering in his mouth. Of all the things he'd expected to find on a ship, of all the things he'd expected her to show him, a garden was not one of them. Still, it charms him, and he doesn't see a need to see anything else first.]

Very well, [he replies, like it's not even much of a concession. He kneels on the floor and stubs both of them out on the baseboard, then puts them back inside the packet. Waste not, want not.

He straightens up again and nods at her.] Lead the way, Imperator.

[witness_this]

[The leading, she can do. It's to the first stairwell and down it, though, before she makes up her mind. Unlike most people, who correct things like that quite reflexively, some thought goes into it when she corrects him;]

Furiosa, Thomas Shelby.

[Because she has little to no idea what he should be in return.]

[bleak_midwinter]

[He smiles at her when she looks at him- not condescendingly, but he's starting to accept the dichotomy of their worlds. They don't have the same frame of reference, and it's enriching instead of confusing.]

Just Tommy, then, Furiosa. Have you been here long?

[witness_this]

A bare five days. I only know you're new because everyone else has immediately asked if I am, this ship is so small.

[But still, she has to really look where she's going, read the numbers on the walls as she takes them towards the greenhouse.

The process of orienting herself has been confusing and admittedly a little slow.]

[bleak_midwinter]

Well, we can't remain rookies forever. [He trails his hand along the wall as the descend, looking around himself to take everything in.

He doesn't hesitate when asking his next question, but he considers it as they walk. A woman, he wouldn't have asked this of; a soldier, however, he would have. He knows enough men who came back from France with parts of themselves missing, and none of them were later outfitted with such a creative solution.]

Did you lose your arm on the road?

[witness_this]

No one has come out and asked me that in years.

[She admits, but with such obvious approval that there's no way to interpret it as a problem. Maybe back home, if he had been a War Boy, she would have slugged him for it, but for now, she just decides how to answer.]

Yes and no. I was on the road when it happened.

[But not 'yes' in the way that he means, either.]

You said you were a soldier. What did you become after that?

[bleak_midwinter]

[He knows when not to pry- and it's an honest enough answer that he thinks she deserves some truth from him, too.]

I'm a bookmaker, together with my brothers. We fought hard to get where we are now.

[witness_this]

Really? Then you'll like the library here too-

[Because that's the frame of reference she has there, but for now, they've reached the greenhouse. Furiosa pulls open the door for him, but is already peering in, blinking in shock at the rush of warmth and green. She has been here every day, sometimes lingering for hours, and it still hasn't stopped feeling this way about it.

It is the most wonderful thing she could think to show him.]

[bleak_midwinter]

[He's about to correct her, but it would take too long-- in the face of the garden, it would be too much by far.

He leans one hand against the door, craning his neck to see. He didn't grow up in a world like hers, but he grew up surrounded by factories and weapons, hard men and desperate women. There was never any space for nature like this.

He can tell, though, by looking at her that it means something else entirely to her. Letting go of the door, he step sin, follows her.]

It's amazing.

[witness_this]

[For a moment, Furiosa gives him a searching look, fairly sure that she's being humoured. But he seems serious enough, and she's sure the world ended in increments. Maybe he was from a sliver of the world where green like this was already rare, or maybe he just knows how to appreciate things.

Anyways, she takes him back towards the fruit trees first, in case he hasn't eaten.]

I hadn't had a peach since I was fourteen, before I got here. There are enough to each have every day.

[bleak_midwinter]

[He hasn't, a fact that he notices only when he smells the scent of the peaches drifting towards him. His stomach growls, loudly, and he raises his eyebrows in a quizzical expression.]

I think that means we ought to have one now.

[He reaches up, takes two peaches off their branches and holds one out for Furiosa.]

There's nothing like this where you're from. [It's a statement, more than a question, but it's still asking her for something.]

[witness_this]

[She takes it from him, and takes a moment to appreciate it with her fingertips. The skin. She punctures it with a fingernail, and lifts it to her mouth quickly, because it's ripe enough that it's already welling up.]

There used to be. [This would be a harder story to tell, if she didn't have fruit in her hand.] I grew up in what was probably the very last of the Green Places. But I left, and when I was able to return, it was long dead. Now the whole world is probably sand.

Eat peaches while you can. [Post-apocalyptic words of wisdom.]

[bleak_midwinter]

[Tommy, in turn, takes a big, indulgent bite of it. He may not be used to gardens, but he's been used to having the money and means to get fruit. Some juice dribbles down his chin, and he uses the back of his hand to wipe it away.]

You've had to fight for things I take for granted.