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 It's cozy, if outdated for most of the Barge's inhabitants.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]

If he'd brought religion into this, I'm not sure I would have been here at all.

[demolitions]

Well, that's marginally reassurin'.

[bleak_midwinter]

Enough of that shit, back home.

[demolitions]

Yeah, you and me both.

Boyd Crowder, inmate.

[bleak_midwinter]

Thomas Shelby. [A pause, since he's used to having power in prisons, but that power has never had on official title, then:] Warden, I suppose.

So, Mr. Crowder. What flavor do religious troubles come in, in the old colony?

[demolitions]

I wouldn't denote 'em as troubles, per se, but people have a tendency to be very intense about it. You best not be an unrepentant sinner, for the Door of Mercy will be Shut and all Bowels of Compassion Denied by God, who will Laugh at your Destruction and Rejoice over your Misery.

[bleak_midwinter]

I find it hard to believe God would rejoice at anything.

[demolitions]

Well, what would your God do, then?

[bleak_midwinter]

What makes you think I have a God at all?

[demolitions]

Oh, everybody's got a god. Ain't all of 'em found between the pages of the good book.

Lemme rephrase the question—the god to which you refer.

[bleak_midwinter]

I'd have to disagree, Mr. Crowder.

But the god of my family, and my country- he's more the smiting type. He sent millions of young men to war and saw to it that too few returned. And those left behind are squabbling over denominations.

[he has no part in it, and never has had, even before the war. What the Catholics and the Protestants choose to fight over, Thomas Shelby keeps out of.]

[demolitions]

You mean to say there ain't nothin' in this life you place on a pedestal of glorification? The almighty dollar comes to mind as a popular one.

I've heard it said that the world holds two classes of men - intelligent men without religion, and religious men without intelligence. There's a lot of the latter where I come from, but they're mostly united in the fight against the Devil, not each other. [Histrionically-] Get behind me Satan! I'm climbin' a ladder to the Lord!

[bleak_midwinter]

Money's just a means to an end. [Though it's a means he's been working on getting for years, now- and he was nearly there, too.

He gives a little amused huff at the impression, a smile lingering on his face when he speaks.]

It's easier on everyone if you're fighting something that won't die if you shoot it.

[demolitions]

In my experience, money is what reigns supreme, not ideas or principles.

Shootin' at things that won't die is a waste of ammunition. I'm a practical man; I prefer my bullets to have an effect.

[bleak_midwinter]

Ideas and principles can't remain viable without money, no.

Have you ever shot the devil, Mr. Crowder?

[demolitions]

Yes, Mr. Shelby, I have. The devil was a better shot.

[bleak_midwinter]

[He grins at that, slow and pleased.]

Is that how you got here?

[demolitions]

No, not exactly. You go to Heaven for shootin' the devil, don't you? This ain't Heaven.

[bleak_midwinter]

Oh, I doubt it. God wouldn't look nearly as good without the devil for comparison.

[demolitions]

Well, every story needs a good antagonist.

[bleak_midwinter]

My point exactly. If you'd shot the devil, you'd have two very angry parties on your hand, I imagine.

[demolitions]

I always wondered what I did to piss God off, now I guess I know.

[bleak_midwinter]

[He grins again, leans back in his chair.]

That's that mystery solved, then.

[demolitions]

[Feigning awe-] May all the answers to my questions be so easily solved. The Barge truly is a wonderful place.

[bleak_midwinter]

May it be this easy to help an inmate towards graduation. I feel wiser already.