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figureofdismay) wrote2023-07-11 09:09 am
figureofdismay) wrote2023-07-11 09:09 am
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yours for a song chapter 6 (extremely parial)
In February a cruise ship tipped over off the south coast of France. One of their cruise ships, capsize was the word which Roman thought was kind of funny, both onomatopoetically peculiar and because it hadn’t occurred to him that ships still could capsize, barrel roll into the icy waters of the mediterranean – or not so icy but cold enough – now that the Age Of Sail was a couple hundred years ago. It wasn’t the Titanic, and they hadn’t been far from coast and support boats, but it turned out that people could get hypothermia pretty quickly in the water, especially on a blustery night, and get concussions and break bones trying to get off a ship that suddenly turned on its massive, towering side, keel sheared through and half sunk by hidden rock formations underwater, upon which it had then grounded itself, half sinking, half stuck, half onto its side. Those formations that had always been there and had been marked, should have been visible on the sonar, something, but it sounded like the captain and navigator, pilot, whatever he was called, Roman would have to learn, had thought he knew those coastal waters too well to need anything but habit and instinct, and had either misjudged or been taken off guard by the wind.
“Wind?” he’d asked as his assistant stumbled through explaining what had happened, “Something big and fucking massive as a cruise ship can get pushed around by a little wind?”
“Uh, yeah, they say so, Mr. Roy… I guess, the waves. And it’s a pretty big solid block for the wind to hit.”
“Well why did they have to drive through those big fucking rocks if it was going to be windy that night?” he’d argued, and his assistant had shrugged helplessly bewildered, no more knowledgeable about sea fairing than roman was, and Aaron had no good reason but be, but Roman was annoyed. Roman was more than annoyed, he felt some kind of slow simmering horror, 8 people had died, three passengers and five crew. Many more of them were in the hospital in varying conditions, and the reports of the specifics there were confused, both by the chaos of the disaster and by the language barrier. There was going to be an investigation, criminal and corporate liability both. The ship was going to have to be secured, refloated and hauled back home, which could take weeks or months, but probably, he’d been told, they’d know what went wrong with the navigation and the evacuation would be clear long before that. Waystar had to hope that it was all individual malpractice instead of policy failure, and Kendall, Baird and Gerri had all spoken about how they’d have to avoid all appearance of pressuring the captain and pilot and whoever else into taking responsibility for the crash because the level of scrutiny would be intense, but that the official Waystar position was that it was pilot and leadership error right up until it was explicitly proven to be an issue with their procedural policy – unlikely, given how many moving parts were involved.
Ken was sending him to France to stand around and be the reassuring corporate face at the press conferences, maybe visit a couple of hospital beds. Roman didn’t know how he could be a reassuring face in any public setting, he’d seen himself in the mirror lately and nothing about the image he presented was terribly thrilling or soothing, he thought, but there wasn’t really anyone else to send. If Logan was still alive, Ken would have gone and he would have muddled through it in his upright, cardboard cutout corporate prince way, spitting out the script without inspiration but without variance. Logan was gone, though, and Kendall had his hands full and Shiv was stewing in DC with Nate and the bones of the campaign they were working on for some potential center left congressman and her resentment for not being brought into the fold before Logan’s untimely death, the way he’d always promised and threatened he eventually would, despite her protestations that she wouldn’t dirty her hands with the family business. Kendall was making noises like he did want her in the chain of command eventually, safety in numbers and family interests and things along those lines, which Roman did basically agree with, though Shiv trying to choke him out on the plane to the funeral did still rankle a bit, however deserved. She wasn’t in yet, however and certainly couldn’t be dispatched to France on short notice, so it fell to him.
Roman was worried, not just about getting through the gamut of challenging press and terrifying injured people courtesy visits, but because there was a 6 hour plane ride between the french italian riviera and New York and he’d had to drag a Kendall fucked up on coke and god knew what out of inadvisable parties late at night three different times in the last two months. Couldn’t really answer the call from a concerned bodyguard and tuck him into his guest room or drop him off for Rava to deal with if he was going to be in Europe anywhere from a couple days to a couple weeks.
Not that Kendall was on a grief stricken depressive spiral, the moments of despair were there in odd moments that Roman had witnessed but if anything he seemed manic. He was winding himself higher and higher, eyes burning with realized power, jumping from project to project in a swerving drunken flight that meant he’d either be hailed as the next genius Roy following in dad’s footsteps or the board would be scraping him and the family name off the walls and sending him after a massive, pressure induced implosion which the coke and k were not helping in the least to stave off. Roman wasn’t crazy about the idea of being overshadowed by nascent genius Kendall Roy, but he’d still vote for the former over the latter because the consequences of a full Kendall implosion made him sick to his stomach even while refusing to think about it.
Even worse was the way every time he tried to think through the problem of diffusing his brother, there was a period where he forgot. For a few seconds, for a few minutes, the plane, the icy alaskan waters, the funeral, the memorial, forgot and started planning how he was going approach the question with his father, if he was going to, what Logan might say, what he might do to Kendall, if it would put Roman ahead or behind to be ratting him out. And then he’d remember, in a cascade of realization, feeling stupid, petty, terribly exposed, with no higher authority to appeal to any longer, no more father-got and final arbiter over his fate and Kendall’s and Shiv’s.
So with no safety net and no backup plan and no particular understanding with his brother, Roman was on a private jet to France, with his assistant, and Gerri, and her assistant and a deputy from the communications office who would be doing the messaging grunt work, and probably not enough luggage for the duration of the trip. It was a bitterly cold February night when they boarded on the tarmac, a particularly unjubiulant party.
“Wind?” he’d asked as his assistant stumbled through explaining what had happened, “Something big and fucking massive as a cruise ship can get pushed around by a little wind?”
“Uh, yeah, they say so, Mr. Roy… I guess, the waves. And it’s a pretty big solid block for the wind to hit.”
“Well why did they have to drive through those big fucking rocks if it was going to be windy that night?” he’d argued, and his assistant had shrugged helplessly bewildered, no more knowledgeable about sea fairing than roman was, and Aaron had no good reason but be, but Roman was annoyed. Roman was more than annoyed, he felt some kind of slow simmering horror, 8 people had died, three passengers and five crew. Many more of them were in the hospital in varying conditions, and the reports of the specifics there were confused, both by the chaos of the disaster and by the language barrier. There was going to be an investigation, criminal and corporate liability both. The ship was going to have to be secured, refloated and hauled back home, which could take weeks or months, but probably, he’d been told, they’d know what went wrong with the navigation and the evacuation would be clear long before that. Waystar had to hope that it was all individual malpractice instead of policy failure, and Kendall, Baird and Gerri had all spoken about how they’d have to avoid all appearance of pressuring the captain and pilot and whoever else into taking responsibility for the crash because the level of scrutiny would be intense, but that the official Waystar position was that it was pilot and leadership error right up until it was explicitly proven to be an issue with their procedural policy – unlikely, given how many moving parts were involved.
Ken was sending him to France to stand around and be the reassuring corporate face at the press conferences, maybe visit a couple of hospital beds. Roman didn’t know how he could be a reassuring face in any public setting, he’d seen himself in the mirror lately and nothing about the image he presented was terribly thrilling or soothing, he thought, but there wasn’t really anyone else to send. If Logan was still alive, Ken would have gone and he would have muddled through it in his upright, cardboard cutout corporate prince way, spitting out the script without inspiration but without variance. Logan was gone, though, and Kendall had his hands full and Shiv was stewing in DC with Nate and the bones of the campaign they were working on for some potential center left congressman and her resentment for not being brought into the fold before Logan’s untimely death, the way he’d always promised and threatened he eventually would, despite her protestations that she wouldn’t dirty her hands with the family business. Kendall was making noises like he did want her in the chain of command eventually, safety in numbers and family interests and things along those lines, which Roman did basically agree with, though Shiv trying to choke him out on the plane to the funeral did still rankle a bit, however deserved. She wasn’t in yet, however and certainly couldn’t be dispatched to France on short notice, so it fell to him.
Roman was worried, not just about getting through the gamut of challenging press and terrifying injured people courtesy visits, but because there was a 6 hour plane ride between the french italian riviera and New York and he’d had to drag a Kendall fucked up on coke and god knew what out of inadvisable parties late at night three different times in the last two months. Couldn’t really answer the call from a concerned bodyguard and tuck him into his guest room or drop him off for Rava to deal with if he was going to be in Europe anywhere from a couple days to a couple weeks.
Not that Kendall was on a grief stricken depressive spiral, the moments of despair were there in odd moments that Roman had witnessed but if anything he seemed manic. He was winding himself higher and higher, eyes burning with realized power, jumping from project to project in a swerving drunken flight that meant he’d either be hailed as the next genius Roy following in dad’s footsteps or the board would be scraping him and the family name off the walls and sending him after a massive, pressure induced implosion which the coke and k were not helping in the least to stave off. Roman wasn’t crazy about the idea of being overshadowed by nascent genius Kendall Roy, but he’d still vote for the former over the latter because the consequences of a full Kendall implosion made him sick to his stomach even while refusing to think about it.
Even worse was the way every time he tried to think through the problem of diffusing his brother, there was a period where he forgot. For a few seconds, for a few minutes, the plane, the icy alaskan waters, the funeral, the memorial, forgot and started planning how he was going approach the question with his father, if he was going to, what Logan might say, what he might do to Kendall, if it would put Roman ahead or behind to be ratting him out. And then he’d remember, in a cascade of realization, feeling stupid, petty, terribly exposed, with no higher authority to appeal to any longer, no more father-got and final arbiter over his fate and Kendall’s and Shiv’s.
So with no safety net and no backup plan and no particular understanding with his brother, Roman was on a private jet to France, with his assistant, and Gerri, and her assistant and a deputy from the communications office who would be doing the messaging grunt work, and probably not enough luggage for the duration of the trip. It was a bitterly cold February night when they boarded on the tarmac, a particularly unjubiulant party.