I haven't been sure how to approach this, and I think it's best to just come out with it. I have always considered Travis Copeland, one of the more prominent Kaiba House Staff OCs I've come up with, to be a Black man.
I hope that I've done him justice over the years and that I haven't stepped unwittingly into any unfortunate stereotypes. I'm not saying this now to get points or anything. I just want y'all to get a clearer idea of the sort of people I'm inhabiting my version of Domino City with.
And I haven't been sure how to approach that particular detail in a sensitive way.
I don't wanna make some big deal out of it, that feels like pandering, but I also didn't want to just never mention it. That seems worse. So, this is what I came up with.
.
"You know, funny thing. Studies show, fairly reliably, that torture doesn't actually do much. It just gets people to tell you what they think you want to hear. I'm not interested in that. I want the truth. So, we're not going to be doing anything like that."
Roland removed his coat, hung it on the back of a metal folding chair he'd brought over from one corner of the room, and sat down. He was affecting a casual, naïve air. If this Daimon was anything like the man that he'd once called his boss, the best thing Roland could lean on was being underestimated. Daimon had always thought himself more enlightened than the masses. More worldly.
Cuffed to another chair on the opposite side of a little folding table, this new Daimon glared at him and said nothing.
"Now," Roland went on, "here is my proposal. I am offering you carte blanche. I want you to be my informant. And yes, yes, I know what you are likely to say: if your employer finds out that you're talking to us, cooperating with us, he'll kill you. Permit me to offer a different perspective: you have already been caught. You've been neutralized. You've failed. Do you honestly believe he won't get rid of you if he finds out you held out against me? That you stayed loyal? Is that really how he would respond?"
Daimon was paying attention to him now.
"Think about it this way," Roland went on, tapping at the table with one finger. "This man sent a ten-year-old boy to assassinate my employer. Not to succeed. Nobody in his right mind would send a child, no matter how competent, to kill. He didn't want that boy to succeed. He wanted to get us out of your way. Despite doing this, despite going out of his way to help you, my employer is not dead. If I were him, I would be quite angry right now. Would you not like to have some measure of protection against his wrath? I can offer that."
Daimon did not speak; he didn't need to. It was clear he was skeptical.
"By the letter of my contract, my job, our job as a team, would have seen that boy dead. The only reason he isn't lying on a slab right now is because one of the people I am responsible for protecting just so happened to notice him first and took charge of the situation. You don't have anybody like that. Except me. If you can give me information, I can convince my charges to protect you."
Daimon looked like he wanted nothing more than to cross his arms over his chest. He couldn't. Roland gestured, and one of his men stepped over and unlocked the cuffs around the old man's wrists, freeing his arms.
"I told you," said Roland, at Daimon's suspicious look, "I want results. I don't want to treat you like a prisoner. I want to protect my charges. That's it. This is an opportunity for you. Anything I can do to see to their safety is within my authority. I can help you."
Daimon didn't answer, but after a while he did cross his arms over his chest.
He looked like he was pouting.
"Well." Roland pushed his chair back and stood up. "Think on it, at any rate. He tossed the life of a ten-year-old onto the gameboard. A boy who shares his own name, I might add. His son. Now, maybe you'll tell me that that doesn't matter. He doesn't care about that. Honestly, if you did say that, I would probably believe you."
Roland strolled almost casually about the warehouse floor.
Daimon followed him with his beady eyes in silence.
"But that only serves to reinforce my original point. If that man is willing to kill his own son, someone who . . . well, ostensibly . . . directly represents him, his reputation, an extension of his will and his reputation. Then why, precisely, would he lift a finger for you? Do you seriously believe yourself to be that much more valuable? If anything, today has proven that you're old and out of touch. You didn't get the job done. Doesn't that prove that it's about time for you to retire?"
Daimon's face twitched violently.
"You aren't valuable to him," Roland said, pointing. "You aren't important to him. You might believe that I'm too ignorant to know that. But I think you know. I think you know him more than well enough to decide whether or not I'm right. If what I'm saying is true. If what I'm saying does happen to be wrong . . . how will he react? What is he going to do when he finds out you've failed? Hm? What's in store for you, in the future, if you go back home?"
The old man's jaw flexed.
Admirably, he remained silent.
"Fine," said Roland, waving a dismissive hand. "You don't have to decide just yet." He gestured to one corner of the warehouse, where sat a cot and a little bench. An end table. A gallon jug of water and a tin cup. A bag of trail mix. "We've set up a space for you here. Rest. Think on your future. Let us know if you have any dietary restrictions. It'll take time, but we can get you anything you require." He pointed across the way, on the opposite side of the warehouse as the cot. "There's a restroom over there. I'll check in with you later. I hope you make the decision that works out best for everyone here."
Roland snatched up his jacket, slung it over one shoulder, and walked away. He stepped out into the open air, shut the door behind him. Locked it. Leaned back against the wall and groaned.
"What do you think?" came a sudden voice at his side, quiet and contemplative.
Roland glanced over at Travis Copeland and shrugged. "I haven't the faintest. I'd like to say I'm getting to him, but I can't say that with any degree of confidence. Even if he does tell us he'll cooperate, we have no way of knowing if he'll tell us the truth. I don't trust that old goblin any more than I can throw him."
"He's pretty light," Travis said. "You could probably throw him pretty far." He paused. "I suppose it depends entirely on how afraid of his own boss he is. What about the Daimon you knew? The one you used to work with? What would he have done in this situation, do you think?"
"He'd have been dead already," Roland said, without a sliver of hesitation. "He'd have hidden a cyanide capsule inside a filling or something equally ridiculous. As soon as he realized Master Kaiba had him dead to rights, he'd have been gone. We wouldn't have gotten anything out of him except a corpse."
"Huh." Travis frowned. "Can't accuse the man of lacking conviction, I guess."
"No," Roland said, shaking his head. "You certainly cannot."
"I'm gonna be honest with you, Chief. I think I'm glad I didn't come onboard during the last administration." Travis chuckled at his own joke. "I don't think I'd have felt very welcome if the old Master Kaiba had been at the helm. He doesn't sound like a man I'd want to work for."
"No," said Roland. "He was not. Also, to be frank, I don't think he would have hired a Black man in the first place."
Travis looked supremely unsurprised to hear this. "So. You, ah. You've really been dealing with all this. Magic and all. For a long time now. Years, I heard?"
"I have." Roland nodded. "It's hard to be surprised anymore. Ever since Master Kaiba met Yugi Mutou, he's been embroiled in more . . . extradimensional fuckery, as he calls it, than a Star Trek cast."
Travis laughed. "Is that right?"
"Mm."
"Kind of surprised none of the other guys noticed that wasn't the little man." Travis's face twisted in confusion. "They don't really act anything like each other. And honestly, they look pretty different, too."
"Not at a glance," Roland said. "But either way, I think he's something of a chameleon. He's good at putting on faces. Master Kaiba has always been much the same way. I think he probably put on a friendly enough face when he first arrived, and it only cracked when he got caught. I think if we saw him on his own territory, he'd seem a lot more familiar."
"You think so? I'm not so sure about that."
Roland shrugged. "I suppose I can't be sure. But regardless, keep in mind that there aren't many people who know them well enough to mark the differences the way we can. You may be part of the new generation, but you were one of Master Kaiba's first hires. You've been taking the young master to school for years now."
"Guess that's fair." Travis glanced at his watch. "How long are you gonna let him stew in there? Gonna have him spend the night? Come at him at dawn, wake him up with a bucket of water to the face? The whole routine?"
Roland's face went humorless.
"It would be better than he deserves."
