Roland doesn't bother answering, because he doesn't know. Whether he can remains to be seen, doesn't it? No point in turning enough of his attention on the question just to guess.

He's grimacing, reaching into a gash the machine made in his enemy's corpse and pushing his fingers in, feeling the squelch of blood and give of skin and fat and muscle under his hand and not thinking much of it. He's thinking of his other hand, which he'll need to use to get enough grip on this damned body and which he has to convince to unlock itself from the grip of the Capitol's gun sitting uselessly in its holster. He's selfishly glad, for a second, that Firo is no gunslinger, so trained to think in a certain way and to notice every part of his surroundings at once, and he hopes that Firo won't notice this particular struggle, either.

The hand which had never needed to lock itself on his gun and which actively shouldn't have, just now, does rise, it shoves itself in a little ways from the other and pulls. The body moves, not enough but almost, and he throws his weight back again in another try at it. "Why'd you leave cover? Get down, for your father's sake get down and shoot from there!"