make a new plan, Stan. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lazyinlove) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
exsiliumlogs2013-11-25 02:29 pm
lazyinlove) wrote in exsiliumlogs2013-11-25 02:29 pm
C'est la mort. (Open)
Date & Time:Tonight, around 7.
Location:The viewing windows.
Characters:Anyone who knew Peace or who might stop to pay respects at a memorial even if they didn't know her.
Summary:A memorial gathering for an Exsile who ceased to exist with the most recent world change.
Warnings:Tears, cursing, bitterness? Not sure yet. People can label threads as they come up. Everyone is free to make their own and jump around. Prose and action are both fine.
It's a waste of emergency torches, but there are a few set up around anyway, lit that soft unearthly blue of emergency lighting. The flowers are paper, clumsily folded from discharge sheets, some from the prison, some from the clinic. There are no photos. All of the ones she was in before are empty spaces, or pictures of Stanley or others who'd been holding her at the time. The music is strings, playing softly from a haphazardly tossed tablet. There are no chairs. Instead, every pillow from 144 is on the ground as seating.
Stanley isn't sitting on one, though. He's standing at the window, staring down at the planet so far below. Today, he's combed his hair. It's still in his eyes because it's too long, but he's made the effort to tame it at any rate.
He's not sure how to start things off, but if someone shows up he'll greet them. That's what you do, right? So that's what he does.
"Thanks for coming."
Location:The viewing windows.
Characters:Anyone who knew Peace or who might stop to pay respects at a memorial even if they didn't know her.
Summary:A memorial gathering for an Exsile who ceased to exist with the most recent world change.
Warnings:Tears, cursing, bitterness? Not sure yet. People can label threads as they come up. Everyone is free to make their own and jump around. Prose and action are both fine.
It's a waste of emergency torches, but there are a few set up around anyway, lit that soft unearthly blue of emergency lighting. The flowers are paper, clumsily folded from discharge sheets, some from the prison, some from the clinic. There are no photos. All of the ones she was in before are empty spaces, or pictures of Stanley or others who'd been holding her at the time. The music is strings, playing softly from a haphazardly tossed tablet. There are no chairs. Instead, every pillow from 144 is on the ground as seating.
Stanley isn't sitting on one, though. He's standing at the window, staring down at the planet so far below. Today, he's combed his hair. It's still in his eyes because it's too long, but he's made the effort to tame it at any rate.
He's not sure how to start things off, but if someone shows up he'll greet them. That's what you do, right? So that's what he does.
"Thanks for coming."
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[It probably doesn't mean anything to Lenalee, but he's too wrung through to translate it at the moment. She'll figure it out for herself eventually. It's probably best not to rush that moment anyway. It's pretty fucking brutal, in his opinion.]
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It's alright to be upset, you know.
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[She's the second person today to tell him that, but he's still not sure what to do with it. He is upset, there's no denying that. But what's he supposed to be doing about it that he's not?]
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Take those feelings and channel them into something.
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[But he wants nothing to do with this war, so Lenalee cannot urge him as she urges herself. His choice is something she'll fiercely respect.]
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[Like staring at the wall. Or doing pills. Or staring at the ceiling. Or drinking. He's good at that stuff where he falls short on everything else.]
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[His tone is still hollow, but it's trying to warm up for her. That was fun, before everything went to shit as usual. The memory of the night brings back thoughts of the Exsiles hired as musicians to play for them. It makes his stomach turn over, and he folds his arms across his front protectively.]
Next time prom rolls around.
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Don't rush it. Take all the time you need.
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[That's...all the promise he has to offer right now, right? It's easier than trying to plan something. His brain just isn't cooperating with processing information today.
Worse than usual, even. He can operate fine with a bit of a haze hanging around him, but whatever this feeling is -grief? guilt? regret?- it's suffocating.]