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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Comes her conversational response. "I'd like to finish up the back, but you'd have to turn around for that. Long hair's sorta the in thing. We can see your eyes now. That's something, at least!"
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Okay, so he hasn't seen it in a mirror or anything. But it's not impossible to see around it now. That's most of what matters anyway, right?
It's tough to explain about existential crises and grief and confusion and the infuriating helplessness that goes along with being young and useless and gentle when you're supposed to be a soldier in a war. Maybe Collette understands anyway, or maybe she doesn't. But it doesn't feel good. It doesn't make him feel good. He's not lying about it, he just doesn't know how to explain it better. This is all really new and fucked up.
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Not that he feels better, or he gets well soon. That's not what any of this is about.
She wheels herself back from the bench, giving him plenty of free room for movement.
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He knows he's acting crazy, but it's hard to stop and try to be normal for Collette's sake. He was always so sane before. But these days, he's always just a handful of problems away from a freakout. Sometimes less than that. At the moment, it's more like a few hairs away.
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Now is the part where he has to leave the room if he's going to. He knows that. Really.
It still takes a long moment and a couple of deep breaths before he can wrench himself away from the safety of the wall and slide through the doorway to leave.
He can see now. And he did...the thing...made sure people could say goodbye if they wanted to. Made sure that they knew what had happened. That's enough for now. It's all he can handle without losing his shit on someone, and that wouldn't do anyone any good. So he slinks away, back to the bunks, to hide for a while. No one will come looking for him. He can piece himself back together before the next big thing goes down. It'll be alright. Sort of.