exsiliumlogs | C'est la mort. (Open)

Entry tags:

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."

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[He hadn't listened to-- hadn't paid attention to-- Stanley's network post about this.

So he's out of the loop and confused.]

What's going on?

[Somehow, the idea that Peace might not exist anymore had never occurred to Nill. She knew every little thing that they changed in the past affected the future; that it was dangerous and foolish, and that the Initiative didn't know what they were doing most of the time, even if they pretended they did. She knew that everything they did endangered Transports and Exiles alike, and yet...

That little girl hadn't been an Exile in Nill's mind, though. As soon as they got to the moon it wasn't Transports and Exiles anymore-- it was Transports and the Initiative, and Peace had been a Transport in her eyes. Now she was just... gone. And everyone on this base was responsible for it.

For all the danger her friends have gotten into in the past though, Nill has never attended a funeral. She'd witnessed one or two during her time living in the church, but this was different. Being something of a mourner instead of an observer, she had no idea what she was meant to do here. Without any better idea to go off of, she finds herself lingering over by the paper flowers, and watching as people come and go.]

[What Stanley has done makes this all look something like a candlelight vigil, and somehow it sits worse with her than even proper wax and wicks did. Maybe it's what preceded it. She is wringing her fingers and sporting fantastic undereye shadows as she approaches.]

I saw what you said on the network. Is this- related to that? [ venturing, carefully, so carefully: ] About "her"?

[Oh boy.

It's hard to actually get the words out. Stanley swallows first and digs the toe of his shoe into the floor, glancing away.]

Uh. It's ...she's gone.

[Stanley approaches Nill after a while. He's sort of moving through a fog, so it takes him some time to notice her there. But it's nice of her to come. So he shuffles over, silently, and rests a hand on her shoulder gently. Maybe he doesn't have to say anything. That'd be nice. There's such a big lump in his throat right now.]

[Words are difficult. There's this enormous lump in his throat, this tight feeling in his chest, this weight on his shoulders. It's an effort just to glance up and meet people's eyes. But...it's good to see a familiar face. It feels a little less lonely. Instead of answering properly, he nods. It's about all he can manage right now.]

[Stan's text was partially true - while she thought he was an annoying little teenaged shit, the little girl had been no problem for her. It seemed like a snowball effect on the moon - zombies, mutinies, and now deaths. Lisbeth didn't know she would yearn for that desolate island again, but she does now.

Showing up in her usual greyscale ensemble, Lisbeth sits on a pillow way in the back.]

[Stan isn't exactly engaged and present. In fact, he's barely holding it together. It feels like there's a thick fog all around. He stays up front and attempts to greet people, when he notices them and can get the words out anyway. But his mind keeps drifting, and his chest is tight, and his throat feels raw.

He doesn't see Lisbeth come in and sit down. Doesn't notice her at all until it gets to be too much and he bolts for the back, needing a minute without any eyes on him. He leans against the wall, trying to remember how to breathe, and then slides down until his face is on his knees, hair splayed around it. He doesn't even know who he's elbowed when he presses his hands to the back of his head, but he chokes out an apology anyway.]

Sorry.

[Two plus two, and Lenalee loses grasp on her voice for a moment, too.]

Oh. [ she does not say anything else for a long moment ] I'm sorry, Stanley.

Me too.

[He really, really is. It's all of their faults. Every single one of them. Maybe him the most. For spiriting her away somewhere strange and frightening. No one deserves what that girl got. No one. It makes him feel sick and shaky and hollow and heavy all at once.]

[She'd figured he probably wanted to do his own thing, even if he was the one running all of this. Loss was difficult, especially when you had devoted most of your time to that person - especially so if it was a little girl like Peace had been. Children required so much more attention than anyone else. Stan might never think so himself, but Nill really believed he had done well.

She offers him a small smile, and lifts a hand to put it on top of his, briefly. She makes no moves to pull out her tablet. Instead, she glances at the paper flowers, and gives him a thumbs up, as out of place as that might be at the funeral this is meant to be. A silent sort of "you're doing well". She's not sure how well it'll translate in this situation.]

[She doesn't have much to say on death, less still a child's death. She pushes her one conviction on a thin inhale:]

To give up now would be to trample down on that girl's life, and the lives of everyone who trusted us to get this far.

[Haah. There is a smudge on her shoes, and this becomes the most interesting thing.] That sounds cruel to say, doesn't it?

Who's gone?

[He has the suspicion in the back of his mind, but he keeps it out of his face for now. Making sure.]

[Everything sounds cruel at the moment. The nice things people say about her. The ugly things. It's all cruel. He can only shrug in response.]

I wasn't fighting anyway.

[And this? It's hardly inspiration. He closes his eyes and presses a hand to them, trying to stave off a headache until this thing is over.]

Fuck this war. I'm out.

Peace. You know...what'd you say? The snot factory.

[He's still pointedly looking anywhere else, but his voice only shakes a little. It's...not a big deal to most people. Stanley knows that. But to him, it feels like losing the world. Way worse than when they literally gave up the planet. The only good thing is gone, now. It's hard to talk about it, but Spike helped them out. He should know.]

[Stanley gets the idea, more or less. It's tough to care what anyone thinks of the flowers. They're not for these people anyway, not really. They're for someone who won't even see them. It makes his breath hitch painfully in his chest. He understands that Nill is trying to make him feel better, not worse. So he gives her shoulder a soft squeeze, still not trusting his voice to work properly at the moment.]

[At least he gets the general idea. She's not expecting to do much to help-- there's pretty much no way to help a situation like this. But the way she figures, she can be there, and maybe that'll be enough.

Even though this situation is terrible, and should never have happened, Nill is a little grateful for Stanley. Because of experiences in her own world and in the Port, there was always this divide in her mind; the people who were there first, and the people who came after, whether they wanted to or not. One group was always treated horribly, and because of that she'd judged the Exiles in much the same way as she had Natives, or some of the people in her own world.

She's a little ashamed of how long it took her to realize just how awful that was.

Stan's not up to talking though, and trying to say thank you now - or ever - would probably just worsen his opinion of her further. So instead she lifts her hand from his, and reaches into a pocket of her jacket to pull out a hair ribbon. Then she reaches over and picks up a paper flower, and kind of wraps the ribbon on it like a bow, before setting it down again. It's not a very nice color for the occasion, but it's all she has. One thing that she recalls of funerals involves placing flowers on caskets, and it's all she has to offer.]

[peter shows up a few minutes before seven, looking well and truly wrung out, but calm. he did his crying the night before, and now he just mostly feels hollow. the horror of it wells up sometimes, but it's softer, farther away. and that's good, he thinks, for this. coming apart in public isn't really on his list.

there's no body, of course, but they're here to lay her to rest regardless. he comes and stands by the window, near stanley but only incidentally so. he finds the place exsilium was, or close enough, murmurs the traditional words releasing the dead into the next life, and draws a tiny cross on the window with the side of his thumb, momentarily obscuring the entire united kingdom from his own view. that's all he can do for them, all the people that they erased.

carefully, he reaches out and puts a hand on stan's shoulder.]

[ As Stan had informed Kate of the funeral, she shows up in her signature colours of black and red. She doesn't have appropriate wear for a gathering like this, so she stands out with such bright jeans, but her workout clothes aren't any better.

When she had been twelve she attended her mother and sister's funerals, unsuspecting of the smaller casket that did not contain her Beth's body. She doesn't know nor like the idea of labeling this a funeral or Peace's erupt disappearance as death. For all they know the timeline's been altered and she's back on Earth in relatively safer hands.

She remains in the room, though she doesn't seat herself on a pillow. She does stop before one of the paper flowers and emergency torches, briefly looking them over before moving toward one of the windows.

What can she say in this situation? ]

[That's a little confusing at first, but...it seems like a gesture. That's nice. People making gestures. It's kind of beyond him at the moment to figure out how this goes. The only funerals he's been to were for old people, and no one was all that distraught.

This isn't like that. Who knows what the rules are? Maybe tying up the fake flowers with cheerful ribbons is good enough.]

[Stanley jumps a little, not because the contact from Peter is unpleasant, but because he's stuck in his thoughts. Trying to get out of his own head isn't ever easy, but at the moment it's practically impossible. He blinks, confused. Then he remembers to breathe again, and greets Peter with a nod.

There's probably a lot to say. It's just that it's all caught in his throat at the moment.]

[Theres no dress code at the funeral, or memorial, or whatever people feel like calling it. Stanley combed his hair, but his clothes are the same wrinkled jeans he always wears, and one of Jesse's hoodies. The guy's a bit too locked up to object at the moment anyway, though it's not like he ever does. And it's cold. It feels cold anyway.

Kate's outfit doesn't warrant even a glance from Stanley, though she gets one as he decides if he should psych himself up to go over and greet her or not. It's like trying to play hopscotch in tubs of cement, dragging his mind out of the depths of the vacuum that it feels like he's stuck in. But hopefully it doesn't show on his face.

This time he has no technology to impart, and certainly no wisdom. He clears his throat awkwardly before he tries to speak, but his voice still comes out hoarse and grating.]

You made it.

[peter really doesn't have anything to say. he can't think of a single damn thing that could come out of his mouth that would mean anything at all. there's no comfort to be found anywhere in any of this, and nothing to be gained by bitterness, so he doesn't say anything, just squeezes stanley's shoulder. the other boy has never struck peter as being a particularly physical person, so he doesn't do anything more than that, although the way he's standing is certainly open enough for a hug if it occurred to stan to move.]

[She keeps near the walls, in the background, fading into the shadows cast by the torches because she doesn't feel like she has a right to be here, when so often her presence makes Stanley uncomfortable.

But he invited her, and she owes it to Peace, so here she is. She'll talk to people if approached, but otherwise she keeps to herself, expression sad but - almost calm, a little detached. She doesn't have the energy to be as sad as she thinks she should be, and she's run out of tears.

It isn't until things start winding down and people start drifting away that she approaches Stanley, offering him a thin, rectangle parcel, wrapped in simple brown paper.]

It's not much, but I thought it might help a little.

[Inside is a framed drawing of Peace, smiling and holding her hands up, like she might reach out of the paper. Steph isn't the artist, she sat with Donny for a while and described Peace to him, so he could draw it for her, because he's much more talented than she is. She owes him one; the drawing is beautiful, if heartbreaking.]

Edited 2013-11-26 11:48 (UTC)

[She's not really sure what to do either. Her methods for dealing with dead or missing loved ones have... not been the best, typically speaking. Even given that, it hadn't really been unexpected. It was the same at the church; she always worried there would be a day Badou wouldn't come back with Heine. With Peace it was so different that it was a little jarring.

But after a moment, a question occurs to her that might not be too bad to ask. It's unrelated at least.]

Where are you staying here?

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C'est la mort. (Open)

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