Westbrook Academy for Metahumans: Forums

((Please note: Not from Abby's POV. Abby still <3's Brodi.))


It was raining when they buried Derrick.

Not a proper storm, though. Just a drizzle. Pissing rain, that's how he'd have described it, she knew. Then he'd have rolled his eyes or done something else to make her laugh. She felt a fresh ache arise at such thoughts, and it made her work that much harder to push them away.

Breathe in, breathe out. Nothing more, nothing less.

The mantra helped some, but not enough. She shuffled to a chair at the very edge of the tent and sat heavily, not even bothering to wipe the raindrops away first.

She ought to have been seated up front, of course, alongside Derrick's parents. But they didn't know her. No one could know her, not now. She folded her hands in her lap and forced herself to focus on her breathing.

No one spoke to her, there were no hugs or little displays of sympathy. She was, after all, a stranger. To everyone but Derrick, anyway.

With nothing else to do, she turned her attention to the crowd. It was a large turn-out, and she wasn't certain whether she was surprised by that or not. Some people, she knew, came simply out of curiosity, because they'd heard about the story on the news. They didn't seem to be in the majority, though.

Instead she recognized a fair number of Derrick's former classmates from Westbrook. She hadn't actually met very many of them, but she'd seen the pictures, exchanged the rare nod or hello at the mall. Look at that, she thought. The football team had shown up in force, wearing their team jackets over shirts and ties. Derrick would have liked that.

His professional contacts were there, too -- the cops, the firefighters, the other first responders. And some of the people he'd helped on his patrols. Some of those people who owed him their lives, even. He'd never kept a tally of such things, but she had. He'd made a difference with his life, and she'd been proud of that.

Then her gaze passed over the others, and she knew her features had hardened even as she'd tried to keep them neutral. They'd scattered themselves among the crowd in twos and threes. She should have been grateful for their presence, but she couldn't muster any gratitude. Not after what had happened.

She shifted her attention to the service. The minister was speaking of Heaven as a house of sorts, with many rooms where all were welcome. It seemed trite to her, but maybe people preferred trite at times like this.

Derrick's father had to be literally physically supported by his wife when it came time to deliver the eulogy. He looked shrunken inside his tailored suit, as though the largest part of him had simply evaporated along with the late-morning mist. He spoke of his son in slow, halting phrases.

She listened for a moment and then shook her head. You didn't know him at all, did you?

Derrick's mother, who declined to speak, kept her seat and was unreadable, little more than a vague shape in the front row. Hard to see, impossible to approach. Ironically, that was pretty close to how Derrick had always described her.

"If -- if anyone..." Derrick's father made a gesture to encompass the assembled mourners. His wife murmured something to him and shifted more of his weight to her shoulder.

The minister was quick on the uptake and eased him aside. "If there are those who might like to take a moment and say a few words about Derrick, I know all of us would be pleased to hear them."

She almost rose. It wasn't the warning looks from the others that stopped her--if anything, that made the desire to speak far, far stronger. But she held herself back because she knew it wasn't what Derrick would have wanted.

A moment of awkward silence stretched across the assembly. Then someone cleared his throat and began to talk. Others followed.

She bowed her head and exhaled slowly.

Breathe in, breathe out. Nothing more, nothing less.

The football team had all agreed that they needed to attend Cork’s funeral. Opinions of him in life aside, he had been one of them, and a darn good player, even if he didn’t know when to shut his mouth.

They’d also agreed to show up wearing their Westbrook letterman jackets. Diya was relieved. It was one part of the outfit she didn’t have to plan.

Diya hadn’t attended a funeral before. Went along with the rest of family being spread around the world: when someone keeled over, Diya usually didn’t know them and even if she did she had either been too busy with gymnastics to slip away, or her parents didn’t want to pay for the extra ticket.

Staring at her closet after lunch, the clock ticking down, Diya eventually settled on just wearing her uniform, sans dorky sweater vest. Dark gray slacks, white shirt, dark tie - classic funeral gear, right? Letterman jacket over top all of it and she was ready to go.

She met up with Shanna at the doorway to the girls’ dorms. Shanna had gone for a slightly chicer choice, wearing true-black slacks and a cozy-looking black turtleneck under her jacket. The girls nodded in acknowledgement of each other as they walked down the stairs together.

Most of the rest of the team had already assembled in the commons. If Cork had been around, Diya knew there would have been some crack about girls taking too long to get ready. Maybe a thinly-veiled lesbian joke, an easy shot to take at the only two girls in the testosterone-laden sport.

But the rest of the guys were nothing but respectful, offering nods, handshakes, and back-slapping hugs to the two girls, before the group shuffled out the door, heads bowed against the drizzling rain, everyone lost in their own thoughts.

Taylor wore dark jeans and a long tan trench coat to the funeral. Syd always called it her “Pale Rider” jacket. It didn’t help matters any that one pocket had a hole tore in it, and a bunch of change fell into the lining, so it jingled like spurs when she walked.

She left her ‘gear’ at home, the PSP, Dsi 3D, the Kindle Fire, but not the Droid. She idly tapped it with her thumb as someone sang “Amazing Grace.”

Mr. Cork invited people to speak. A lot of the football team did, some choking up. Mike Jackson told a funny story about Cork having to get him out after he was shoved into a locker which made people laugh uncomfortably, because you weren’t ‘supposed’ to laugh at a funeral. Walter Hickson talked about practice, and how their plan to Gatorade bathe Coach Jackson went awry, and there was more uncomfortable laughter.

“All these people go to our school?” Taylor silently wondered, looking around. She recognized Wyatt and nodded to him. Her roommates ex. She credits them with how fast she got through the last Zelda game on her DS, seeing as there was perpetually a scruncii left on the door knob. But they broke up and now she could have access to her own PC whenever she wanted. Now and again she’d leave a scruncii on the doorknob just so she wouldn’t be disturbed during Team Fortress matches. If you died in game? You'd respawn or reset, lose a bunch of gear but you'd get to play again.

Death was different in the movies. The rain was a nice effect, fitting, but in the movies, funerals were usually short affairs. You’d see a few cut scenes, maybe a couple of people crying, and if they were military, a 21 gun salute and then it’d cut to people drinking in a bar, or going out and doing some avenging. In real life, they dragged on a bit. It seemed like hours, but even that suddenly seemed short - you get an hour or two to summarize your entire life before they go and bury you and it’s over.

It’s over.

She didn’t know Derrick, but he wouldn’t be coming back. No one would yell cut, and the actor wouldn’t get up and go hit his trailer to wash out all the fake blood. It was real. It was all too real.

She wished she didn’t go - not to the funeral, not on that run that night. She didn’t know him, and hearing all these stories was forcing her to know him, and it was much easier to not know him. She was sitting towards the back anyway, so she politely excused herself, heading back to campus.

Her coat jingled like spurs in an old western. Had it been a movie, she’d head to a saloon, have a couple of drinks and somehow find out what really happened that night Derrick was killed, then there would be horses and a posse and a lot of action. But it wasn’t a movie. She was underage, she couldn't drink, and likely they’d never know what really happened. There was buzzing about it not being an accident. Some wise guy wrote "Derrick Cork was Pushed!" on the whiteboard near the dorms, but she still wasn't convinced the fall was what killed him. Eric mentioned meeting up about it, maybe she'd go.

Maybe she'd play some Lost Planet instead.

Wyatt stood in the rain and watched Derrick’s parents grieve. His father looked like he could faint – or die – right there, and his mother looked like the life had already passed from her. A minister said some words, but Wyatt didn’t hear them.

Inside the box was someone Wyatt’s age. Someone powerful and flawed, just like him. Cork’s death had made Wyatt think about his own life – who would miss him, and who wouldn’t. In the past few days Derrick Cork had cast a bigger shadow on Wyatt than he ever had in life. Cork was a jerk and if the cruelties and slights you committed in life were chained to you in the hereafter, then that would be one heavy coffin to lift; when all accounts were balanced, Wyatt knew that his own chains were pretty weighty too.

Just deserts. That’s what they called it. In the afterlife, everyone gets their just deserts. But Wyatt wasn’t a believer in the hereafter – at least not in the traditional, religious sense – and so any justice a body was to have had to be found in this life. Calling Cork’s death an “accident” wasn’t justice.

“He deserves better 'n that."

“Speak up, young man?”

It took a moment for Wyatt to realize that he was being addressed, that he had spoken his thoughts loud enough for the minister to hear a bit of it.

Wyatt shook his head. “Sorry… I… Sorry,” was all he could get out.

“Yes,” the minister said to the crowd in a comforting tone, “we are all sorry – full of sorrow – to say goodbye to our brother, so young. But our sorrow shall turn to joy if we think about…”

Wyatt didn’t hear the rest. He had come to the funeral. He had done what he could for Cork’s parents. A small thing. So small. Too small.

Wyatt turned his back to the service and walked away in the rain, his feet dragging heavy chains through the muddy grass.

Peyton didn’t realize how many bright clothes she had until the morning of Cork’s funeral. She’d always preferred sunnier colors, ‘nothing that can’t be seen in a rainbow.’ She remembered saying as a kid when her mom had tried to wrestle her into wearing a heather gray hand-me-down sweatshirt from her brother.

She found a dark blue skirt, but it was a little short for the occasion. The LBD was a bit too dressy. The dark yoga pants not dressy enough. Sighing, she took the rest of her Christmas money out of the shoebox hidden away at the back of the closet, noting that the black heels inside would work well if she went and bought something drab. Being quick had it’s advantages. She zipped to the mall and back as most kids still were getting ready. She didn’t realize she’d left the tag on the inside of the dark blocked sweater until it itched something fierce just as she went to offer her condolences to Cork’s family.

His mother and stepfather had been quiet, off a bit to themselves. Maybe they didn’t want to be disturbed. Maybe they hoped someone would say something comforting. Truth was, she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to say to Derrick when he was alive either, but at least she’d say something. Her heels sank slightly into the grass made damp by the drizzle even under the tent, and she took her time getting there, rehearsing in her head what to say, but as she held out her hand to Derrick’s mom, realizing she didn’t even know the woman’s last name, she froze up.

“Hi.” She stammered. Say something. “I’m Peyton. I went to school with Derrick.” Say something better. “I’m really sorry for your loss.” I said better, not stupid!

“Peyton.” His mother repeated in a cool tone, taking Peyton’s hand in hers to shake it without letting it go. “He never mentioned you.” Peyton’s small smile didn’t fade. Her ego could take it. “But then again, he rarely mentioned anyone. Did you know Derrick well?” She asked with upturned eyes as she squeezed Peyton’s hand, holding on just a bit too long. She wore beautiful rings that dug into Peyton’s skin, but the teenager held her smile and nodded her head. The tag on her sweater itched. Lie.

“He was a good guy.” Peyton replied.

“He was, wasn’t he?” She stated in the same cool tone.

“Yes, ma’am. Everyone knew him.” Or knew of him.

“I worried about him. He had trouble making friends when he was young, I always though part of it was being different set him apart.” You could hear her Boston accent thick and strong with the word ‘apart.’ In her head, Peyton tried to mimic it, but couldn’t. “Westbrook was the right choice.” If she wasn’t holding my hand, I could zip out behind that tree, tear this dang tag off and be back before she even noticed. “It’s nice to see he had so many friends, people to care for him, look out for him, even if...” She didn’t let go of Peyton’s hand, not even when she started to dig through her purse for a clean tissue. Peyton offered her the pack of Kleenex anti-viral she’d carried around in her Letterman jacket ever since Eric joined the squad. Derrick's mom squeezed her hand harder, taking the pack of tissues just as she closed her eyes to regain her composure.

“Thank you for saying as much.” Derrick’s stepfather said, breaking his wife’s death grip on Peyton to hold his wife’s shoulder as if transferring some of his strength to her through osmosis. Peyton slid hers into her pockets and nodded, feeling the indents the rings had left. She was out of words.

She hugged a few of her classmates who looked like they could use a little support, said a quick prayer for Derrick's family, then left to get rid of that dang tag.

((Wonky time in effect -- feel free to post something about your character's action at any point during the day of the funeral. And, obviously, this still isn't Abby below.))

The first rumble of thunder hid the soft clink of metal on metal.

She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed she'd tossed more than just a handful of earth into the grave. No one gave any indication they had, though. The line of mourners continued to shuffle forward, and any trace of what she'd done was quickly buried.

She let herself be carried her past Derrick's coffin and to his parents. She shook their hands and mumbled some excuse about knowing him from school. Neither paid her much attention.

Afterward, she had to fight down the urge to sprint back to her car. The rain had begun to pick up, and a sharp wind carried it across the cemetery in sheets. She took shelter under a tree, as much to collect her thoughts as to avoid the weather.

She hadn't planned to linger, but a familiar voice called to her before she could summon up the energy for the rest of the walk. She looked back toward the hilltop and saw three figures slip from the crowd and head in her direction.

She groaned, but, thankfully, they weren't close enough to hear. Small blessing. She considered simply blowing them off, pretending she hadn't heard the greeting. It wouldn't help, though. So she stood her ground and let them catch up.

When they reached the tree, she raised a hand to forestall the inevitable argument. "Not now, Jenna. Just... not now."

Jenna weighed her words a moment and finally opted for a nod. "Fine," she said. "But we won't wait forever."

Then the three of them swept past her, and she made sure they were in their cars and gone before she continued to the parking lot.

Most of the cheerleaders had gone, so Aglakti went. He wore an entirely black suit, black shirt and black tie. Around his neck, a leather strip tied 'round a glittering purple stone. There'd been no staring into the closet, no swapping around of shirts and holding up one pair of shoes next to the other. He wore what he'd worn to a previous funeral, not a family member but some other friend a year ago.

He met up with some of the others milling around with the football team in the commons before they all headed out together.

He found the idea of burying the dead somewhat foreign, but he observed the ritual all the same. Hands clasped down the front of his pants and head bowed as the drizzle made his jet black hair fall limply over his eyes. Most had bothered with umbrellas, some had coats, not Ag. He always seemed to revel in the weather, whatever it was.

He didn't feel sorrow or sadness but he sympathized with those who did. He gave hugs where needed or requested, other times shook hands, participated properly and remained in that somber state of quiet respect the entire time.

Stray hair clung to Lauren’s forehead and face. Infrequent drops of freezing water collected to run down her neck and back despite the long gray coat she was wearing. Her charcoal dress was probably a little too fancy for a funeral, but the light rain gave her an excuse to cover most of it up.

It was strange to think about the way television and movies so often portrayed rain at funerals. It struck Lauren as being odd. Rain brought water to the earth. Life-giving water. Rain wasn’t something to be sad about, unless it was one of the near-frozen drops running down her back that made her shiver. Maybe if one were to wax poetic, you could imagine the heavens themselves were weeping for the departed.

Lauren was glad for the rain. She could hide wiping away a stray tear as she tucked a strand of damp hair back into place. Or if one happened to drip unheeded down her cheek, surely it was just a bit of water from her eyelashes. Was she crying regardless of how she felt about Derrick simply because this was his funeral? Or because of how she felt about him?

She didn’t like him. That much she knew. But did she really know him? She never put forth any effort to know him, content to exist in her cocoon of dislike. What was he really like? Was his outward disposition simply a cover for something else?

There were so many people paying their respects, some even in uniform. It struck Lauren that Derrick might be a hero to some of these people, both figuratively and literally. He meant something to these people. She should have tried to get to know him.

Amazing Grace. There should be bagpipes. Amazing Grace is better with bagpipes. Most people seemed to dislike bagpipes. Some of Lauren’s friends hated them. She knew only a few people who appreciated them. Lauren felt a fresh pang of guilt. She was standing at Derrick’s funeral and instead of thinking of him or his family, she was musing on whether or not someone should be playing bagpipes.

She tried to focus on the words being said, but too often they rang hollow in her ears. She took to looking around the assembled crowd, wondering who each person might be and how they knew Derrick.

When the service ended, Lauren joined the line of mourners waiting to drop a handful of earth upon the lowered casket. She took a single yellow rosebud from her pocket. Not because Derrick had been her friend. Not even because she realized she should have made an effort to be his. It was meant merely to say farewell.

After she allowed the moist dirt to slip slowly from her fingers, she tossed the rose after it. As it settled upon the earth strewn over Derrick’s coffin, Lauren’s eyes caught a metallic gleam. It was there only for a moment, before it was buried by another handful of dirt. It had to be some token offered by another visitor surely, but something about the shape or design bothered her.

Lauren had just stepped from the grass onto the strip of concrete that formed a winding road through the cemetery when she felt as if an invisible hand slammed into her. Stumbling her next few steps, she nearly fell. A nearby lamppost was the closest support, and she hugged it tight.

She knew that shape, even half-buried in soil. She knew, because she wore one near every day, was wearing one at that very moment.

A medical transporter badge.

It couldn’t be. She had to be imagining it. No, Lauren knew what she saw. Derrick didn’t have one on him when he died.

People were still paying their respects, and handful by handful the badge was being buried with Derrick. Maybe it had a story to tell. Maybe not. But after the funeral, the groundskeepers would bring in the heavy machine, a front-loader or small bulldozer perhaps, to fill in the grave.

Lauren wandered the area as the rain picked up and the mourners gradually dwindled. She had a vague thought of climbing down to retrieve the badge, but she couldn’t bring herself to be so irreverent as to do something with anyone else about.

Her hair was plastered to her face and the rain running down her neck was soaking her dress when she realized she had been distracted and wandered too far. The rumble of an engine starting was just loud enough to hear over the weather. She drew close and watched in silent fury as the grave was filled, burying the medbadge probably forever.