Participants:
| Scene Title | They Will Be Remembered |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Citizens gather to mourn their dead and pray for the lost. |
| Date | November 14, 2010 |
The posters went up around the city sometime Friday: Join us to remember those we have lost. ~ The Fellowship. Eleven in the morning may seem a strange time for a candlelight vigil, but to have such a memorial in the nighttime hours now would be folly for so many reasons. There is no pathetic fallacy today of a gloomy and dreary sky above — the sun is bright and the day is warm for November at a brisk 60 degrees; however, the sky is still not blue, but a dingy grayish white from so much smoke and soot still hanging in the atmosphere above the devastated city.
The Fellowship, once more than 200 strong, has been reduced to a small motley crew of 50. As people approach the metallic sculpture that serves as the meeting point here, the organizers pass out candles and point those with items of remembrance to a makeshift shrine. There, flowers, prayer candles, photographs and signs all tell a poignant story of the lives lost — and also paint a picture of hope, for there are those who hold the belief that their loved ones are simply lost in the physical sense, perhaps evacuated, perhaps hiding in a basement waiting for the smoke to clear. "Have you seen me?" asks one poster, a picture with a little girl clutching a teddy bear beneath the words written in black Sharpie. Others are more somber: "We'll miss you, Daddy. Rest in Peace" in red crayon is enough to bring tears to one bystander's eyes.
Peyton Whitney stares at that poster and then looks up, blinking the tears out of eyes still bloodshot from overusing her power — though they are shielded from the sun and smoke by her signature Jackie O Raybans. She's dressed in somber black and gray today, the only color a jade green scarf around her throat. Her fingers curl around a white candle.
Memorials are something that the people of New York have gotten used to. There's been so many to remember. Even for someone who's been in the city less than a year, like Melissa, has been to several. This time though, she's not alone. This time she's got a backpack absolutely full on her back, and she's carrying a baby, dressed warm even though it's not as cold as normal. Unsurprisingly, she's dressed said baby in baby goth fashion. Who puts a black hoodie with a skull on it on a seven month old?
She walks towards the group of people, not knowing who the Fellowship is, and not caring. She's got people to remember, including the mother of the child that she's holding. There's still fear there, fear of the baby, but it's not full on panic like it was just a few days ago.
A few feet away from Miss Whitney, a woman of dark hair and matching height stands in silence. Some may recognize her identity, Peyton would certainly be familiar enough, despite the efforts taken to obscure and avoid recognition. Black is worn, a thing not uncommon for her whether mourning or not. Sunglasses shade and hide eyes, a New York Yankees cap pulled low also furthers her goal. Cat's fingers clutch a white candle as, on spotting someone who seems at least Peytonesque from the back, she moves to cross the woman's path without comment and verify identity.
Kayla hasn't brought anything to leave at the shrine — not even so ephemeral a token as cut flowers. Dressed in a sweater that's only revealed as blue by the darker black of her jeans, she hovers a little back from the organizers, willfully separated from the line solemnly accepting one candle after another. The woman's hands are tucked into her pockets as though not to touch anything, the hems of thin black gloves visible at each wrist; clear gray eyes regard the mourners as much as the memorial, the bronze sphere which is an unfortunately familiar sight to the New York native. She hovers, observes; then finally draws a deep breath and walks forward, inserting herself into the procession of candle recipients and taking one of the pure white tapers.
When Cat comes closer, Peyton turns to look at the approaching figure, and a small smile curves her lips, and she holds her candle away so as not to inadvertently burn the other woman as she offers a hug. "I'm so sorry. I heard about the Council," she murmurs, her low voice a touch tremulous. Her head turns again as she notices Melissa and she cants her head, eyebrows raising over the frame of her glasses. Baby?
Meanwhile, one of the Fellowship members moves to the front, and clears his throat. It is a young man, just in his twenties, one of the most dedicated of Schnook's followers.
"Thank you for coming!" he says, his voice strong and strident, everything his predecessor's was not. "All are welcome — regardless of faith or belief. We are here to commemorate the memories of those we've lost, and to find strength for the future in the allies we have among us. Come closer," he says, nodding to those on the outskirts, such as Kayla. "This is informal. We are remembering anyone we've lost among us, and that can be those who have passed on or those whose fates we are unsure of. If you'd like to say a name, as we go around the circle, or if not a name, anything that comes to mind that you'd like to say to remember someone, feel free. I only ask we keep this respectful — no matter whose fault this was, we have all lost, and lost profoundly this past week. It is a time to remember and heal, not a time to point fingers."
He waits for those to draw closer — or not — making gestures to make a circle around the sphere.
Cat and Peyton are noticed, and Melissa hesitates for a moment before heading over towards them. "Hey Cat, Peyton," she says, giving Cat a sympathetic look. She may not have heard about the council, but she did see Ferry members executed by soldiers. She glances up towards the speaker, arching a brow slightly, but not saying anything more.
Her head turns, hidden eyes to rest upon Peyton, and a slight nod is given as the hug is briefly accepted. Words are exchanged in quiet tones, Cat choosing not to be overheard if at all possible. "Treachery happens," spoken with a touch of venom to the voice, "people survive and move forward. Talk later, at your office, or home." That's seemingly all she desires to say on such a topic here and now, a thing given further evidence as her head turns toward the approaching and greeting Melissa. There's an aloofness about her, one which suggests a 'who is Cat?' reaction of mild puzzlement.
Her building hasn't been raided, and there so far haven't been signs of surveillance aimed at capturing or killing her, but that doesn't mean police and soldiers aren't seeking. It only means she might not have spotted them yet.
Gray eyes narrow upon the speaker, the set of Kayla's jaw communicating readily enough that she isn't interested in speaking. Sharing is not high on the woman's wishlist, even here and now. She hovers amidst the group of people as they begin to sort themselves, caught between going forward and retreating; casts a calculating glance to several rather particular points in the mob, including those gathered with Peyton. Hovers, then sidles a few steps away, exempting herself from the circle in favor of approaching the shrine. Holding the candle close, her posture shielding its flame from the morning breeze, Kayla keeps some attention on the knot of people there while she closes, eyes tracing down the pictures, messages, and memorabilia.
The speaker nods his approval and murmurs a litany of names: "James. Mario. Heather. Thuy. Shawna." He swallows hard on the last name and he passes his candle, a larger candle, to his left, and nods to the man who simply shakes his head, passing the candle on.
"Hale," says the gruff voice of a robust man with a LBFD baseball cap on and passes the candle before taking off his hat, cheeks flushing as if embarrassed by forgetting to do so in the first place. Others follow.
"Steve. Loni."
"Margret."
"Bruce."
"My boys. Has anyone seen my boys?" a woman wails, showing her poster to everyone and beginning to cry hysterically. Peyton stares at the ground and her jaw tenses.
"Everyone. Just… everyone. May they rest in peace, and anyone not found, let them be found safe," an elderly woman whispers, passing the candle on.
"Marco."
"Junior."
The candle comes to Melissa.
The baby is shifted in Melissa's arms so she can take the candle. "Knox. Oleander. Pandora," she murmurs, glancing to the baby who's staring at the flame on the candle, fascinated by it. Spotting that, Mel offers the candle quickly to Cat, then with her now empty hand reaches for Junko's, whispering softly to her. Probably something about fire hot, fire bad.
Silence is held by Cat as the speaker states his solemn piece and the candle begins to make the rounds, followed by names from others being invoked. The three spoken by the Mistress of Pain causes her to stiffen as fingers accept the candle, face with hidden eyes turned toward her and jaw setting. News to Cat, apparently.
Some seconds later, after quiet reflection which doesn't include spoken names, she passes the lit object to the nearest person not yet to hold it.
Kayla has her own candle, thank you very much, and glowers at the larger one for a moment before giving in and taking it from Cat. There is absolutely no hesitation on the woman's part as she moves it on, without even the pause for reflection that Cat gave it.
Peyton takes the candle and stares at it for a moment. There are people lost and people missing, but not anyone that she knows of just now that's been killed. She knows where Cardinal is, though she feels he's lost — Monica is apparently in jail. So many others hurt. She shakes her head and passes the candle after a long moment.
The candle's light flickers but does not go out as the wind stirs hair and clothing, a chilly wind still scented of smoke and soot.
"Danny. Bill. Erica."
"Zhiu and Chen."
"Officer Derek Jackson."
The candle eventually makes it back to the young man at the front, and he moves to touch the wick to the eternal flame on the ground near the Sphere — the same place he lit it. "May they be remembered always. May those who are simply missing be found." He stands again, and looks to the crowd. "If you're looking for lost friends and family, feel free to mingle and ask one another — word of mouth is our best hope of connecting with them."
Another of the Fellowship's members lifts a guitar from the ground and begins to play, while others of the group begin to sing. "All We Are Saying is Give Peace a Chance."
The reaction that Cat has to Melissa's names goes unnoticed, but since she's trying to deal with Junko, that's unsurprising. She listens, of course, to the other names mentioned, but, luckily, when the singing starts, she remains quiet. Giving people headaches with her singing is so not the way that Mel wants to remember people.
Silence is held, head turning toward the man with the guitar, but Cat doesn't employ her voice. She hasn't been an advocate of the philosophy Lennon espoused in that tune, and may not become such. But it does run through her mind that its time may have come.
With the abandonment of habeas corpus and posse comitatus, Federal agencies will begin proving themselves fascist and cause the public to reject them.
If you're looking. Gray eyes fall to the lit candle in her hands, expression soberly neutral. After a moment, Kayla shakes her head a bit, then leans down to somewhat stiffly place her taper at the base of the shrine. Straightening, she regards it and its fitfully flickering companions for a long moment, hands coming up unconsciously to rub at her shoulders. Her gaze wanders after a bit to Melissa and the infant in her arms, then to the two other women who seem to be associated with her. But whatever Kayla's thinking, she doesn't quite say.
Peyton moves forward after Kayla to put her own candle beside Kayla's, and offers a small smile as she stands and steps back. "Good luck," she murmurs to the other woman before nodding to Cat and Melissa. "It's a nice gesture," she says in a quiet voice, a small shrug accompanying to say that it can't fix anything. But symbolism is important to the grieving process, it seems.
"Cute baby," she adds to Melissa, raising a brow as she looks up at the papoosed infant.
Melissa glances down to Junko, then to Peyton, and for a moment her terror at becoming responsible for such a tiny life shows on her face, but it's gone almost before it can be identified. "Is she? All babies sorta look the same to me," she admits with a faint smile. The smile fades though. "Her mom was killed on the eighth. Executed by soldiers," she murmurs.
Her head moves in a few directions, taking in faces and voices, Cat's hidden eyes roaming over the posters present as well to see and record them, but silence is kept. Mention of the child's mother being executed days prior causes her face to turn toward the infant, then up toward she who cares for her. Pandora? she wonders.
Kayla's gaze flicks to Peyton as the younger woman speaks; her nod of acknowledgment is belated, almost an afterthought. She doesn't look any more enamored of the infant than Melissa professes to being, a bit self-consciously peeling her hands away from her arms and tucking them back into their respective pockets. "At least she has someone," is Kayla's contribution to the conversation; possibly an attempt to spin a silver lining, which is contextually appropriate, but Kayla and optimism don't live on the same planet: the words fall too dry and flat.
"I'll see you soon. You have my numbers," Peyton adds to Cat a little belatedly. "You can come by any time." To Redbird, which she also doesn't say, but her eyes flick in the direction of the building, not so far away.
Her eyes return to Melissa and she frowns and nods. "Poor thing. She's lucky to have you to look after her," the brunette agrees, her words echoing Kayla's, though perhaps a little less dryly. She glances at Kayla and offers another tentative smile. "She is lucky for that," Peyton agrees again, perhaps, a little self-pitying; her own support system has dwindled drastically with Cardinal gone and Wes off with the Ferry, Monica in a jail cell, Elisabeth and Faye injured. Her voice trembles just a touch and she turns herself in the direction of her building. "I should get back to work."
Kayla and Peyton get small smiles from Melissa. "It's sorta my thing. I take in strays." She nods then. "Yeah, I should get back too. Lots to do. Like makin' this lil' goth-in-training mine legally," she says, sighing softly. "You guys take care. Keep safe. Too many have died already."
Listening continues, a nod granted toward Peyton in acknowledgment of her statements, and a glance toward Melissa as she speaks of legality. Cat might comment there, it is tempting, but situations cause her choosing not to speak of having such knowledge where anyone can hear. Or to ask where Melissa is staying so she can be approached later. She simply begins to wander away.
It's public, after all, and at present caution is paramount.
Kayla nods to the other three. Whether it's a reason or an excuse, as they begin to make their farewells, she steps away from the shrine. Weaving her way back out through the gathered throng, the woman pauses just once, glancing back from the edge of the gathering towards the broken bronze sphere that lofts silently over all. Then she leaves them all behind, setting feet to path in the direction of distant home.
"Good luck with that," Peyton says. Because Cat doesn't offer her legal advice, Peyton adds, "I can find you the lawyer my parents used in adoptions, if you like, since I was adopted. Call me at Redbird if you need it." She nods her head toward her building. "Stay safe, everyone," she adds softly, as she begins the short walk back to her office, back to where she will peek in on all of those important to her — at least she knows they are not among the dead.
The little shrine at the base of the Sphere will be added to over the course of the next days; some items will be lost to those with no respect for the dead and lost, and others blown away by wind. But the symbol is there and what is important today for those grieving the lost of New York City.
They will be remembered.
