9/7 - Lots of people
9/7/2008
Logfile from Titania.
It's a beautiful day. Somehow, it just doesn't seem fair. Sunshine, blue sky, clouds that look like piles and piles of pina colada flavored cotton candy. It's the kind of day meant to be outside in, enjoyed, laughed in, run through with picnics and fairs and swimming. Not inside. Not like this.
The church is an older one, trying to make up for its country size with impressive stone work and the weight of countless generations of Westchester history. The wooden pews inside have been worn smooth and dark with much of the weight.
The parking lot has overflown into nearby fields and streets, and the sidewalks are similiarly packed with attendees and press-alike. Most of the latter have relegated themselves to respectful distance, content to observe those with legitimate reasons for being here and to wait on the reports of the precious few of their number who have been allowed inside the ring of dark suited men who can't pass for anything but security. Just a precaution, of course.
It takes a moment for one's eyes to adjust from the brilliance of the outside to the candle-light dimness of the interior. Glass-stained windows do their best to bring the colors of late summer inside, and an abundance of candles, pictures, and flowers assist. At the front, near the podium is an oversized picture of the well. Guest of honor is a rather crude phrase, but it /is/ Jubilee's smile that radiates from it-she's in pigtails and has blue-lips curved upwards in a teasing smile.
Sunflowers and black-eyed susans cluster around the picture, and the saffron color weaves through the sanctuary in ribbons, flowers, and other tokens being worn in her memory, fighting back the more traditional colors of a memorial service.
Jean is traditional in black silk and a hat with netting, if they are of modern cut and quiet style. Tradition is held at bay by the absolutely obnoxiously bright trio of yellow chrysanthemums that are pinned to the nattily-upturned side of the hat, glaring brightly and cheerfully out from the front row of pews where the chief mourners sit. Her complexion is pale, auburn hair and the skin that goes with it washed out by the severed black, and one gloved hand is holding to that of the small boy beside her, looking scrubbed and shocked and stuffed into a tiny suit. The faithful Pancake has been left home with the other dogs, but Wee Nate has something else to clutch: a well-worn toy Tigger.
*severe black. Not severed.
*severed seems appropriate.
Yellow has found it's way into Piotr's suit in the form of a yellow necktie that looks tremendously out of place against the black of his suit. It is, however, Jubilee's color and that matters far more than proper coordination. His considerable height makes him hard to miss, in the front rows as he is. His posture is rigid and his emotions held in check save for the little line between his brows.
To a funeral, Ororo wears black: the long flow of a slightly slanted black skirt is traditional, in a church she wears shoes round-toed, high-heeled black shoes, and the blouse, too, is black: satiny black, its dull gleam cut very low, beneath which she wears a tank in a splash of yellow. She wears a yellow scarf cinched about her hips, as well, with beads in a number of colors and configurations dangling from it. Her hair is bound back from her face with a clip, a few blossoms forced to splash brighter color in amidst the silver-white of her largely tamed hair. She is a little stiff, her jaw set and her eyes lowered. Amongst the Xavier's family, she sits near Jean, although she would have to reach around Scott's even stiffer form to hold her hand. (OF COURSE he is here. Tall, uncomfortable marionette.)
Madrox is less traditional, if traditionally worn. He is in a tired, thin-elbowed, second-hand grey suitcoat, paired with grey slacks light pin-striped in dark, if faded, red. His head is bare and his usually lightly spiked hair is combed down. His hands are clasped in front of him.
Amongst the crowd inside the church, Walter sits with head bowed, his normally somewhat messy hair combed thoroughly, the normal part down the middle almost severe. He wears his one and only suit, though the shirt has hastily been replaced with a bright yellow that is not likely to ever get worn again. He glances sideways at Nate's toy, giving a small, sad smile before turning to the large picture of Jubilee, a bag tucked under his seat.
As the crowd entering begins to trickle off and people are finding their seats, a minister of whatever persuasion the church is climbs the steps leading up to the elevated stage and podium. Soft music that had been drifting over the speakers (was that an electric guitar?) fades out, commanding attention and quiet. He waits a moment longer, then launches out into a message that is fairly standard fare for this sort of occasion. His voice is sad and strong, and his words paint a snapshot of Jubilee's life (no doubt supplied by someone from Xaviers. There are far too many references to candy and pranks for an outsider to have come up with.)
He pauses at various points, both for drama and to allow his audience the chance to absorb slightly before moving on. In reference to her life and death, he says simply "It was experienced fully and passionately, in service to her family and friends." He ruffles a sheet of paper and smoothes it out with his fingertips before leaning back into the microphone and continuing, "President Richards extends his condolences and regrets that he could not be in attendance today to share in this tribute. He has, however, sent a few words-" What follows is a brief and vaguely respectful tribute to "a young woman who will serve as an example to us all."
Betsy is traditional as well, but in a more contemporary fashion, black becoming the mainstream color of her attire. Fit in a grey Jacquard Tie Vest, black diamonds stitched into its aspect, and wrapped around a black blouse, pointed high-heeled shoes seems the most appropriate for the style. Violet strands are, for the most part, removed from from her face and tied into a bun, omitting one curl that flows on its lonesome to the left of her violet eyes. Her makeup is light and dignified for the occassion, a mere cameo of those that truly mourns. She enters with a purse on her shoulder and quietly makes her way to the back of the church as the minister speaks.
Ororo does not often raise her gaze while the minister is speaking, though here she frowns, and there her mouth quirks towards a slight, wry little smile. At one point she actually lifts a hand to pin the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb, closing her eyes with the exhalation of a snort. Oh, Jubilee. But as he draws to a close, she leans back in a shift in the less than comfortable seat on the pew, lacing her fingers together in her lap, and looking up to the shimmered glass of the windows and the sky well beyond.
Sandwiched in between his two parents, Nate clings to the toy Tigger and tried very hard not to squirm. At a couple points during the speeches, however, there's a little tug of a small hand, and softly clear-voiced requests for explanation. (Grownups, especially serious ones, use Big Words.) Jean, her other hand lightly brushing against the other tall and uncomfortable marionette on the pew, answers quietly and quickly, but then asks for silence when the President's aide speaks.
Walter closes his eyes for most of the speech, cracking the smallest hint of a smile at the mentions of pranks. One story, a prank he is sorely sad that he was not in attendance for, even elicits a single chuckle, but mostly, he remains quiet sitting there, head lowered, eyes shut, and shoulders slumped.
Madrox remains much as he is, his head lightly ducked and his expression as wan as the rather meager clothing he's wearing.
The Russian contigent at the memorial serivce is largely silent. Piotr listens to the speeches. There is a Kitty beside him (not so much a marionette, but she should be there) and there is a lot of hand-squeezing going on, but aside from that, quiet listening.
The president's words, dignified and respectful though they may be (and wouldn't Jubilee have howled to have heard anyone describe her thusly,) are less meaningful that the opportunity for others to express their sorrow and solidarity. So it is that the next thing the minister does is to clear the podium for those who would like to speak, beginning with Dr. Grey. Again the oddly haunting electric music plays quietly while the transition is made.
Like the others, Betsy conforms and remains quiet and listening. She crosses a leg over another, aiding very little in the uncomfort her seat weighs against her, and laces fingers together to not fidget around too much. Funerals are nerve wrecking. She shows her respect in the sign of nods as the last of what the minister says hits her and the others. Unfamiliar with the stories of pranks, Betsy merely smiles and attempts to know Jubilation Lee like the others did already. The call for Dr. Grey causes a stretch of her neck and a slight lean to follow.
Jean is quiet for a moment after she takes the podium, surveying the crowds gathered, and with her eyes lingering on her students and her loved ones before she begins, with nary a script in sight. This, it seems, no matter how rehearsed earlier, is from the heart.
"For those of us who knew her, it may be tempting to see Jubilee's death as yet another tragedy to hit Xavier's School and her graduates. Yet another young life cut short. Yet another lost friend, joining the ranks of Mercy, Jones, and Honor Prentiss. It's hard, in the first shock of grief, to feel that there's anything different at all. Why should the praise of strangers, no matter how well-meant, truly -mean- anything? They can't possibly understand, can they?"
There's another pause before Jean resumes, another study of the crowd, pausing a moment to try and catch Walter's eye and give him a small smile before she begins again. "I'm not standing here as a stranger. I've known and loved Jubilee since the first day I talked a stray thirteen year old down from a treehouse, and I was there for almost every step of her journey from orphaned mall rat to the young woman with the drive and determination to do what she did to save us all. I was there with her, mind to mind, as she left this world. She was not afraid, and there was no regret. She died knowing that she had done exactly what she'd set out to do -- protected her friends and loved ones who were up there with her, and saved the world by giving us that one last chance."
"I won't tell anyone not to mourn her loss, because no-one as bright and as beloved as she is can leave without leaving a hole behind them, but don't focus on that absence. Focus instead on what a man from Galilee said over two thousand years ago, in a world with no concept of asteroids, mutants, or Pixie Stix. Greater love hath no man than this: that a man lay down his life for his friends."
"Jubilee did not die a victim. She did not leave us in a tragedy, she left us in a triumph. It's that victory, and the life that led to it, that I will remember."
Walter meets Jean's eyes briefly, looking mildly confused at being sought out in such a way, but, as the speech continues, tears start to well up, adding a sheen to his eyes which he attempts to banish by closing his eyes tightly, lowering his head, though there is a bittersweet sort of smile, despite the tears.
Jean lingers a moment when she's done, the usually polished public speaker biting at her lower lip, before, with a bow of her head and an intake of breath that the microphone manages to catch, she nods to the minister directing the service, and returns to her pew.
Who takes the podium back just long enough to ask if there is anyone else who would like to say a few words.
Madrox sort of steps forward. It's a bit shuffly and unsure, which perhaps indicates that whatever he has to say will be either disconnected and rambly or simply brief.
Walter sits quietly, flashing Jean that bittersweet smile as she passes by, his own foot toying with the bag beneath his seat as Madrox takes the stage.
And this is quite what Madrox has to say, the direction of his glance tilted slightly upward, over heads rather than at faces. "Jubilee and I have known each other - a long time. You know, about since I was an orphan and she was an orphan. We were both - displaced and maybe a little pissed off, right? We were competitors. We were both the flippant, high energy pranksters and there was only room for one. But not really." He pauses a touch. "We were friends. We - we'd end up going through hell together, and sometimes she was perky and sometimes she managed something like command and sometimes she was a suddenly vulnerable as when I first met her. And then she was dead. You know, that whole thing when a friend goes up in a rocket and you don't even say goodbye properly. Sucks for you, right? I don't know what I think about God, but I know she's probably fine. She'd probably claw her way in, worst case scenario." Madrox turns his head to the side. "Goodbye, then." And he walks back to the pews.
Betsy listens intently to the words of Jean Grey. Like the minister, she nods at different points that Jean brings up to support her muse for Jubilee. Turning her attention to Madrox, again the odd musical transition catching an eyebrow, Betsy smiles at the young male. Violet eyes look around for the next owner of the stand.
Walter watches as Madrox speaks, taking a moment to compose himself. The moment almost goes on too long, the preacher about to retake the podium before he pushes to his feet, kneeling to collect the bag, bringing it with him to the podium, standing awkwardly behind it for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
Jean has been dry eyed so far, but at Madrox's words there's a sudden suspicious duck of her head within the pew, letting the netting of her hat screen her face. Nate fully engaged in clinging to the Tigger toy and burrowing up against his father, she herself edges sideways to lean against Logan.
Walter sighs heavily. "I'm... uh... not very good at this," he warns the crowd nervously. With a brief close of his eyes, he begins. "I... didn't know Jubilee as well as some of the others here, or others that couldn't bring themselves to come. I didn't know her when she first came to the school, I wasn't there for all of those pranks, but... still, I knew her." He takes a breath. "A while ago, not too long after the launch, I joked about buying all of the crew superhero shirts, because," a slight, empty chuckle, "how often does your English teacher go up into space to save the world from a asteroid, right?" His eyes fall down on the bag. "But... then I saw the news about Jubilee..." He reaches inside the bag, taking out something, hidden from the audience for a moment as he smooths it out. "Doctor Grey was right, she... gave up everything for us," he says, pausing for a moment before holding the shirt out for display. (http://www.superherostuff.com/characters/Babydoll/images/supergirl_t_shirt_yellow_tattoo_2.jpg) "It's... kinda goofy, and the full thing only really makes sense to someone like me who once got rid of clothes in his closet to make more room for comics," he explains quickly, voice wavering. "But... 6 billion people, human and mutant alike owe her... well, everything." He takes the shirt, walking to the larger memorial, setting it down amongst the flowers and other tributes. "Thanks, Jubilee." He turns, making a speedy path back to the pew.
Another familiar smile goes to Walter. Squinting, she attempts to view the shirt from her distance in the back of the church to no avail. Closing her eyes, a sigh escapes her lips as the air tunnels through. Betsy pushes her purse to the end of her pew and stands, straightening the tie of her shirt, and then she proceeds to the front of the church.
Jean's head lifts and her eyes sharpen with mild interest as Betsy moves forward, open curiosity giving a slight part to her lips as she waits to see what this stranger has to say. Jubilee, it appears, has touched many more lives than she'd thought.
Her pace is slow but developing as her heels click against the foundations. She reaches the podium and observes the amount of people in the crowd for a second, and then looks to the podium as if about to read something from a script. There is no script, however, only mild fear, of which escapes in the form of her heel tapping against the stage repeatedly. Collecting her thoughts, Betsy peers back into the plethora of bodies and begins:
"To the family and friends of this young woman: I give my deepest condolences." She pauses. "I did not know her. I have not met her. But I do know that she is the reason why I am standing here - alive - when I should be buried underneath a pile of cosmic ash. I was sitting and listening to all the wonderful speakers that came up and just thanked Jubilee for her brave act as they spoke. She seemed like a very lively person to be around, and it saddens me that I was unable to even see her before today."
"We all should be very thankful of her spirit, her joy - the joy that made even myself smile from the stories of pranks. Even while looking at those she loved the most, I can see untapped potential of jubilation about in the air - apparently she must have loved yellow." Betsy fake grins at an attempt at humor. "But more importantly, she loved the world. And for that, my respect goes to her. Thank you, Jubilee. Because you, the world lives on."
Betsy lowers her for a second, removing the single curl from her face, and steps off the podium to return to her seat.
The return to the seat isn't wholly unimpeded. As Betsy passes Jean's pew, she leans forward, one hand lifted to clasp briefly. "Thank you," she murmurs.
A quiet 'You're welcome' is giving to Jean as a single tear escapes from violet eyes, a trail of mascara following in step. Quick fingers clasp against the liquid and trap it, index finger sliding it delicately from her face. A sniffle ensues. Funerals are -so- nerve-wrecking.
Ororo rises to take a turn at the podium, her strides long in a swish of dark skirt. She steps up with a quieter click of heels, and surveys the crowded church with a quiet solemnity of expression, laying one hand lightly on the surface of the podium. Her voice, as she speaks, is strong. She opens untraditionally for a funeral: "Sometimes we take ourselves too seriously."
Then she smiles in a wide flash. "Jubilee never did. I was her teacher, but she had something to teach me. She knew how to smile. She knew how to shout. When I think of her, I think of music and light and laughter. I think of fire. We have already spoken of what she gave the world -- life. Existence. By her death, she brought us life. But that is what she brought us when she was alive, too. Life. I am a different person than I would be because Jubilation Lee touched my life, and my heart."
Grin bright and eyes damp as she blinks a few times, Ororo raises her head and finishes it with a rush of breath that wavers between tears and mirth: "For us, she did not only save the world. She changed it."
One by one, both those who knew her and those that didn't speak, eliciting tears and laughter in equal measures, along with a quiet sense of pride in the life and ending of the little firecracker. After the last speaks, the minister nods to someone offstage, and the lights dim slightly and a screen rolls down (a thoroughly modern addition to the small sanctuary). As the montage of pictures of Jubilee's life begin to scroll past, the electric sounds of an adaptation of Pink Floyds "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" swells.
Amazing Grace wasn't really Jubilee's style any way.
/Remember when you were young,
You shone like the sun./
Pictures of Xavier's, Jubilee, her classmates-Kitty, Rogue, Piotr, Sam, Bobby...
/You were caught on the crossfire
Of childhood and stardom,/
A picture of the shuttle going up, followed by a few of the mission log camera footage-the crew floating in zero gravity, doing spins.
/Come on you target
For faraway laughter,
Come on you stranger,
You legend, you martyr, and shine!/
The pictures segue into some from gymnastic meets and practices in the gym, Halloween costumes, and dances with too much makeup and too little cleavage.
/You reached for the secret too soon,
You cried for the moon. /
A single picture with her head turned away, though the posture indicates she'd been crying.
/Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night,
And exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond./
A picture in an outfit that would be familiar to only a few there-leather and Kevlar, though the zipper is lowered and the top half hangs from her waist. She is little and lithe and giving the camera attitude, along with a fuzz of colors that is all the camera can make of her powers.
/Come on you raver,
You seer of visions,
Come on you painter,
You piper, you prisoner, and shine!/
The show ends and quiet reigns for a moment before the lights flicker and rise. The minister rises as well, and climbs slowly back to the podium, his steps almost painful. He takes a deep breath and asks the congregation to bow their heads while he prays a brief and vague benediction before dismissing them all back into the painfully bright and colorful day.