And darkness be the burier of the dead

[sweetmotherofgod]

CHARACTERS: Heather Mason, the bereaved
LOCATION: the Oxygen Garden
WARNINGS: gloom?
SUMMARY: Heather forgoes her usual grief reaction of KILL SOMETHING and tries to make something instead.
NOTES: wiiiiide open. Come share your Hotspur feels, folks. edit: so, um, it's been pointed out to me that the gardens are hydroponic. All the resulting inaccuracies within are the fault of myself and my head full of Sunshine (and that can be taken in several ways, can't it?). /crawls off to vomit in shame



[Heather'd had plans for after the jump. After spending all of them so far either feeling angry and sorry for herself or flitting around trying to play helpful hostess – trying to be someone she wasn't – she'd had something to sink her teeth into. Something to do. One message, short and sharp, and it should have scared her but instead it had given her a purpose. She'd been excited.

That seems almost indescribably sick, now.

Missing that purpose and waiting to hear on something that might give her another, she haunts the gardens. Keeps her hands busy in an effort to still her mind. Barefoot and with a bottle – one drink for her and one for Hotspur, because somehow she doesn't think he'd approve of her using it to numb herself – and a patch of garden she's commandeered for the purpose, beneath a sketch someone's left. With her hair still wet and dark earth on her pale hands, she replants what she's stolen from other plots. Rosemary for remembrance, of course, and iris for faith and valor. If there were poppies they're either hiding or long since pillaged, and what wouldn't she do for some edelweiss?

It's tempting to stake it out, fence it off, make a big deal of it. Make it official. The Max Southey Memorial Garden. But somehow it seems truer to his memory to call it what it is: an attempt – possibly futile - to scrape something good out of the terror.]

Did I ever tell you I was sort of a saint? [Her voice is flat as she digs, buries roots, pats soil. The water she gives the plants will do in place of tears.] Back where I'm from, I mean. Saint Alessa. Kind of a crappy one, as far as saints go. And of a really terrible religion. But it counts, right? There's a saint mourning you.

Just so you know.

[She won't ask to see his body. Bad enough that her last image of him is sad and troubled, rather than the lively, laughing man she'd met. Who'd made her smile and listened to her rambling, who'd talked with her about dreams. Who'd complained of chicken pox scars in places no man should have scars and apologized for lowering the tone on the same breath. She never did find that ice cream to share with him.

She doesn't know what they'll do with him, either. Once they're done with whatever it is they're doing. Sliced his flesh and scraped his bones to see what they can see, trying to cut information out of a man who'd never have held anything back, not if he thought it could help someone. Airlock, she supposes. It seems right.]

Give you the stars.

Comments

[walksonrooftops]

[Asato had never met Hotspur. Heard of him in passing, yes, and he seemed like a kind person, amiable and well-liked. Someone he'd like to meet one day, if he had the chance.

Now he was gone. He'd listened to the message on the network with bated breath and racing thoughts. Things were beginning to grind into motion. The ship, the network, its history. One person--someone important to many people, he knew--was now gone for it. Don't believe. That's what he'd said. Don't believe everything they tell you. Hotspur didn't believe, and now Hotspur was gone.

And if it happened once, it was going to happen again.

When he heads to the garden to calm his frayed nerves, Heather is already there. For a while, unsure whether to disturb her or not, he watches from a distance, hidden. Not on purpose, but through sheer force of habit. A garden. She's making a garden. Asato isn't distanced enough from practice and custom to not understand what she means.

What he brings her, after nearly ten minutes of searching the vast expanses of the gardens, is a a handful of elder-flowers, plucked from the bushes at their stems. Elder-flowers, to ward off evil. He can't plant them, but he brings them to her in his cupped hands, setting the white flowers down with the others. Saying nothing, he gets back up and disappears again for another five minutes or so, then returns with a red pheasant's eye, roots and all.

In the very corner of that little garden, he sets the plant down, carefully covered its roots with earth. When his mother passed, he'd planted pheasant's eyes around her gravestone until he could find no more of them. He could not weep to grieve then and he can't do it now, but he's solemn and silent. He can only hope that this man so many people loved can be at peace.]

I'm sorry.

[He murmurs it to Heather, barely looking up at her.]

[sweetmotherofgod]

[She'd come to distract herself, to find something to throw herself into. It's worked well enough that she doesn't notice Asato - graceful and cat-quiet even on manfeet - until he's all but beside her and padding away again before she can react.

When he returns, she's woven the elderflowers into a tiny wreath, twisting the stems of each inflorescence together. A loop; eternal now.

The plant he brings is beautiful. A burst of colour, glossy-petalled and bright. It's a plant to bring joy. It fits.]

We all should be. We've lost a lot more than a crewmate.

[She pauses, glances over what's done so far, and turns her face to Asato.]

Thank you. It's perfect.

[walksonrooftops]

[He tries to smile, but it doesn't quite come across as he wants it. It's difficult to smile when you're grieving.

Words aren't his strong suit. Never were. He knows people are hurting today and will hurt for a long time yet, and no matter how much he'd like to comfort those who matter most to him, he knows he'd fumble with his words and only frustrate himself.

Instead he just quietly pats down the earth over the roots of the flower he'd planted, getting dirt underneath his fingernails.]

I'll try to find more. He deserves all the flowers in the garden.

[For now, he nudges his forehead against her shoulder. He doesn't want to get up again, doesn't want to leave Heather's side.]

[sweetmotherofgod]

Yeah. Yeah, he does.

[She leans towards him, inclining her head to rest it against his. He is her friend, present and alive, a warm place against the chill numbness made by the loss of Hotspur, too recently gone for her to even miss him, yet. Asato's quiet companionship means more than he knows - more than she does, really. She'll see later how much she needed it.]

Did you know him?

[yardbird]

Murphy checked in and out of the oxygen gardens frequently sometimes. Ecosystem or not, it was a nice place to let the birds go to for feeding and resting. Rather than the confines of the gloomy rooms, the birds seemed to appreciate a little glimpse of nature every now and then.

As usual, Murphy was accompanied outside by only one. It had taken a particular liking to him above all of the others... Or, it had taken a liking to his shoulder as a perch. Before long, he realized that he could leave it there without fear of it making a mess on his clothes, and decided that good behavior would allow it some level of freedom.

He didn't know why he cared so much for the birds. They weren't technically his, but they did give him something to just care about. For someone who needed the distraction away from things, looking after something in smaller and lesser form made him feel good again. It was like a little touch of something that had once seemed so very far away.

Right now, distractions were all he wanted. It was difficult to figure out what to make of all of this. Part of him, lingering on the back of his mind, played it tough, telling himself that he'd been through worse.

But a guy getting splattered and killed for not making it to one of those pod-things... No, that was pretty fucking bad. And it made him sick to his stomach if he ever thought about it.

Lock was broken.

Murphy stopped when he found the vaguely familiar shape of a girl in the garden before him. The bird cheeped at his shoulder, before taking off into the garden. Murphy, however, was more concerned by the heavy disposition that lingered in the air here; an all too familiar feeling related to the pain of loss.

"Heather...?" Murphy said lightly, figuring that he should at least announce himself before moving any closer into the garden entrance. "S... Sorry, I... I didn't know anyone was here. I can, uh... come back some other time, if you'd like..."

The bird chirped elsewhere, unseen within the garden foliage. No doubt searching for bugs to eat or plants to pick at, or whatever the hell it ate.

[sweetmotherofgod]

It was a long moment before Heather replied, though she was as unaware of that fact as she was of the stricken look on her face as her eyes tracked the bird. Anything right now would make her think of him, on a rational level she knew that. If Murphy had walked into the gardens in a clown suit she'd probably have sat there sadly reflecting on how Hotspur had always been able to make her laugh. But the image of the seven dark birds inked into the man's pale forearm, the sound of his voice as he told her that where he was from, birds were symbolic of the soul - it hit her hard enough to stun.

She huffed and shook her head, both to clear it and answer in the negative, and met Murphy's eye.

"No, come on in." She brushed the dirt from her hands, an absent gesture that really only transferred it to her lap. "There's pretty much always someone in here. If you wait for it to be empty you'll be waiting a long time."

[yardbird]

"Got'cha..."

Despite being out of touch with a certain side of humanity for so long, it was still easy for Murphy to pick up on the subtle hints every now and then. The way Heather carried herself, that long pause, and the tone of her voice... He turned his head when she had turned and looked at him, trying to locate the bird that had just flown away. Though he could hear it, this entire place was a perfect cover for something so small.

Clearing his voice, he decidedly broke the ice of awkward silence: "You okay?" Because she didn't seem okay, and he didn't have to be an expert psychologist to realize that things just weren't okay after all the shit that just... happened.

[sweetmotherofgod]

"No." She shrugged, her mouth making a little downward twist. That was one thing that didn't require any overthinking, at least. "Just saw my friend die, though, so..."

Somewhere above them, the bird chirped happily. Well, she figured it was happy. How were you supposed to tell, with birds?

"I guess not being okay is how I know this place hasn't totally fucked me up yet."

[upstairsbrain]

[Like many of the others, Sam hadn't known Hotspur. He hadn't been around (or out and about, really) enough to have. Still, the transmission, and the grief and mild chaos that followed, were enough to make a big impression. Though there was next to nothing he could have done to prevent the death, as usual, he's found himself mulling over it. Glad that he joined the security team. Dreaming up ways to keep everyone safe. Because that was what he did best, or... what he tried to do, anyway.

Thinking it might be respectful to visit the memorial, Sam isn't all that surprised to see others milling around. He spots Heather, a vaguely familiar face, and approaches slowly, his hands in his pockets.]

Hey... you alright?

[Probably not, but it's polite to ask. His expression is of concern, and sympathy.]

[sweetmotherofgod]

I'm coping.

[That's not exactly a yes, but it's the best he's gonna get without her resorting to barefaced lies. Coping, keeping herself busy. If she's always moving she can maybe keep one step ahead of dealing with how fucking unfair it all is.]

Did you get the chance to meet him?

[upstairsbrain]

[He nods slowly at her statement, and then pauses to hear the question. Sam's frown deepens.]

No, I didn't. I wish I'd had the chance.

[The way everyone was talking, he had seemed like a good guy. And obviously important on the ship. To die like that, it was... well.]

[sweetmotherofgod]

[Somehow, that's almost a relief. She doesn't like to think of someone having only known Hotspur as he was towards the end, troubled and sad. Better they should know him by what he's left - working shuttles, fond memories. People who - like her - are better for having known him.]

He was a hell of a guy. I mean, don't get me wrong, nobody deserves to go out like that. But I can't think of anybody who could've deserved it less.

[dirtyword]

Brendan is watching.

Brendan is good at watching because it doesn't take much to step away and to the left when your dressed in plain clothes and that someone is mourning. But he's not watching to figure it out. There's no evidence, no major plot to uncover. Not now--not at this very moment.

He's reminded of Em with the way the girl is. How he had just stared, not moving, at the dead body. He hadn't said anything, though. And that's where the blonde and he differed.

The 17 year old sits up from his own crouching position, sticking his hands in his pockets as he walks towards the other. Actually making a point to make sure his footsteps are known this time.

"You a juicer, or is that other drink meant for the Chicago overcoat?"

a brief nod towards the picture, even though he already knows the answer. He crouches, running the dirt through his fingers.

"Heard he made an impact before the kick-off. Buncha people liked him."

[sweetmotherofgod]

"'s for him. I-"

She pauses and blinks as her brain catches up with her ears and it occurs to her to be offended. The impulse passes quickly; he doesn't look like he's trying to be an asshole, and the anger that's brewing away in her is meant for someone else.

"I always wanted to have a drink with him. Never did." She shrugs, her eyes wandering up to the picture. "He was easy to like."

[dirtyword]

"Easy to like is good." Brendan falls into silence but doesn't leave--doesn't want to--and waits for the other to have a moment before continuing:

"Guess you get your chance now." After another lapse, he tilts his head to the side.

"First that's kicked off?"

[sweetmotherofgod]

And there's the anger she was looking for, her shoulders stiffening as it flares.

"He didn't kick off," she snaps. "He was pushed."

[statsraaden]

[You will find Stats standing near, not daring to say anything. Just watching for now. And mourning.]

[sweetmotherofgod]

Just gonna stand there?

[The words might be confrontational (some habits are hard to break) but her tone isn't. It's an invitation to come closer - or, sure, to just stand there if that's what he needs to do. Most days Heather hates being watched, but this is really really not most days.]

[statsraaden]

Well, I don't know what else to do. [Stats's voice is shaky.

He's nevertheless coming closer.]

[sweetmotherofgod]

That's the worst part, isn't it? Not knowing what to do. Knowing you can't fix it and -

[that sentence goes unfinished. she can't quite verbalize it, and if this guy's as upset as he sounds he probably gets it without her saying it, anyway.]

[handelaar]

Netherlands isn't here for any reason other than the obvious. Doing his rounds, smoking, taking his rabbit for a walk and a bite to eat. Earlier, he'd seen both post and portrait, and he'd decided to swing by said portrait again, if for no reason other than to stare at it and try to figure out a better way to place it. Something more appropriate than space-tape upon a high metal balcony.
Past martyrs were soldiers enshrouded in gold, entombed in marble, enthroned in campfire tales of reverence and admiration, aspiration; if the Tranquility wanted to treat this man as such, the guy should at least have something better than a slapped-up poster.
He's not expecting to run into her.

His rabbit, nosy fucker that he is, doesn't seem to care when he slams to a halt. Lodewijk senses a person in need of bunny kisses and makes a beeline straight for her at the same time that Netherlands reels back.

It's. It's a mess.

[sweetmotherofgod]

Crouched down as she is, when she turns her head at the sound it's the rabbit she sees first. That's novel. The place is turning into a regular petting zoo.

"Buddy, no. You're gonna end up something's lunch-" she's reaching for it, her mouth spinning a little bit of cover for her impulse to pick it up and snuggle the hell out of it, before she notices -

Well. Yeah, that's awkward.

"I. Uh. S'this your rabbit?"

Gold, Mason. Pure gold.

[handelaar]

For his part, he looks absolutely horrified to see her reach for it, and worse, to see Lodewijk sniffing back. The only thing he can think is that she is gonna tear his rabbit to shreds or swallow Lodewijk whole or one of so many other gut-churning things that he doesn't even hear what the hell she says, not at first.

"Don't touch 'im," he snarls, tense, ready to react the moment she moves -

Aw, fuck. There's a twitch of his hand around the lead, thinning of his lips as her words catch up to him. If she didn't know it was his rabbit before, she sure does now.

[player_not_slayer]

[He'd seen Heather beating feet out of the couch room and he'd seen the shit that went down on the network. That shit had happened, to one of them. To a guy on one of those fucking lists that he'd just been talking about, telling whoever talked to him about it that nothing was ever going to happen to any of them and that Smiley was just trolling.

Well. Something happened, hadn't it. And Simon looked like a dick but who cares, he doesn't, he always looks like a dick but that doesn't matter because shit just got real. Someone's dead and now this carnival of horrors is even more horrific, and he'll be following her out of the locker rooms and into the oxygen gardens out of a sense of curiosity and misplaced guilt.

Not that he'd ever, ever bring up the guilt. But Heather's pretty fucked up over this, it looks like, so he'll just be standing off to the side a bit, behind her, as she talks to herself, and for once doing his damndest not to listen in too much because shits slightly embarrassing up in here.

After a bit though.]

Knew him, huh.

[sweetmotherofgod]

[So much has changed between the two of them, but there's still a part of Heather that tenses up reflexively on hearing Simon's voice and realizing she's got no idea how long he's been there. That he might have just heard her chatting away to, when all's said and done, a dead guy. A dead guy who's not even here but waaaay down the other end of the ship, with those fucking ghouls the medical team doing god knows what to him.

Still, the sight of him doesn't give her an itchy taser finger anymore. And maybe you'd have to torture her to extract the confession, but he's really kind of grown on her. Tag-team babysitting a guy when he's so freaked on feargas that he stops trying to hide the fact that he's basically an okay kid will do that. So it's with a remarkable minimum of wariness that she turns her face over her shoulder to address him.]

That obvious? I do work here. I was kinda hoping people would think it was just that.