Scene 5 || Left Behind

[Vash Alois Zwingli]

I'M ALREADY THERE

He lacked eloquence, and, for once, he really wished he had some.

He never really cared for beauty in words, nor did he care for how those words affected others. He expected his actions to speak for his intentions. But some people deserve words. Jokingly, he had hoped that it would be he who would compose a eulogy for him. Not the other way around. Donald had a way with words, certainly, and Vash simply couldn't put them together. He wouldn't be able to do the man justice on that podium, and he knew it.

The man wasn't even in the casket. Even if his words were eloquent enough, those words would never reach his ears.

Due to the nature of his untimely death, Donald Finn O'Neill-Kirkland's casket was closed. Atop the casket was the Union Jack. A representation of the nation that he served so valiantly. A portrait of the man smiled foolishly on the display. The hall was strewn with shamrocks and flax flowers to honor his Northern Irish heritage. Surrounding his casket were aromatic tiger lilies. Most certainly fitting for the man. 

He hated to admit it, but he would give a lot to see that smirking face, to be jokingly called "Chipper". He never wanted Donald to be the man whose hair stayed the color of carrots forever.

But he had to acknowledge it. Agents that were in the field very often and were considered the top of the top were expected to die for their country. They were sent on especially dangerous missions, trained to face the worst odds, and expected to serve until the very end. 

He wrote the eulogy, but he certainly wasn't prepared to give it. Not with the lack of eloquence, not with... not with not accepting that Donald was no more. 

He was much too alive to be dead.

309 | open | funeral scene for all donald missers

❖ nox ❖

[Nesia Notonegoro]

333 WORDS this ain't a wedding

N esia felt so out of place, and her disguise barely served its purpose when she was dressed not in black. The woman had replaced the contents of her wardrobe, afraid that someone would recognize her in one of those clothes. A black dress was not included among her new outfits. She felt her chocolate colored dress could pass as black, yet when she sat among the mourners, Nesia couldn't blend well enough with the crowd. A glance or two had been directed at her in the past ten minutes, but the agent put her best poker face, hiding her discomfort. Tucking a strand of light brown hair behind her ear, Nesia adjusted her glasses and leaned to see people on the front row. Familiar faces -- or rather, the back of their heads -- were seen, friends and acquaintances from the MI6. She should be occupying one of the front seats, but her official status was hiding, and it's best not to attract the coworkers' attention. Heck, she was not even supposed to be here. But Nesia would hate herself for not attending Donald O'Neill Kirkland's funeral. Her senior agent, a cheerful brotherly figure; the kind of man who did not deserve such fate. Despite her lack of contact with the headquarter, the woman knew the casket was almost empty. She had cried her eyes out when the news reached her, leaving the Indonesian with a pair of puffy eyes hidden behind the tinted glasses. Some part of her wished to join her friends, to give them comfort and together facing this tragedy, yet she couldn't. The last time she saw those people was the day she announced her need to hide from the world. Maybe they hadn't gotten over their disappointment... Taking a deep breath, Nesia leaned back on her seat and remained silent, motionless, as people approached the casket to say their goodbyes. Fear passed through her consciousness when she realized that it could be her casket someday, if she was not careful...

LAIKA OF GS!

[Kyle Kirkland]

It really didn't seem fair. Donald, who had given so much so much to this country, would only be remembered by a few. Because M16 security had to prevail and while the civilians would undoubtedly know of the Irishman’s demise, they would never know the full extent of how and why he had gone. Such secrecy was incongruous with a ceremony that was supposed to be in remembrance of a person’s life.

Kyle sat at the very end a row, a mite uncomfortable in the black shirt and trousers he was wearing but otherwise perfectly composed. The ceremony was unfamiliar to him and he kept an eye on the program to make sure he knew what was coming. It wasn't that he’d never attended a funeral before, it was just that the Koori ceremonies were very different from Christian ones, though just as solemn. Today it was important that he knew what was going on and when it was going to happen, not for his own sake but for the mourner who sat beside him.

Donald’s dog sat quietly through the ceremony without putting so much as a hair or a paw out of place. The two of them had gone for a run this morning so Kyle wasn’t worried about him getting bored and causing a ruckus. When they’d first arrived a few of the other guests had glared at him for bringing a creature that was clearly not a service dog to a funeral. Kyle had held his head high and glared right back, Donald’s canine companion had as much right to see his master off as anyone else, if anything he was here to accompany Rover and not the other way round.

Once the initial crowd had disappeared they made their way to the casket. Kyle looked at the silly photo of Donald they had placed there and murmured a thank you for saving his brother’s life and a promise to take care of Rover for him. Even though there wasn’t much of Donald in there, even though the casket was sealed tight, the dog’s nose must have picked up on the scent of his master. Because he began to whimper, which turned into a whine, which turned into a single grief stricken howl for the dead as Kyle gently picked him up and carried him outside.

[Feliks Łukasiewicz]

The nature of their work was dangerous, Feliks reflected. There was always a risk that any one of them might not make it home alive from any given mission. Still, it always hurt when it was one of his friends who didn't come back...

Feliks had always liked Donald for his cheery attitude and bright smile. He never had been quite as close to the Irishman as to the twin sister thereof, but he always had been fond of both of them in distinctly different ways to reflect what different people they were. Of course he would be here, to remember Donny and to show, however he could, that he had Aoife's back.

Funnily enough, the Pole had never been a Protestant funeral before, at least not that he could recall off the top of his head. Some things about it were familiar to him for obvious reasons, although the service struck him as almost casual despite the obvious weight of grief that hung over everything. He had enough time for curiosity, enough time entering the room to observe how it was decorated. And he had plenty of time, during the eulogy, to contemplate the fact that it was Vash speaking and whose bright idea was it to give a job like that to Vash Zwingli of all people? And yet, despite Vash's usual lack of eloquence, there was nothing lacking from what he said. The strength of his friendship with Donny was enough to make up for his lack of skill with respect to public speaking. The Swiss man was even presentable, Feliks noted; in fact, everyone was dressed quite appropriately, with the exception of that one woman (who was she? she looked familiar, somehow) who had made the unlikely choice to wear a brown dress and sunglasses.

The most heartbreaking part of it all, for certain, was the dog. Feliks vaguely recalled that Donny had owned a dog, and this must have been it. Accompanied by an unfamiliar man (probably one of the sociable Irishman's many friends), the dog stayed calm and polite until it was allowed to pass by Donny's coffin. The sound it made then was enough to break any heart.

Feliks tried to avoid the dog, and anyone else whose mood seemed too much like Rover's. He felt strange, being dressed all in black; it wasn't like he didn't look good, as he had made sure of that, but it was just weird to be showing his grief. His usual instinct would be to hide that behind a bright smile like the one Donny wore in the photo that had been placed above his casket. Having that defense taken away... well, it made his elegant black suit feel like nakedness.