|Fic -- Funerary Rites
||[May. 19th, 2008|07:45 am]
Hail the Rogues!
Title: Funerary Rites
Word Count: 714
Characters: Golden Glider (and the Top, sorta...)
Summary: Lisa attends her boyfriend's funeral.
Author's Notes: Story #5. Some accompanying scans: his first funeral (complete with puns), and the second one (I can't believe he had an official one, either. Where did those flowers come from?). He had a top-shaped tombstone, although later it was shown as heart-shaped.
He had told her to leave town immediately, before the bombs went off, but she lingered anyway, wanting to attend his funeral. The Rogues had held their own funeral, but she was forbidden to attend, as they didn’t want a sobbing girlfriend ruining their solemn send-off for a comrade. So Lisa went to his second memorial service, the one held (strangely) by the city and a local church. In their own way, the citizens wanted to say goodbye to one of Central City’s most troublesome criminals.
She had asked Len to attend the second funeral with her, even though he’d been at the first, but he refused, tersely saying that her boyfriend planned to blow up the city and he had to stop it. Lisa didn’t bother trying to persuade him not to, knowing Roscoe had been fiendishly clever and probably had put some tricks into his scheme to foil anyone attempting to stop it. She just hoped her brother didn’t get himself killed in the process --- but right now she was too grief-stricken to worry as much as she probably should have.
There were a surprising number of people at Roscoe’s second funeral, but she scarcely noticed them, even as some obtrusively took photos. Journalists, souvenir hounds and the simply curious mingled with the minister and one genuine mourner, but Lisa stood apart from them. Dressed in black and standing at the foot of the flower-laden coffin, she wept quietly as the minister led the service and others wondered who the lone woman could be.
“Roscoe, Roscoe…” she murmured softly to herself as she cried. “You can’t be dead. Not now…”
“You okay, lady?” one man asked her curiously, but she ignored him.
“I bet the Flash killed him,” one person standing a few rows back opined, and another elbowed him.
“The Flash doesn’t kill people, dummy!”
“Maybe he killed himself, because he sucked,” somebody else snickered, and there was some chuckling in the crowd until they were silenced by a glare from Iris Allen. Fortunately, Lisa heard none of this, lost as she was in her own world.
“…for dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return! May God have mercy on the soul of Roscoe Dillon --- also known as the Top!” the minister rumbled, implying through his tone that Roscoe was certainly going to need it. “Amen. Go in peace, my friends.”
As most of the observers shuffled away, Lisa didn’t move. She kept staring at the coffin, willing it to open and for her lover to step out with a laugh about what a good joke this had all been. Of course, nothing happened. Eventually, as even the minister turned his back and prepared to leave, she bent down and unlocked the lid, opening the coffin as though she was in a trance.
Roscoe was still dressed in his Top uniform, and his arms were crossed over his chest, just as the Rogues had left him. Nobody was particularly interested in changing his clothes.
“Baby…” Lisa murmured softly, and stroked his cheek, finding it quite cold. The colour had drained out of his exposed skin, leaving it deeply pale. He smelled a bit, too.
“Miss --- what are you doing?” one of the cemetery employees asked in shock. He had come by to lower the coffin into the grave, and was rather horrified to find somebody tampering with the corpse.
“Just saying goodbye,” she said quietly, and stood up. “Take good care of him.”
“Yes ma’am,” he replied nervously, a bit disturbed by her. He watched carefully as she walked away, then hurried to close the lid.
“Jeez,” he muttered once he was sure she was gone. “It takes all kinds.”
It wasn’t long before he and a co-worker had lowered the coffin into the grave and quickly covered it with dirt, lest more unusual people show up to do odd things with the body. You never could tell with supervillains, he reminded his buddy as they enjoyed a beer afterwards. He was just glad the Rogues hadn’t showed up to crash the funeral.
He never noticed the small top Lisa had dropped into the coffin, which had come to rest by Roscoe’s jaw. The message, scrawled on it with a shaky hand, read ‘I love you’.