Post-Trial I Afterparty

[cellpreservation]

[They're down two of their number, and who knows how many more will follow, but for tonight at least... They have a chance to rest.

The school has already been cleaned, leaving no signs of the deaths that occurred on this very day, but that's just as well. After looking around to make sure of that much, Yuta marches into the kitchen and, after a bit of looking around, ends up gathering some snacks: boxed crackers and apple slices that aren't perfectly even in cut but look, he's not the chef of his group, he did his best. These he sets out on some plates in the cafeteria before finding his usual seat to lounge in, eating some apple slices off of a smaller plate he grabbed just for himself.

And then, he waits - to see who trickles in, and who doesn't.

Where is your character in the aftermath?]

Comments

[panglici]

I - I don't -

[Carrie's already been crying, off and on. That innocent question is enough to start it again, and she's helpless. It's mortifying, and for some reason she gets the feeling Valmont might try to kick her ass for doing this, but she falls before Jeanne like a marionette whose strings have been cut. Like a truly small and helpless little girl, she finds herself clinging to Jeanne's skirts, weeping against her knees.

It isn't accompanied by the wailing one might expect. Carrie cries quietly. Even sobbing that makes it hard for her to breathe is barely audible; these are the tears of a child who has learned somewhere that to be heard crying is to be discovered, and that being discovered is not usually going to end well.

Make the world make sense, Jeanne. Make everything as simple as day replacing night. She can't ask for either of those things, so she cries instead.]

[holyironmade]

[Jeanne is, well for one thing she's not with Valmont right now. Maybe she's waiting for him to be finished with the entire kettle of tea. Maybe she figures joining the mob in the cramped kitchen would only make his situation worse. It does not matter. There is only Carrie. The long skirts provide a buffer. Jeanne gathers Carrie's neck in her lap.]

Your hair is so short... It is not long enough to braid... But it is fast. It suits you.

[She begins to run her fingers through the short hair repeatedly. Her voice as always when religious sounds incredibly soothing in this moment.]

Hail Mary, full of grace, Lord be with thee. Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen.

[She guides Carrie's cheek to rest in the soft, impossibly unscarred palm, eyes to meet hers.]

Do you think that the vending machine will give you a rosary? Something small and quickly removed... It could be helpful for you against the unholy ones.

[panglici]

[The Hail Mary is a familiar prayer. Even as she can't possibly speak, Carrie can follow it just fine. It's familiar, just as crying against someone's lap when the world makes no sense at all is. It's familiar, but it's something she thought she'd never have again. The prayer or the way her hair is being finger-combed, she isn't sure which she's missed more across these two lonely years.

And of her hair, It suits you - a compliment? From this angel, about her appearance? That shouldn't be important, but it settles in the locked-away back corner of her heart where she keeps such things anyway. Perhaps that's how she's managed to cry herself out by the time Jeanne is gently turning her face upwards.

Some part of her might have been ashamed at being seen by almost everyone to break, but it's been a long, long day. Carrie is not content, but grateful to be guided. She looks up into eyes still startling in just how like they are to her own, blinking a few times to clear away the last of what had them blurred.]

I don't know. I can certainly try it, though. I think you're right.

[holyironmade]

[Oh, dear. Carrie's big eyelashes struggle to blink away the tears. You would think that it would be less of a problem with the short hair out of the way. Jeanne had not really been able to see with her face down there. She has her handkerchief with her, though, to wipe them away.

It is a woman's job to feel sadness, perhaps, and a man's job to feel pain. To not dwell on all the ramifications, and pick up the cross because it must be done, while Mother weeps. Like Reika, there is a bit of the prince in Jeanne.]

Please do not give up on life. If I must experience the trivialities of this world, then so be it as well for you. I consider it quite the feat that you survived our six months of confinement without being punished.