Four Funerals and a Wake (Patreon)

 Eight years ago.

The tie is too tight. The shirt too buttoned. The suit too black and too new, and your eyes are too old.

No tears. Boys don't cry, and right now, you get why.

It would be too easy to crack completely if you started, and Ricardo Ortega doesn't crack. Can't. Won't.

Can't smile, but you try it anyway, the grimace in the mirror nothing like mirth or kindness or hope for a future.

You feel nothing like yourself, so instead, you school yourself into neutrality, into quiet, stony anger at the unfairness of life.

It's never easy to bury people you love.

…

Ten years ago.

The skinsuit is new, but it still smells like blood and rust, like nanovores. You wonder if the cameras can make out the slight thickness to your right arm where the swarm stripped skin and flesh faster than your discharge could destroy them. The grafts itch, the skinsuit's pressure doesn't help the bandages, but the funeral is in-suit, and the Marshal has to be there.

So many others are not.

At least you're not alone, Sidestep hovering nearby, hood down far enough to cover his mask, with enough restless energy to make you feel calm in comparison.

The hero of the hour wanting to be nothing of the sort. You see him hunch over, pull in on himself, hands making fists as if expecting a fight, your clap on his shoulder gives you an angry hiss and an averted blow, but the cameras are on the caskets carried forward, giving you some privacy.

Empty. The swarm left nothing behind.

They still look heavy, with grief, with memories.

Seven heroes dead. An in-suit funeral to remind the people that they are protected.

Protected. God knows how many civilians died before Sidestep pulled that trick; it was a miracle that…

No. Not trick. Not a miracle. An act of will. Of sacrifice.

He's still holding himself wrong, head moving as if his neck is filled with gravel, body fitting not quite right. Like he sprained something, pushed too hard, too fast, and you know that feeling.

Things break, and sometimes there's no putting them back together again.

All you can do is move on.

…

Fourteen years ago.

You're not wearing a suit. Hood hated suits and wouldn't have been caught dead in one if he had a choice.

Now he's dead and in a suit. No choice. You're the Marshal now, so you're not in one.

Making a scene at a funeral in black jeans and a t-shirt.

Not caring.

Grief is good like that, making everything a chalky drawing you can wipe off with your hand. Makes things distant—even death.

An open-casket funeral, you know you're supposed to say he looks just like if he was alive, but they covered up his tattoos, and when you lean down to kiss his forehead, he's cold to the touch.

There's going to be pictures of that.

The handover.

The new Marshal promising the old one that he'll find his killer. Telling it to the press, who is eating it up, talking to the face behind the camera that you know is watching.

The spider in his web.

You tell him that you're coming for him.

…

Nineteen years ago.

You're in the wheelchair again after the latest operation, but at least that gets you out of carrying the casket later. The house is filled with voices, with tears, and with laughs. Too many relatives. Too many memories. Good ones.

You cling to your anger all the same.

It's expected. A man losing his father has the right to rage against the heavens.

Not the right to rage against the dead, so you hold your words, you build your walls and let your mother remember the man she loved. Emilio has left to get you your third beer, and maybe that will be enough to give you the strength to get through the night.

If not, you know where the good whiskey is hidden. Not like your father's going to care anymore.

It must be nice. Not caring.

Maybe one day you'll learn to be like him.

…

Thirty years ago.

Your suit is too tight, and you keep fidgeting on the church bench. You hit a growth spurt last semester, and now it feels like your shoulders are trapped, and you imagine that you can turn into a monster like Armordillo, flex your arms and shred the fabric, and stomp all over the pews. Roar at the audience. Make the priest run, make people flee. Fear you.

You shoot a glance at your father next to you, but he's not noticing your clenched fists. He's staring straight ahead, and you should too, but you keep fidgeting, and your good shoes are too hard, not like sneakers, and the clip-on tie should make you feel adult, but everyone is weird.

Death is. Weird.

Grandpa is gone. Really gone. Your eyes start stinging again, and you blink them hard because you're not supposed to cry, you're a big boy now, and boys don't cry, and monsters certainly don't. Armordillo wouldn't cry; he'd laugh and make others cry instead.

Father didn't like it when you did that either. Hitting people. Even though it was their fault, picking on people who wouldn't hit back. So you did it for them. That's good, right?

But you shouldn't hit people—another rule that's for kids and not adults.

You'll get it one day. He keeps saying that.

You'll grow up one day.

Learn some discipline.

Armordillo cares nothing for discipline, and you keep your face straight and your hands still and squirm quietly in your shoes as you imagine the church falling apart around you. Nobody will ever know what goes on inside your head, and what people don't know doesn't get you punished.

Maybe that's what discipline is all about.

…

Eight years ago, reprised.

Your knuckles hurt, and you don't recognize your own voice, but you hear your father's clear as day.

Telling you.

What you already know.

You failed.

You messed up.

The reporter at your feet is out cold, a civilian, and thank god you had disconnected your emitters before the funeral; otherwise, he might be dead.

Instead of your career.

If only you had learned some discipline. Become the leader he knew you could be. Taken care of your team. Made them fucking obey your orders. Stay close. Stay behind.

And now he's dead.

And now you're lost.

And your father was right all along.

Your worst enemy was always yourself.