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There is a special kind of shame in this, Ortega thinks. The crisis was averted, yes, but in return, he buries two of his dearest friends, and that fact leaves a taste so bitter in his mouth he wants to gag. What’s more, their bodies were disposed of so quickly, there’s nothing left to inter.
At the very least, he’d convinced the powers that be to provide for Emma’s funeral—to give her a coffin, a tombstone, and a service. Combining hers with Anathema’s was a compromise, but he suspected neither would have been bothered with sharing the spotlight. As he stands just off to the side from the twin caskets, he can practically hear the fuss Emma would have given over the service he’d prepared for her.
There’s too many flowers; don’t get that many!
What are you doing? Don’t invite that many people!
A public service?! Are you crazy?!
And finally, in an enraged gasp—or enraged shriek, or maybe both—What do you mean it’s going to be televised?
But he owes this to her. He should’ve never let her go. Should have told her no when she insisted that they needed her help. Should have forced her to stay away while he and the others dealt with the crisis. It would have assuaged his guilt, but then she would’ve gone on her own, with no backup—not necessarily to spite him, but because she wouldn’t have been willing to sit aside if she felt she could do something—and the result would’ve been the same. Shattered glass and his screaming as he reached for her, already knowing he was too late.
A firm but gentle hand startles Ortega from his self-flagellation. Steel gives Ortega a solemn look and nods in the direction of the podium positioned between the two caskets, flanked on either side by portraits of Anathema and Emma that are wreathed in flowers. It’s time, and the dampened eulogy notes in Ortega’s hand seem too little for all the emotion he has bottled inside him.
Ortega nearly trips as cameras begin flashing in a cacophony of shutters that almost blinds him. For a second, he worries about his epilepsy, anticipates the sudden locking of his muscles, but nothing happens, and the camera flashes stop nearly as quickly as they started. Standing at the podium and addressing the public is something he’s used to and it’s not the first time he’s given a eulogy at a funeral, but the emotion that grasps him by the throat is something he’s only felt once or twice. He adjusts the microphone, clears his throat, tugs on his tie, but nothing makes it any easier and the masses watch with rapt attention.
“Welcome, everyone”—Ortega winces as his voice wobbles—“and thank you for coming. Today we mourn the passing of my dearest friends, Anathema and S-Side—“ His traitorous voice wobbles again, and he stops, heaving a long sigh. The act doesn’t even feel cathartic. “My dear friends, Anathema and Sidestep,” he finally forces out. He opens his mouth to continue, but no sound leaves him. The silence draws out, the crowd watches silently, and suddenly Ortega has never felt more like a deer in the headlights as tears slide down his cheeks. He wipes them away, but they’re replaced with twice as many before his hand has even left his cheeks. There’s the sound of camera shutters again, but like before they end quickly.
“You knew both of them as heroes,” he starts, not bothering to compose himself. His voice is choked and rough, but in this moment, Ortega can’t bring himself to act like he hasn’t lost something great. “When crisis struck, together we’d fight the good fight and protect what is good and right in this world. But to me, they were more than that. They were willing ears, friendly challengers, and voices of reason when there was no one else. Between the two of them, I owe my life a thousand times over. To you, they were heroes; to me, they were my friends and the bright future I found myself looking forward to.” Emma’s bright smile—rare and precious to behold—comes to mind, unbidden, and the ache in Ortega’s chest is crippling.
“We- We have lost the two greatest people Los Diablos may ever have the chance to know, and I had the great honor of calling them friends. Today, we bury them with the honor they deserve.” Ortega steps away from the podium, whipping his tears away again, and takes two handfuls of roses from Steel. He lays one on Anathema’s coffin and the other on Emma’s mechanically, and returns to stand at Steel’s side.
A reporter, first in line to offer flowers, passes the coffins without even looking at them, making a beeline for Ortega. “How does it feel to know your friends are part of a conspiracy, Marshal?” he almost shouts. Ortega doesn’t immediately say anything, but he doesn’t need to; the reporter continues without prompting. Ortega’s eyes drop to the press tag the reporter wears, and his heart drops to find Vernon Browne’s name before him. Of all the thorns in his side to come stabbing at him now, it had to be the one with the raving mad conspiracy theories.
“—And that’s not all, Marshal! Don’t you think it’s strange Sidestep never showed their face to the public? Never joined the Rangers even though they were a clear fit?” Frustration mounting, Ortega nearly rolls his eyes at the questioning. The man is grasping at straws like always, searching for the next imaginary pin in his imaginary plot, but to pick Emma? And to bring his drivel to him today, of all days? The insult makes his hands twitch, causing his mods to discharge. “They’re the lynchpin in this; do you hear me, Marshal? They were a dog doing the dirty work—“
It happens so quickly, and his rage is so blinding that Ortega only realizes what he’s done from the sting across his knuckles. Vernon Browne reels, cupping his bloodied nose, and before he can bounce back to let one fly, Steel intervenes. He steps between Ortega and the reporter, blocking either of them from making another move.
“This is a funeral; be respectful of those who are mourning,” Steel says. The threat is unsaid, but Brown backs down without another word and slinks away, back into whatever cesspit he rose from.
“Thank you, Chen.” Steel glances at him over his shoulder and just nods. He gestures for the procession of flowers to continue, and the line moves along, though this time passing by Ortega with only words of condolence. Ortega nods in passing to each visitor, but he’s exhausted. His body aches from the aftershocks of the explosion and his head and heart aches from the crippling grief he now carries, but he pushes through to the end of the funeral. In the end, only he and Steel remain and watch as the empty coffins are lowered into the ground.
Three Hundred Miles Away:
It’s shockingly cold, and at first, it merely feels like the apartment, chilly as Emma likes it. That illusion pops like the frailest soap bubbles as she opens her eyes and sees the familiar eggshell white ceiling, followed by a horrifyingly familiar voice purring, “Welcome back to the Farm.”