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Superheroes could be pushy when it came to their suits. They want these colors and these symbols and those accents and and and. No sense of style and questionable taste. Like Children. At least Edna knew not to give in to their bad decisions.
The mother is curled into a giant armchair; tears stream down from puffy red eyes. Another woman (a sister?) holds her listless hands. The father is slumped on the floor nearby. Propped up by the wall and his friends.
The youngest, the newest, supers never came to Edna for suits. Not at first. Young and shy and so brave, they made their own. But Edna did not live under a rock; she knew when new supers popped up. They would eventually come to her.
A group of teenage (her age) girls have claimed a couch for themselves. They cling and murmur to each other, crying softly. They had put together a collage, photos of the girl that they knew, that now stands next to the closed casket.
Stratogale had been shy, she hadn't insisted on anything but- "-be safe," she had said with a small smile, "I don't need to be flashy or anything. Just safe."
The supers in attendance only wear their masks; they stand near the back of the room, and just outside the doors, acting as silent guards against the picketers outside. A handful of them standing at the sidewalk, keeping them away from the building itself. Guardians in mourning attire.
Edna Mode ("Th- thank you Ms. Mo-" "Just call me E, darling, I'm not your teacher.") takes a seat in a far corner. The soft sobs and sniffles are deafening, they surround her.
"I know that other supers have... but... goddamn."
"I know, it's just none have... She was so young."
"She was a kid."
Edna's dress is a floor length black shroud; her veil is tightly woven shadow. No one sees her in the chair, no one see her puffy eyes.
The casket is almost buried under flowers. The cards read from places all over the country, the world. Other supers who couldn't make it. People Stratogale saved. The sweet fragrance fills the room, it makes it seem like this is all some horrible dream.
Edna pulls out her pocket sketch book. She flips through the pages and sees death. She breathes deep, closes her eyes, breathes deeper. Let’s it out slowly, turns to the beginning of the book. The first page is a small concept piece, for a girl three states away who can fly. Edna carefully traces her fingers along the top of the page, making it curl up so she can delicately grip it between her first two fingers and thumb.
The super on the page is young, resplendent. A life of love and success ahead of them. Their cape splayed out behind them in a wind of imagination.
Edna clenches her hand into a fist, the paper crinkles under her fingers. She yanks her arm back, the page tearing as it follows.
"No more capes."
She finds the next sketch with a cape, doesn't contemplate it, just rips is out.
"No more capes."
Another sketch. Another ball of paper.
"No more capes."
Another. "No capes."
A couple supers standing nearby turn to her.
"No capes."
They don't say anything, just watch the balls of paper accumulate. Another, another, another, another.
"No capes," Edna hisses between clenched teeth.