[ Fingers lock around his throat, and Aventurine starts to laugh right away, the sound soft and strained by a narrowed airway. There is the brutality Aventurine knows, the fury he'd expected was sleeping somewhere. Violence is familiar. All at once, the monster he'd made in his mind is real again. Gratifying, to be right, and gratification is a far brighter, louder feeling than the icy nausea that threatens to curl up from the pit of his stomach.
Sunday's hand falls. There is that bad dog look in his eye, shame over doing what time and experience have taught him to do in situations like this. But how many bad dogs has Aventurine known? How much regret has he seen in the eyes of those who have raised a hand or a blade or a gun to his throat? This one is no different than the rest. Sunday will join a long line of powerful people let loose on the universe when their number should've been up, and Aventurine is going to help.
He keeps laughing, stifling the half-maddened sound behind the back of his hand, and says nothing more before he flickers out of sight.
Aventurine wakes in the Grand Hotel, tears in his eyes and strained, painful giggles in his throat. He climbs out of the Memoria pool, grabs his hat and glasses, cards a hand through his still messy blonde hair.
The elephant of a thought does cross his mind as he hurries down to the lobby -- just leave. Hasn't he done his due diligence at this point? More, even. They'd given the wannabe god a fair shot, set him loose, and he didn't manage to take flight on his own. That's just natural selection, right?
The Express Crew is assembled at the hotel front desk, hashing out final plans before leaving once more. Aventurine stalls and stares a moment. Before meeting the walking Stellaron and their adoring family, his only brush with Trailblaze had spelled the total destruction of everything he'd known and loved. The Nameless are truly the most dangerous force in the galaxy. They are also its best hope.
Outside the hotel, he makes it as far as asking a valet to bring his shuttle around.
Sunday, left to his own devices, would only be retrieved by The Family; not thrown upon the pyre, but saved for later use. He is too valuable a pawn in the coming Aeon War. And the Express is his best chance at making his own choices about whose side he takes. Aventurine does not have that luxury, but the opportunity presents to give it to someone else.
Aventurine wanders away from the pickup area, 'round the back of the hotel. Behind tapestries and pillars, tucked away, he finds Penacony's fallen prince. One final burst of anger at the sight of him fizzles. This is for the IPC. It's for Robin. It will be good for him. It has nothing to do with the fool albatross.
His touch is gentle, fingers checking pulse points for a heartbeat before he attempts to wake the former Bronze Melodia. ]
Alright, Sunshine, good morning. Time to get up.
[ Behind him, he hears footsteps. Aventurine clenches his teeth, but does his best to remain calm. ]
[Sunday is falling through a starless night sky. Above him, a vast raven with feathers of black nothingness wheels, scolds, and laughs.
"Failed so soon?"
He draws a breath to explain that he has not yet failed. A unifying chorus can still ring out across humanity. His paradise can be saved.
The retort dies on his lips. Sometimes, he thinks, it is better to remain silent than respond to foolish accusations.
"You were supposed to rise, not fall. You were supposed to be the Sun, shining upon the world in an eternal vigil, were you not?"
I was. Sunday thinks miserably to himself. I am a dead sun now. Day after day, there is less and less of me. Soon, I will be hollow. Maybe I already am.
The sickly feeling of motion in his stomach intensifies, as if he were falling faster, but with no wind nor light, it is hard to tell if he really is. He is rushing toward something, he knows. Or it is rushing toward him.
"Foolish child," croaks the raven, "If you want to accomplish anything, you have to act."
Yes.
But if you're going to act, then you have to wake up!"
Sunday crashes through the darkness into brilliant, blinding light.
---
Within the crack in the wall, Sunday sits curled in a fetal position, a bubble of memoria held to his chest, and his wings folded over his eyes.
At first, he doesn't stir, but on a second gentle prodding, he draws in a violent gasp and jerks hard enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder against a wall stud. The bubble rolls from his lap as he pushes past Aventurine into daylight. The last daylight, he realizes, that he will ever see. Never again will he smell this air, feel the wind in his feathers, or hear his sister's voice.
Suddenly, his heart seems to seize in his chest, and his lungs stop working. Robin. There is so much he wishes he could tell her. She needs to know he loves her, that he always has, that he loves her songs even if he's never mentioned it. That his near conquest of the world had been done out of love for her and everything they've ever known.
He leans against a pillar to prevent himself from toppling into Aventurine's arms and nearly sicks into the grass. A few deep breaths calm him down enough to finally register what he just heard.]
What? A train?
[There is only one train he knows of, and it ran him over multiple times. Puzzle pieces slide together in his mind.]
Oh, I see. The IPC bargained with the Nameless. You are passing me from one executioner to another. Well, that is certainly one way to dispose of me...
[Maybe he is assuming too much. The Nameless don't seem like the sort of people who would kill him. More likely, they will chain him up in the back of the train, where he will be alive and safe but unable to harm anyone.
That's better. Alive is better.
He pushes a glove through his hair, brushing out pieces of wood and drywall.]
[ Rare exotic bird, indeed. It really is a wonder he doesn't start yanking his feathers out, on top of everything else. Were it anyone else, Aventurine might have more sympathy, but he simply can't muster anymore. He takes a half step back as Sunday throws himself against a pillar, unwilling to repeat that earlier bit of violence out here in the waking world. Patiently if not particularly warmly, he waits until Sunday breathes through a panic attack, knowing he is partially responsible for it.
He crosses his arms, refusing to feel any particular way. Refusing to offer Sunday anything more than his physical presence.
The fallen sun doubles down on his paranoid distrust, lobbing venom at the only people in the galaxy that might show him as much mercy as his sister, and a terribly heavy, cold feeling runs up Aventurine's spine, down to his fingertips. He needs to be rid of this man, or he is going to go mad. ]
The Nameless still think you're in Family custody. [ He murmurs, deadpan. ] Want another chance at that ridiculous dream of yours? Convince them you're a burden worth taking on. But wait here, first.
[ Aventurine shoves past a heavy tapestry with a flourish, finding exactly what he expects on the other side, Hounds. He cuts them off before they can lay in with their usual heavy-handed interrogation tactics, greeting the Family's investigators with every ounze of insufferably smug arrogance and dazzlingly air-headed charm he can manage.
"Aventurine. IPC Manager, P45. With the Stonehearts? Now that we're... reinvested in the Sweet Dream, your little problem has become ours. And I regret to inform you, I don't think your stowaway's a stowaway anymore, boys."
Murmuring, then, one voice above the rest, "What do you mean? Clarify."
A sound of shuffling feet. Of Aventurine clicking his tongue. "You really need to get maintenance back here. There's a crack in the way big enough for an adult human to climb through, and it leads right into what looks like a storage closet."
Hushed, panicked chatter, all indecipherable.
"I've sealed that little weak point up for you for now, but you're going to need to get to it before long. You're welcome, by the way. Since we all benefit from the hotel being in top shape, I'll keep this between us. No labor invoices from HQ or anything." There is a long pause. Almost too long, and certainly tense, before Aventurine adds, "Better hurry."
Footsteps again. Quicker this time, sprinting away. Seconds later, Aventurine shoves past the tapestry again, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. ]
[Sunday doesn't move when Aventurine shoves past him. He is waiting here, he realizes. Obediently. Like a lost hound, he's allowing the other man to leash him, tell him where to go, which scents to follow, and which to ignore. Aventurine has even seen him in a vulnerable state now. He must delight in it.
The urge to sick sweeps over him again, this time because of revulsion, not panic. He is a fallen sun, and there seems to be no dignity left in his embers, only a desperation not to be extinguished completely.
A poster flutters in the light breeze, and he looks toward it. Robin's beatific face smiles down on his own disconsolate one. Usually, her smile lightens his spirit, but now, in this moment, it makes him feel even more hollow. Once again, he is the brother who disappoints his sister.
Oh, sister. What have I done?
Before he can ruminate further about his failure, Aventurine pushes back through the tapestries and gestures over his shoulder. Sunday steps away from the pillar.]
What am I running to?
[The train, he's guessing, though the question feels much bigger than that literal answer when he asks it. Where will his life go from here? What shape will it have when he opens his eyes tomorrow morning?]
[ Somewhere between the hospital bed where he'd first stirred from Nihility's haze and the conference room where Diamond reforged the stone that binds him, Aventurine had glimpsed something like hope. It was ultimately frivolous, and at least partly the fault of the Trailblazers, he thinks, for making him think that such things were possible at all. But he does not begrudge them.
It had been his own failure, his own inability to prove that he is anything more than another cog in Preservation's infinite machine. And it had been nice to dream, however briefly, of freedom.
Unfortunately, his trial has come and gone. His hands are tied again, neck shackled, head turned forcibly in service to the IPC. Standing before someone who had wronged him, who is so ungrateful for a gift he himself will always be denied is infuriating. ]
Wherever you want, Feathers. If you're asking for advice? Toward something that teaches you how to bend instead of breaking.
[ Neither one of them has time for philosophical debates at the moment. The Hounds will realize his lie shortly. The Express is leaving. He turns on his heel. ]
Welcome to the rat race.
[ Aventurine sets off at an undignified sprint for the front of the hotel. ]
[Sunday breaks into a run after Aventurine and quickly starts to flag.
Dream Nurses usually advise the residents of Penacony to get at least a few hours of wakefulness per month, as it is good for the body and mind. For someone as young as Sunday, they advised much, much more. He'd spent many of his waking hours jogging and lifting weights to keep himself toned, not out of vanity, but necessity. A strong body moves well and has good posture. As the Head of the Oak Family, this seemed important. When he gave speeches in the waking world, he wanted to project the same confidence he had in the dream. So he took care of himself.
For a while, anyway.
As the Charmony Festival drew near and his grip on Penacony tightened, Sunday stopped jogging and lifting weights. Against the wishes of the Nurses, he stopped waking up at all. His flesh was left forgotten in a Dreampool, like a discarded coat. Why bother maintaining a body he never planned to return to?
...A foolish decision in hindsight. There should have been a contingency plan for failure. While his muscles have not atrophied as badly as he thought, he is still weak and ragged when Aventurine finally stops. He slows himself to a walking pace until he's standing beside the Stoneheart once more. Behind his ribcage, his heart is pounding. He wants to fall into a crouch and catch his breath, but that would show too much weakness. So he keeps his shoulders back and chin proudly lifted, lips pulled into a tight, expressionless line. The steady heaving of his chest gives him away.]
Well, [He speaks in a carefully controlled voice on exhale] if that is what people mean by "rat race", I don't think I care for it... [A joking remark, though his strained breathing makes it hard to tell if he really is joking. He's not sure if he is, either.]
Now, will you please tell me why you have led a fugitive to the front of the Hotel? You are unlikely to find more traffic anywhere than here.
[ Aventurine stands staring up at the glittering network of shuttles and ships zipping around overhead. A sea of dreamchasers all itching to get into a paradise that is no longer entirely safe, and the one group of visitors he'd needed to see with are presently departing. He gestures, arm outstretched, past smaller vessels toward the train in the distance, locking mechanisms disengaging so that it can continue along on its ethereal silver rail. ]
That is why I led you here. [ he bites back, turning to stare Sunday down. ] Your best chance at real freedom, currently leaving the station.
[ His gaze cuts over Sunday's shoulder. At the hotel's front door, a crowd of Hounds, their uniform simple but unmistakable, gather. ]
You think if they catch you, they'll kill you, force you to face some sort of due justice, but they won't. It'll be worse.
[ Does he know that for certain? No. But countless bruises, brands, and scars have clued him in to how the galaxy works, how Aeons and their followers operate. Every soul is bled dry, of money, of time, of power, in service to entities that don't even care. ]
You're not a player, anymore, Feathers. You're a piece. A powerful one. I'd rather just... leave you here to face it. [ No he wouldn't. Not Kakavasha, who cannot stand to see others shackled. But he is not being Kakavasha right now. ] But Jade hates favors left unpaid, and Diamond's got plans that hinge on you not singing for the Family. So, if you really want to live, want the chance to see everyone's favorite angel again-
[ Almost bizarrely on cue, a young woman clad in the clothes of a hotel valet jogs up from a waiting IPC black-and-red shuttle to stand beside them, "Mister Aventurine?"
Aventurine retrieves his phone from his pocket one handed, hold the other out, palm up, expectantly. The hotel employee deposits a fob in his hand. "Your shuttle, sir."
A few swipes on his phone, and he tips the young lady enough credits to make her breath catch and eyes glaze. "Thank you, sir!"
She jogs off to a gaggle of other valets, assumedly to gab about the money she's just received. The valet doesn't even glance at Sunday before going. Just another random patron standing between her and her shift's end, which just got infinitely more exciting. ]
-then we've got to leave Penacony now. Are you coming?
[Pulled from the plans of the Oak Family and shoved into the plans of the IPC, then. Sunday's expression sours. With the Oaks, at least, he had an advantage. He'd used them as much as they'd used him. In the end, helping them achieve their ambitions became one step in achieving his own. But the Oak Family was relatively small. If the IPC traps him in their bureaucratic hell, he doubts he'll be able to escape.
The incoming Hounds represent his only other option: Be captured by The Family and killed. Or worse. It's hard to imagine what would be worse than dying. Living to see others die, maybe. That would be worse. Being imprisoned for use as a weapon. That would be worse. By now, The Family knows that Gopher Wood's adopted son is a man with a soul sturdy enough to become an Emanator of the Harmony if needed. The Embryo of Philosophy could rise again. Next time, it will give birth to a much worse god. He could become the Embryo of Finality itself.
The more he thinks, the more he knows one thing for certain: Falling into the hands of The Family is not an option. With the IPC, there is hope, weak though it may be.
Sunday sighs and looks up at the edifice of the Reverie Hotel.]
Farewell, Penacony. When I return...if I return... it will be as a traveler. You may not recognize me anymore, but I hope to make you proud, nonetheless.
[He adjusts his hood, makes sure his wings are well tucked beneath it, then looks over at Aventurine.]
...I cannot stay. I'll come with you, if you are certain you're okay with that.
[ Time may be wearing thin, but Aventurine does not interrupt Sunday's goodbyes. He does not react to the former Bronze Melodia's idealistic promise to the place that had once been his kingdom, choosing to bury his nose in his phone, instead. Any person ripped from all they know deserves at least that much.
In the meantime, Aventurine fires off several messages about undeliverable packages, unavailable recipients, and difficulties with customs. Overhead, the Astral Express makes a slow departure for deeper space. If they are quick, perhaps he'll have the time to dump Sunday in their observation car while they do that twee little voting ritual of theirs.
Sunday's next words yank him from his planning with the force of a hard stop. He laughs, brows knitting up in disbelief. ]
Oh! So you are aware that others have boundaries. [ Only when at his lowest. Only when owing a favor. Just like everyone else. ] Don't worry, you stomped over any I might've had weeks ago. I'm certain that what's best for both of us is I get you away from Penacony, and that's enough.
[ Phone into pocket, he beckons with his newly free hand. Behind them, a man in a shirt, tie, and suspenders shouts for him. Aventurine ignores it as though he's forgotten his own name, keeping his unhurried pace.
With a click of an invisible button on the smooth black fob in hand, the doors on the IPC shuttle slide open. It's a sleek three-seater meant for land travel and short ship-to-planet trips. There's something sort of ominous about the all black leather interior, and Aventurine, in his bright gold and jewel tones and peacock attire, looks entirely out of place as he slides into the pilot's seat.
One hand resting on the controls, he turns and pats one of the other two bucket seats, all jovial smarm again. ]
[There is snide disbelief in Aventurine's voice when he looks up from his phone and a glimmer of acid in his jewel-like eyes.]
Of course I am.
[But the gambler doesn't understand. He could never understand the immense burden Sunday had carried when he invoked the Harmony's consecration.
With a sigh, Sunday slips into the cramped shuttle. The tight space doesn't bother him, not after so much time spent in a confessional, but the sheer black is strangely oppressive. This must be the IPC's idea of modern stylishness, very different from the whimsical architecture of Penacony.
Once he is fully seated, he leans forward to address Aventurine.]
I am agreeing to accompany you, Mister Aventurine, but please do not speak to me that way. [While his voice is mostly light, there is a steely edge to it.] I'm sure I must be a burden to you, but I am not the one who assigned you whatever job this is. So don't take your frustrations out on me.
[ Aventurine does not immediately close the shuttle doors. He angles further in his seat, tucking an elbow against the plush headrest of the pilot's seat. His eyes reflect the dim overhead light, the red glow of accent lights inside the otherwise dark craft interior as his gaze flicks down and then back up. ]
Do you remember how you smiled? That smug little grin on your face when you invoked an Aeon you don't even worship and branded me, I mean. You liked it, didn't you? Punishing me for my arrogance. A death sentence wasn't enough. But dragging me back through... famine and fire and war because I wronged you? Oh, that did it, didn't it? Justice undeniably served.
[ Aventurine takes a breath, voice calm, musing over their past interactions as though he does not ruminate over them daily, as though they do not figure prominently into his restless, horrifying nightmares, bleeding into Nihility's ocean. Outside, the Hounds close in around the shuttle. ]
I don't carry Harmony's brand, anymore, Mister Sunday, but I do carry your smile still. And I am here because of you. So, I don't think my "frustrations" are misplaced.
[ One of the Hounds, a broad-shouldered man, crouches down as though about to reach into the shuttle. Aventurine turns, sitting forward once again, flicks a switch on the shuttle dash and the doors snap shut soundlessly. Another button press, a tilt of the controls, and the shuttle rockets skyward, zipping past other vessels to leave Penacony's cloud of memoria, bound for Aventurine's private ship. ]
But, sure. We can keep it professional from here on out.
[ With any luck at all it won't be much longer. If he plays his cards right, the albatross will board the train and he can go back to just being at the bottom of Diamond's naughty list. ]
[Sunday thinks, reflecting on that night in his office when he, maddened by the news of his sister's death, made the one move available to him.]
You had come to purchase my paradise from under me when I was so close to ascension, were you not? [Which is not something he'd been told, but something he'd figured out. The timing of Aventurine's arrival and his movements afterward had suggested something untrustworthy about him. Sunday suspected the IPC was using their ambassador as a means of destabilizing Penacony and having an excuse to retake it. He hasn't spent much time outside his home, but he knows how corporations operate and what greed motivates them to do.]
Using you to investigate my sister's murder seemed like the best option. It would solve two problems at once. And when you approached me, your confident swagger disgusted me. We hadn't yet spoken, and you already considered yourself the victor. So... yes, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed watching you experience humility. It was justice...
[But the way Aventurine talks about it sounds wrong. As if Sunday had bored into his mind, dragged his memories to the surface, then threw them about like unwanted refuse. Sunday doesn't remember doing any of that. All he remembers is a desperate gambler giving away his gems, then making his way to the Grand Theater.]
Your noisome flailing scattered the Hounds directly into my grasp and they were the ones I was truly after.
[Guilt knots his chest when he hears himself say those words. The Hounds were the true cause of his pain and frustration. Aventurine had been a convenient pawn, that was all. One that had been damaged in the midst of the game, and he'd never noticed. He reaches out and grasps Aventurine's shoulder.]
You were intended to undergo a trial. At the end, I was to decide whether you could coalesce into the Harmony or perish. I wanted you to face my judgment, yes, but it was not my intention to harm you. I am sorry that happened.
[A gentle squeeze, then he sits back and watches his home spiral away into the distance outside the shuttle window.]
[ Aventurine does not flinch under Sunday's touch, but he does roll his shoulder once he's drawn his hand away. He sits in silence, not feeling nothing, just refusing to acknowledge the roil of it all inside, gloved hands tightening on the controls. No reason to answer what was hardly an apology, anyway.
Even with Mythus and the Fools directing separate shows, the Oak Family and Sunday singing songs distinct from each other and the Harmony, even with layers upon layers of betrayal woven into every tale, every part had been played to perfection. Each actor in their role, using others to meet their specific goals. Aventurine perhaps more than most -- though he had, it seems, been well used in return.
He thinks again that perhaps he'd deserved the brand and the punishment that followed. Diamond binding him anew was both further deserved punishment and not enough. No matter how he hates it, hates this, he feels neither cleansed nor uplifted by experience. Nothing makes his survival feel earned. And yet he still wakes at night in a cold sweat, terrorized by the idea that what little of him remains might sublimate as he sleeps, destroyed or consumed by Harmony's whole. To know that his bespoke torment is the one thing Sunday had not conducted himself -- why, then? Had there been a reason for it? A purpose in it at all?
Lights streak by. Penacony shrinks into a glittering cloud, ahead only the sea of stars waits. Faster, faster, past ships meant for travel in deep space, into the dark. He and Ena's fallen prince, another cast off of the machinations of gods. He hates having anything in common with the albatross. Hates his stupid non-apology. The quiet music of his voice compared to what he recalls in his dreams. That he has the capacity to be so gentle, so warm, when what he'd done had been so relentlessly cruel.
The dash beeps. A red light flickers. ]
Damn. [ Aventurine banks the shuttle just in time to catch the tail lights on the express glowing red. As his mouth opens to protest, the train stretches into a long line of light, blinking away for parts unknown, silver trail left in its wake. ] Damn!
[ He fights the urge to sit in stunned silence and steers the shuttle back toward his own ship, one modest silver-white vessel idling among many others within Penacony's orbit. A few more button presses, a hangar opens on the vessel, and the shuttle docks with ease. Aventurine pulls out his phone and begins typing furiously; he needs to know where the Express is going, what their current options are.
While he waits for the shuttle doors to open, he turns in his seat again, fixing himself up with some of that confident swagger that Sunday evidently despises. ]
Looks like we're both stuck in purgatory a bit longer, Mister Sunday. Don't worry. I'm sure we'll both land on our feet.
[ Finally, the shuttle opens. Beyond its doors is a small, brightly lit cargo bay, all cream with patterned turquoise accents, neatly organized boxes on stacked and labeled, all of it considerably warmer than the ominous red and black of the shuttle.
With a bit more urgency than he means to show, he climbs out of the shuttle. ]
But we really shouldn't linger in Asdana. So, where to? Washtopia?
[It takes a minute for Sunday to realize that Aventurine is flying not for his own vessel, but for the train sitting in the outskirts of Penacony's orbit. Red lights flash, then the Star Rail leaps from its position like a pouncing ferret and vanishes upward into the stars. In the span of a heartbeat, the Nameless are gone. Akivili alone, if the Aeon indeed still lives, knows where they are now.
Sunday's wings flutter as he processes what just happened: From the Family, to the IPC, to the Nameless, and back to the IPC again. It feels like every faction in the cosmos is battling for his destiny in the wake of his fall, though the Nameless don't seem to know they are part of that conversation. And that's the problem.
He sits back, silently, resigned to his fate until the shuttle comes to its final stop and opens its doors. Aventurine nearly scrambles out into the bright cargo bay beyond, but Sunday remains seated with a dour expression.]
You are assuming the Nameless will agree to take me with them. [He says without looking up.] What if they don't?
Oh, they would've. [ Aventurine stops before a simple wall screen. ] I just... failed to get you there.
[ He makes it sound like a mild inconvenience, a personal oopsie-daisy that can be amended later. Better, that way.
A few taps on the screen, and it fills with hundreds of notifications. News alerts about a dozen different things, all the work emails he'd forwarded once things on Penacony got hairy, and notifications from people who have not earned his direct line. The Doctors of Chaos seem to have picked up on those dips of his toward hopelessness, judging by the number of automated emails from them. He wrinkles his nose. ]
So, you've got a few options, and I am not allowed to pick for you, since that wouldn't be in keeping with Madam Jade's little agreement.
[ He slides out of his coat, folds it neatly over his arm, and then turns to lean against the wall of his ship, arms crossed over his chest. ]
Herta Station, option one. You are still under the thumb of the IPC, but Miss Asta, the administrator there, she's a fun time. Best case scenario, you get to plug away helping others with research into Memoria until we can negotiate a meeting with the Nameless. Unlikely, but still possible, Madam Herta herself takes an interest in you, and I'm not fool enough to wager what happens then.
[ He lifts the hand not draped in his heavy jacket, ticking two fingers up. ]
Speaking of fools, you could chase Elation. You're a small enough pawn now that it's probably funnier to THEM if you're kept away from the Family. Honestly? That'd be my choice- [ It wouldn't, but he's still stuck in play-acting. ] -but it doesn't seem your style.
[ Another finger ticks up. ] Enroll you under a pseudonym at the Intelligentsia Guild. [ A fourth. ] A remote planet, far from the Family's reach. I set you up with enough to get a shuttle and you go. [ And the thumb. ] That red-haired Knight of Beauty will take you if you say anything that sounds remotely like you might pledge yourself to Idrila. But I think you'd go insane, personally.
[ Aventurine settles his arm down again, tips his chin up and stares at the ceiling of his ship. (His ship. He's so close to his bath and his bed he can almost taste it, even with what must be a hundred angry emails and a censure waiting for him in his inbox.) He sighs, shoulders visibly relaxing without the feathered coat collar there to obscure the tension. ]
Stellaron Hunters. Not sure they'd take you. If they did, you'd be roped into their little "script", made a tool of fate. IPC itself, might as well give you to the Family. [ An agonizing pause. A heavy sigh. ] Or... you... stay with me. We stay moving, because I know I can keep you... out of their hands. Or, hey! Maybe we'll kill each other, problem solved!
[ Every reasonable possibility and a few not-so-reasonable options accounted for in his plan. Percentages, likelihoods, interpersonal relationships and obstacles all reduced down to a bullet list, like a presentation. Of Stratagems, indeed. ]
[Sunday gracefully emerges from the shuttle and looks up at the screen. Notifications, alerts, and emails flash across it. None of it makes sense to him, but it must all make sense to Aventurine, who is making himself comfortable in the corner of Sunday's vision.
This is all too much. Too much happening at once, and too much information to process when his heart is racing, and his mind is burning. Aventurine lists potential destinations, and Sunday has to struggle to pay attention.]
My wish is still to create a paradise. [He says, still staring at the screen. Out of the options Aventurine mentions, the Space Station might be the best. From there, he can stow away on another vessel. But then what? He cannot spend the rest of his life on the run. Eventually, he needs to find a safe place where he can mend his broken wings, then take flight again.
After a few long moments, he finally looks over at Aventurine.] A lot has happened today. Will you at least give me time to think about this?
[ Between the incredulous snort of laughter and the half-growled tone, there's no hiding Aventurine's disdain for that particular idea -- particularly when it's brewed in the mind of a man who thinks free will is a shortcoming.
Now, he could press for an answer. First instinct, best instinct, in his experience, and there's a good chance the first pick would be, "Away from here. Away from you." That would work out best for both of them, probably. Or at least for the migraine incubating behind Aventurine's right eye.
He doesn't, though. Just stands there, leaning and staring, thinking in silence, mouth a thin line halfway to a smile. With their first choice recipient unavailable at the moment, he supposes it'd be reasonable to delay their next step for a few system hours. It'd get his bosses off his back, probably; delay a passive aggressive meeting that could've been an email. And, either way, they can't hang out on the edge of Penacony like this, well within the reach of Bloodhounds and Alfalfas and Irises.
And Sunday does look a little haggard -- as haggard as one who is always so close to physical perfection can, at least. Looking at him, Aventurine's stomach pits, thoughts bouncing across each time he'd been yanked from all he'd known, forced to both make a decision and live with the consequences.
He sighs, shoves himself away from the wall, turns and heads deeper into the ship. Before he speaks, he reminds himself that this is about catching more flies with honey than anything else. ]
Sure. As long as you don't try to Tune me, kill me, or lecture me about my sinful lifestyle, take your time. Grab a bite, take a nap, a shower. [ He throws his arms out in an animated shrug. ] Make yourself at home!
[ Beyond the cargo bay is a single short, narrow hall, between sets of sliding doors, the walls are draped artfully with pretty, patterned fabrics, all thick soft textures and jewel-toned colors. A lttle tacky, maybe, but it makes the space bright and muffles the persistent hum of a modern spacecraft.
Aventurine, himself, is bound for the cockpit, already thinking of places to hide temporarily. There's little chance of Sunday doing anything too ridiculous in the meantime, he is fairly certain. Especially so, after watching him wind himself in a short sprint around the hotel. ]
[Sunday can't guess Aventurine's thoughts, but the disdain is obvious, even before he speaks.]
Kill you? [A breath halfway between a gasp of incredulity and a laugh.] You have a very strange impression of me, Mister Aventurine.
[It's something he should address, he decides, but not now, not when his flight from Penacony has left him too frayed to think. Every moment since Aventurine found him in the Golden Hour has moved too quickly for him. The rest of his reluctant companion's brazen, half-hearted welcome even takes a few seconds to fully land. Though one word stands out, bigger and brighter and more important than the others. Shower.]
Well, now that you mention it... If you do not mind me using your facilities, I would appreciate a chance to bathe. [He hasn't washed his physical body since he was freed from his cell.] Sleep would be appreciated, as well. My time spent in the dream was... far from restful. Maybe by the time I wake, I will have your answer.
[He stands firm, shoulders squared, one hand held against the small of his back, trying not to look as tired as he feels.]
[ A bath before sleep is a good idea. Both in general — he'll have to indulge when he finally has a moment alone — and to ensure Sunday doesn't attempt any Dream shenanigans before they're well away from Penacony space. Not that he looks capable of anything that might be called a shenanigan at the moment, like a bird that's just exhausted himself throwing his body at windows trying to flee a building. That he's still doing his best impression of someone who hasn't just been through hell is... funny. It's funny.
He's felt that way more than once, and probably would've pledged loyalty to someone offering a no strings attached bath and bed.
Sunday cannot see it with the gambler's back to him, but Aventurine's expression softens. ]
Yeah. Of course. Like I said. Make yourself at home.
[ A few more steps and then he comes to a sharp stop, turning toward a sliding door that opens with a wave of his hand.
Inside is a bathroom, sparkling clean and sparsely decorated. Aside from the standard facilities, a lavishly large tub and separate shower take up most of the far wall of the room. Another hand gesture and a side panel opens, revealing plush turquoise towels and a mind boggling array of soaps, shampoos, lotions, and serums, both rare and expensive and (judging by the bright pink cartoon cat made of bubbles on one bottle) absolutely not. ]
Take your pick. This one- [ He selects a glass bottle that looks a bit like a dragon's egg, green and scalloped and shimmering, uncaps it and sniffs. Clean, warm, all mellow spices, not too overpowering. He sets it back on the shelf, then scoots out of the way. ] -you might find inoffensive.
As for sleep... My quarters are across the way. [ He points a thumb at the opposite door. ] You can use my bed. I'll set out some things for you to wear, since I'd prefer nothing that came in contact with centuries' old mortar and dust meet my sheets.
[ If he had any shame, he might be embarrassed at how easily he slips into service mode for a man who'd condemned him to death. If anything, though, it's easier, turning his brain off and just being the corporate cog, schmoozing an annoyingly attractive client for his employers. ]
[Sunday follows after Aventurine and watches him open doors with simple gestures of his hand. The technology is impressive, but he doesn't bother commenting on it. IPC ships always have impressive technology. Their greed and constant hoarding of wealth allow them that much. It would be more noteworthy to see doors swinging on hinges.
What captures his attention is the bathroom. He stares into it as his reluctant host continues talking, unaware that Sunday is no longer listening. The bathroom sparkles enough to be a facility from the Dewlight Pavilion, which makes him feel more at ease about using it.]
Alright, Mister Aventurine.
[His demeanor is weary and not entirely friendly as he walks into the bathroom, closes the door with a wave of his hand, and starts to disrobe. Every garment is folded neatly and placed in the corner before he steps into the shower. As he tips his head into the water, he feels the dull fog of confusion wash away, leaving his options lined up before him with clarity. If he is dropped off somewhere, he will remain there, possibly until the end of his life. The Intelligentsia Guild, The Geniuses, the Stellaron Hunters, the Fools of Elation, and the Knights of Beauty are all factions that he has heard of, but they were so distant from the internal politics of Penacony that they were abstractions bordering on mythology. He doesn't know enough about any of them to know how to survive among them, let alone survive long enough to escape and continue his mission of building Paradise.
Any save one. Aventurine, he knows. He'd studied the man intensely before their first meeting. Aventurine is a gambler, but a sly and cautious one. He could keep Sunday out of the Family's hands long enough for him to get his bearings.
It's decided, then.
After his shower, he wraps himself in a towel (the softest he can find) and walks into the bedroom. It is more spartan than he expects it to be. The bed is luxurious, but there are no gold trimmings or velvet cushions. There are still jade, or aventurine, colored sheets. He has to appreciate the Stoneheart's devotion to aesthetics.
He slips out of the towel and into the offered clothes, then crawls beneath the sheets, careful not leave any wrinkles in the fabric. Sleeping in another man's bed makes him uncomfortable, but he doesn't have long to think about it before exhaustion carries him away into a deep, dreamless slumber. He sleeps for longer than he intends to, a few hours at least, but wakes up feeling more refreshed than he's been since his fall. After he slides from the bed, he turns and gently tugs the blanket up to the pillow. It looks crooked, so he soothes his still worried mind by making the bed up perfectly; sheets smooth and straight, pillows fluffed and inviting.
With one final glance back at the bed to be sure of his work, he creeps into the bathroom, gets dressed, and takes time preening his feathers until the vanes shine silver in the light. Once he's made sure he's as pristine as he can be in his uncoordinated outfit, he walks out to find Aventurine.
He is standing tall, wings and hair fully brushed, eyes the color of a sunrise, clothes hanging from his body in a perfect, orderly way. When addressing a host, it is important to be presentable.]
I've made my decision. [His voice is clear and firm.] I choose to stay with you.
[ Aventurine jolts at the sound of his voice, head slipping from where it is perched precariously on bent knuckles.
Sunday finds him spilled into the pilot's seat in the cockpit, a tight but still walkable space silvered by light from multiple holographic screens. Starlight streaks by in the windows beyond, pencil thin lines of white and yellow and red. The vessel is moving at warp toward a new destination.
It takes Aventurine a few seconds to collect himself, stirring from his own restless not-quite-sleep. Still-gloved fingers card through his hair, then massage the spot above his eye as he compute's Sunday's decision. When he finally turns to face Sunday, he is wearing a charmingly boyish grin, the only mask he can think to put on that will cover the dread creeping up from low in his stomach. It nearly slips at the sight of him, all cleaned up and flawless again, far too close to the Bronze Melodia for his liking. ]
You're joking.
[ He's not, Aventurine knows. And it's his own fault for even presenting himself as an option. Sunday would never accept the comfort of insignificance at a station or academy, the mediocrity of IPC middle management. No, it's his sweet, foolish paradise or nothing.
Annoying as it is, there's value here to be extracted. A dream as silly as "a paradise where everyone is happy" is an easy enough weakness to exploit. And as long as he is Mister Stick-in-the-Mud's escort, Aventurine gains leverage against his own employers; freedom to move as he pleases, so long as it is not into Harmony, Destruction, or Nihility. If he plays his cards right, Diamond may even be pleased with this turn of events. And when Diamond's happy, well, everyone's happy, right? He can almost feel the choke collar going slack. ]
Alright!
[ A shrug, then he pushes past, refusing to look at Sunday long or give him the chance to glimpse how tired, how aching, how rattled he feels, and makes his way to his ship's modest kitchen. ]
Well, we're bound for Lushaka. According to my superiors, that was one of the Express's possible destinations. [ It'd been one of the only useful bits of information he'd gotten in the sea of messages that have come his way since his path converged with Sunday's again. ] They vote on where they go, you know, together, as a family. I doubt they'll be there, but it's a safe place to pause while we get our bearings. Hungry?
[Sunday's feathers ruffle slightly, disturbing the smoothness he'd accomplished through a nearly half hour of careful preening. Aventurine seems upset by his answer. Maybe that's not surprising, but he had offered.
He turns and follows along into the kitchen.]
I'm fine. Thank you.
[Actually, he is starving to the point of feeling light-headed, but he doesn't want to be any more of a burden.]
Mister Aventurine, if I am staying, we should make a few arrangements, yes? Sharing the facilities is...regrettably unavoidable. But I will need a place of my own to sleep. I do not mind the cargo hold, if you have any blankets to spare. [The thought alone hurts his back and shoulders, but he is a fugitive now. His days of sleeping in fine silks are behind him. One way or another, he has to get used to making himself comfortable where he can.]
[ The kitchen is small but not cramped, clean as the rest of the ship and meticulously organized with clear thought given to workflow. It is certainly not an under-utilized room. Well-seasoned pans hanging from the walls and cutting boards marked with lines from sharp blades paint a picture of a person who doesn't enjoy only takeout and fine dining for every meal. An assortment of blind box toys from planets across the IPC's systems holdings decorate one wall, as well as a shelf of games and toys -- decks of cards, a fine, folded chessboard likely a holding case for its pieces, and hand-held gaming devices. At the far side of the room is a booth set against another observation window.
Aventurine, too tired to put too much effort into a meal but too finicky to settle for snack food, auto-pilots to washing rice. ]
Oh, so you don't want to share a bed with me? How disappointing. We could keep each other warm.
[ Though he keeps his back to Sunday as he works, his grin slips through in his voice. He slides the rice maker pot into place and then turns his attention to the kitchen's little freezer, enjoying the way the air seems so much denser when he ruffles the former Bronze Melodia's feathers. ]
You're not a prisoner, Mister Sunday. On Lushaka, we can get you a real bed. I can't promise anything opulent, but there is a... [ Smuggler's compartment. ] ...well, it's sort of a walk-in closet. Less cold and more private than the cargo bay. [ He opens the freezer. Pauses. Smiles, cat-like. ] Although, my bed is always open.
[ It's just too entertaining, being a bit of a shit. Especially when it's a joke he is certain cannot possibly come back to bite him. Aventurine retrieves two servings of frozen meat and veggies he'd prepared in his downtime after the Doctors of Chaos had let him return to partial duties at work. He turns to look at Sunday now, finally, a butter-wouldn't-melt look on his face. ]
You don't have any dietary restrictions, do you? Vegetarian? Vegan?
No. I do not have any restrictions, but thank you for asking.
[Sunday shifts his feet together.
My bed is always open...
He's sure it's intended as harmless, playful ribaldry, but it's a joke he's heard many times before. Too many times before.
The people of Penacony gossip, women among their friends, men wherever there are ears to hear. It didn't take long for a game to rise like a grotesque beast out of the seedier bars and taverns in The Moment of Scorchsand. Within the sweet dream, it was possible to manifest as one's ideal self. The game was to learn what people looked like in the waking world, and use that to determine who was worthy of seduction. Wealthy women's names were past around often, but not as often as Sunday's. "The Bronze Melodia is as beautiful outside as he is here in the dream. If not more so. He would be the perfect prize."
Mostly, it stuck to gossip. A few bolder individuals still approached him, however, and tried to talk him into their beds. They always opened with a bawdy joke that he suspects were only ever half-jokes.
My bed is always open...
If it is only half a joke, then certain parts of the last several hours make more sense.
He's silent for a long moment, then...
He laughs. The soft musical sound bubbles from his throat before he can stop it, so he stifles what little of it he can with his gloved fingertips.]
Aheheheh! I've been such a fool.
Well, I suppose I should congratulate you. Not many get as far as you have.
[ That gamely bend is there in his voice, though his astonishment is also plain. he also turns abruptly, dumping the contents of both glass containers into his rice cooker hastily and poking them into place with a wooden spoon. In silence, he fiddles a bit more, pouring this sauce, adding that powder, pressing buttons on the machine. For a few seconds, the only sound are the admittedly chipper chirps of the cooker.
Looks like he's overplayed his hand. Again. Severely. Were it nearly anyone else in the IPC's systems, he might've made a game of it -- sexy chicken or something. And he would eventually, inevitably, end up in over his head, doing something meaningless with someone he keeps at arm's length and then never speaks to again. But this is not nearly anyone else. This is one of the monsters that lurks beneath Kakavasha's bed. He is not about to bring it between the sheets with him.
He closes the rice cooker lid a bit too hard, presses start, and turns to lean against the counter, his arms crossed. As their dinner cooks behind him -- nevermind that Sunday said he wasn't hungry -- he levels his gaze at the former Bronze Melodia. It is not often that he drops his smile, but he does, here and now. His nervous fingers busy themselves with the wooden spoon. ]
I don't actually know what you mean, but, just to be clear, that was a joke. While you're traveling with me, you are not to enter my quarters unless I invite you. The rest of the ship? Sure. Explore to your heart's content. You aren't a prisoner here, Mister Sunday, like I said. But... [ Aventurine pauses. His gaze falls. For the first time in longer than he can remember, he finds he struggles to string his next words together. ] You and I are not friends. And I...
[ He can't quite finish that sentence, but thankfully, the rice cooker chimes a sweet little song. Abruptly, he stops and turns, fiddles with kitchen shears, bowls, and spoons, prepping the contents of the cooker -- seasoned rice, veggies, poultry, mushrooms -- and doling it out in two bowls. When he turns again, it's only to offer one of the two bowls out to his new traveling companion. ]
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Sunday's hand falls. There is that bad dog look in his eye, shame over doing what time and experience have taught him to do in situations like this. But how many bad dogs has Aventurine known? How much regret has he seen in the eyes of those who have raised a hand or a blade or a gun to his throat? This one is no different than the rest. Sunday will join a long line of powerful people let loose on the universe when their number should've been up, and Aventurine is going to help.
He keeps laughing, stifling the half-maddened sound behind the back of his hand, and says nothing more before he flickers out of sight.
Aventurine wakes in the Grand Hotel, tears in his eyes and strained, painful giggles in his throat. He climbs out of the Memoria pool, grabs his hat and glasses, cards a hand through his still messy blonde hair.
The elephant of a thought does cross his mind as he hurries down to the lobby -- just leave. Hasn't he done his due diligence at this point? More, even. They'd given the wannabe god a fair shot, set him loose, and he didn't manage to take flight on his own. That's just natural selection, right?
The Express Crew is assembled at the hotel front desk, hashing out final plans before leaving once more. Aventurine stalls and stares a moment. Before meeting the walking Stellaron and their adoring family, his only brush with Trailblaze had spelled the total destruction of everything he'd known and loved. The Nameless are truly the most dangerous force in the galaxy. They are also its best hope.
Outside the hotel, he makes it as far as asking a valet to bring his shuttle around.
Sunday, left to his own devices, would only be retrieved by The Family; not thrown upon the pyre, but saved for later use. He is too valuable a pawn in the coming Aeon War. And the Express is his best chance at making his own choices about whose side he takes. Aventurine does not have that luxury, but the opportunity presents to give it to someone else.
Aventurine wanders away from the pickup area, 'round the back of the hotel. Behind tapestries and pillars, tucked away, he finds Penacony's fallen prince. One final burst of anger at the sight of him fizzles. This is for the IPC. It's for Robin. It will be good for him. It has nothing to do with the fool albatross.
His touch is gentle, fingers checking pulse points for a heartbeat before he attempts to wake the former Bronze Melodia. ]
Alright, Sunshine, good morning. Time to get up.
[ Behind him, he hears footsteps. Aventurine clenches his teeth, but does his best to remain calm. ]
You've got a train to catch.
cw: panic attack in here
"Failed so soon?"
He draws a breath to explain that he has not yet failed. A unifying chorus can still ring out across humanity. His paradise can be saved.
The retort dies on his lips. Sometimes, he thinks, it is better to remain silent than respond to foolish accusations.
"You were supposed to rise, not fall. You were supposed to be the Sun, shining upon the world in an eternal vigil, were you not?"
I was. Sunday thinks miserably to himself. I am a dead sun now. Day after day, there is less and less of me. Soon, I will be hollow. Maybe I already am.
The sickly feeling of motion in his stomach intensifies, as if he were falling faster, but with no wind nor light, it is hard to tell if he really is. He is rushing toward something, he knows. Or it is rushing toward him.
"Foolish child," croaks the raven, "If you want to accomplish anything, you have to act."
Yes.
But if you're going to act, then you have to wake up!"
Sunday crashes through the darkness into brilliant, blinding light.
---
Within the crack in the wall, Sunday sits curled in a fetal position, a bubble of memoria held to his chest, and his wings folded over his eyes.
At first, he doesn't stir, but on a second gentle prodding, he draws in a violent gasp and jerks hard enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder against a wall stud. The bubble rolls from his lap as he pushes past Aventurine into daylight. The last daylight, he realizes, that he will ever see. Never again will he smell this air, feel the wind in his feathers, or hear his sister's voice.
Suddenly, his heart seems to seize in his chest, and his lungs stop working. Robin. There is so much he wishes he could tell her. She needs to know he loves her, that he always has, that he loves her songs even if he's never mentioned it. That his near conquest of the world had been done out of love for her and everything they've ever known.
He leans against a pillar to prevent himself from toppling into Aventurine's arms and nearly sicks into the grass. A few deep breaths calm him down enough to finally register what he just heard.]
What? A train?
[There is only one train he knows of, and it ran him over multiple times. Puzzle pieces slide together in his mind.]
Oh, I see. The IPC bargained with the Nameless. You are passing me from one executioner to another. Well, that is certainly one way to dispose of me...
[Maybe he is assuming too much. The Nameless don't seem like the sort of people who would kill him. More likely, they will chain him up in the back of the train, where he will be alive and safe but unable to harm anyone.
That's better. Alive is better.
He pushes a glove through his hair, brushing out pieces of wood and drywall.]
Fine. [Then he too hears the footsteps.]
...What now?
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He crosses his arms, refusing to feel any particular way. Refusing to offer Sunday anything more than his physical presence.
The fallen sun doubles down on his paranoid distrust, lobbing venom at the only people in the galaxy that might show him as much mercy as his sister, and a terribly heavy, cold feeling runs up Aventurine's spine, down to his fingertips. He needs to be rid of this man, or he is going to go mad. ]
The Nameless still think you're in Family custody. [ He murmurs, deadpan. ] Want another chance at that ridiculous dream of yours? Convince them you're a burden worth taking on. But wait here, first.
[ Aventurine shoves past a heavy tapestry with a flourish, finding exactly what he expects on the other side, Hounds. He cuts them off before they can lay in with their usual heavy-handed interrogation tactics, greeting the Family's investigators with every ounze of insufferably smug arrogance and dazzlingly air-headed charm he can manage.
"Aventurine. IPC Manager, P45. With the Stonehearts? Now that we're... reinvested in the Sweet Dream, your little problem has become ours. And I regret to inform you, I don't think your stowaway's a stowaway anymore, boys."
Murmuring, then, one voice above the rest, "What do you mean? Clarify."
A sound of shuffling feet. Of Aventurine clicking his tongue. "You really need to get maintenance back here. There's a crack in the way big enough for an adult human to climb through, and it leads right into what looks like a storage closet."
Hushed, panicked chatter, all indecipherable.
"I've sealed that little weak point up for you for now, but you're going to need to get to it before long. You're welcome, by the way. Since we all benefit from the hotel being in top shape, I'll keep this between us. No labor invoices from HQ or anything." There is a long pause. Almost too long, and certainly tense, before Aventurine adds, "Better hurry."
Footsteps again. Quicker this time, sprinting away. Seconds later, Aventurine shoves past the tapestry again, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. ]
We should run.
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The urge to sick sweeps over him again, this time because of revulsion, not panic. He is a fallen sun, and there seems to be no dignity left in his embers, only a desperation not to be extinguished completely.
A poster flutters in the light breeze, and he looks toward it. Robin's beatific face smiles down on his own disconsolate one. Usually, her smile lightens his spirit, but now, in this moment, it makes him feel even more hollow. Once again, he is the brother who disappoints his sister.
Oh, sister. What have I done?
Before he can ruminate further about his failure, Aventurine pushes back through the tapestries and gestures over his shoulder. Sunday steps away from the pillar.]
What am I running to?
[The train, he's guessing, though the question feels much bigger than that literal answer when he asks it. Where will his life go from here? What shape will it have when he opens his eyes tomorrow morning?]
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It had been his own failure, his own inability to prove that he is anything more than another cog in Preservation's infinite machine. And it had been nice to dream, however briefly, of freedom.
Unfortunately, his trial has come and gone. His hands are tied again, neck shackled, head turned forcibly in service to the IPC. Standing before someone who had wronged him, who is so ungrateful for a gift he himself will always be denied is infuriating. ]
Wherever you want, Feathers. If you're asking for advice? Toward something that teaches you how to bend instead of breaking.
[ Neither one of them has time for philosophical debates at the moment. The Hounds will realize his lie shortly. The Express is leaving. He turns on his heel. ]
Welcome to the rat race.
[ Aventurine sets off at an undignified sprint for the front of the hotel. ]
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Dream Nurses usually advise the residents of Penacony to get at least a few hours of wakefulness per month, as it is good for the body and mind. For someone as young as Sunday, they advised much, much more. He'd spent many of his waking hours jogging and lifting weights to keep himself toned, not out of vanity, but necessity. A strong body moves well and has good posture. As the Head of the Oak Family, this seemed important. When he gave speeches in the waking world, he wanted to project the same confidence he had in the dream. So he took care of himself.
For a while, anyway.
As the Charmony Festival drew near and his grip on Penacony tightened, Sunday stopped jogging and lifting weights. Against the wishes of the Nurses, he stopped waking up at all. His flesh was left forgotten in a Dreampool, like a discarded coat. Why bother maintaining a body he never planned to return to?
...A foolish decision in hindsight. There should have been a contingency plan for failure. While his muscles have not atrophied as badly as he thought, he is still weak and ragged when Aventurine finally stops. He slows himself to a walking pace until he's standing beside the Stoneheart once more. Behind his ribcage, his heart is pounding. He wants to fall into a crouch and catch his breath, but that would show too much weakness. So he keeps his shoulders back and chin proudly lifted, lips pulled into a tight, expressionless line. The steady heaving of his chest gives him away.]
Well, [He speaks in a carefully controlled voice on exhale] if that is what people mean by "rat race", I don't think I care for it... [A joking remark, though his strained breathing makes it hard to tell if he really is joking. He's not sure if he is, either.]
Now, will you please tell me why you have led a fugitive to the front of the Hotel? You are unlikely to find more traffic anywhere than here.
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That is why I led you here. [ he bites back, turning to stare Sunday down. ] Your best chance at real freedom, currently leaving the station.
[ His gaze cuts over Sunday's shoulder. At the hotel's front door, a crowd of Hounds, their uniform simple but unmistakable, gather. ]
You think if they catch you, they'll kill you, force you to face some sort of due justice, but they won't. It'll be worse.
[ Does he know that for certain? No. But countless bruises, brands, and scars have clued him in to how the galaxy works, how Aeons and their followers operate. Every soul is bled dry, of money, of time, of power, in service to entities that don't even care. ]
You're not a player, anymore, Feathers. You're a piece. A powerful one. I'd rather just... leave you here to face it. [ No he wouldn't. Not Kakavasha, who cannot stand to see others shackled. But he is not being Kakavasha right now. ] But Jade hates favors left unpaid, and Diamond's got plans that hinge on you not singing for the Family. So, if you really want to live, want the chance to see everyone's favorite angel again-
[ Almost bizarrely on cue, a young woman clad in the clothes of a hotel valet jogs up from a waiting IPC black-and-red shuttle to stand beside them, "Mister Aventurine?"
Aventurine retrieves his phone from his pocket one handed, hold the other out, palm up, expectantly. The hotel employee deposits a fob in his hand. "Your shuttle, sir."
A few swipes on his phone, and he tips the young lady enough credits to make her breath catch and eyes glaze. "Thank you, sir!"
She jogs off to a gaggle of other valets, assumedly to gab about the money she's just received. The valet doesn't even glance at Sunday before going. Just another random patron standing between her and her shift's end, which just got infinitely more exciting. ]
-then we've got to leave Penacony now. Are you coming?
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The incoming Hounds represent his only other option: Be captured by The Family and killed. Or worse. It's hard to imagine what would be worse than dying. Living to see others die, maybe. That would be worse. Being imprisoned for use as a weapon. That would be worse. By now, The Family knows that Gopher Wood's adopted son is a man with a soul sturdy enough to become an Emanator of the Harmony if needed. The Embryo of Philosophy could rise again. Next time, it will give birth to a much worse god. He could become the Embryo of Finality itself.
The more he thinks, the more he knows one thing for certain: Falling into the hands of The Family is not an option. With the IPC, there is hope, weak though it may be.
Sunday sighs and looks up at the edifice of the Reverie Hotel.]
Farewell, Penacony. When I return...if I return... it will be as a traveler. You may not recognize me anymore, but I hope to make you proud, nonetheless.
[He adjusts his hood, makes sure his wings are well tucked beneath it, then looks over at Aventurine.]
...I cannot stay. I'll come with you, if you are certain you're okay with that.
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In the meantime, Aventurine fires off several messages about undeliverable packages, unavailable recipients, and difficulties with customs. Overhead, the Astral Express makes a slow departure for deeper space. If they are quick, perhaps he'll have the time to dump Sunday in their observation car while they do that twee little voting ritual of theirs.
Sunday's next words yank him from his planning with the force of a hard stop. He laughs, brows knitting up in disbelief. ]
Oh! So you are aware that others have boundaries. [ Only when at his lowest. Only when owing a favor. Just like everyone else. ] Don't worry, you stomped over any I might've had weeks ago. I'm certain that what's best for both of us is I get you away from Penacony, and that's enough.
[ Phone into pocket, he beckons with his newly free hand. Behind them, a man in a shirt, tie, and suspenders shouts for him. Aventurine ignores it as though he's forgotten his own name, keeping his unhurried pace.
With a click of an invisible button on the smooth black fob in hand, the doors on the IPC shuttle slide open. It's a sleek three-seater meant for land travel and short ship-to-planet trips. There's something sort of ominous about the all black leather interior, and Aventurine, in his bright gold and jewel tones and peacock attire, looks entirely out of place as he slides into the pilot's seat.
One hand resting on the controls, he turns and pats one of the other two bucket seats, all jovial smarm again. ]
Your chariot, majesty.
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Of course I am.
[But the gambler doesn't understand. He could never understand the immense burden Sunday had carried when he invoked the Harmony's consecration.
With a sigh, Sunday slips into the cramped shuttle. The tight space doesn't bother him, not after so much time spent in a confessional, but the sheer black is strangely oppressive. This must be the IPC's idea of modern stylishness, very different from the whimsical architecture of Penacony.
Once he is fully seated, he leans forward to address Aventurine.]
I am agreeing to accompany you, Mister Aventurine, but please do not speak to me that way. [While his voice is mostly light, there is a steely edge to it.] I'm sure I must be a burden to you, but I am not the one who assigned you whatever job this is. So don't take your frustrations out on me.
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Do you remember how you smiled? That smug little grin on your face when you invoked an Aeon you don't even worship and branded me, I mean. You liked it, didn't you? Punishing me for my arrogance. A death sentence wasn't enough. But dragging me back through... famine and fire and war because I wronged you? Oh, that did it, didn't it? Justice undeniably served.
[ Aventurine takes a breath, voice calm, musing over their past interactions as though he does not ruminate over them daily, as though they do not figure prominently into his restless, horrifying nightmares, bleeding into Nihility's ocean. Outside, the Hounds close in around the shuttle. ]
I don't carry Harmony's brand, anymore, Mister Sunday, but I do carry your smile still. And I am here because of you. So, I don't think my "frustrations" are misplaced.
[ One of the Hounds, a broad-shouldered man, crouches down as though about to reach into the shuttle. Aventurine turns, sitting forward once again, flicks a switch on the shuttle dash and the doors snap shut soundlessly. Another button press, a tilt of the controls, and the shuttle rockets skyward, zipping past other vessels to leave Penacony's cloud of memoria, bound for Aventurine's private ship. ]
But, sure. We can keep it professional from here on out.
[ With any luck at all it won't be much longer. If he plays his cards right, the albatross will board the train and he can go back to just being at the bottom of Diamond's naughty list. ]
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You had come to purchase my paradise from under me when I was so close to ascension, were you not? [Which is not something he'd been told, but something he'd figured out. The timing of Aventurine's arrival and his movements afterward had suggested something untrustworthy about him. Sunday suspected the IPC was using their ambassador as a means of destabilizing Penacony and having an excuse to retake it. He hasn't spent much time outside his home, but he knows how corporations operate and what greed motivates them to do.]
Using you to investigate my sister's murder seemed like the best option. It would solve two problems at once. And when you approached me, your confident swagger disgusted me. We hadn't yet spoken, and you already considered yourself the victor. So... yes, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed watching you experience humility. It was justice...
[But the way Aventurine talks about it sounds wrong. As if Sunday had bored into his mind, dragged his memories to the surface, then threw them about like unwanted refuse. Sunday doesn't remember doing any of that. All he remembers is a desperate gambler giving away his gems, then making his way to the Grand Theater.]
Your noisome flailing scattered the Hounds directly into my grasp and they were the ones I was truly after.
[Guilt knots his chest when he hears himself say those words. The Hounds were the true cause of his pain and frustration. Aventurine had been a convenient pawn, that was all. One that had been damaged in the midst of the game, and he'd never noticed. He reaches out and grasps Aventurine's shoulder.]
You were intended to undergo a trial. At the end, I was to decide whether you could coalesce into the Harmony or perish. I wanted you to face my judgment, yes, but it was not my intention to harm you. I am sorry that happened.
[A gentle squeeze, then he sits back and watches his home spiral away into the distance outside the shuttle window.]
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Even with Mythus and the Fools directing separate shows, the Oak Family and Sunday singing songs distinct from each other and the Harmony, even with layers upon layers of betrayal woven into every tale, every part had been played to perfection. Each actor in their role, using others to meet their specific goals. Aventurine perhaps more than most -- though he had, it seems, been well used in return.
He thinks again that perhaps he'd deserved the brand and the punishment that followed. Diamond binding him anew was both further deserved punishment and not enough. No matter how he hates it, hates this, he feels neither cleansed nor uplifted by experience. Nothing makes his survival feel earned. And yet he still wakes at night in a cold sweat, terrorized by the idea that what little of him remains might sublimate as he sleeps, destroyed or consumed by Harmony's whole. To know that his bespoke torment is the one thing Sunday had not conducted himself -- why, then? Had there been a reason for it? A purpose in it at all?
Lights streak by. Penacony shrinks into a glittering cloud, ahead only the sea of stars waits. Faster, faster, past ships meant for travel in deep space, into the dark. He and Ena's fallen prince, another cast off of the machinations of gods. He hates having anything in common with the albatross. Hates his stupid non-apology. The quiet music of his voice compared to what he recalls in his dreams. That he has the capacity to be so gentle, so warm, when what he'd done had been so relentlessly cruel.
The dash beeps. A red light flickers. ]
Damn. [ Aventurine banks the shuttle just in time to catch the tail lights on the express glowing red. As his mouth opens to protest, the train stretches into a long line of light, blinking away for parts unknown, silver trail left in its wake. ] Damn!
[ He fights the urge to sit in stunned silence and steers the shuttle back toward his own ship, one modest silver-white vessel idling among many others within Penacony's orbit. A few more button presses, a hangar opens on the vessel, and the shuttle docks with ease. Aventurine pulls out his phone and begins typing furiously; he needs to know where the Express is going, what their current options are.
While he waits for the shuttle doors to open, he turns in his seat again, fixing himself up with some of that confident swagger that Sunday evidently despises. ]
Looks like we're both stuck in purgatory a bit longer, Mister Sunday. Don't worry. I'm sure we'll both land on our feet.
[ Finally, the shuttle opens. Beyond its doors is a small, brightly lit cargo bay, all cream with patterned turquoise accents, neatly organized boxes on stacked and labeled, all of it considerably warmer than the ominous red and black of the shuttle.
With a bit more urgency than he means to show, he climbs out of the shuttle. ]
But we really shouldn't linger in Asdana. So, where to? Washtopia?
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Sunday's wings flutter as he processes what just happened: From the Family, to the IPC, to the Nameless, and back to the IPC again. It feels like every faction in the cosmos is battling for his destiny in the wake of his fall, though the Nameless don't seem to know they are part of that conversation. And that's the problem.
He sits back, silently, resigned to his fate until the shuttle comes to its final stop and opens its doors. Aventurine nearly scrambles out into the bright cargo bay beyond, but Sunday remains seated with a dour expression.]
You are assuming the Nameless will agree to take me with them. [He says without looking up.] What if they don't?
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[ He makes it sound like a mild inconvenience, a personal oopsie-daisy that can be amended later. Better, that way.
A few taps on the screen, and it fills with hundreds of notifications. News alerts about a dozen different things, all the work emails he'd forwarded once things on Penacony got hairy, and notifications from people who have not earned his direct line. The Doctors of Chaos seem to have picked up on those dips of his toward hopelessness, judging by the number of automated emails from them. He wrinkles his nose. ]
So, you've got a few options, and I am not allowed to pick for you, since that wouldn't be in keeping with Madam Jade's little agreement.
[ He slides out of his coat, folds it neatly over his arm, and then turns to lean against the wall of his ship, arms crossed over his chest. ]
Herta Station, option one. You are still under the thumb of the IPC, but Miss Asta, the administrator there, she's a fun time. Best case scenario, you get to plug away helping others with research into Memoria until we can negotiate a meeting with the Nameless. Unlikely, but still possible, Madam Herta herself takes an interest in you, and I'm not fool enough to wager what happens then.
[ He lifts the hand not draped in his heavy jacket, ticking two fingers up. ]
Speaking of fools, you could chase Elation. You're a small enough pawn now that it's probably funnier to THEM if you're kept away from the Family. Honestly? That'd be my choice- [ It wouldn't, but he's still stuck in play-acting. ] -but it doesn't seem your style.
[ Another finger ticks up. ] Enroll you under a pseudonym at the Intelligentsia Guild. [ A fourth. ] A remote planet, far from the Family's reach. I set you up with enough to get a shuttle and you go. [ And the thumb. ] That red-haired Knight of Beauty will take you if you say anything that sounds remotely like you might pledge yourself to Idrila. But I think you'd go insane, personally.
[ Aventurine settles his arm down again, tips his chin up and stares at the ceiling of his ship. (His ship. He's so close to his bath and his bed he can almost taste it, even with what must be a hundred angry emails and a censure waiting for him in his inbox.) He sighs, shoulders visibly relaxing without the feathered coat collar there to obscure the tension. ]
Stellaron Hunters. Not sure they'd take you. If they did, you'd be roped into their little "script", made a tool of fate. IPC itself, might as well give you to the Family. [ An agonizing pause. A heavy sigh. ] Or... you... stay with me. We stay moving, because I know I can keep you... out of their hands. Or, hey! Maybe we'll kill each other, problem solved!
[ Every reasonable possibility and a few not-so-reasonable options accounted for in his plan. Percentages, likelihoods, interpersonal relationships and obstacles all reduced down to a bullet list, like a presentation. Of Stratagems, indeed. ]
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This is all too much. Too much happening at once, and too much information to process when his heart is racing, and his mind is burning. Aventurine lists potential destinations, and Sunday has to struggle to pay attention.]
My wish is still to create a paradise. [He says, still staring at the screen. Out of the options Aventurine mentions, the Space Station might be the best. From there, he can stow away on another vessel. But then what? He cannot spend the rest of his life on the run. Eventually, he needs to find a safe place where he can mend his broken wings, then take flight again.
After a few long moments, he finally looks over at Aventurine.] A lot has happened today. Will you at least give me time to think about this?
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[ Between the incredulous snort of laughter and the half-growled tone, there's no hiding Aventurine's disdain for that particular idea -- particularly when it's brewed in the mind of a man who thinks free will is a shortcoming.
Now, he could press for an answer. First instinct, best instinct, in his experience, and there's a good chance the first pick would be, "Away from here. Away from you." That would work out best for both of them, probably. Or at least for the migraine incubating behind Aventurine's right eye.
He doesn't, though. Just stands there, leaning and staring, thinking in silence, mouth a thin line halfway to a smile. With their first choice recipient unavailable at the moment, he supposes it'd be reasonable to delay their next step for a few system hours. It'd get his bosses off his back, probably; delay a passive aggressive meeting that could've been an email. And, either way, they can't hang out on the edge of Penacony like this, well within the reach of Bloodhounds and Alfalfas and Irises.
And Sunday does look a little haggard -- as haggard as one who is always so close to physical perfection can, at least. Looking at him, Aventurine's stomach pits, thoughts bouncing across each time he'd been yanked from all he'd known, forced to both make a decision and live with the consequences.
He sighs, shoves himself away from the wall, turns and heads deeper into the ship. Before he speaks, he reminds himself that this is about catching more flies with honey than anything else. ]
Sure. As long as you don't try to Tune me, kill me, or lecture me about my sinful lifestyle, take your time. Grab a bite, take a nap, a shower. [ He throws his arms out in an animated shrug. ] Make yourself at home!
[ Beyond the cargo bay is a single short, narrow hall, between sets of sliding doors, the walls are draped artfully with pretty, patterned fabrics, all thick soft textures and jewel-toned colors. A lttle tacky, maybe, but it makes the space bright and muffles the persistent hum of a modern spacecraft.
Aventurine, himself, is bound for the cockpit, already thinking of places to hide temporarily. There's little chance of Sunday doing anything too ridiculous in the meantime, he is fairly certain. Especially so, after watching him wind himself in a short sprint around the hotel. ]
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Kill you? [A breath halfway between a gasp of incredulity and a laugh.] You have a very strange impression of me, Mister Aventurine.
[It's something he should address, he decides, but not now, not when his flight from Penacony has left him too frayed to think. Every moment since Aventurine found him in the Golden Hour has moved too quickly for him. The rest of his reluctant companion's brazen, half-hearted welcome even takes a few seconds to fully land. Though one word stands out, bigger and brighter and more important than the others. Shower.]
Well, now that you mention it... If you do not mind me using your facilities, I would appreciate a chance to bathe. [He hasn't washed his physical body since he was freed from his cell.] Sleep would be appreciated, as well. My time spent in the dream was... far from restful. Maybe by the time I wake, I will have your answer.
[He stands firm, shoulders squared, one hand held against the small of his back, trying not to look as tired as he feels.]
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He's felt that way more than once, and probably would've pledged loyalty to someone offering a no strings attached bath and bed.
Sunday cannot see it with the gambler's back to him, but Aventurine's expression softens. ]
Yeah. Of course. Like I said. Make yourself at home.
[ A few more steps and then he comes to a sharp stop, turning toward a sliding door that opens with a wave of his hand.
Inside is a bathroom, sparkling clean and sparsely decorated. Aside from the standard facilities, a lavishly large tub and separate shower take up most of the far wall of the room. Another hand gesture and a side panel opens, revealing plush turquoise towels and a mind boggling array of soaps, shampoos, lotions, and serums, both rare and expensive and (judging by the bright pink cartoon cat made of bubbles on one bottle) absolutely not. ]
Take your pick. This one- [ He selects a glass bottle that looks a bit like a dragon's egg, green and scalloped and shimmering, uncaps it and sniffs. Clean, warm, all mellow spices, not too overpowering. He sets it back on the shelf, then scoots out of the way. ] -you might find inoffensive.
As for sleep... My quarters are across the way. [ He points a thumb at the opposite door. ] You can use my bed. I'll set out some things for you to wear, since I'd prefer nothing that came in contact with centuries' old mortar and dust meet my sheets.
[ If he had any shame, he might be embarrassed at how easily he slips into service mode for a man who'd condemned him to death. If anything, though, it's easier, turning his brain off and just being the corporate cog, schmoozing a
n annoyingly attractiveclient for his employers. ]Alright, Mister Sunday?
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What captures his attention is the bathroom. He stares into it as his reluctant host continues talking, unaware that Sunday is no longer listening. The bathroom sparkles enough to be a facility from the Dewlight Pavilion, which makes him feel more at ease about using it.]
Alright, Mister Aventurine.
[His demeanor is weary and not entirely friendly as he walks into the bathroom, closes the door with a wave of his hand, and starts to disrobe. Every garment is folded neatly and placed in the corner before he steps into the shower. As he tips his head into the water, he feels the dull fog of confusion wash away, leaving his options lined up before him with clarity. If he is dropped off somewhere, he will remain there, possibly until the end of his life. The Intelligentsia Guild, The Geniuses, the Stellaron Hunters, the Fools of Elation, and the Knights of Beauty are all factions that he has heard of, but they were so distant from the internal politics of Penacony that they were abstractions bordering on mythology. He doesn't know enough about any of them to know how to survive among them, let alone survive long enough to escape and continue his mission of building Paradise.
Any save one. Aventurine, he knows. He'd studied the man intensely before their first meeting. Aventurine is a gambler, but a sly and cautious one. He could keep Sunday out of the Family's hands long enough for him to get his bearings.
It's decided, then.
After his shower, he wraps himself in a towel (the softest he can find) and walks into the bedroom. It is more spartan than he expects it to be. The bed is luxurious, but there are no gold trimmings or velvet cushions. There are still jade, or aventurine, colored sheets. He has to appreciate the Stoneheart's devotion to aesthetics.
He slips out of the towel and into the offered clothes, then crawls beneath the sheets, careful not leave any wrinkles in the fabric. Sleeping in another man's bed makes him uncomfortable, but he doesn't have long to think about it before exhaustion carries him away into a deep, dreamless slumber. He sleeps for longer than he intends to, a few hours at least, but wakes up feeling more refreshed than he's been since his fall. After he slides from the bed, he turns and gently tugs the blanket up to the pillow. It looks crooked, so he soothes his still worried mind by making the bed up perfectly; sheets smooth and straight, pillows fluffed and inviting.
With one final glance back at the bed to be sure of his work, he creeps into the bathroom, gets dressed, and takes time preening his feathers until the vanes shine silver in the light. Once he's made sure he's as pristine as he can be in his uncoordinated outfit, he walks out to find Aventurine.
He is standing tall, wings and hair fully brushed, eyes the color of a sunrise, clothes hanging from his body in a perfect, orderly way. When addressing a host, it is important to be presentable.]
I've made my decision. [His voice is clear and firm.] I choose to stay with you.
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Sunday finds him spilled into the pilot's seat in the cockpit, a tight but still walkable space silvered by light from multiple holographic screens. Starlight streaks by in the windows beyond, pencil thin lines of white and yellow and red. The vessel is moving at warp toward a new destination.
It takes Aventurine a few seconds to collect himself, stirring from his own restless not-quite-sleep. Still-gloved fingers card through his hair, then massage the spot above his eye as he compute's Sunday's decision. When he finally turns to face Sunday, he is wearing a charmingly boyish grin, the only mask he can think to put on that will cover the dread creeping up from low in his stomach. It nearly slips at the sight of him, all cleaned up and flawless again, far too close to the Bronze Melodia for his liking. ]
You're joking.
[ He's not, Aventurine knows. And it's his own fault for even presenting himself as an option. Sunday would never accept the comfort of insignificance at a station or academy, the mediocrity of IPC middle management. No, it's his sweet, foolish paradise or nothing.
Annoying as it is, there's value here to be extracted. A dream as silly as "a paradise where everyone is happy" is an easy enough weakness to exploit. And as long as he is Mister Stick-in-the-Mud's escort, Aventurine gains leverage against his own employers; freedom to move as he pleases, so long as it is not into Harmony, Destruction, or Nihility. If he plays his cards right, Diamond may even be pleased with this turn of events. And when Diamond's happy, well, everyone's happy, right? He can almost feel the choke collar going slack. ]
Alright!
[ A shrug, then he pushes past, refusing to look at Sunday long or give him the chance to glimpse how tired, how aching, how rattled he feels, and makes his way to his ship's modest kitchen. ]
Well, we're bound for Lushaka. According to my superiors, that was one of the Express's possible destinations. [ It'd been one of the only useful bits of information he'd gotten in the sea of messages that have come his way since his path converged with Sunday's again. ] They vote on where they go, you know, together, as a family. I doubt they'll be there, but it's a safe place to pause while we get our bearings. Hungry?
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He turns and follows along into the kitchen.]
I'm fine. Thank you.
[Actually, he is starving to the point of feeling light-headed, but he doesn't want to be any more of a burden.]
Mister Aventurine, if I am staying, we should make a few arrangements, yes? Sharing the facilities is...regrettably unavoidable. But I will need a place of my own to sleep. I do not mind the cargo hold, if you have any blankets to spare. [The thought alone hurts his back and shoulders, but he is a fugitive now. His days of sleeping in fine silks are behind him. One way or another, he has to get used to making himself comfortable where he can.]
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Aventurine, too tired to put too much effort into a meal but too finicky to settle for snack food, auto-pilots to washing rice. ]
Oh, so you don't want to share a bed with me? How disappointing. We could keep each other warm.
[ Though he keeps his back to Sunday as he works, his grin slips through in his voice. He slides the rice maker pot into place and then turns his attention to the kitchen's little freezer, enjoying the way the air seems so much denser when he ruffles the former Bronze Melodia's feathers. ]
You're not a prisoner, Mister Sunday. On Lushaka, we can get you a real bed. I can't promise anything opulent, but there is a... [ Smuggler's compartment. ] ...well, it's sort of a walk-in closet. Less cold and more private than the cargo bay. [ He opens the freezer. Pauses. Smiles, cat-like. ] Although, my bed is always open.
[ It's just too entertaining, being a bit of a shit. Especially when it's a joke he is certain cannot possibly come back to bite him. Aventurine retrieves two servings of frozen meat and veggies he'd prepared in his downtime after the Doctors of Chaos had let him return to partial duties at work. He turns to look at Sunday now, finally, a butter-wouldn't-melt look on his face. ]
You don't have any dietary restrictions, do you? Vegetarian? Vegan?
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[Sunday shifts his feet together.
My bed is always open...
He's sure it's intended as harmless, playful ribaldry, but it's a joke he's heard many times before. Too many times before.
The people of Penacony gossip, women among their friends, men wherever there are ears to hear. It didn't take long for a game to rise like a grotesque beast out of the seedier bars and taverns in The Moment of Scorchsand. Within the sweet dream, it was possible to manifest as one's ideal self. The game was to learn what people looked like in the waking world, and use that to determine who was worthy of seduction. Wealthy women's names were past around often, but not as often as Sunday's. "The Bronze Melodia is as beautiful outside as he is here in the dream. If not more so. He would be the perfect prize."
Mostly, it stuck to gossip. A few bolder individuals still approached him, however, and tried to talk him into their beds. They always opened with a bawdy joke that he suspects were only ever half-jokes.
My bed is always open...
If it is only half a joke, then certain parts of the last several hours make more sense.
He's silent for a long moment, then...
He laughs. The soft musical sound bubbles from his throat before he can stop it, so he stifles what little of it he can with his gloved fingertips.]
Aheheheh! I've been such a fool.
Well, I suppose I should congratulate you. Not many get as far as you have.
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Well, that's not the response I expected.
[ That gamely bend is there in his voice, though his astonishment is also plain. he also turns abruptly, dumping the contents of both glass containers into his rice cooker hastily and poking them into place with a wooden spoon. In silence, he fiddles a bit more, pouring this sauce, adding that powder, pressing buttons on the machine. For a few seconds, the only sound are the admittedly chipper chirps of the cooker.
Looks like he's overplayed his hand. Again. Severely. Were it nearly anyone else in the IPC's systems, he might've made a game of it -- sexy chicken or something. And he would eventually, inevitably, end up in over his head, doing something meaningless with someone he keeps at arm's length and then never speaks to again. But this is not nearly anyone else. This is one of the monsters that lurks beneath Kakavasha's bed. He is not about to bring it between the sheets with him.
He closes the rice cooker lid a bit too hard, presses start, and turns to lean against the counter, his arms crossed. As their dinner cooks behind him -- nevermind that Sunday said he wasn't hungry -- he levels his gaze at the former Bronze Melodia. It is not often that he drops his smile, but he does, here and now. His nervous fingers busy themselves with the wooden spoon. ]
I don't actually know what you mean, but, just to be clear, that was a joke. While you're traveling with me, you are not to enter my quarters unless I invite you. The rest of the ship? Sure. Explore to your heart's content. You aren't a prisoner here, Mister Sunday, like I said. But... [ Aventurine pauses. His gaze falls. For the first time in longer than he can remember, he finds he struggles to string his next words together. ] You and I are not friends. And I...
[ He can't quite finish that sentence, but thankfully, the rice cooker chimes a sweet little song. Abruptly, he stops and turns, fiddles with kitchen shears, bowls, and spoons, prepping the contents of the cooker -- seasoned rice, veggies, poultry, mushrooms -- and doling it out in two bowls. When he turns again, it's only to offer one of the two bowls out to his new traveling companion. ]
You're going to be a pain if you starve yourself.
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cw: torture, guilt
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cw: yapping, Sunday's analogies
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cw: suicidal ideation
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cw: uh
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cw: suicidal ideation (sort of)
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not entirely worksafe
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nsfw a bit
also a tiny bit nsfw but also mostly just sad
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