[ Well, at least he's cognizant enough to be cautious. That's good. If the man who'd managed to fool the Family and most of Penacony weren't at least that paranoid still, Aventurine might've worried. As it is, he can't even be mad that Sunday still seems to expect torture and betrayal. It'd be foolish to think otherwise, really. And if he were smart, he wouldn't do anything to disabuse Sunday of that notion.
He shrugs one shoulder. ]
If I jammed a crowbar into the cable facade while it was pulled down, maybe? But I'd rather not damage my own ship. That was an expensive off-the-books add-on.
[ He grasps the false cables again from the alcove where they've retracted, illustrating how they move up and down, telescoping into themselves. ]
So, no. You'll have two mechanical release buttons below at both entrances, one for the cables and one for the panel. There's also an... admittedly annoyingly convoluted hatch to the outside. And it's all analogue. Not electronic. So you won't be trapped if we lose power, either.
[ He gives the cables a shove, locking them into place once more, but uses them to hold his weight as he leans into Sunday's space, amusement playing across his features. ]
Kindly, Mister Sunday, I'm looking to get rid of you long-term, not keep you as my little secret.
Well, now it sounds like you intend to have me assassinated once we reach Lushaka.
[He folds his arms and defiantly glowers as Aventurine leans into his space. It is obvious that the Stoneheart intends to disturb him, and he refuses to give him the satisfaction of a single flinch. He steps in closer to Aventurine, lets his gaze linger on his kaleidoscopic eyes a moment longer, then looks back into the darkness.
The hidden compartment seems like a perfect hiding place, it's true. Yet he is not convinced that he will not be tortured. How will it happen, he wonders? Sensory deprivation would be easy enough. Seclusion. Aventurine could pipe music into the chamber to blast Sunday's senses with non-stop, discordant noise. Or, he might want to get his hands dirty with Halovian blood. Sunday's imagination, now flying into orbit without him, spins out a thousand gruesome scenarios of him being tormented in a lightless room. Torn, beaten, lacerated, wings tattered, feathers scattered... The images are so stark in his mind that his jaw tightens.
He cannot stop imagining it. Whenever he tries to think about something else, he fantasizes about Aventurine brutalizing his body. Between his dark thoughts and his insistence that he could live in a cargo bay, sleeping on crates, he begins to wonder if there is something seriously wrong with him.
Only his guilt, he reasons. The Sweet Dream Paradise had been a terrible mistake. In his attempt to create a world free from suffering, he caused suffering. He tried to prove himself righteous and failed, proving himself a sinner. And for this he should suffer. Hurt is what he deserves to feel. The world should be punishing him, yet he keeps getting second chances. It doesn't seem right. So, with nobody torturing him, he's torturing himself as a show of contrition. Now that he sees this, he sees it is ludicrous.
Sunday blows out a breath, and turns his head toward Aventurine.]
I do believe you won't harm me. So far, you have done nothing more than graciously offer me your hospitality. My apologies if it takes a while for me to accept it.
[Then, he looks back down the stairwell but his gaze is distant and unfocused now.]
[ There's something fun about the way he refuses to budge. Even with those wax wings of his melted, he aims to be a monolith. Staring into his eyes is unnerving, moreso for the turmoil that plays out so plainly in blue and gold, but Aventurine isn't about to lose a game of wills to the man who'd cheated to topple his before. ]
I wouldn't have you assassinated...
[ He leaves the second half of that statement open to the imagination as he releases the cable facade and climbs down into the smuggler's compartment. At the last rung of the step ladder, a warm golden light clicks on, illuminating the space. Backlit by it, Aventurine turns, knuckles pressed to his hips, and stares up at Sunday. ]
You're entitled to your caution, and I don't hold it against you. I would cling to it, if I were you. [ He angles his head, the wavy curtain of his bangs falling into his eyes. ] But believe me when I say I have no interest in rushing into conflict with you again.
[ That feels like perhaps too great an admission, so he turns and steps into the room proper, out of view, but leaving space for Sunday to climb down as well.
The room is, indeed, little more than an impressive walk-in closet, tall enough to stand upright in, and, empty as it is, room enough for the two of them to fit comfortably. The hum of the engine is almost inaudible -- the walls seem to have been soundproofed. Several hand-spun rugs, one of them a weave the color of Aventurine's eyes, are layered on the floor. It is all otherwise clean save a few old scuff marks in the exposed parts of the metal floor. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, nearly all of them empty, save a bundle of patterned fabrics neatly bound by twine and then wrapped in clear plastic for further protection. Aventurine fetches the bundle and tucks it under his arm.
He crouches, looking from floor to ceiling, measuring things up. ]
A twin bed will fit, I think. The frame can't be too opulent or it won't fit down here, but...hmm.
[ He likes the idea of decorating, gets a little distracted with it, then reminds himself that Sunday is a temporary addition. At the absolute most, it'll take a week or two to track down the Nameless and hand off the albatross. No reason to wade too far into the reeds.
So, he glances back toward the entrance, to Sunday. ]
[Sunday follows Aventurine into the darkness, his steps cautious and delicate as he climbs backwards down the steep steps.]
Forgive me. [He says bitterly as he takes the final step down to the floor.] It was not my intention to imply that you are incapable of slitting my throat yourself.
[Does Aventurine want to hurt him or not? He isn't sure. The dynamic between them is constantly shifting like a tide. Whenever he feels sure of where he stands, he turns and finds the beach has transformed beneath him, and Aventurine is still, somehow, always on a higher ground. Always has an advantage. Sunday's lack of control is unsettling. He needs to establish control.
Within the now well-lit room, the Stoneheart's expression is as infuriatingly inscrutable as ever. The threat, if it was indeed a threat, is forgotten in favor of excited chatter. Aventurine gestures around the small space as if giving a grand tour and peers from wall to ceiling to measure the room's size.
Sunday's wings twitch back against his shoulders.]
Better than the cargo bay.
[He echoes, not moving from the base of the steps.
He notices now that the sounds of the engine are muffled down here. The room is soundproof and used, he is certain, for illegal activities. Likely, nobody outside the room can hear what happens within it. If Aventurine somehow draws a pained scream from him, then--
Stop it.]
Mister Aventurine, I don't need a bed frame; the mattress alone will suffice. Neither of us wants me to be here long, right?
[ Sunday's snide return earns a genuine chuckle and a flicker of a smile that makes apples of Aventurine's cheeks. It shrinks just as soon as he realizes the joke was hardly made in good humor, which is near immediately. He's not sure why he'd expected otherwise. Not when Sunday looks to be struggling to decide whether he should fall to pieces and scatter across the floor or make like a black hole and collapse in on himself.
So, Aventurine stops himself from protesting the lack of bed frame, because Sunday is not wrong. It's a foolish investment, money wasted on a man who doesn't want to be here by a man who doesn't want him around, either. To push would be arguing for the sake of arguing, and wouldn't Aventurine rather spend his time doing literally anything else? ]
Yeah. Right. Well. If you change your mind, just say the word. [ A glance at his wristwatch tells him there's still more than an hour until Lushaka comes into view. He takes a step closer, but can't exactly escape the little room with Sunday still blocking the way. ] Now, I'd like to go take a bath.
[Sunday looks Aventurine over with a gaze usually reserved for six-legged things. Had that been a chuckle just now? Not a derisive laugh but genuine, warm, amusement?
The tide has shifted again, and again it is Sunday who is left on uncertain ground. He steps away from the ladder.]
[ There is no shock, no hurt to be found in being looked at like something strange and disgusting. It's too familiar, too mundane, to be anything but utterly ordinary. On reflex, Aventurine meets the look with a knowing, empty smile. Whatever spark of warmth he'd felt between the laughter and excitement of buying something new dies there in the tiny room, an alien feeling that hadn't belonged anyway.
What does surprise him and then promptly fills him with disgust, is the way he notices how tightly coiled every muscle in his body had been only after they all relax -- when Sunday moves out of the way, when he isn't trapped. ]
Distraction helps with the... racing thoughts, the memories. A repetitive task, exercise, or a simple puzzle game. Not reading. You want to turn your brain off. There's a tablet upstairs in the kitchen, nothing but match-3 games, block puzzles, things like that. If you want to give it a shot.
[ Aventurine bites down on the insides of his cheeks, jaw tightening. Pointless, every attempt at extending an olive branch when the wrinkles he's trying to smooth out are caused by a man who still terrifies him. He angles himself so as not to brush against his new traveling companion when moving by him, and leaves him behind without another word.
He selects a fresh change of clothes from his own room -- something more in line with the Stonehearts' standard uniform, though still flashy, accented in gold -- before heading into the bath. Aventurine is slow, methodical about how he undresses. One ring at a time, then each bracelet and bangle, organized on a side table. Gloves, shoes, socks. Start the water, hot enough to billow steam. Clothes, undergarments, into a laundry bin that folds flush into the wall.
Salt and soaps into the tub, all bright citrus-y scents. Aventurine thinks of nothing but the math of undressing, counting garments as he goes. He is careful not to glance at the mirror until it's fogged over. The scar where his skin had split, neck to navel, from the clash of the Emanator's blade against what remained of his cornerstone is mostly mended, but still red and healing. He doesn't care to look at it. Or the dozens of other burns and scars that mottle his chest, shoulders, back, and legs.
When he finally climbs in the tub, sinking into sudsy water, he is still for less than two minutes before he retrieves a tablet from the bath side table and busies himself with work. Emails and messages sent, calls made, all to track down the Nameless and ensure that the two of them are not immediately detained when they arrive in Lushaka. He even handles docking the ship from his tablet, and does not leave the tub until the ship is idled.
After a frankly excessive skincare routine, he dresses -- double, triple checks to make sure his clothes are neat, no scars are showing, and his hair is charmingly mussed -- and only then, when he is sure he looks effortless, does he leave the bathroom. He does not go looking for his companion, instead using one of the many electronic panels on the wall to deliver a message via intercom. ]
I'll be in the shuttle, Mister Sunday.
[ Aventurine adjusts his rings, his bangles, his wristwatch, and makes for the cargo bay. ]
[Sunday remains in the smuggler's chamber, not moving from where he stands by the ladder-like steps. Now that he is in solitude, the full weight of his situation has room to descend upon him once more. He is alone, his future uncertain; a bird with a broken wing spiraling downward to an unknown ground. Slowly, he sinks to the floor, gathers his knees to his chest, and begins to weep. The tears roll hotly down his cheeks, their warmth strangely soothing. His eyes flutter closed as he inwardly grieves a paradise that now may never be built.
Tears continue to come, each one a calming release of pressure from his heart, though never quite enough. Finally, he screams. His fingers clutch his legs until it hurts, and he screams, emptying his lungs of all the pain and uncertainty he can. Because there is no time for wallowing in pain now. He needs to sharpen that angony into an arrow and point it in a new direction. He is a fallen sun but, he reminds himself, suns rise again.
He stands and is heading up the ladder when he hears Aventurine's cloying voice over the intercom. His companion (or captor, he still isn't sure) will have to wait. He slips into the bathroom once more to straighten his clothes, brush his hair, and preen his feathers. Nobody should recognize him on the flagship, so the constant preening shouldn't be necessary, he knows. But it makes him feel better. A clean and presentable appearance is, at least, one thing he can control.
He doesn't leave Aventurine waiting long. When he walks into the cargo bay and ducks into the shuttle his stride is more proud and confident than it has been since his fall.]
Please forgive me if I am late. I do find punctuality important, but, well, I have been...out of sorts lately. [A maddening thing to confess, but it is also so overwhelmingly evident in his behavior that he doubts he even needed to mention it.]
[ As usual, Aventurine's busy fingers are moving, one hand drumming rhythmlessly against the shuttle controls as the other flicks through a holographic screen projected up from the center console. Emails, emails, and more emails. The Family has not made Sunday's escape public, at least -- they won't, he assumes, since to do so would be to create greater distrust in the general public. And Lady Jade has stepped in with one of her eloquent speeches about patience and long-term payoffs, blessedly taking some of the heat from HQ off of him, for now. It is not lost on him, though, that this will likely be another favor he owes her, and tries not to think of how it will come due down the line.
Sunday's appearance draws his attention. He swipes the screen away and turns in his seat to give the former Bronze Melodia a real look over. Too put together, too awake, to have spent the last hour and a half dissociating. Must've found the gaming tablet, then. Or had a good scream-cry. Been a while since Aventurine had one of those, himself.
He brings the mirrored sunglasses shoved up into his hair down over his eyes. ]
Don't worry about it.
[ With a few button presses, the shuttle doors close, the engine roars and the docking mechanisms disengage. In a soothing artificial voice, the ship announces that the cargo bay is opening, and within a few seconds, they are dropped into the void.
A glowing marble, sparkling blue swirled by white and gray clouds, immediately fills the front viewport, Lushaka. It grows larger when Aventurine tips the control forward. ]
Local time is just after noon where we're landing. Pleasant day. No rain. [ Thank goodness. ] Nothing in the news about you or Penacony...
[ There's more to say, but he waits, wanting to enjoy speeding through the clouds, toward endless blue water, as they enter the atmosphere. After a few more seconds silence, he starts up again. ]
My contacts say the Astral Express is... nowhere to be found, at the moment. Definitely not here, at least. Rumor is they might be laying a new stretch of rail. [ Aventurine glances at Sunday. ] That's huge, if so. It also means we don't know when they'll be available again, so while we wait, if you change your mind about that bed frame...
[ He doesn't mention that Welt Yang has a chip that can reach him instantly. That there is a reasonable chance that he, himself, might be the first to know where exactly they are. Instead, he tugs the controls toward him a little harder and the shuttle banks, slowing momentarily as its broad nose turns up and away from the water below before rocketing forward once more.
A dot on the horizon grows large very quickly, its details taking shape. It's clear it's a ship -- a sailing ship, more wood than metal -- right away, with four massive masts and billowing sails decorated in the colors of Lushaka and the IPC both. It is a vessel so large that it looks complete while it's still miles away, its size near overwhelming as they draw nearer. Aventurine slows once the flotilla of smaller vessels around it comes into focus.
Light occasionally glints off of a near transparent gold hex-grid dome that surrounds the vessel -- Qlipoth's protection shrouding the whole ship from the elements. The ship's body towers over the surface of the water, dotted with door-sized windows, some of them braced by railing, others billowing smoke or steam. Clusters of buildings and stalls -- most wood, some metal -- are scattered across the massive deck, some even climbing up the central mast. ]
Hammer's Reef, the IPC flagship here on Lushaka.
[ Aventurine brings them around to the back of the town-sized ship's deck, past a busier shuttle dock to one flanked by gleaming gold force fields. His shuttle passes through without incident, and as it does, a man's voice pipes in over the comm welcoming "Manager Aventurine" to Lushaka.
He chats with them a little, making friendly conversation in that smug tone of his. He glances at Sunday once more before telling the voice on the intercom that he's traveling with a "Mister Sol." In a few buttery words, he manages to shut down questions about his "unregistered passenger" and earn Sunday VIP guest clearance. It'll be easier that way, getting in and out of shops and IPC facilities and Lushaka, itself, if his companion is simply an important potential business parter Aventurine is courting.
With administration settled, Aventurine finally lands the shuttle in a space reserved for P44 employees. Just as soon as it's locked into place, he's throwing the door open to stretch his arms and take an enthusiastically deep breath. Thankfully, it seems no one higher ranked than him is currently on craft -- he's not sure he could deal with Sugulite or someone from Marketing, at the moment.
Sure it's safe, he ducks his head back into the shuttle to look Sunday over. ]
Hope you're ready to develop some sea legs, Mister Sol. Shall we check out the shops?
[ The smell of the sea fills the shuttle cabin. Lushaka is a noisy place, screaming sea birds and lapping waves, the creaking of wood and metal, and the persistent murmur of distant crowds. ]
[Sunday instinctively pins his wings forward against his ears, muffling the sounds of the city ship that land like discordant noise on his senses. It doesn't take long for the chaos to dissipate, revealing Harmony beneath. Footsteps pass them, seabirds wheel and cry, the ship groans, voices chatter. This is the rhythm of society, not so different here than it is in Penacony. Though it is a quieter, slower rhythm. Strangely, its steadiness is almost jarring after decades in the dream.
He raises his arms over his head, bending his body in a lithe, pretty arc. It had taken him years to learn how to stretch in public without looking foolish, and he is proud of himself. His back and shoulders pop and snap as they release their tension.
With relaxed muscles and acclimated senses, he feels his mood start to lift. Aventurine's voice, as irritatingly unctuous as always, brings it crashing back down.
Mister Sol indeed. Well, there are worse names that could have been picked.]
Yes, [He sighs] might as well get this over with. After you, Mister Aventurine.
[ Behind blessedly mirrored sunglasses, Aventurine rolls his eyes. What a performance, selling martyrdom and suffering still while totally unshackled, sins all but absolved thanks to his sister's faith. All that and still he preens, doing his best to make beauty and elegance look effortless. Talk about luck. Watching him, a smirk frozen on his own lips, the only thing Aventurine can't suss out is who Sunday is trying to impress.
Darkly, he wonders whether he's angling for the gaze of another Aeon, seeking some new power to bend to his will. Equally likely, he's just trying to be annoying. ]
Don't sound too enthusiastic, now.
[ Aventurine fights the urge to swan off, walking instead as the situation calls, as a guide, his body partially angled in Sunday's direction, steps slow.
In the Sweet Dream, Sunday had been the obstacle. Bullying past him to meet the IPC's goals had meant playing to his expectations, not subverting them. That scheme is done, gone to seed and sprouted into something new, and what's growing has not yet demanded a course of action, though Aventurine has wasted no time in trying to math out as many possibilities as he can. For now, though, there's no need to play a part one way or another. They're just waiting, stewing in each other's company until the bird's true handlers show themselves again. The only thing he needs to do is convincingly be himself (or, be Aventurine, the IPC manager, buttering up some new business opportunity). ]
I've only been here once, myself. It's a really fascinating place. Nowhere else like it. Well, except Thalassa, I guess.
[ The IPC's corporate bees zip this way and that as they cross the docking area, all of them busy with their own tasks. A few stop to nod when they recognize him. More steal curious glances at his handsome, unknown companion without pausing in their duties.
Aventurine leads Sunday from the through an IPC administrative building, quiet and gleaming clean, all sleek plastic and metal surfaces, each wall a screen scrolling an endless array of headlines and stock market numbers. Stepping through the front doors out into Hammer's Coral proper feels a bit like passing through a time portal into some anachronistic new world. Wood, metal, and coral marry into rickety, angular buildings and market stalls, colorful banners flutter in the sea breeze.
He glances at Sunday, still feeling annoyed with (his placid expression, his dour attitude, the neat lines of his clothes, the way even his hair is elegantly wind blown) everything. Just. Everything. He, not yet learned in the importance of appearances, had looked halfway to hell when Jade had hauled him aside before being tried for murder. Again, he thinks of what he'd silently longed for then, and bites the insides of his cheeks until they hurt before finally speaking again. ]
If there's anything you see that's of interest to you while we're here, let me know. Otherwise, I think there's a nice little furniture shop not far from here...
[Sunday follows Aventurine through the honeycomb of buildings, quiet and uncomplaining, but increasingly uncomfortable once more. It is not the crowds that bother him but Aventurine. The sly, syrupy, cunning man has a way of seeping into the cracks of Sunday's life, turning every misfortune into an opportunity for himself. Now, once again, the gambler has an advantage over him. Sunday doesn't know where he will be at the end of all of this. The only certainty he has is that Aventurine will come into a handsome sum of money.
He doesn't say anything in response to the other man's offer, one that feels to Sunday like rubbing salt into a wound. Sunday can have what he wants...if he asks his IPC handler nicely for it.
So it is with a heavy heart that he slows and stops despite himself in front of a small hut lined in seagless windows and coral statues, with lovely shell-inlaid instruments displayed out front. His eyes lock onto a violin crafted from fine Xianzhou wood. Many years ago, he'd played the violin. He was never as good at it as he was at the piano, and never as skilled as Robin, but he still played notes that brought tears to the people who heard them. During his nights alone, it would be nice to play again, to let the bow dance and his mind focus.
But he dares not ask for it. He's never been good at asking for what he wants. It was never his place to want. On Penacony, he existed for the people as an empty vessel into which they could pour their lamentations and despair. And he was to carry that pain aloft and burn it in the heat of a scorching sun...
How is he expected to ask now, when doing so would yield more power to Aventurine?
He is still staring at the violin as he thinks about home, unaware that his companion has moved on ahead without him.]
[ Oh, that icy silence is so deeply annoying. For being so preoccupied with the appearance of politeness, Sunday certainly knows how to wield impudence to great effect. A little dreadful, the thought of having a dreary ghost of a man haunting his ship for the foreseeable future. Between the noise of the ship and his own distraction, Aventurine does not immediately notice that he is no longer being trailed by a second set of footsteps. It isn't until another question goes unanswered that he finally glances back.
The panic that jolts him is, like everything Aventurine feels, dull and easy to tamp down. His first thought is that Sunday has run (which he is well within his rights to do, even if it is a stupid idea), but it's a theory that fizzles when Aventurine lifts his glasses and spots familiar wings right away.
He strolls back slowly, steps soft, and stands silently at Sunday's side. Behind his mirrored lenses, he can look without being obvious, and there is no mistaking that wistful expression. Aventurine traces the line of Sunday's eye over instruments and other bobbles, to the violin.
Aventurine is no musician. Work has not yet called him to research the qualities that mark an instrument as a fine piece. To his eye, this violin looks like any other. What stands out instead is the look on Sunday's face, not a dour frown, not despair. That, more than the wood's rich hue or the lack of price tag, mark the instrument's value.
He tucks his hands in his pockets. Doesn't look directly at Sunday. ]
[Sunday draws a breath and exhales it as a soft, shuddering sigh. Aventurine doesn't look at him, but he still feels a surge of guilt, as if he's been caught in a sacrilegious act. Which, according to his Bronze Melodia training, he has been. The Bronze Melodia is a divine voice and a conduit of prayer. His sacred person should never be seen with desire. Desire is a sinful emotion. It puts the self at the center of the universe, where Xipe should be.
Sunday hasn't believed in the benevolence of The Harmony for a long time now, but he knows he still shouldn't want. If he wants, then he may grow accustomed to it, and that will impede the building of Paradise. His life is still pointed toward that one goal.]
I used to. [He says after several seconds.] Heh... I was good. Not as good as my sister, of course, but I possessed talent. When I became the Oak Family Head, I no longer had time to pursue such frivolous activities.
[But he is not the Oak Family Head anymore. He longs, despite his vow to never want, to grasp the violin, test its weight, and rest it against his cheek. Doing so would make him a spectacle in a well-traveled, public area, however. It would be indecent.
He shifts to face Aventurine.]
Please forgive me, I seem to have left you waiting yet again.
[ To hear Lady Jade tell it, the songstress had painted a portrait of a brother who loved so deeply he wished only to see all other wishes fulfilled. Robin, as sisters are apt to do, conjured up the image of a big brother truly capable of saving all worlds, who had only taken a wrong turn on his path. Sweet of her, certainly. Compelling, certainly. Even Lady Jade had been moved, as much as she can be, at least.
But Aventurine himself is proof of the foolishness of hanging your hat on a savior. Particularly when he is your blood relative.
Sunday sighs heavily, a sound he recognizes, and Aventurine cannot look at him. He speaks, and Aventurine listens, but he cannot look at him. He just stares at the violin, thinking of sisters and wishes and second chances. ]
We're in no rush. Enjoy the sights.
[ He says it to fill the silence while he grapples with his own composure. Aventurine perceives Sunday from many bitter years ahead of where the man is standing now, and views him through the lens of torment. That sigh is penetrating. the rueful weight of that word, frivolous, sits heavily on his shoulders. It makes him... so, so angry. But it makes him feel a hundred other things, too.
In spite of all he has done, his sister would still put herself on the line to save his soul. And in spite of all he has done, he has also been put through hell. If he, himself, had been offered a paint brush, a guitar, a camera at his lowest, instead of shackles and a deal he could not refuse, what would have become of him? Aventurine stares at the violin a moment longer, the silence between them drawing long. Finally, a moment before the gap becomes unbearable, Aventurine angles his body to face Sunday, lifts the mirrored sunglasses to meet his sunset eyes. ]
I don't think there's anything frivolous about art. I'm not a Bronze Melodia, though.
[ The implied "and neither are you" is left unsaid, though there is uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice. Once he's said his piece, Aventurine lets the glasses fall over his eyes again. Obscured once more, his attention flicks up to make note of the shop name. If Sunday does not ask for the instrument outright, he'll be back for it later. ]
Want to look around here a bit more? Or, shall we get moving?
[Sunday looks over at Aventurine, noticing his companion's uncharacteristic silence. The Halovian wonders what he must be thinking, or scheming. He is always scheming, this one.]
No. [Sunday says in a barely surpressed growl.] You are not Bronze Melodia. [His arms fold over his chest as he shifts to face Aventurine, his face and posture hieratic and unreadable.] And neither am I. It was a position exclusive to the Oak Family... I doubt those who remain are likely to band together again. So I am... or...was the last Bronze Melodia.
[He lifts his gaze to the sky and turns, as if drawn by instinct, toward Lushaka's sun.]
Even so, I don't think it was a position worthy of preservation.... Well, you probably do not want to hear about that.
[If Aventurine is still listening, he must be bored or annoyed by now.]
I've seen what I want to. Let's go. We have to make my cage more comfortable, yes?
[ Aventurine opens his mouth to apologize, to protest, but Sunday makes a sermon of it before he can get a word in. Whatever sympathy he'd percolated in the moment stales as the albatross goes on; Aventurine cannot muster interest in the gospel of a freshly fallen Aeon still licking self-inflicted wounds.
A cage, he calls it, and Aventurine cannot even think of suffering or sisters or pressing fresh bruises. He just laughs, a bright sharp sound, like Sunday has said something absolutely hilarious. ]
Your cage. [ What an asshole. He turns away, sets off without waiting. ] I think they still sell paper newspapers here on Lushaka, if you'd like me to shred some up for you.
[ Aventurine pulls out his phone, no longer (able) willing to give their present arrangement his full attention. ]
Seems like a lot of clean up, though. And I'm sure you need a lot of time to pick out the perfect bedspread. Let's get going.
[Sunday stops short at the jeering laughter in Aventurine's voice.]
Yes, Mister Aventurine [He says, his own voice tight from his effort to avoid snarling in anger.] My cage.
[But Aventurine doesn't understand, could never understand. Not when he finds windows where Sunday only finds walls. It's not worth explaining the situation, Sunday knows, but he wheels in place anyway to look at his companion, wings pinned back against his shoulders, arms straight at his sides, fists clenching to focus his emotion away from his face.]
I can leave, as you say, but where would I go? If I stay anywhere too long, The Family will find me. They have a much farther reach than you or your handlers know... and they are not above using drastic measures to flush me out... Doing so can only benefit them, in fact.
...It would not be Aelenev. The Eternal Centurion is never called upon to deal with one man. I am not worth that much effort unless I am gathering an army. But the Centurion is not the only way to harmonize a population. Any disaster is sufficient to make people cry out in supplication for the Great One's serenity. So, they would come, create turmoil to find me and, in doing so, bring more souls into the Family's fold.
I cannot allow this.
I would rather die. I would rather turn myself over to them now.
[A hand lifts to his chest.] Where you see a sunlit landscape full of infinite pathways and golden opportunities, I see a dark corridor and its doors are slamming shut one after another.
My best option-- no, my only option-- is to keep moving and stay out of The Family's sight. It is the only path available to me.
I do not have the resources to do this on my own, so I must come with you. I have no other choice. My room on your ship is my cage. [But...]
...But... When a bird falls from the sky and breaks its wings, a cage is the safest place for it to be. Leaving the bars for the wilderness beyond would mean certain death.
[He falls silent for a moment, then his hand drops back to his side. His gaze hardens when he focuses it on the inscrutable face hidden beneath mirrored glasses.]
I appreciate all that you are doing for me. But please do not pretend I am truly free. It is cruel.
[ This would be easier if Sunday just hit him. Preferable, even. Not that he loves getting popped on the nose, but at least he wouldn't have to think about the fallen Oak's willingness to throw himself upon the pyre to keep the The Family from setting roots anywhere else. How relentlessly noble of him, the ever eager martyr.
Was there a time when he, himself, was so defiantly idealistic? Or has he always been an opportunistic dog? He can't recall, but the way Sunday talks of sunlit landscapes makes him think that maybe he has always been IPC slime. Either way, it seems Sunday has a very clear portrait of him painted in his mind already. ]
I'm not. [ No sugar slips into Aventurine's voice now. He slides his phone back into his pocket to give Sunday his full attention, but does not remove his glasses. ] There is no such thing as true freedom, Mister Sol. The real cruelty would be in lying to you about that.
[ He shrugs one shoulder. ]
You are not wrong. You fell, you have no resources, and, to borrow your metaphor and change it a little, you need time to let your eyes adjust to the dark. But you call your room a cage, and that's not entirely correct. The whole ship is one.
I hate to... bring up our past dealings- [ Mentioning it at all feels like taking a pick to his head, putting painful fissures in his carefully managed composure. ] -but, from where I'm standing, you're less a broken bird I'm minding and more a lion I am trying very hard not to upset. I've experienced your teeth and claws, Mister Sol, and I am reluctant to see them drawn again. So, I hope you realize that the cage is ours. I'm just trying to make it a more comfortable one.
[Sunday's golden eyes widen for a moment. The air between them is suddenly thick and tense, as if Aventurine has just admitted a traumatic secret. He isn't sure what the secret is, or what just happened, but something happened.]
I see.
[A deep breath. He is a monster then, a ravenous beast in this man's eyes. On Penacony, many people must remember him in similar ways. That thought makes his heart clench in a mixture of shame and guilt.
The breath heaves from his lungs in another shuddered sigh.]
Well, this lion would rather not bear his claws again either. But if you are that worried, I do not mind staying in my room until we...
[Find the Nameless? Aventurine had mentioned they were likely laying down new rail somewhere, which means they have traveled to a place so distant, so difficult to find, that Akivili THEMSELF has never been there. Terminus alone knows when they will return to the mapped cosmos again.
[ Now, unthinking, Aventurine removes his glasses to peer at Sunday with eyes unhidden and a gaze not colored by polarized lenses. He tucks them neatly into the breast pocket of his vest, sparing himself an extra second before answering properly. It is, quite frankly, ludicrous how lovely Halovians are even at their worst moments, Sunday's too taut stillness and wide, gleaming golden eyes all the more ethereal for his surprise. What a horribly pretty thing he is, totally unaware of just how much damage he can do, like so many monsters. ]
No. That's not- no. Look- come on.
[ Stars, is he flustered? Certainly not, but he doesn't want to stand here in the middle of a Lushakan street hashing out trauma in front of anyone nosy enough to listen any longer. So, he beckons and starts walking. ]
I'm not going to lie to you and pretend we're chums, alright? But you can't lock yourself away, either. My comfort one way or another doesn't matter. It's just business.
[ He says those words as much for himself as for Sunday, even as he wonders why it matters to him so much, even as realization starts to dawn. ]
Your sister had a very clear idea of where you went wrong. [ Conquest. Domination. Jade had used those words, specifically, when relaying their conversation, knowing exactly which nerve they would hit for Aventurine. ] I'm not equipped to set you on the right path, but I do know that hiding in a dark room isn't the way to do it.
[ Aventurine stops beside a large wooden building with tall latticed windows, diamonds of colored and clear glass peering into a show room of housing goods and furniture. He crosses his arms over his chest. ]
If you don't get out there, see new worlds, and really meet the people on them, then you're going to-
[ He stops. Even if he could bring himself to say it, Sunday wouldn't understand. There's no set of words powerful enough to match the feeling Aventurine gets, the only feeling not dulled at all, when he realizes what he truly sees, and fears, in the former Bronze Melodia, a man poised to stumble down the same Path as Oswaldo Schneider.
He bites down on the insides of his cheeks. A huff of air escapes him, a neat release of steam. ]
It'd just be better for you if you experienced life.
[Sunday follows when beckoned and trails behind Aventurine. The Stoneheart continues to speak, mentions his sister, and prattles life lessons as if he were a wisened sage and not an opportunistic gambler.
Sunday draws a breath, prepares himself to ask where Robin said he went wrong, then decides against it. Knowing her, and how well she knows him, he can guess what she might have said.]
You are worried I will lock myself in the same cage I was in on Penacony and commit myself to my Path once more. [When Aventurine stops again, Sunday stops one pace behind him, features stoney, feathers splayed.]
...Would it help if I promise that won't happen?
[He had thrown his all into the creation of his Path. He forged it with divine hands. It would have been the Path to end all others, one that gave humanity the chance to live free of Aeons. Philosophy, the Path of Humankind, where no Aeons walked, the virtuous were uplifted, and the wicked burned beneath the gaze of the perfect sun.
...It had all seemed like a sure thing. But the Nameless defeated him. They had proven their Path stronger and cast him from the sky. If The Philosophy had been truly righteous, he would not have failed. But he did. He'd been wrong.
Now he has to find a new way to create his paradise. By walking among mortals with his broken wings binding him to the land, maybe he can find a better way. One that truly reflects the warmth he feels in his heart for the people of the cosmos...
None of his thoughts are spoken aloud, but he falls into a silence that fills the air with their weight.]
...I am trying to provide succor [He says after several long moments have passed.] You don't make it easy for me. You say we are not friends, and you clearly do not want me around, yet when I offer to sequester myself, you say you do not want that either. [A pause, he looks up at the latticed windows. Their crossed patterns remind him of his confessional.]
And you say your comfort doesn't matter, but it matters to me. Everyone deserves days of respite, Mister Aventurine. Yourself included.
[ It won't help. A foregone conclusion when all strong convictions, every deeply held belief, and each promise made comes with a price tag, when every person is apt to become currency in those transactions. Still, Aventurine isn't foolish enough to say as much out loud. Better to preserve some plausible deniability. Aventurine will not, cannot put his trust in anyone, but no one else needs to know that for certain.
Especially not Sunday, a ridiculous little bird with too big storybook ideas about right and wrong, whose every emotion seems to settle in the air like a weighted blanket.
Aventurine catches himself halfway to shaking his head in response to Sunday's assertion that he deserves rest. He doesn't. There's too much work, too much to make up for, and not enough system hours on any world to see his many schemes through in a way that will satisfy the blood spilled on Sigonia.
And even with the matter of deserving set aside, it's the assertion, itself, that sticks in his craw. ]
How can you say that? [ Aventurine turns to look at Sunday. He wants to curl his arms around himself more tightly, but he doesn't. ] Less than a day ago, you told me you enjoyed humbling me. Your necessary divine justice made me- [ Aventurine stops himself, jaw tightening until the memory, the rising terror behind, and the desire to speak of it at all pass. ] How can you say my comfort matters, now?
[Sunday blinks slowly as Aventurine turns to him, bridling at the memory of a moment they both shared long ago in that office in Dewlight Pavilion.]
At the time, you and I were at odds. We were both using each other as pawns in our schemes, so let's not dwell on it.
The way I see it, you are no longer my opponent, but my traveling companion. As my companion, your comfort matters. [Which feels foolish to say now, when Aventurine does not want comfort. Many people don't. Their pride or sense of duty prevents them from seeking or accepting it. That is a flaw of humanity Sunday had wanted to fix once. He doesn't anymore. But it still disappoints him to see it.]
...You do not want me to be kind, nor do you want my claws. You do not want me to avoid you, but you do not want me around. What do you want?
[ Not dwelling on it sounds like a swell idea. Were it that simple, it's exactly what Aventurine would do, without question. But Sunday's words, his insistence on playing the calm, rational mediator now, make an ordinarily dim anger burn hotter than he can recall anything feeling in recent memory. He swallows it all down, anyway, hell bent on faking complacency. He can weather this, he is certain. And even if he can't, Broad Street aboard the Hammer's Coral is not the place to hash out a conflict involving Emanators and IPC secrets and new Aeons.
Aventurine shuts his eyes and breathes until fire and panic dim to twilight. ]
Just don't treat me like your jailer, and I'll be satisfied.
[ It's not a lie, at least, but he's also done having this conversation in a public place. ]
This isn't the best spot to discuss the matter further, Mister Sol. So, let's do what we came here to do, shall we?
[ The candy coating returns to his voice as he turns, hand resting on the shop's front door. ]
Pick out whatever you like! Pillows, bedding, blankets. We can find a mattress for you in the back and have it all sent to the ship.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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He shrugs one shoulder. ]
If I jammed a crowbar into the cable facade while it was pulled down, maybe? But I'd rather not damage my own ship. That was an expensive off-the-books add-on.
[ He grasps the false cables again from the alcove where they've retracted, illustrating how they move up and down, telescoping into themselves. ]
So, no. You'll have two mechanical release buttons below at both entrances, one for the cables and one for the panel. There's also an... admittedly annoyingly convoluted hatch to the outside. And it's all analogue. Not electronic. So you won't be trapped if we lose power, either.
[ He gives the cables a shove, locking them into place once more, but uses them to hold his weight as he leans into Sunday's space, amusement playing across his features. ]
Kindly, Mister Sunday, I'm looking to get rid of you long-term, not keep you as my little secret.
cw: torture, guilt
[He folds his arms and defiantly glowers as Aventurine leans into his space. It is obvious that the Stoneheart intends to disturb him, and he refuses to give him the satisfaction of a single flinch. He steps in closer to Aventurine, lets his gaze linger on his kaleidoscopic eyes a moment longer, then looks back into the darkness.
The hidden compartment seems like a perfect hiding place, it's true. Yet he is not convinced that he will not be tortured. How will it happen, he wonders? Sensory deprivation would be easy enough. Seclusion. Aventurine could pipe music into the chamber to blast Sunday's senses with non-stop, discordant noise. Or, he might want to get his hands dirty with Halovian blood. Sunday's imagination, now flying into orbit without him, spins out a thousand gruesome scenarios of him being tormented in a lightless room. Torn, beaten, lacerated, wings tattered, feathers scattered... The images are so stark in his mind that his jaw tightens.
He cannot stop imagining it. Whenever he tries to think about something else, he fantasizes about Aventurine brutalizing his body. Between his dark thoughts and his insistence that he could live in a cargo bay, sleeping on crates, he begins to wonder if there is something seriously wrong with him.
Only his guilt, he reasons. The Sweet Dream Paradise had been a terrible mistake. In his attempt to create a world free from suffering, he caused suffering. He tried to prove himself righteous and failed, proving himself a sinner. And for this he should suffer. Hurt is what he deserves to feel. The world should be punishing him, yet he keeps getting second chances. It doesn't seem right. So, with nobody torturing him, he's torturing himself as a show of contrition. Now that he sees this, he sees it is ludicrous.
Sunday blows out a breath, and turns his head toward Aventurine.]
I do believe you won't harm me. So far, you have done nothing more than graciously offer me your hospitality. My apologies if it takes a while for me to accept it.
[Then, he looks back down the stairwell but his gaze is distant and unfocused now.]
Show me to my room.
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I wouldn't have you assassinated...
[ He leaves the second half of that statement open to the imagination as he releases the cable facade and climbs down into the smuggler's compartment. At the last rung of the step ladder, a warm golden light clicks on, illuminating the space. Backlit by it, Aventurine turns, knuckles pressed to his hips, and stares up at Sunday. ]
You're entitled to your caution, and I don't hold it against you. I would cling to it, if I were you. [ He angles his head, the wavy curtain of his bangs falling into his eyes. ] But believe me when I say I have no interest in rushing into conflict with you again.
[ That feels like perhaps too great an admission, so he turns and steps into the room proper, out of view, but leaving space for Sunday to climb down as well.
The room is, indeed, little more than an impressive walk-in closet, tall enough to stand upright in, and, empty as it is, room enough for the two of them to fit comfortably. The hum of the engine is almost inaudible -- the walls seem to have been soundproofed. Several hand-spun rugs, one of them a weave the color of Aventurine's eyes, are layered on the floor. It is all otherwise clean save a few old scuff marks in the exposed parts of the metal floor. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, nearly all of them empty, save a bundle of patterned fabrics neatly bound by twine and then wrapped in clear plastic for further protection. Aventurine fetches the bundle and tucks it under his arm.
He crouches, looking from floor to ceiling, measuring things up. ]
A twin bed will fit, I think. The frame can't be too opulent or it won't fit down here, but...hmm.
[ He likes the idea of decorating, gets a little distracted with it, then reminds himself that Sunday is a temporary addition. At the absolute most, it'll take a week or two to track down the Nameless and hand off the albatross. No reason to wade too far into the reeds.
So, he glances back toward the entrance, to Sunday. ]
Much better than the cargo bay, huh?
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Forgive me. [He says bitterly as he takes the final step down to the floor.] It was not my intention to imply that you are incapable of slitting my throat yourself.
[Does Aventurine want to hurt him or not? He isn't sure. The dynamic between them is constantly shifting like a tide. Whenever he feels sure of where he stands, he turns and finds the beach has transformed beneath him, and Aventurine is still, somehow, always on a higher ground. Always has an advantage. Sunday's lack of control is unsettling. He needs to establish control.
Within the now well-lit room, the Stoneheart's expression is as infuriatingly inscrutable as ever. The threat, if it was indeed a threat, is forgotten in favor of excited chatter. Aventurine gestures around the small space as if giving a grand tour and peers from wall to ceiling to measure the room's size.
Sunday's wings twitch back against his shoulders.]
Better than the cargo bay.
[He echoes, not moving from the base of the steps.
He notices now that the sounds of the engine are muffled down here. The room is soundproof and used, he is certain, for illegal activities. Likely, nobody outside the room can hear what happens within it. If Aventurine somehow draws a pained scream from him, then--
Stop it.]
Mister Aventurine, I don't need a bed frame; the mattress alone will suffice. Neither of us wants me to be here long, right?
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So, Aventurine stops himself from protesting the lack of bed frame, because Sunday is not wrong. It's a foolish investment, money wasted on a man who doesn't want to be here by a man who doesn't want him around, either. To push would be arguing for the sake of arguing, and wouldn't Aventurine rather spend his time doing literally anything else? ]
Yeah. Right. Well. If you change your mind, just say the word. [ A glance at his wristwatch tells him there's still more than an hour until Lushaka comes into view. He takes a step closer, but can't exactly escape the little room with Sunday still blocking the way. ] Now, I'd like to go take a bath.
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The tide has shifted again, and again it is Sunday who is left on uncertain ground. He steps away from the ladder.]
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What does surprise him and then promptly fills him with disgust, is the way he notices how tightly coiled every muscle in his body had been only after they all relax -- when Sunday moves out of the way, when he isn't trapped. ]
Distraction helps with the... racing thoughts, the memories. A repetitive task, exercise, or a simple puzzle game. Not reading. You want to turn your brain off. There's a tablet upstairs in the kitchen, nothing but match-3 games, block puzzles, things like that. If you want to give it a shot.
[ Aventurine bites down on the insides of his cheeks, jaw tightening. Pointless, every attempt at extending an olive branch when the wrinkles he's trying to smooth out are caused by a man who still terrifies him. He angles himself so as not to brush against his new traveling companion when moving by him, and leaves him behind without another word.
He selects a fresh change of clothes from his own room -- something more in line with the Stonehearts' standard uniform, though still flashy, accented in gold -- before heading into the bath. Aventurine is slow, methodical about how he undresses. One ring at a time, then each bracelet and bangle, organized on a side table. Gloves, shoes, socks. Start the water, hot enough to billow steam. Clothes, undergarments, into a laundry bin that folds flush into the wall.
Salt and soaps into the tub, all bright citrus-y scents. Aventurine thinks of nothing but the math of undressing, counting garments as he goes. He is careful not to glance at the mirror until it's fogged over. The scar where his skin had split, neck to navel, from the clash of the Emanator's blade against what remained of his cornerstone is mostly mended, but still red and healing. He doesn't care to look at it. Or the dozens of other burns and scars that mottle his chest, shoulders, back, and legs.
When he finally climbs in the tub, sinking into sudsy water, he is still for less than two minutes before he retrieves a tablet from the bath side table and busies himself with work. Emails and messages sent, calls made, all to track down the Nameless and ensure that the two of them are not immediately detained when they arrive in Lushaka. He even handles docking the ship from his tablet, and does not leave the tub until the ship is idled.
After a frankly excessive skincare routine, he dresses -- double, triple checks to make sure his clothes are neat, no scars are showing, and his hair is charmingly mussed -- and only then, when he is sure he looks effortless, does he leave the bathroom. He does not go looking for his companion, instead using one of the many electronic panels on the wall to deliver a message via intercom. ]
I'll be in the shuttle, Mister Sunday.
[ Aventurine adjusts his rings, his bangles, his wristwatch, and makes for the cargo bay. ]
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Tears continue to come, each one a calming release of pressure from his heart, though never quite enough. Finally, he screams. His fingers clutch his legs until it hurts, and he screams, emptying his lungs of all the pain and uncertainty he can. Because there is no time for wallowing in pain now. He needs to sharpen that angony into an arrow and point it in a new direction. He is a fallen sun but, he reminds himself, suns rise again.
He stands and is heading up the ladder when he hears Aventurine's cloying voice over the intercom. His companion (or captor, he still isn't sure) will have to wait. He slips into the bathroom once more to straighten his clothes, brush his hair, and preen his feathers. Nobody should recognize him on the flagship, so the constant preening shouldn't be necessary, he knows. But it makes him feel better. A clean and presentable appearance is, at least, one thing he can control.
He doesn't leave Aventurine waiting long. When he walks into the cargo bay and ducks into the shuttle his stride is more proud and confident than it has been since his fall.]
Please forgive me if I am late. I do find punctuality important, but, well, I have been...out of sorts lately. [A maddening thing to confess, but it is also so overwhelmingly evident in his behavior that he doubts he even needed to mention it.]
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Sunday's appearance draws his attention. He swipes the screen away and turns in his seat to give the former Bronze Melodia a real look over. Too put together, too awake, to have spent the last hour and a half dissociating. Must've found the gaming tablet, then. Or had a good scream-cry. Been a while since Aventurine had one of those, himself.
He brings the mirrored sunglasses shoved up into his hair down over his eyes. ]
Don't worry about it.
[ With a few button presses, the shuttle doors close, the engine roars and the docking mechanisms disengage. In a soothing artificial voice, the ship announces that the cargo bay is opening, and within a few seconds, they are dropped into the void.
A glowing marble, sparkling blue swirled by white and gray clouds, immediately fills the front viewport, Lushaka. It grows larger when Aventurine tips the control forward. ]
Local time is just after noon where we're landing. Pleasant day. No rain. [ Thank goodness. ] Nothing in the news about you or Penacony...
[ There's more to say, but he waits, wanting to enjoy speeding through the clouds, toward endless blue water, as they enter the atmosphere. After a few more seconds silence, he starts up again. ]
My contacts say the Astral Express is... nowhere to be found, at the moment. Definitely not here, at least. Rumor is they might be laying a new stretch of rail. [ Aventurine glances at Sunday. ] That's huge, if so. It also means we don't know when they'll be available again, so while we wait, if you change your mind about that bed frame...
[ He doesn't mention that Welt Yang has a chip that can reach him instantly. That there is a reasonable chance that he, himself, might be the first to know where exactly they are. Instead, he tugs the controls toward him a little harder and the shuttle banks, slowing momentarily as its broad nose turns up and away from the water below before rocketing forward once more.
A dot on the horizon grows large very quickly, its details taking shape. It's clear it's a ship -- a sailing ship, more wood than metal -- right away, with four massive masts and billowing sails decorated in the colors of Lushaka and the IPC both. It is a vessel so large that it looks complete while it's still miles away, its size near overwhelming as they draw nearer. Aventurine slows once the flotilla of smaller vessels around it comes into focus.
Light occasionally glints off of a near transparent gold hex-grid dome that surrounds the vessel -- Qlipoth's protection shrouding the whole ship from the elements. The ship's body towers over the surface of the water, dotted with door-sized windows, some of them braced by railing, others billowing smoke or steam. Clusters of buildings and stalls -- most wood, some metal -- are scattered across the massive deck, some even climbing up the central mast. ]
Hammer's Reef, the IPC flagship here on Lushaka.
[ Aventurine brings them around to the back of the town-sized ship's deck, past a busier shuttle dock to one flanked by gleaming gold force fields. His shuttle passes through without incident, and as it does, a man's voice pipes in over the comm welcoming "Manager Aventurine" to Lushaka.
He chats with them a little, making friendly conversation in that smug tone of his. He glances at Sunday once more before telling the voice on the intercom that he's traveling with a "Mister Sol." In a few buttery words, he manages to shut down questions about his "unregistered passenger" and earn Sunday VIP guest clearance. It'll be easier that way, getting in and out of shops and IPC facilities and Lushaka, itself, if his companion is simply an important potential business parter Aventurine is courting.
With administration settled, Aventurine finally lands the shuttle in a space reserved for P44 employees. Just as soon as it's locked into place, he's throwing the door open to stretch his arms and take an enthusiastically deep breath. Thankfully, it seems no one higher ranked than him is currently on craft -- he's not sure he could deal with Sugulite or someone from Marketing, at the moment.
Sure it's safe, he ducks his head back into the shuttle to look Sunday over. ]
Hope you're ready to develop some sea legs, Mister Sol. Shall we check out the shops?
[ The smell of the sea fills the shuttle cabin. Lushaka is a noisy place, screaming sea birds and lapping waves, the creaking of wood and metal, and the persistent murmur of distant crowds. ]
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He raises his arms over his head, bending his body in a lithe, pretty arc. It had taken him years to learn how to stretch in public without looking foolish, and he is proud of himself. His back and shoulders pop and snap as they release their tension.
With relaxed muscles and acclimated senses, he feels his mood start to lift. Aventurine's voice, as irritatingly unctuous as always, brings it crashing back down.
Mister Sol indeed. Well, there are worse names that could have been picked.]
Yes, [He sighs] might as well get this over with. After you, Mister Aventurine.
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Darkly, he wonders whether he's angling for the gaze of another Aeon, seeking some new power to bend to his will. Equally likely, he's just trying to be annoying. ]
Don't sound too enthusiastic, now.
[ Aventurine fights the urge to swan off, walking instead as the situation calls, as a guide, his body partially angled in Sunday's direction, steps slow.
In the Sweet Dream, Sunday had been the obstacle. Bullying past him to meet the IPC's goals had meant playing to his expectations, not subverting them. That scheme is done, gone to seed and sprouted into something new, and what's growing has not yet demanded a course of action, though Aventurine has wasted no time in trying to math out as many possibilities as he can. For now, though, there's no need to play a part one way or another. They're just waiting, stewing in each other's company until the bird's true handlers show themselves again. The only thing he needs to do is convincingly be himself (or, be Aventurine, the IPC manager, buttering up some new business opportunity). ]
I've only been here once, myself. It's a really fascinating place. Nowhere else like it. Well, except Thalassa, I guess.
[ The IPC's corporate bees zip this way and that as they cross the docking area, all of them busy with their own tasks. A few stop to nod when they recognize him. More steal curious glances at his handsome, unknown companion without pausing in their duties.
Aventurine leads Sunday from the through an IPC administrative building, quiet and gleaming clean, all sleek plastic and metal surfaces, each wall a screen scrolling an endless array of headlines and stock market numbers. Stepping through the front doors out into Hammer's Coral proper feels a bit like passing through a time portal into some anachronistic new world. Wood, metal, and coral marry into rickety, angular buildings and market stalls, colorful banners flutter in the sea breeze.
He glances at Sunday, still feeling annoyed with
(his placid expression, his dour attitude, the neat lines of his clothes, the way even his hair is elegantly wind blown)everything. Just. Everything. He, not yet learned in the importance of appearances, had looked halfway to hell when Jade had hauled him aside before being tried for murder. Again, he thinks of what he'd silently longed for then, and bites the insides of his cheeks until they hurt before finally speaking again. ]If there's anything you see that's of interest to you while we're here, let me know. Otherwise, I think there's a nice little furniture shop not far from here...
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He doesn't say anything in response to the other man's offer, one that feels to Sunday like rubbing salt into a wound. Sunday can have what he wants...if he asks his IPC handler nicely for it.
So it is with a heavy heart that he slows and stops despite himself in front of a small hut lined in seagless windows and coral statues, with lovely shell-inlaid instruments displayed out front. His eyes lock onto a violin crafted from fine Xianzhou wood. Many years ago, he'd played the violin. He was never as good at it as he was at the piano, and never as skilled as Robin, but he still played notes that brought tears to the people who heard them. During his nights alone, it would be nice to play again, to let the bow dance and his mind focus.
But he dares not ask for it. He's never been good at asking for what he wants. It was never his place to want. On Penacony, he existed for the people as an empty vessel into which they could pour their lamentations and despair. And he was to carry that pain aloft and burn it in the heat of a scorching sun...
How is he expected to ask now, when doing so would yield more power to Aventurine?
He is still staring at the violin as he thinks about home, unaware that his companion has moved on ahead without him.]
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The panic that jolts him is, like everything Aventurine feels, dull and easy to tamp down. His first thought is that Sunday has run (which he is well within his rights to do, even if it is a stupid idea), but it's a theory that fizzles when Aventurine lifts his glasses and spots familiar wings right away.
He strolls back slowly, steps soft, and stands silently at Sunday's side. Behind his mirrored lenses, he can look without being obvious, and there is no mistaking that wistful expression. Aventurine traces the line of Sunday's eye over instruments and other bobbles, to the violin.
Aventurine is no musician. Work has not yet called him to research the qualities that mark an instrument as a fine piece. To his eye, this violin looks like any other. What stands out instead is the look on Sunday's face, not a dour frown, not despair. That, more than the wood's rich hue or the lack of price tag, mark the instrument's value.
He tucks his hands in his pockets. Doesn't look directly at Sunday. ]
Do you play?
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Sunday hasn't believed in the benevolence of The Harmony for a long time now, but he knows he still shouldn't want. If he wants, then he may grow accustomed to it, and that will impede the building of Paradise. His life is still pointed toward that one goal.]
I used to. [He says after several seconds.] Heh... I was good. Not as good as my sister, of course, but I possessed talent. When I became the Oak Family Head, I no longer had time to pursue such frivolous activities.
[But he is not the Oak Family Head anymore. He longs, despite his vow to never want, to grasp the violin, test its weight, and rest it against his cheek. Doing so would make him a spectacle in a well-traveled, public area, however. It would be indecent.
He shifts to face Aventurine.]
Please forgive me, I seem to have left you waiting yet again.
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But Aventurine himself is proof of the foolishness of hanging your hat on a savior. Particularly when he is your blood relative.
Sunday sighs heavily, a sound he recognizes, and Aventurine cannot look at him. He speaks, and Aventurine listens, but he cannot look at him. He just stares at the violin, thinking of sisters and wishes and second chances. ]
We're in no rush. Enjoy the sights.
[ He says it to fill the silence while he grapples with his own composure. Aventurine perceives Sunday from many bitter years ahead of where the man is standing now, and views him through the lens of torment. That sigh is penetrating. the rueful weight of that word, frivolous, sits heavily on his shoulders. It makes him... so, so angry. But it makes him feel a hundred other things, too.
In spite of all he has done, his sister would still put herself on the line to save his soul. And in spite of all he has done, he has also been put through hell. If he, himself, had been offered a paint brush, a guitar, a camera at his lowest, instead of shackles and a deal he could not refuse, what would have become of him? Aventurine stares at the violin a moment longer, the silence between them drawing long. Finally, a moment before the gap becomes unbearable, Aventurine angles his body to face Sunday, lifts the mirrored sunglasses to meet his sunset eyes. ]
I don't think there's anything frivolous about art. I'm not a Bronze Melodia, though.
[ The implied "and neither are you" is left unsaid, though there is uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice. Once he's said his piece, Aventurine lets the glasses fall over his eyes again. Obscured once more, his attention flicks up to make note of the shop name. If Sunday does not ask for the instrument outright, he'll be back for it later. ]
Want to look around here a bit more? Or, shall we get moving?
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No. [Sunday says in a barely surpressed growl.] You are not Bronze Melodia. [His arms fold over his chest as he shifts to face Aventurine, his face and posture hieratic and unreadable.] And neither am I. It was a position exclusive to the Oak Family... I doubt those who remain are likely to band together again. So I am... or...was the last Bronze Melodia.
[He lifts his gaze to the sky and turns, as if drawn by instinct, toward Lushaka's sun.]
Even so, I don't think it was a position worthy of preservation.... Well, you probably do not want to hear about that.
[If Aventurine is still listening, he must be bored or annoyed by now.]
I've seen what I want to. Let's go. We have to make my cage more comfortable, yes?
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A cage, he calls it, and Aventurine cannot even think of suffering or sisters or pressing fresh bruises. He just laughs, a bright sharp sound, like Sunday has said something absolutely hilarious. ]
Your cage. [ What an asshole. He turns away, sets off without waiting. ] I think they still sell paper newspapers here on Lushaka, if you'd like me to shred some up for you.
[ Aventurine pulls out his phone, no longer
(able)willing to give their present arrangement his full attention. ]Seems like a lot of clean up, though. And I'm sure you need a lot of time to pick out the perfect bedspread. Let's get going.
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Yes, Mister Aventurine [He says, his own voice tight from his effort to avoid snarling in anger.] My cage.
[But Aventurine doesn't understand, could never understand. Not when he finds windows where Sunday only finds walls. It's not worth explaining the situation, Sunday knows, but he wheels in place anyway to look at his companion, wings pinned back against his shoulders, arms straight at his sides, fists clenching to focus his emotion away from his face.]
I can leave, as you say, but where would I go? If I stay anywhere too long, The Family will find me. They have a much farther reach than you or your handlers know... and they are not above using drastic measures to flush me out... Doing so can only benefit them, in fact.
...It would not be Aelenev. The Eternal Centurion is never called upon to deal with one man. I am not worth that much effort unless I am gathering an army. But the Centurion is not the only way to harmonize a population. Any disaster is sufficient to make people cry out in supplication for the Great One's serenity. So, they would come, create turmoil to find me and, in doing so, bring more souls into the Family's fold.
I cannot allow this.
I would rather die. I would rather turn myself over to them now.
[A hand lifts to his chest.] Where you see a sunlit landscape full of infinite pathways and golden opportunities, I see a dark corridor and its doors are slamming shut one after another.
My best option-- no, my only option-- is to keep moving and stay out of The Family's sight. It is the only path available to me.
I do not have the resources to do this on my own, so I must come with you. I have no other choice. My room on your ship is my cage. [But...]
...But... When a bird falls from the sky and breaks its wings, a cage is the safest place for it to be. Leaving the bars for the wilderness beyond would mean certain death.
[He falls silent for a moment, then his hand drops back to his side. His gaze hardens when he focuses it on the inscrutable face hidden beneath mirrored glasses.]
I appreciate all that you are doing for me. But please do not pretend I am truly free. It is cruel.
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Was there a time when he, himself, was so defiantly idealistic? Or has he always been an opportunistic dog? He can't recall, but the way Sunday talks of sunlit landscapes makes him think that maybe he has always been IPC slime. Either way, it seems Sunday has a very clear portrait of him painted in his mind already. ]
I'm not. [ No sugar slips into Aventurine's voice now. He slides his phone back into his pocket to give Sunday his full attention, but does not remove his glasses. ] There is no such thing as true freedom, Mister Sol. The real cruelty would be in lying to you about that.
[ He shrugs one shoulder. ]
You are not wrong. You fell, you have no resources, and, to borrow your metaphor and change it a little, you need time to let your eyes adjust to the dark. But you call your room a cage, and that's not entirely correct. The whole ship is one.
I hate to... bring up our past dealings- [ Mentioning it at all feels like taking a pick to his head, putting painful fissures in his carefully managed composure. ] -but, from where I'm standing, you're less a broken bird I'm minding and more a lion I am trying very hard not to upset. I've experienced your teeth and claws, Mister Sol, and I am reluctant to see them drawn again. So, I hope you realize that the cage is ours. I'm just trying to make it a more comfortable one.
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I see.
[A deep breath. He is a monster then, a ravenous beast in this man's eyes. On Penacony, many people must remember him in similar ways. That thought makes his heart clench in a mixture of shame and guilt.
The breath heaves from his lungs in another shuddered sigh.]
Well, this lion would rather not bear his claws again either. But if you are that worried, I do not mind staying in my room until we...
[Find the Nameless? Aventurine had mentioned they were likely laying down new rail somewhere, which means they have traveled to a place so distant, so difficult to find, that Akivili THEMSELF has never been there. Terminus alone knows when they will return to the mapped cosmos again.
He wings visibly tense.]
...Until I can leave your company.
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[ Now, unthinking, Aventurine removes his glasses to peer at Sunday with eyes unhidden and a gaze not colored by polarized lenses. He tucks them neatly into the breast pocket of his vest, sparing himself an extra second before answering properly. It is, quite frankly, ludicrous how lovely Halovians are even at their worst moments, Sunday's too taut stillness and wide, gleaming golden eyes all the more ethereal for his surprise. What a horribly pretty thing he is, totally unaware of just how much damage he can do, like so many monsters. ]
No. That's not- no. Look- come on.
[ Stars, is he flustered? Certainly not, but he doesn't want to stand here in the middle of a Lushakan street hashing out trauma in front of anyone nosy enough to listen any longer. So, he beckons and starts walking. ]
I'm not going to lie to you and pretend we're chums, alright? But you can't lock yourself away, either. My comfort one way or another doesn't matter. It's just business.
[ He says those words as much for himself as for Sunday, even as he wonders why it matters to him so much, even as realization starts to dawn. ]
Your sister had a very clear idea of where you went wrong. [ Conquest. Domination. Jade had used those words, specifically, when relaying their conversation, knowing exactly which nerve they would hit for Aventurine. ] I'm not equipped to set you on the right path, but I do know that hiding in a dark room isn't the way to do it.
[ Aventurine stops beside a large wooden building with tall latticed windows, diamonds of colored and clear glass peering into a show room of housing goods and furniture. He crosses his arms over his chest. ]
If you don't get out there, see new worlds, and really meet the people on them, then you're going to-
[ He stops. Even if he could bring himself to say it, Sunday wouldn't understand. There's no set of words powerful enough to match the feeling Aventurine gets, the only feeling not dulled at all, when he realizes what he truly sees, and fears, in the former Bronze Melodia, a man poised to stumble down the same Path as Oswaldo Schneider.
He bites down on the insides of his cheeks. A huff of air escapes him, a neat release of steam. ]
It'd just be better for you if you experienced life.
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Sunday draws a breath, prepares himself to ask where Robin said he went wrong, then decides against it. Knowing her, and how well she knows him, he can guess what she might have said.]
You are worried I will lock myself in the same cage I was in on Penacony and commit myself to my Path once more. [When Aventurine stops again, Sunday stops one pace behind him, features stoney, feathers splayed.]
...Would it help if I promise that won't happen?
[He had thrown his all into the creation of his Path. He forged it with divine hands. It would have been the Path to end all others, one that gave humanity the chance to live free of Aeons. Philosophy, the Path of Humankind, where no Aeons walked, the virtuous were uplifted, and the wicked burned beneath the gaze of the perfect sun.
...It had all seemed like a sure thing. But the Nameless defeated him. They had proven their Path stronger and cast him from the sky. If The Philosophy had been truly righteous, he would not have failed. But he did. He'd been wrong.
Now he has to find a new way to create his paradise. By walking among mortals with his broken wings binding him to the land, maybe he can find a better way. One that truly reflects the warmth he feels in his heart for the people of the cosmos...
None of his thoughts are spoken aloud, but he falls into a silence that fills the air with their weight.]
...I am trying to provide succor [He says after several long moments have passed.] You don't make it easy for me. You say we are not friends, and you clearly do not want me around, yet when I offer to sequester myself, you say you do not want that either. [A pause, he looks up at the latticed windows. Their crossed patterns remind him of his confessional.]
And you say your comfort doesn't matter, but it matters to me. Everyone deserves days of respite, Mister Aventurine. Yourself included.
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Especially not Sunday, a ridiculous little bird with too big storybook ideas about right and wrong, whose every emotion seems to settle in the air like a weighted blanket.
Aventurine catches himself halfway to shaking his head in response to Sunday's assertion that he deserves rest. He doesn't. There's too much work, too much to make up for, and not enough system hours on any world to see his many schemes through in a way that will satisfy the blood spilled on Sigonia.
And even with the matter of deserving set aside, it's the assertion, itself, that sticks in his craw. ]
How can you say that? [ Aventurine turns to look at Sunday. He wants to curl his arms around himself more tightly, but he doesn't. ] Less than a day ago, you told me you enjoyed humbling me. Your necessary divine justice made me- [ Aventurine stops himself, jaw tightening until the memory, the rising terror behind, and the desire to speak of it at all pass. ] How can you say my comfort matters, now?
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At the time, you and I were at odds. We were both using each other as pawns in our schemes, so let's not dwell on it.
The way I see it, you are no longer my opponent, but my traveling companion. As my companion, your comfort matters. [Which feels foolish to say now, when Aventurine does not want comfort. Many people don't. Their pride or sense of duty prevents them from seeking or accepting it. That is a flaw of humanity Sunday had wanted to fix once. He doesn't anymore. But it still disappoints him to see it.]
...You do not want me to be kind, nor do you want my claws. You do not want me to avoid you, but you do not want me around. What do you want?
Please. Your honesty would be appreciated.
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Aventurine shuts his eyes and breathes until fire and panic dim to twilight. ]
Just don't treat me like your jailer, and I'll be satisfied.
[ It's not a lie, at least, but he's also done having this conversation in a public place. ]
This isn't the best spot to discuss the matter further, Mister Sol. So, let's do what we came here to do, shall we?
[ The candy coating returns to his voice as he turns, hand resting on the shop's front door. ]
Pick out whatever you like! Pillows, bedding, blankets. We can find a mattress for you in the back and have it all sent to the ship.
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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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yeah this is nsfw lmao
still nsfw
still nsfw
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nsfw
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nsfw a bit
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