[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.
I had some unpleasant theories about your plans for me.
[Has he called Aventurine a jailor? Maybe he has. For all Sunday knows, he died in his fall from the heavens but failed to notice in all the confusion.]
I apologize if you were annoyed by that. I hope you know, however, that you've kept your intentions deliberately abstruse. "Valuable asset" is the term you IPC people use. To you, that's what I am, right? You could have collected me just to sell me to the highest bidder--
[Here, he sucks in a breath, folds his wings back, and falls abruptly silent. Shit. He doesn't know the full details of Aventurine's life, but he knows he just said something careless. Foolish. Foolish. After all his time spent as an orator, he should know better. Guilt and embarrassment churn into a corrosive mixture in his chest.
His silence drags on a moment longer before he glances at his companion with sincere golden eyes.]
Sorry. [He doesn't elaborate, knowing that Aventurine will only grow more agitated if he does so. Instead, he gently removes himself from Aventurine's side and steps past the door into the shop, where his attention is immediately drawn to soft, white sheets hanging on a far wall. They are not as extravagant as the fabric he swaddled himself in on Penacony, but they still look very comfortable ...and very expensive.
Aventurine had told him to pick what he wanted, but insisting his host spend so much money on bedding that likely won't be used for long is a waste of credits. So he focuses his search on cheaper alternatives.]
[ He's not wrong. Lady Jade spun a favor into a web, tangling the twins of Order into the IPC schemes. Just yesterday, Aventurine's own phone was filled with now deleted messages speaking of deliverables, packages, and assets, all referring to this one Halovian. Together, he, Jade, and Topaz had decided that the most beneficial place for the former Bronze Melodia to roost would be the Astral Express, and it had been his own hand that mapped the paths that might get him aboard the train. It'd see them reap the greatest rewards, after all.
Another link forged between the IPC and the Express. Another hand aboard the train to protect them in the coming war. Debts from still beloved, if fallen members of the Family. And, if Aventurine is honest, his monster set upon a path that might see him rehabilitated, less likely to lapse into old habits he insists he has no intention of repeating. Everyone insists they'll do better next time, though, and no one ever does.
Really, the only wrong assumption is that there had been a bidding war. There hasn't been, not yet -- Aventurine had found the idea repulsive, and Jade had just been delighted to see anything like conviction spark behind his eyes -- but it's coming. Plenty of IPC big wigs want a piece of the fallen Oak, and they'll offer plenty to get him. For now, Aventurine can spin stories to delay the inevitable, but if they can't find the Express, if he loses Diamond and then Jade's support, if the wolves do inevitably close in, he...
Well, all for the Amber Lord, right? Sunday is right to mistrust him. He is a weasel, perpetuating a cycle that he, himself, has lived and loathed.
He barely hears Sunday's murmured apology. Holds the door for him in silence, and follows behind. Without a word, he walks over to the expensive sheets that had caught Sunday's eye and examines them. Expensive does not always mean excellent, but these are indeed fine quality. He selects a set of them from beneath the hanging display, neatly folded and bound up with a velvetty ribbon crinkled and silvered so that the bow tails look like cresting waves, and tucks it beneath his arm before rejoining Sunday at his side.
Aventurine stares down at the cheaper sheets. ]
I despise the idea of people in shackles being passed around and put to use. It's disgusting. And while I can't promise you much, Sunday, I will do my best to preserve what little freedom I can, where I can, within the scope of my responsibilities as a manager of the IPC. I will not let anyone sell you.
[ That said, he glances sidelong at Sunday, knocks his head toward the building's west wall. ]
If you're looking for the itchiest set of sheets as a form of further attrition, they're over there. Otherwise- [ He points to the other wall, where colorful blankets have been hung beside hand-woven rugs. ] -those quilts are made by locals. The fabric is synthesized from kelp. Might be a nice keepsake.
[Sunday believes that Aventurine believes in his own words. When all the chips are down, to use a trite but, he thinks, relevant turn of phrase, will Aventurine honor his promise?
Sunday isn't sure, but decides it isn't worth wondering more about. Not right now. If his companion believes it then, that at least speaks well of his character.]
Attrition?
[He laughs.]
Not everything I do is a form of penance, Mister Aventurine. I simply thought that spending so much money... [His eyes wander first to the quilts, then to the artistically tied bundle under Aventurine's arm.] ...on a man who will not be with you long would be a waste of the IPC's resources.
Am I mistaken?
[He hopes not. If one of the greediest corporations in the cosmos wants to keep him happy, it implies myriad unpleasant possibilities. Anyone who wants to keep him comfortable and content actually wants to keep him close and under their thumb.]
[ A chuckle escapes him, a resigned little sound. ]
Trying to convince you that I'm not scheming to lull you into complacency feels like a bad use of my time. You're far too clever for that.
[ Aventurine gives the fine sheets tucked under his arm a second look, holding the bundle in one hand and fiddling with the decorative bow. It's good to have an eye-catching prop; looking distracted, himself, helps to hide the fact that he's thinking hard about what to say next. They are apt to go in circles like this forever -- or, at least, until that damned train reports to a registered station or Diamond tells him to shut this nonsense down, whichever comes first. ]
The IPC does have a business spending category specifically for expendetures made when courting valuable investments. It's just a line on a drop down menu on one of my monthly reports, but there's a hard limit for each "asset" calculated before we pursue, and nothing spent under that number is a waste. Lots of legal restrictions tangled up in that. An absolute ton of paperwork, too. Guarantees an audit at year end, which is a pain. But considering what we do at the Strategic Investment Department, I'm very familiar with the process.
So, maybe everything I do is a step in a business process. I'm buying your favor, because that's what the IPC wants. At year end, I'll fill out a form and get reimbursed and the hole in my pocket gets all patched up.
[ He finally looks up, head angled slightly, one shoulder higher than the other. ]
Or, maybe, I don't see the point in hoarding credits. Maybe the money spent on your bedding is an IPC resource inasmuch as I am an IPC resource, and it's my money. Maybe... once, I was handed a stipend and a handbook, told to get the ruins of my life in order ASAP, when what I really needed was a shower, and a bed, and a few hours sleep. And maybe, seeing the opportunity to create a softer landing for someone else in free fall is my attempt at balancing the scales.
Whichever story makes you feel more secure. [ A wry grin. ] I'm not in the business of mind control. [ He tucks the sheets back under his arm. ] And if you're hellbent on cheaper sheets and blankets, I won't protest.
[Sunday starts delicately removing rings from one hand. There it is. He is an asset, an investment, a future tool to be collected on later. Years of media training keep his handsome features carefully neutral, though some acid flickers behind his eyes.]
...I do not want to be indebted to the IPC. If you are expecting me to return any favors to your company, you will be disappointed.
[His time spent as a nascent divinity is scattered and dream-like in his memories. When he fell from the sky and his expansive consciousness collapsed in on itself, he forgot most of the sensations and impossibly vast thoughts he'd had. But some of it remains. "All for the Amber Lord!" is a cry he can still feel echoing in the deepest parts of his soul.
He cannot fall into the IPC's grasp.]
I do not like them.
[He says as he tugs one black glove loose from a perfectly manicured hand. Admitting when he dislikes someone has never been easy. But the IPC isn't a someone, it is a corporation, a group of people so vast that any individual within it has long since been subsumed by the whole. The Family isn't the only faction that knows that trick. People have lost themselves to collective thought for as long as there have been people.
He once believed he could solve that problem.
He doesn't anymore.
His now bare fingers reach out to dance across the cheaper sheets, feeling the coarseness of the material. Then he touches the elegantly folded fabric Aventurine carries. It is soft beneath his skin, certainly the preferable option. Admitting want is uncomfortable, so he communicates his choice by tapping the bundle twice.]
I know accepting hospitality without repaying it is discourteous, but I hope you understand my reasons.
[ Leave it to Sunday to make an ungloved hand feel indecent, like he should move to block anyone else from seeing something so scandalous. Aventurine cuts his gaze away. An absolutely ridiculous impulse caused by a ridiculous man who does, indeed, see him for the rat he is.
Of two tales, Sunday has chosen the less flattering one, and that is for the best in the long run -- no foolish attachments from the bird with the supposedly soft heart. They know where they stand now. And at least they've settled on sheets. ]
Don't worry about me, Mister Sunday. I have no expectations and I don't count debts, I count cards.
[ Even were he in the habit of holding people to any sort of standard, which he is not foolish enough to do, it'd be rather unfair to demand any more of the former Bronze Melodia. He is, after all, a large part of why Sunday is here, fallen from grace and on the run, to begin with; from the shadows, Aventurine ripped victory from his hands and helped to dash his dreams across Penacony's perfect gilded streets -- he certainly deserves the mistrust, and the venomous gaze, as well. ]
Now, I can't speak for Lady Jade, she's the most likely to come calling, but the IPC is the last place I want you to end up. [ Marketing would smell the Trailblaze on him and scoop him up, remolding a monster. ] If you trust nothing else about me, believe that it won't be me pulling you into Preservation.
[Sunday looks over at Aventurine and notices the disquiet on his face as he shifts his gaze to something in the middle distance. It isn't clear what has made him uncomfortable. Sunday suspects it must be their conversation.]
Heh. [He tries to inject some humor into his voice, to put his companion at ease.] I appreciate that. I would rather not be involved with the Preservation for a while.
[The Path had upended his entire life. Looking back now, he is grateful for that. If Philosophy had been truly righteous, he would have been victorious. But he had lost, had collapsed beneath the combined might of Trailblaze and Preservation, and watched his Path for Humanity turn to ash. Which means Trailblaze had been righteous, and Preservation had backed up the wiser choice.
Still...
He laughs, the sound rich and musical despite the pain laced through it.]
The last time I met your Amber Lord, THEY struck me in the head with a hammer. That is not an experience I am eager to repeat.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
cw: yapping, Sunday's analogies
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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[Has he called Aventurine a jailor? Maybe he has. For all Sunday knows, he died in his fall from the heavens but failed to notice in all the confusion.]
I apologize if you were annoyed by that. I hope you know, however, that you've kept your intentions deliberately abstruse. "Valuable asset" is the term you IPC people use. To you, that's what I am, right? You could have collected me just to sell me to the highest bidder--
[Here, he sucks in a breath, folds his wings back, and falls abruptly silent. Shit. He doesn't know the full details of Aventurine's life, but he knows he just said something careless. Foolish. Foolish. After all his time spent as an orator, he should know better. Guilt and embarrassment churn into a corrosive mixture in his chest.
His silence drags on a moment longer before he glances at his companion with sincere golden eyes.]
Sorry. [He doesn't elaborate, knowing that Aventurine will only grow more agitated if he does so. Instead, he gently removes himself from Aventurine's side and steps past the door into the shop, where his attention is immediately drawn to soft, white sheets hanging on a far wall. They are not as extravagant as the fabric he swaddled himself in on Penacony, but they still look very comfortable ...and very expensive.
Aventurine had told him to pick what he wanted, but insisting his host spend so much money on bedding that likely won't be used for long is a waste of credits. So he focuses his search on cheaper alternatives.]
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Another link forged between the IPC and the Express. Another hand aboard the train to protect them in the coming war. Debts from still beloved, if fallen members of the Family. And, if Aventurine is honest, his monster set upon a path that might see him rehabilitated, less likely to lapse into old habits he insists he has no intention of repeating. Everyone insists they'll do better next time, though, and no one ever does.
Really, the only wrong assumption is that there had been a bidding war. There hasn't been, not yet -- Aventurine had found the idea repulsive, and Jade had just been delighted to see anything like conviction spark behind his eyes -- but it's coming. Plenty of IPC big wigs want a piece of the fallen Oak, and they'll offer plenty to get him. For now, Aventurine can spin stories to delay the inevitable, but if they can't find the Express, if he loses Diamond and then Jade's support, if the wolves do inevitably close in, he...
Well, all for the Amber Lord, right? Sunday is right to mistrust him. He is a weasel, perpetuating a cycle that he, himself, has lived and loathed.
He barely hears Sunday's murmured apology. Holds the door for him in silence, and follows behind. Without a word, he walks over to the expensive sheets that had caught Sunday's eye and examines them. Expensive does not always mean excellent, but these are indeed fine quality. He selects a set of them from beneath the hanging display, neatly folded and bound up with a velvetty ribbon crinkled and silvered so that the bow tails look like cresting waves, and tucks it beneath his arm before rejoining Sunday at his side.
Aventurine stares down at the cheaper sheets. ]
I despise the idea of people in shackles being passed around and put to use. It's disgusting. And while I can't promise you much, Sunday, I will do my best to preserve what little freedom I can, where I can, within the scope of my responsibilities as a manager of the IPC. I will not let anyone sell you.
[ That said, he glances sidelong at Sunday, knocks his head toward the building's west wall. ]
If you're looking for the itchiest set of sheets as a form of further attrition, they're over there. Otherwise- [ He points to the other wall, where colorful blankets have been hung beside hand-woven rugs. ] -those quilts are made by locals. The fabric is synthesized from kelp. Might be a nice keepsake.
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Sunday isn't sure, but decides it isn't worth wondering more about. Not right now. If his companion believes it then, that at least speaks well of his character.]
Attrition?
[He laughs.]
Not everything I do is a form of penance, Mister Aventurine. I simply thought that spending so much money... [His eyes wander first to the quilts, then to the artistically tied bundle under Aventurine's arm.] ...on a man who will not be with you long would be a waste of the IPC's resources.
Am I mistaken?
[He hopes not. If one of the greediest corporations in the cosmos wants to keep him happy, it implies myriad unpleasant possibilities. Anyone who wants to keep him comfortable and content actually wants to keep him close and under their thumb.]
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Trying to convince you that I'm not scheming to lull you into complacency feels like a bad use of my time. You're far too clever for that.
[ Aventurine gives the fine sheets tucked under his arm a second look, holding the bundle in one hand and fiddling with the decorative bow. It's good to have an eye-catching prop; looking distracted, himself, helps to hide the fact that he's thinking hard about what to say next. They are apt to go in circles like this forever -- or, at least, until that damned train reports to a registered station or Diamond tells him to shut this nonsense down, whichever comes first. ]
The IPC does have a business spending category specifically for expendetures made when courting valuable investments. It's just a line on a drop down menu on one of my monthly reports, but there's a hard limit for each "asset" calculated before we pursue, and nothing spent under that number is a waste. Lots of legal restrictions tangled up in that. An absolute ton of paperwork, too. Guarantees an audit at year end, which is a pain. But considering what we do at the Strategic Investment Department, I'm very familiar with the process.
So, maybe everything I do is a step in a business process. I'm buying your favor, because that's what the IPC wants. At year end, I'll fill out a form and get reimbursed and the hole in my pocket gets all patched up.
[ He finally looks up, head angled slightly, one shoulder higher than the other. ]
Or, maybe, I don't see the point in hoarding credits. Maybe the money spent on your bedding is an IPC resource inasmuch as I am an IPC resource, and it's my money. Maybe... once, I was handed a stipend and a handbook, told to get the ruins of my life in order ASAP, when what I really needed was a shower, and a bed, and a few hours sleep. And maybe, seeing the opportunity to create a softer landing for someone else in free fall is my attempt at balancing the scales.
Whichever story makes you feel more secure. [ A wry grin. ] I'm not in the business of mind control. [ He tucks the sheets back under his arm. ] And if you're hellbent on cheaper sheets and blankets, I won't protest.
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...I do not want to be indebted to the IPC. If you are expecting me to return any favors to your company, you will be disappointed.
[His time spent as a nascent divinity is scattered and dream-like in his memories. When he fell from the sky and his expansive consciousness collapsed in on itself, he forgot most of the sensations and impossibly vast thoughts he'd had. But some of it remains. "All for the Amber Lord!" is a cry he can still feel echoing in the deepest parts of his soul.
He cannot fall into the IPC's grasp.]
I do not like them.
[He says as he tugs one black glove loose from a perfectly manicured hand. Admitting when he dislikes someone has never been easy. But the IPC isn't a someone, it is a corporation, a group of people so vast that any individual within it has long since been subsumed by the whole. The Family isn't the only faction that knows that trick. People have lost themselves to collective thought for as long as there have been people.
He once believed he could solve that problem.
He doesn't anymore.
His now bare fingers reach out to dance across the cheaper sheets, feeling the coarseness of the material. Then he touches the elegantly folded fabric Aventurine carries. It is soft beneath his skin, certainly the preferable option. Admitting want is uncomfortable, so he communicates his choice by tapping the bundle twice.]
I know accepting hospitality without repaying it is discourteous, but I hope you understand my reasons.
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Of two tales, Sunday has chosen the less flattering one, and that is for the best in the long run -- no foolish attachments from the bird with the supposedly soft heart. They know where they stand now. And at least they've settled on sheets. ]
Don't worry about me, Mister Sunday. I have no expectations and I don't count debts, I count cards.
[ Even were he in the habit of holding people to any sort of standard, which he is not foolish enough to do, it'd be rather unfair to demand any more of the former Bronze Melodia. He is, after all, a large part of why Sunday is here, fallen from grace and on the run, to begin with; from the shadows, Aventurine ripped victory from his hands and helped to dash his dreams across Penacony's perfect gilded streets -- he certainly deserves the mistrust, and the venomous gaze, as well. ]
Now, I can't speak for Lady Jade, she's the most likely to come calling, but the IPC is the last place I want you to end up. [ Marketing would smell the Trailblaze on him and scoop him up, remolding a monster. ] If you trust nothing else about me, believe that it won't be me pulling you into Preservation.
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Heh. [He tries to inject some humor into his voice, to put his companion at ease.] I appreciate that. I would rather not be involved with the Preservation for a while.
[The Path had upended his entire life. Looking back now, he is grateful for that. If Philosophy had been truly righteous, he would have been victorious. But he had lost, had collapsed beneath the combined might of Trailblaze and Preservation, and watched his Path for Humanity turn to ash. Which means Trailblaze had been righteous, and Preservation had backed up the wiser choice.
Still...
He laughs, the sound rich and musical despite the pain laced through it.]
The last time I met your Amber Lord, THEY struck me in the head with a hammer. That is not an experience I am eager to repeat.
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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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