[ Well, he is certainly getting into character, isn't he? Aventurine cannot deny his own surprise, surprised as he is to feel it. Though Sunday's flair for theatrics is absolutely no secret, Aventurine himself had pinned it more in the vein of phantoms hiding beneath opera houses or religious zealots belting firebrand songs about damnation. A lovely Foxian enamored of her doting husband had not numbered among the roles Aventurine thought Sunday capable of playing.
That look makes more sense now. The guy has range, that's for sure.
With a clipped hm of agreement, Aventurine leads the way from the trolley to the Administrative District's main street. He waits for Sunday to disembark, hands back in his pockets, and takes in the sights. ]
Kinda sad we have to delay that lunch.
[ But there are now more pressing matters, certainly. Not that you'd know it by looking at him. He strolls at a leisurely pace toward the incline railway that'll take them down into the Underworld.
Belobog isn't quaint, but when you've spent so much time in fantastical places like Pier Point and Penacony, it feels antique. Still, it's a pleasant walk. Heaters cut the biting cold, a crier shouts about the local news, people hurry to and fro on important business. There is a girl playing guitar on a bench. The music is nice.
There is no sign at all of brewing conflict. It is just a city, living, breathing, in spite of the cold that bears down on it. ]
They say the Eternal Freeze is ending since the Stellaron was sealed. On its own, Jarilo-VI might see its climate stabilize in a few centuries. There're talks to speed things along, but the folks here are... [ He trails off for just a moment. There is a company-approved way to end that statement, and it's right there on the tip of his tongue. But he looks Sunday over, and decides for honesty, instead. Honesty is easiest with Sunday, even if he does not believe it. ] ...understandably reluctant to indebt themselves much further with the IPC, given how we'd brought them into the fold to begin with.
[ What he means is, neither Aeon nor their factions has Belobog's best interests in mind. But, then again, not a one of THEM ever does. ]
[Whatever giddy warmth had possessed Sunday on the trolley dissolves as he listens to Aventurine speak. That gentle touch of his hair forgotten in the fire that fills his mind at the word "Stellaron".]
Yes... People are strong.
[He says steadily.]
Even under the weight of unbearable odds, they will band together to accomplish the impossible.
[His voice grows heavy. This is a lesson he has learned, not by watching the incredible feats of humankind, but by becoming the unbearable odds himself. He remembers seeing the desperation in the dreamers as they scrambled to awaken themselves and escape the Swarm... Seeing the determination in the Nameless and their allies as they took up arms against him. They clashed against a fledgling god. And they won. They accomplished the impossible.
His wings droop to his shoulders, then flutter up again.]
What do you know about Stellarons, Mister Aventurine?
[ Aventurine does not have friends, as a rule. Sure, he tosses the term around, grease for the squeaky wheel, but he is not even all that close to those to whom he is closest, Topaz and Veritas Ratio -- neither one of them is terribly fond of him, after all. So, friend is just another tool in the belt, a switch blade wielded with particular effectiveness against certain types of people.
He'd told Sunday they might be friends. Now, as he watches the steel in him bend and rust before his eyes, he wonders how he'd even meant it. Sunday is doubtless a valuable asset, and if he thinks the two of them friends, it makes both of their lives so much easier, but... is that how he'd intended it?
Aventurine is, admittedly, unsure.
All he knows is, it aches a little, watching Sunday's fire dwindle down to embers, wings sagging.
So, as a friend would, he provides a bit of distraction, slinging an arm around Sunday's shoulders. It's a decidedly chummy gesture, dragging him in closer.
Aventurine only knows as much about Stellarons as is necessary for work, which, thanks to a certain Trailblazer's involvement in Penacony, recently became a great deal more than he'd known before. Still, even with P45 clearance, he is not privy to all the universe's secrets. ]
Stellarons, hm? Well, the Marketing Department has us calling them "The Cancer of All Worlds." Really want us to drive home how scary they are. They're Imaginary energy disruptors, right? Supposedly, they can grant wishes, but at the cost of warping people, destroying ecosystems, creating Fragmentum, making interstellar travel itself choppy and unsafe...
[ And even with all the terrors the IPC's official channels assure are part and parcel of a Stellaron's existence, he would still probably use one, anyway, given the chance. ]
[An arm curls around his shoulders, and he is suddenly tugged in close against Aventurine. His wings ruffle then flap frantically, knocking the Stoneheart in the face with silvery white pinions.]
...That is all true, however...
[Should he explain the history of Stellarons? Somehow, it feels like violating Gopher Wood's trust, though he isn't sure why.]
There is a bit more to them. Perhaps we should grab some coffee somewhere so I can explain?
[ Ah, well, a wing to the face isn't half as bad as a threat or a hand around the throat. Aventurine sputters, draws away by an inch, but he'll take it without comment.
The hand not draped over Sunday's shoulder swipes across his face, pushing his bangs back into place. He steals a glance around the administrative district. They've drawn a few glances – or, Aventurine suspects, his lovely Foxian wife has drawn a few glances – but nothing seems an outward threat.
If Sunday thinks there's time for coffee, then... ]
There-
[ He points down the street, past the vertical rail station, to a sign hanging over a storefront. A little cafe.
Aventurine glances at Sunday, to see whether he approves. ]
[Sunday turns to look where Aventurine is pointing. A quaint little cafe, its storefront is warm and welcoming in this bitter cold.
Yet he can't help but feel they should take their conversation somewhere more private. If the truth of the Stellaron upsets Aventurine at all, he won't want anyone seeing his reaction. That is the reason they should duck away somewhere. Or, at least, it is the only reason Sunday allows himself to acknowledge.]
Somewhere more private, I think.
But let's purchase some coffee first. We both could use the warmth.
[ Ah, so this is no mere history lesson. This must be what Ratio bartered for when he'd sold him out on Penacony; all part of the plan in the end, that messy business, but goodness he'd been quite smug about what he'd gotten.
Aventurine breathes a wry huff, gaze sweeping the street for a place that might be private enough. There are dark, narrow alleys aplenty, but those look positively miserable. If he'd had his druthers, it'd be somewhere inside, away from the cold. No guarantee of privacy in any shops or the museum, and no chance of entry into the administrative building, itself.
Really, there's just one place that fits the bill. Ridiculous.
Aventurine lets his hand slip from Sunday's shoulder, thoughtless fingertips faintly brushing the small of his back before he gestures straight ahead, where the road splits again, the Goethe Hotel. ]
Well! We'll be needing rooms anyway, won't we? We'll get one, for husband and wifey. Then you can do some of your mind control magic- [ He wiggles his fingers, pantomiming casting a spell, knowing full and intimately well that that is not how Tuning works. ] -and use my card to get yourself another one, later.
[Sunday's feathers splay and his body tenses when he feels Aventurine touch his back. There is an urge to hiss and jerk violently away, but he lets it pass out of him in a low breath.
How casually Aventurine touches him now. Only a few days earlier, he'd been terrified at the idea of just being in a room together.]
The Hotel, then. [A husband and wife would be expected to room together and share a bed. He is grateful that Aventurine quickly offers him a way of getting his own room later.] Very well.
[It's a plan, or at least the beginning of one. The rest, he hopes, will crystallize after they've warmed up and Aventurine is armed with knowledge that might soon be terribly relevant.
But first, coffee.
The interior of the cafe is cozy, and almost quaint when compared to the cafes of Penacony with their neon lights and moving signs. Sunday decides he prefers Belobog's version of a cafe. Penacony would be overstimulating if he hadn't grown up there.
When he looks at the menu board, his gaze lingers on the description of a caramel latte with a sweet cream topping. He orders a black coffee.]
[ Aventurine pretends not to notice Sunday's discomfort. It's good to test, he supposes, how much their boundaries have begun to bend and shift (not much, apparently), to study and learn how the bird reacts to this or that now that they aren't perpetually on the verge of a scuffle. All the better to create a more comfortable experience for him in the long run, right? This fussy, exotic bird of his. Aventurine tells himself that even as he finds he must bite down on his cheeks to keep a smile from growing at that panicked flick of feathers.
This time, he won't lie in his own head. With Sunday seeming less terrible and terrifying to behold, those flinching, fluttering, curling wings are an undeniable delight.
He leaves well enough alone, though. For now.
In the shop, he follows Sunday's eyes, watches his hesitation, and his final order. When he steps up himself, he banters with the girl behind the counter about the city, the cold, his lovely wife before ordering a caramel latte with sweet cream topping.
They are idle for only a few minutes before both cups come up, unlidded paper cups. The latte is quite the sight, cream piled up and drizzled with gold sugar. Well, it certainly matches his aesthetics, but-
Aventurine snaps a lid on it, gives it a stir and every impression that he intends to drink it, but does not take his first sip until they are back out in the cold, on the street. He does not need to pretend to find the thing distastefully sugary, wincing at the taste. ]
Mm, oh. This is entirely too much for me. My bad for being adventurous, huh?
[ As he speaks, he shuffles the drinks, shoving his own into Sunday's empty hand and trying to steal his black coffee. ]
You don't mind if we trade? I think that'll upset my stomach.
[The caramel latte looks intriguing, its golden shine reminding him of butterscotch pudding tarts he'd eaten as a child. But his intrigue evaporates when he sees Aventurine sip from it, then wince. When the Stoneheart reaches for his coffee, Sunday pulls backward, wings flapping in alarm.]
No.
[He gasps in incredulity as he covers the lid of his cup with a protective hand.
A heartbeat passes, then he deflates slightly.]
...Trading beverages after drinking from them is unsanitary, Mister Aventurine. Why not ask for something else?
[Sunday's golden eyes swing back to the cafe door.]
[ For several long seconds, Aventurine is left well and truly speechless. He watches those wings flutter and fall, watches Sunday grasp his composure like it's a wet and slippery thing, and all the while takes care not to let either beverage spill.
What a rebuke. Aventurine takes it with a grin, mouth hanging open in disbelief. ]
You think I have cooties!
[ He sounds almost delighted, teasing. Whether he is or not is beside the point. His body is primed to react a certain way to reprimand, insult, and criticism -- water on duck feathers, and a joke to distract.
Aventurine takes the overly sugary coffee in hand, and as Sunday's attention swivels back to the coffee shop, he flounces, bound for the opposite direction -- toward the hotel. He can acknowledge, at least, that he is annoyed with himself and his ill-thought scheme, stuck now with a drink that he will not let himself throw away, but will not enjoy. ]
And there's no need to waste time or food, either. Come on. I'll survive.
[Sunday is not at Aventurine's side when he turns toward the hotel. A couple of minutes later, he elegantly steps from the door of the cafe holding a second cup of coffee.]
It is not a waste, you should not--
[Aventurine is gone.
He blinks slowly and scans the crowd until he sees the well-dressed peacock of a man standing several paces away. Even now, in a freezing environment, the Stoneheart has a better fashion sense than anyone else around.]
Here.
[Sunday lifts the second cup of coffee and smiles gently as he walks forward, steps so smooth he nearly glides.]
[ Losing track of the bird is bad enough, but once Aventurine realizes where he's gone, that brief bright flash of panic gives way to grave annoyance. He refuses to return to the coffee shop, but positions himself by a street heater, clear view of the cafe and anyone exiting or entering.
When Sunday finally emerges, two coffees in hand, Aventurine is sure he has never hated anyone more in his life. (That is hyperbole, obviously he hates Oswaldo Schneider more, but...) Hates that he doesn't listen. Hates that he's wanders off on his own. Hates that he goes out of his way over such silly, pointless things. Hates his grace and the way his soft hair frames his face. Hates the gentle pink that splashes across his fair nose and cheeks in the cold. Aeons he hates that infuriating handsome smile and his own heart for leaping and racing.
Aventurine fixes one of his inscrutable smiles on his face as he accepts this second cup, but does not relinquish the caramel drink. Now he's really going to get a stomach ache. ]
Thanks. [ He manages, a little clipped. Passive aggressively, he takes another sip of caramel latte. ] Let's get ourselves a room, hm?
[Sunday's wings pin back against his shoulders at Aventurine's clipped tone. Somehow, he's clearly stepped out of line in his eagerness to help.]
Sorry.
[He mutters, averting his gaze to the ground with a furrowed brow. Tensed feathers visibly wilt as he pushes forward to lead the silent walk to the hotel.
By the time they reach the lobby, he still has not spoken to Aventurine, worried that doing so would only further irritate the other man.
His golden eyes lift to stare up at the towering heaters. They are a remarkable feat of engineering. Aesthetically, they are pleasant and blend into the local architecture. The warmth they cast off is equally impressive. If he spends too long here, he will need to remove his coat.
He is so lost in thought that it takes a moment for him to realize the receptionist is talking to him when she asks, "Can I help you, miss?"
He approaches the desk with a proud stride. The foxian woman sways her hips.]
Hello, my husband and I would like a room.
[His voice rises from his throat with a musical lilt. The foxian waves her tail at the receptionist, who grins and says something about checking the bottom drawer of the nightstand if they need anything before handing over a key card.]
[ Ah, and there goes all that vinegar. The pretty winter flower wilts before his eyes, warm smile going cold and blank, and Aventurine bites down on his cheeks. Anything to keep from reacting outwardly, anything to distract himself from how painfully tight everything in his chest winds.
This is so... foolish. They have bigger things to worry about than coffee and hurt feelings.
Aventurine tastes copper, and still does not relax.
He follows a pace behind, coffees in hand, total silence at odds with his otherwise easy stride. He does not speak until he's stepped up beside Sunday, set one of his coffees on the counter, and produced a black credit card. And even then, it's only to make a sugary joke as he slides the card across the counter to pay for the room. ]
We love our caffeine at the IPC.
[ Somehow, he manages to cast an affectionate glance at his lovely foxian wife, imply he may need the extra energy for other things, without betraying the way his heart sinks at the sight of Sunday's dour expression. Foolish, foolish, foolish.
Card put on file and returned, they are directed to the elevator. It's a short, quiet ride up and walk down a hall to their room- to one of their rooms. (It's not like they'll be sharing one.) By the time they arrive at the door, Aventurine is no longer pretending not to frown. He lets Sunday open the door, follows in behind, and sets the caramel drink on the bed stand. In an effort to distract himself from this wretched spiral he's found himself in, he immediately opens that nightstand drawer for a peek at what's inside.
Ah, yes. That makes sense. In a world where there's just one city, and that city spent centuries steadily shrinking, the only way a hotel like this operates for as long as this one has is by providing... exciting services to couples of all stripes. A soft, thoughtful hum escapes him before he slides the drawer shut again and slides into a chair at the room's lone table. Finally, he takes a drink of black coffee, and levels a gaze that can only really be described as apologetic at Sunday. ]
Thank you for the coffee. [ He says, a little softer, a little more genuine this time. ] So, Stellarons...?
[Sunday watches Aventurine peruse the contents of the drawer. He doesn't ask what is in it; he can guess with some certainty what a couple might "need" in a hotel room. Aventurine's lack of surprise is all the confirmation he requires.]
So, Stellarons...
[He echoes as Aventurine sits at a table near a window overlooking the Administrative District. Sunday doesn't follow, deciding the Stoneheart might still need some space. He sighs and sits on the edge of the bed with his hands folded in his lap.
Where to even start with Stellarons? The truth of them feels like a heavy, terrible secret, but it is slowly occurring to him that it might not be that much of a shock to anyone outside The Family. They weren't raised on a lie. ]
The ruin they leave in their wake has convinced the public that they are creations of Nanook. Stellarons, however, grant the desires of the people they commune with, albeit in terrible ways. That is not something the Destruction would do, is it? Since when does Nanook bother with wishes?
[He draws a breath.]
Stellarons were created by Xipe. What you call the Cancer of All Worlds is the Harmonic Cancer. [Which brings him to his real point, he lifts his gaze to meet the Stoneheart's prismatic eyes.]
Mister Aventurine, this world was taken by the Harmony centuries ago. That is why The Family is here: to secure their conquest. They are not likely to let the IPC reclaim Jarilo-VI without a fight.
[ When Sunday does not join him at the table, Aventurine realizes with no small amount of guilt that he has put himself squarely in the dog house. And so soon after he'd promised to be better behaved. This is why he does not have friends.
Resigned, he sits and waits for Sunday explain, struck by how he seems to hesitate. Very quickly, he realizes why, reaffirmed in the knowledge that it'd been stupid to cause a fuss over coffee. He sits up a little straighter at that -- Harmonic Cancer.
In their extensive research into Penacony, Aventurine and his team had turned up a few theories tying Celenova and even the Family to the existence of Stellarons, but theories about Stellaron origins are as many and varied as stars in the sky. Harmony's connection to them had been a thread he'd been willing to leave dangling. A rip cord to pull in case of emergency, not knowing what would happen when he did, half expecting nothing at all.
To hear the man who'd been powerful enough to serve as Chordmaster admit to it, well... he supposes the conspiracy theory has become simply conspiracy. Without his notice, a soft breath escapes him, almost a sigh. His gaze falls. ]
Mm.
[ Aventurine pulls out his phone. First, a message to Topaz. He composes and deletes several versions, trying to think his way around warning her -- and by extension, those in charge of Belobog -- without tangling Sunday or Robin too heavily in the IPC's business by association. What he settles on is two messages:
You owe me a drink for this one... In your favorite town to drop off a surprise for you and, wouldn't you know it, it seems a new family is trying to move into your old place.
She'll figure out what to do from there. So, he sets his phone face down on the table and lifts his attention to Sunday's sunset eyes once more. ]
That secret's a hell of a weight to bear, Mister Sunday.
[ He has no loyalty to Aeons, but Sunday still has ties to the people that align themselves with them. For Aventurine, it's an easy matter. All for the Amber Lord, always. But for Sunday... ]
Knowing that, I have to act here, but... Belobog falls into the grip of one faction or another, either way. You're alright with that being the IPC? With being complicit in upending the Family's interests?
Your loyalty to your people is commendable, Mister Aventurine.
[Sunday says with a dark huff and isn't sure if he is being bitter or sarcastic. Loyalty is a fine attribute to have. He'd demanded it from his underlings and faithful on Penacony.
Yet he's never felt it himself. He isn't loyal to The Family, or the shattered remnants of the Beyond the Sky Choir who called themselves Oak. He is loyal only to himself, his younger sister, and the happiness of a people he once believed would never find peace without guidance.]
I severed myself from The Family years ago, the day I committed my life to usurping the power of Ena. What I want is only for the people of this planet to live in peace...and be free.
[He lifts a hand to his chest.]
Many of them may currently hate the IPC, but if The Family takes this world, that may be the last opinion they ever have. I cannot allow that to happen, so I am willing to consider the IPC the lesser of two evils.
[ His loyalty. What a joke. Aventurine laughs, a quiet, hollow sound he stoppers with a press of his knuckles to his mouth. What the IPC and Preservation and Diamond all have is his service, his skillset, and only so long as allying himself to them is advantageous. Just as soon as the right pieces are in play and the right moves have been made, he can get what he really wants, life, the universe, everything be damned.
He hates himself for it, for being nothing but a wisp of vengeance in the rough shape of a man.
Sunday speaks of usurping Ena, and Aventurine has to hide a growing grin. He leans heavily against his hand, chin dipping, but gemstone eyes tipped up to peer at Sunday through the spill of blonde hair. Had his gambit on Penacony failed, had Sunday ascended truly and not squashed him on the spot, he knows where loyalty would've gone -- out the window, delivered to Domination's doorstep. He's always known, but hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. In his mind, the Bronze Melodia and Oswaldo Schneider were two cut from the same cloth, everything Aventurine hates. Coming to know him better now, even though they seem constantly at odds, Aventurine cannot deny how easy the choice would've been.
He might've even enjoyed it for a bit, destroying another old Order to make room for the new, cutting down one corruption of Trailblaze to uplift another. He certainly would've been good at it.
But that didn't happen. They are two mortal men, playing a dangerous game of chess on the frontlines of a not-yet-declared war. Knight and bishop with no loyalty to either side, wishing to put both kings in check.
His free hand drifts down and presses the power button on his phone. He waits for the pleasant IPC jingle that plays before their electronics shut down. A silence settles, heavy, long, until finally he works up the nerve to murmur aloud what he has so long held to his chest: ]
I'm not loyal to the IPC.
[ Aventurine swallows, sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. To say more than that... it would loop Sunday into something he needn't be involved with, something too dangerous for a bird with injured wings just learning to fly again. ]
I can't promise we won't both have regrets, Mister Sunday. [ he says, wry. ] But I won't let Harmony erase happiness. And I won't let what matters to you be put at risk. Preservation isn't Permanence, you know, so... it's the better option, hm?
Aren't you loyal to them? The last thing I recall before I was torn from the heavens was a unified cry of "All for the Amber Lord!"
[His voice thickens, but he doesn't begrudge Aventurine's role in his Fall. If he had succeeded in dominating the Asdana Starsystem, his paradise would not look the way he wanted it to. It would not be a paradise at all; it would be a brightly lit hell of his own making, reflecting his anguish into the universe.
Aventurine had saved the cosmos, saved Robin, and saved him.
The IPC had helped, but he knows whose schemes had actually been the new Ena's undoing.
He shakes his head slowly.]
If you are not loyal to them, then why attach yourself to their ambitions? You are clever enough to survive without them.
[ Honestly what Aventurine finds most surprising about all this is Sunday's surprise. All that work done to cast himself as the soulless corporate mercenary, and Mister Law and Order, himself, is shocked to learn that Aventurine's devotion to Preservation does not extend beyond the benefits package. It's sort of cute, but now isn't the time. Sunday brings up what Aventurine has taken care to dance around, himself, certain it would simply devolve into getting his neck wrung.
Not that he isn't constantly inviting that sort of thing with Sunday, already, anyway.
He sighs. ]
It wasn't company loyalty or religious fervor. Or, at least... not mine. [ Aventurine looks away. ] At the risk of sounding blasphemously arrogant... Qlipoth was simply a convenient tool to stop you from changing the meaning of Order in the universe. If you took away pain and doubt and choice, then what're we left with? Not happiness, I'm afraid. And-
[ That's not what he asked. Aventurine lowers his head, scrubs his palm over the back of his neck. ]
-I told you, I have work to do. Your ambitions interfered with that work. I- hm.
[ Here he stops, stands, abruptly, and scoops up his phone. He crosses the little room, opens the door, and wings his phone down the long, empty hall. It'll be fine. Or, it should be, he paid a small fortune for it and its fancy case. He can fetch the thing after this part, but he doesn't want anything that could listen within earshot.
Aventurine shuts the door and seats himself on the bed, two bodies worth of space between the two of them. His hands ball to fists against his legs. For just a few seconds, he is Kakavasha. ]
Diamond's Stonehearts are hand chosen. All of us, ambitious. All of us... missing something that only Diamond can possibly provide. We're all buying something, and paying for it with unerring service in the coming Aeon war. I... [ This is exactly what he didn't want happening. Shit. He turns to look at Sunday, that everpresent smile nowhere to be found. ] ...if I tell you, it's going to... it'll embroil you in a mess I'm not sure you want anything to do with.
[Sunday watches Aventurine pitch his phone out the door and cross back to the bed. Whatever he has to say, it is something he is afraid of the IPC hearing. It is personal, important, and Sunday has trouble imagining what it could be.
Aventurine sits on the bed, creating a dip that would angle them together if they were sitting any closer.]
You released me from a prison cell and are escorting me across the cosmos [Sunday regards the earnest face that turns to him. There is no charming smile there, so he makes one of his own.]
Our fates are already entangled. Please do not worry about me. If something is bothering you, I would like to know. After all, listening has always been my job.
Fates entangled? [ Aventurine can't help the huff of laughter that rushes out of him. ] Sunday.
[ This ridiculous, persnickety bird. Aventurine spends so much time making himself easy to leave behind, to disentangle from, and Sunday leaps so thoughtlessly into his web wearing a smile that feels like a mild summer sun. Looking at him, something fiercely protective burns to life in Aventurine's chest. Not merely from greater danger, but from himself. He is not worthy of such kindness. Does Sunday not see that he offers warmth to a snake? A murderer? A monster?
Aventurine shuts his eyes. He cannot let Sunday entertain the foolish idea that the man sat before him is worthy of understanding, of light. ]
Through Diamond, I get vengeance for my people.
[ Even that can be misconstrued. He has to clarify. ]
I'll destroy the man who lured the Avgin to slaughter and left them to die. His work, his legacy, everything he's touched, everything he loves. Oswaldo Schneider. The Marketing Development Department. The... IPC itself, if I have to.
[ He breathes a shuddered sigh, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye. ]
[Sunday averts his gaze and looks at the carpeted floor.]
I understand.
[He says softly, and knows Aventurine won't believe him.
The Oak Family Head was the model of moral virtue in Penacony. Few knew his true nature. Few know that he stalked the bars of his self-made cage like a cornered predator: powerful, dangerous, and unpredictable. When he thought Robin had been murdered, he himself became murderous.
Aventurine had seen that, at least, but even then he didn't know the fire in the Bronze Melodia's heart. Sunday still remembers that feeling. He would have done anything to avenge Robin's death. He would have killed for her. His thoughts had been tangled into one single goal at the time.
Revenge. Revenge. REVENGE.
Looking back on it, he thinks it is a small miracle he didn't spiral worse than he did. Only Aventurine took the sharp end of his wrath.]
I know it may not seem so, but I have had fantasies of divine vengeance for my entire life. When I thought Robin died, it nearly broke me. I was one step away from madness in every direction. I felt I had to execute her killer with my own hands or be haunted by her death forever...
[His brow furrows as he focuses on a moat of dust drifting across the floor in the slanted beams of sunlight.]
She was my tipping point. I was already wroth. I was angry at the gods for never answering the prayers of my people...And... Angry at the universe--no, the Stellarons--for taking my family, my entire world.
[One hand drops from his lap to clench sheets into a fist and squeeze until he feels the emotion threatening to pour out of him start to ebb.]
I mention all of this to illustrate a point, not to gain your sympathy.
I've been vengeful, so I know what it is like. I know, also, what it is like to focus your entire being on one single ambition. So I hope you understand that I speak from experience when I say revenge makes a poor foundation for a life without other motivations besides it.
[Now, finally, he lifts his gaze to meet Aventurine's once more. His golden eyes are bright.]
I will not help you kill Oswaldo Schneider, but I will not stand in your way either, nor will I stay your hand if you get your opportunity...
What I will do is help you find those other motivations for living. That is, if you will permit me to do so.
[ Aventurine does not doubt that Sunday understands at least some part of the yawning hunger in him. He may still have his sister, but there is little else the former Bronze Melodia has not lost. He has ample reason to boil over with rage, with despair -- and he has, Aventurine is intimately familiar with that scorching flame. It will never not be odd, he thinks, to find him so gentle, now. Those gloved fingers curling into the sheet speak to feeling far more familiar. Aventurine stares at Sunday's clenched hand and the wrinkles of fabric between each finger, feels the patter of his heart redouble. He cannot look away.
What he thinks Sunday cannot possibly understand is that he is already dead. Beneath the veneer, it's just smoke and mirrors. His is not a life, but a mission with an end point, and an aurora on the other side. ]
I wouldn't ask you to-
[ Aventurine starts to interrupt him, but Sunday manages to finish his thought. It is... not what he expects.
Aventurine lives in a world of double and triple meanings, plans that twist and turn with roots as deep as the Imaginary Tree. Not getting involved, turning a blind eye -- it's practically the first paragraph of the Stoneheart handbook. Leave each Liquidation Specialist to their own business. He has taken such care to cultivate a persona non grata, to be the sort of man that even close allies would hesitate to call friend.
Sunday will not meddle in his work, no. What he asks for is more.
Finally, he tears his gaze away from the fist grabbing fabric, meets Sunday's morning light eyes, and immediately looks away. A heavy rush of air escapes him, a thousand responses vying for first place right away. The smart thing, the right thing to do is forbid him from anything so foolish. Sunday is meant to walk the Path of Trailblaze, to prove that its course, once corrupted, can be righted again -- he has no business bothering with ghosts.
But Aventurine can't bring himself to say no. Not here, not now, not when confronted with such direct kindness for the first time in longer than he can recall. No conditions, no buts, no reservations, Sunday just cares. And Aventurine wants that care, aeons he would never allow himself to have it, but he is greedy enough to desire it, in whatever form it takes.
A sudden dizzy spell makes him realize he's been holding his breath. Finally, he turns to look at Sunday again, jewel eyes appraising, a little tired. He should say no. He should tell Sunday it's a foolish, pointless idea. He should kick Sunday out of the room until his own heart has slowed its racing and his face stops feeling warm. ]
If that's really what you want to try, Feathers, I won't stop you.
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That look makes more sense now. The guy has range, that's for sure.
With a clipped hm of agreement, Aventurine leads the way from the trolley to the Administrative District's main street. He waits for Sunday to disembark, hands back in his pockets, and takes in the sights. ]
Kinda sad we have to delay that lunch.
[ But there are now more pressing matters, certainly. Not that you'd know it by looking at him. He strolls at a leisurely pace toward the incline railway that'll take them down into the Underworld.
Belobog isn't quaint, but when you've spent so much time in fantastical places like Pier Point and Penacony, it feels antique. Still, it's a pleasant walk. Heaters cut the biting cold, a crier shouts about the local news, people hurry to and fro on important business. There is a girl playing guitar on a bench. The music is nice.
There is no sign at all of brewing conflict. It is just a city, living, breathing, in spite of the cold that bears down on it. ]
They say the Eternal Freeze is ending since the Stellaron was sealed. On its own, Jarilo-VI might see its climate stabilize in a few centuries. There're talks to speed things along, but the folks here are... [ He trails off for just a moment. There is a company-approved way to end that statement, and it's right there on the tip of his tongue. But he looks Sunday over, and decides for honesty, instead. Honesty is easiest with Sunday, even if he does not believe it. ] ...understandably reluctant to indebt themselves much further with the IPC, given how we'd brought them into the fold to begin with.
[ What he means is, neither Aeon nor their factions has Belobog's best interests in mind. But, then again, not a one of THEM ever does. ]
Admirable, how well they're doing, honestly.
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Yes... People are strong.
[He says steadily.]
Even under the weight of unbearable odds, they will band together to accomplish the impossible.
[His voice grows heavy. This is a lesson he has learned, not by watching the incredible feats of humankind, but by becoming the unbearable odds himself. He remembers seeing the desperation in the dreamers as they scrambled to awaken themselves and escape the Swarm... Seeing the determination in the Nameless and their allies as they took up arms against him. They clashed against a fledgling god. And they won. They accomplished the impossible.
His wings droop to his shoulders, then flutter up again.]
What do you know about Stellarons, Mister Aventurine?
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He'd told Sunday they might be friends. Now, as he watches the steel in him bend and rust before his eyes, he wonders how he'd even meant it. Sunday is doubtless a valuable asset, and if he thinks the two of them friends, it makes both of their lives so much easier, but... is that how he'd intended it?
Aventurine is, admittedly, unsure.
All he knows is, it aches a little, watching Sunday's fire dwindle down to embers, wings sagging.
So, as a friend would, he provides a bit of distraction, slinging an arm around Sunday's shoulders. It's a decidedly chummy gesture, dragging him in closer.
Aventurine only knows as much about Stellarons as is necessary for work, which, thanks to a certain Trailblazer's involvement in Penacony, recently became a great deal more than he'd known before. Still, even with P45 clearance, he is not privy to all the universe's secrets. ]
Stellarons, hm? Well, the Marketing Department has us calling them "The Cancer of All Worlds." Really want us to drive home how scary they are. They're Imaginary energy disruptors, right? Supposedly, they can grant wishes, but at the cost of warping people, destroying ecosystems, creating Fragmentum, making interstellar travel itself choppy and unsafe...
[ And even with all the terrors the IPC's official channels assure are part and parcel of a Stellaron's existence, he would still probably use one, anyway, given the chance. ]
Lots of... rumors about their origins.
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...That is all true, however...
[Should he explain the history of Stellarons? Somehow, it feels like violating Gopher Wood's trust, though he isn't sure why.]
There is a bit more to them. Perhaps we should grab some coffee somewhere so I can explain?
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The hand not draped over Sunday's shoulder swipes across his face, pushing his bangs back into place. He steals a glance around the administrative district. They've drawn a few glances – or, Aventurine suspects, his lovely Foxian wife has drawn a few glances – but nothing seems an outward threat.
If Sunday thinks there's time for coffee, then... ]
There-
[ He points down the street, past the vertical rail station, to a sign hanging over a storefront. A little cafe.
Aventurine glances at Sunday, to see whether he approves. ]
Or somewhere more private?
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Yet he can't help but feel they should take their conversation somewhere more private. If the truth of the Stellaron upsets Aventurine at all, he won't want anyone seeing his reaction. That is the reason they should duck away somewhere. Or, at least, it is the only reason Sunday allows himself to acknowledge.]
Somewhere more private, I think.
But let's purchase some coffee first. We both could use the warmth.
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[ Ah, so this is no mere history lesson. This must be what Ratio bartered for when he'd sold him out on Penacony; all part of the plan in the end, that messy business, but goodness he'd been quite smug about what he'd gotten.
Aventurine breathes a wry huff, gaze sweeping the street for a place that might be private enough. There are dark, narrow alleys aplenty, but those look positively miserable. If he'd had his druthers, it'd be somewhere inside, away from the cold. No guarantee of privacy in any shops or the museum, and no chance of entry into the administrative building, itself.
Really, there's just one place that fits the bill. Ridiculous.
Aventurine lets his hand slip from Sunday's shoulder, thoughtless fingertips faintly brushing the small of his back before he gestures straight ahead, where the road splits again, the Goethe Hotel. ]
Well! We'll be needing rooms anyway, won't we? We'll get one, for husband and wifey. Then you can do some of your mind control magic- [ He wiggles his fingers, pantomiming casting a spell, knowing full and intimately well that that is not how Tuning works. ] -and use my card to get yourself another one, later.
[ Most of a plan. But first, coffee. ]
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How casually Aventurine touches him now. Only a few days earlier, he'd been terrified at the idea of just being in a room together.]
The Hotel, then. [A husband and wife would be expected to room together and share a bed. He is grateful that Aventurine quickly offers him a way of getting his own room later.] Very well.
[It's a plan, or at least the beginning of one. The rest, he hopes, will crystallize after they've warmed up and Aventurine is armed with knowledge that might soon be terribly relevant.
But first, coffee.
The interior of the cafe is cozy, and almost quaint when compared to the cafes of Penacony with their neon lights and moving signs. Sunday decides he prefers Belobog's version of a cafe. Penacony would be overstimulating if he hadn't grown up there.
When he looks at the menu board, his gaze lingers on the description of a caramel latte with a sweet cream topping. He orders a black coffee.]
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This time, he won't lie in his own head. With Sunday seeming less terrible and terrifying to behold, those flinching, fluttering, curling wings are an undeniable delight.
He leaves well enough alone, though. For now.
In the shop, he follows Sunday's eyes, watches his hesitation, and his final order. When he steps up himself, he banters with the girl behind the counter about the city, the cold, his lovely wife before ordering a caramel latte with sweet cream topping.
They are idle for only a few minutes before both cups come up, unlidded paper cups. The latte is quite the sight, cream piled up and drizzled with gold sugar. Well, it certainly matches his aesthetics, but-
Aventurine snaps a lid on it, gives it a stir and every impression that he intends to drink it, but does not take his first sip until they are back out in the cold, on the street. He does not need to pretend to find the thing distastefully sugary, wincing at the taste. ]
Mm, oh. This is entirely too much for me. My bad for being adventurous, huh?
[ As he speaks, he shuffles the drinks, shoving his own into Sunday's empty hand and trying to steal his black coffee. ]
You don't mind if we trade? I think that'll upset my stomach.
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No.
[He gasps in incredulity as he covers the lid of his cup with a protective hand.
A heartbeat passes, then he deflates slightly.]
...Trading beverages after drinking from them is unsanitary, Mister Aventurine. Why not ask for something else?
[Sunday's golden eyes swing back to the cafe door.]
I don't mind waiting. There is no need to rush.
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What a rebuke. Aventurine takes it with a grin, mouth hanging open in disbelief. ]
You think I have cooties!
[ He sounds almost delighted, teasing. Whether he is or not is beside the point. His body is primed to react a certain way to reprimand, insult, and criticism -- water on duck feathers, and a joke to distract.
Aventurine takes the overly sugary coffee in hand, and as Sunday's attention swivels back to the coffee shop, he flounces, bound for the opposite direction -- toward the hotel. He can acknowledge, at least, that he is annoyed with himself and his ill-thought scheme, stuck now with a drink that he will not let himself throw away, but will not enjoy. ]
And there's no need to waste time or food, either. Come on. I'll survive.
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It is not a waste, you should not--
[Aventurine is gone.
He blinks slowly and scans the crowd until he sees the well-dressed peacock of a man standing several paces away. Even now, in a freezing environment, the Stoneheart has a better fashion sense than anyone else around.]
Here.
[Sunday lifts the second cup of coffee and smiles gently as he walks forward, steps so smooth he nearly glides.]
No sense in making yourself ill.
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When Sunday finally emerges, two coffees in hand, Aventurine is sure he has never hated anyone more in his life. (That is hyperbole, obviously he hates Oswaldo Schneider more, but...) Hates that he doesn't listen. Hates that he's wanders off on his own. Hates that he goes out of his way over such silly, pointless things. Hates his grace and the way his soft hair frames his face. Hates the gentle pink that splashes across his fair nose and cheeks in the cold. Aeons he hates that infuriating handsome smile and his own heart for leaping and racing.
Aventurine fixes one of his inscrutable smiles on his face as he accepts this second cup, but does not relinquish the caramel drink. Now he's really going to get a stomach ache. ]
Thanks. [ He manages, a little clipped. Passive aggressively, he takes another sip of caramel latte. ] Let's get ourselves a room, hm?
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Sorry.
[He mutters, averting his gaze to the ground with a furrowed brow. Tensed feathers visibly wilt as he pushes forward to lead the silent walk to the hotel.
By the time they reach the lobby, he still has not spoken to Aventurine, worried that doing so would only further irritate the other man.
His golden eyes lift to stare up at the towering heaters. They are a remarkable feat of engineering. Aesthetically, they are pleasant and blend into the local architecture. The warmth they cast off is equally impressive. If he spends too long here, he will need to remove his coat.
He is so lost in thought that it takes a moment for him to realize the receptionist is talking to him when she asks, "Can I help you, miss?"
He approaches the desk with a proud stride. The foxian woman sways her hips.]
Hello, my husband and I would like a room.
[His voice rises from his throat with a musical lilt. The foxian waves her tail at the receptionist, who grins and says something about checking the bottom drawer of the nightstand if they need anything before handing over a key card.]
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This is so... foolish. They have bigger things to worry about than coffee and hurt feelings.
Aventurine tastes copper, and still does not relax.
He follows a pace behind, coffees in hand, total silence at odds with his otherwise easy stride. He does not speak until he's stepped up beside Sunday, set one of his coffees on the counter, and produced a black credit card. And even then, it's only to make a sugary joke as he slides the card across the counter to pay for the room. ]
We love our caffeine at the IPC.
[ Somehow, he manages to cast an affectionate glance at his lovely foxian wife, imply he may need the extra energy for other things, without betraying the way his heart sinks at the sight of Sunday's dour expression. Foolish, foolish, foolish.
Card put on file and returned, they are directed to the elevator. It's a short, quiet ride up and walk down a hall to their room- to one of their rooms. (It's not like they'll be sharing one.) By the time they arrive at the door, Aventurine is no longer pretending not to frown. He lets Sunday open the door, follows in behind, and sets the caramel drink on the bed stand. In an effort to distract himself from this wretched spiral he's found himself in, he immediately opens that nightstand drawer for a peek at what's inside.
Ah, yes. That makes sense. In a world where there's just one city, and that city spent centuries steadily shrinking, the only way a hotel like this operates for as long as this one has is by providing... exciting services to couples of all stripes. A soft, thoughtful hum escapes him before he slides the drawer shut again and slides into a chair at the room's lone table. Finally, he takes a drink of black coffee, and levels a gaze that can only really be described as apologetic at Sunday. ]
Thank you for the coffee. [ He says, a little softer, a little more genuine this time. ] So, Stellarons...?
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So, Stellarons...
[He echoes as Aventurine sits at a table near a window overlooking the Administrative District. Sunday doesn't follow, deciding the Stoneheart might still need some space. He sighs and sits on the edge of the bed with his hands folded in his lap.
Where to even start with Stellarons? The truth of them feels like a heavy, terrible secret, but it is slowly occurring to him that it might not be that much of a shock to anyone outside The Family. They weren't raised on a lie. ]
The ruin they leave in their wake has convinced the public that they are creations of Nanook. Stellarons, however, grant the desires of the people they commune with, albeit in terrible ways. That is not something the Destruction would do, is it? Since when does Nanook bother with wishes?
[He draws a breath.]
Stellarons were created by Xipe. What you call the Cancer of All Worlds is the Harmonic Cancer. [Which brings him to his real point, he lifts his gaze to meet the Stoneheart's prismatic eyes.]
Mister Aventurine, this world was taken by the Harmony centuries ago. That is why The Family is here: to secure their conquest. They are not likely to let the IPC reclaim Jarilo-VI without a fight.
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Resigned, he sits and waits for Sunday explain, struck by how he seems to hesitate. Very quickly, he realizes why, reaffirmed in the knowledge that it'd been stupid to cause a fuss over coffee. He sits up a little straighter at that -- Harmonic Cancer.
In their extensive research into Penacony, Aventurine and his team had turned up a few theories tying Celenova and even the Family to the existence of Stellarons, but theories about Stellaron origins are as many and varied as stars in the sky. Harmony's connection to them had been a thread he'd been willing to leave dangling. A rip cord to pull in case of emergency, not knowing what would happen when he did, half expecting nothing at all.
To hear the man who'd been powerful enough to serve as Chordmaster admit to it, well... he supposes the conspiracy theory has become simply conspiracy. Without his notice, a soft breath escapes him, almost a sigh. His gaze falls. ]
Mm.
[ Aventurine pulls out his phone. First, a message to Topaz. He composes and deletes several versions, trying to think his way around warning her -- and by extension, those in charge of Belobog -- without tangling Sunday or Robin too heavily in the IPC's business by association. What he settles on is two messages:
You owe me a drink for this one...
In your favorite town to drop off a surprise for you and, wouldn't you know it, it seems a new family is trying to move into your old place.
She'll figure out what to do from there. So, he sets his phone face down on the table and lifts his attention to Sunday's sunset eyes once more. ]
That secret's a hell of a weight to bear, Mister Sunday.
[ He has no loyalty to Aeons, but Sunday still has ties to the people that align themselves with them. For Aventurine, it's an easy matter. All for the Amber Lord, always. But for Sunday... ]
Knowing that, I have to act here, but... Belobog falls into the grip of one faction or another, either way. You're alright with that being the IPC? With being complicit in upending the Family's interests?
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[Sunday says with a dark huff and isn't sure if he is being bitter or sarcastic. Loyalty is a fine attribute to have. He'd demanded it from his underlings and faithful on Penacony.
Yet he's never felt it himself. He isn't loyal to The Family, or the shattered remnants of the Beyond the Sky Choir who called themselves Oak. He is loyal only to himself, his younger sister, and the happiness of a people he once believed would never find peace without guidance.]
I severed myself from The Family years ago, the day I committed my life to usurping the power of Ena. What I want is only for the people of this planet to live in peace...and be free.
[He lifts a hand to his chest.]
Many of them may currently hate the IPC, but if The Family takes this world, that may be the last opinion they ever have. I cannot allow that to happen, so I am willing to consider the IPC the lesser of two evils.
Please, do not make me regret this.
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He hates himself for it, for being nothing but a wisp of vengeance in the rough shape of a man.
Sunday speaks of usurping Ena, and Aventurine has to hide a growing grin. He leans heavily against his hand, chin dipping, but gemstone eyes tipped up to peer at Sunday through the spill of blonde hair. Had his gambit on Penacony failed, had Sunday ascended truly and not squashed him on the spot, he knows where loyalty would've gone -- out the window, delivered to Domination's doorstep. He's always known, but hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. In his mind, the Bronze Melodia and Oswaldo Schneider were two cut from the same cloth, everything Aventurine hates. Coming to know him better now, even though they seem constantly at odds, Aventurine cannot deny how easy the choice would've been.
He might've even enjoyed it for a bit, destroying another old Order to make room for the new, cutting down one corruption of Trailblaze to uplift another. He certainly would've been good at it.
But that didn't happen. They are two mortal men, playing a dangerous game of chess on the frontlines of a not-yet-declared war. Knight and bishop with no loyalty to either side, wishing to put both kings in check.
His free hand drifts down and presses the power button on his phone. He waits for the pleasant IPC jingle that plays before their electronics shut down. A silence settles, heavy, long, until finally he works up the nerve to murmur aloud what he has so long held to his chest: ]
I'm not loyal to the IPC.
[ Aventurine swallows, sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. To say more than that... it would loop Sunday into something he needn't be involved with, something too dangerous for a bird with injured wings just learning to fly again. ]
I can't promise we won't both have regrets, Mister Sunday. [ he says, wry. ] But I won't let Harmony erase happiness. And I won't let what matters to you be put at risk. Preservation isn't Permanence, you know, so... it's the better option, hm?
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Aren't you loyal to them? The last thing I recall before I was torn from the heavens was a unified cry of "All for the Amber Lord!"
[His voice thickens, but he doesn't begrudge Aventurine's role in his Fall. If he had succeeded in dominating the Asdana Starsystem, his paradise would not look the way he wanted it to. It would not be a paradise at all; it would be a brightly lit hell of his own making, reflecting his anguish into the universe.
Aventurine had saved the cosmos, saved Robin, and saved him.
The IPC had helped, but he knows whose schemes had actually been the new Ena's undoing.
He shakes his head slowly.]
If you are not loyal to them, then why attach yourself to their ambitions? You are clever enough to survive without them.
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Not that he isn't constantly inviting that sort of thing with Sunday, already, anyway.
He sighs. ]
It wasn't company loyalty or religious fervor. Or, at least... not mine. [ Aventurine looks away. ] At the risk of sounding blasphemously arrogant... Qlipoth was simply a convenient tool to stop you from changing the meaning of Order in the universe. If you took away pain and doubt and choice, then what're we left with? Not happiness, I'm afraid. And-
[ That's not what he asked. Aventurine lowers his head, scrubs his palm over the back of his neck. ]
-I told you, I have work to do. Your ambitions interfered with that work. I- hm.
[ Here he stops, stands, abruptly, and scoops up his phone. He crosses the little room, opens the door, and wings his phone down the long, empty hall. It'll be fine. Or, it should be, he paid a small fortune for it and its fancy case. He can fetch the thing after this part, but he doesn't want anything that could listen within earshot.
Aventurine shuts the door and seats himself on the bed, two bodies worth of space between the two of them. His hands ball to fists against his legs. For just a few seconds, he is Kakavasha. ]
Diamond's Stonehearts are hand chosen. All of us, ambitious. All of us... missing something that only Diamond can possibly provide. We're all buying something, and paying for it with unerring service in the coming Aeon war. I... [ This is exactly what he didn't want happening. Shit. He turns to look at Sunday, that everpresent smile nowhere to be found. ] ...if I tell you, it's going to... it'll embroil you in a mess I'm not sure you want anything to do with.
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Aventurine sits on the bed, creating a dip that would angle them together if they were sitting any closer.]
You released me from a prison cell and are escorting me across the cosmos [Sunday regards the earnest face that turns to him. There is no charming smile there, so he makes one of his own.]
Our fates are already entangled. Please do not worry about me. If something is bothering you, I would like to know. After all, listening has always been my job.
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[ This ridiculous, persnickety bird. Aventurine spends so much time making himself easy to leave behind, to disentangle from, and Sunday leaps so thoughtlessly into his web wearing a smile that feels like a mild summer sun. Looking at him, something fiercely protective burns to life in Aventurine's chest. Not merely from greater danger, but from himself. He is not worthy of such kindness. Does Sunday not see that he offers warmth to a snake? A murderer? A monster?
Aventurine shuts his eyes. He cannot let Sunday entertain the foolish idea that the man sat before him is worthy of understanding, of light. ]
Through Diamond, I get vengeance for my people.
[ Even that can be misconstrued. He has to clarify. ]
I'll destroy the man who lured the Avgin to slaughter and left them to die. His work, his legacy, everything he's touched, everything he loves. Oswaldo Schneider. The Marketing Development Department. The... IPC itself, if I have to.
[ He breathes a shuddered sigh, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye. ]
Non-performing assets to be liquidated.
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I understand.
[He says softly, and knows Aventurine won't believe him.
The Oak Family Head was the model of moral virtue in Penacony. Few knew his true nature. Few know that he stalked the bars of his self-made cage like a cornered predator: powerful, dangerous, and unpredictable. When he thought Robin had been murdered, he himself became murderous.
Aventurine had seen that, at least, but even then he didn't know the fire in the Bronze Melodia's heart. Sunday still remembers that feeling. He would have done anything to avenge Robin's death. He would have killed for her. His thoughts had been tangled into one single goal at the time.
Revenge. Revenge. REVENGE.
Looking back on it, he thinks it is a small miracle he didn't spiral worse than he did. Only Aventurine took the sharp end of his wrath.]
I know it may not seem so, but I have had fantasies of divine vengeance for my entire life. When I thought Robin died, it nearly broke me. I was one step away from madness in every direction. I felt I had to execute her killer with my own hands or be haunted by her death forever...
[His brow furrows as he focuses on a moat of dust drifting across the floor in the slanted beams of sunlight.]
She was my tipping point. I was already wroth. I was angry at the gods for never answering the prayers of my people...And... Angry at the universe--no, the Stellarons--for taking my family, my entire world.
[One hand drops from his lap to clench sheets into a fist and squeeze until he feels the emotion threatening to pour out of him start to ebb.]
I mention all of this to illustrate a point, not to gain your sympathy.
I've been vengeful, so I know what it is like. I know, also, what it is like to focus your entire being on one single ambition. So I hope you understand that I speak from experience when I say revenge makes a poor foundation for a life without other motivations besides it.
[Now, finally, he lifts his gaze to meet Aventurine's once more. His golden eyes are bright.]
I will not help you kill Oswaldo Schneider, but I will not stand in your way either, nor will I stay your hand if you get your opportunity...
What I will do is help you find those other motivations for living. That is, if you will permit me to do so.
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What he thinks Sunday cannot possibly understand is that he is already dead. Beneath the veneer, it's just smoke and mirrors. His is not a life, but a mission with an end point, and an aurora on the other side. ]
I wouldn't ask you to-
[ Aventurine starts to interrupt him, but Sunday manages to finish his thought. It is... not what he expects.
Aventurine lives in a world of double and triple meanings, plans that twist and turn with roots as deep as the Imaginary Tree. Not getting involved, turning a blind eye -- it's practically the first paragraph of the Stoneheart handbook. Leave each Liquidation Specialist to their own business. He has taken such care to cultivate a persona non grata, to be the sort of man that even close allies would hesitate to call friend.
Sunday will not meddle in his work, no. What he asks for is more.
Finally, he tears his gaze away from the fist grabbing fabric, meets Sunday's morning light eyes, and immediately looks away. A heavy rush of air escapes him, a thousand responses vying for first place right away. The smart thing, the right thing to do is forbid him from anything so foolish. Sunday is meant to walk the Path of Trailblaze, to prove that its course, once corrupted, can be righted again -- he has no business bothering with ghosts.
But Aventurine can't bring himself to say no. Not here, not now, not when confronted with such direct kindness for the first time in longer than he can recall. No conditions, no buts, no reservations, Sunday just cares. And Aventurine wants that care, aeons he would never allow himself to have it, but he is greedy enough to desire it, in whatever form it takes.
A sudden dizzy spell makes him realize he's been holding his breath. Finally, he turns to look at Sunday again, jewel eyes appraising, a little tired. He should say no. He should tell Sunday it's a foolish, pointless idea. He should kick Sunday out of the room until his own heart has slowed its racing and his face stops feeling warm. ]
If that's really what you want to try, Feathers, I won't stop you.
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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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