[Sunday steps gingerly from the bubbles, one hand on Aventurine's shoulder to steady himself. Once on firm ground, he draws back, putting a comfortable distance between them once more.]
You're mocking me. [He says warily.] I am living on borrowed time, Mister Aventurine, please don't waste it.
As long as the Order interferes with the Harmony, Penacony will be...imbalanced. Over time, the Harmony here will become discordant, then fall apart, leaving the dreamers in wild, unrestrained seas of memoria. [A process that could take years. Decades maybe. Centuries even. But such slow, subtle processes are hard for people to notice until it's too late.]
If I am asking you for mercy, it is only that you give me a chance to mend my home and leave with no regrets. [His musical voice lowers. Leaving to be imprisoned for life or killed. It doesn't matter, as long as he finishes his work.] Penacony does not deserve to sink into a Hell of my making.
[Sunday walks slowly past Aventurine. His stride is slow and thoughtful, but his shoulders are squared and his posture erect. When he turns back, he lifts a dark glove to gesture next to his makeshift hood.]
...As for my appearance, I can mask it...but... I severed my halo when I left my cell. I am still a tuner. A good one. But without the Harmony's blessing, I am not as strong as I once was. Masking myself requires tuning. Fixing the dream requires tuning as well. Doing both simultaneously means splitting my focus. I don't know if you have ever had to do that, but it's like trying to fork a rushing river while standing in the middle of its currents. You are more likely to be swept away than succeed. One of my tuning processes would likely fail and... I would rather risk capture than leave any stray notes of Order.
blanket cw for theater kid shit for this whole psl prob tbh
[ Aventurine had thought himself long inured to touch, but when Sunday's palm lands on his shoulder, his jaw tightens. A dark cloud swirls up in him fierce and unexpected, and he stills until Sunday has withdrawn. Fear of Tuning he realizes straight away, like the barest contact would have the former Bronze Melodia reaching back inside of him to pull fire and ruin, death and decay, shackles and pain back to the fore again.
The revelation that Sunday's abilities are diminished offers little relief. If anything, the bird's wings could stand to be clipped a little closer to the quick. Idly, Aventurine fixes the cuffs of his jacket as he listens to Sunday explain.
He can at least trust that Monsignor Stick-in-the-Mud means what he says. The man hardly seems capable of telling a real joke. And, for better or worse, Aventurine does believe that Sunday feels he is the only one who can fix what he has broken. ]
We're all living on borrowed time, birdie.
[ Aventurine steps past glowing memoria and less lovely rubbish, removes his glasses, checks them for smudges, and then offers them out. ]
A mundane disguise, then. Put these on.
[ He inclines his head, considering. Sunday is sort of unmistakable. Aventurine is sure he, himself, could pick the man out in a crowded room with little more than a glance, but then, Aventurine also enjoys a unique sort of terror-based relationship with the former Bronze Melodia's silhouette. He frowns. ]
Hmm. That coat of yours looks nice enough. Bet the seams are lapped on both sides. Turn it inside out and pull your hood up. We can pass you off as someone from the Guild or Madam Herta's station until everything sounds pretty again and we can get you to where you're going.
[ The Express, hopefully. Unless everything's gone to what a certain salt of the earth Galaxy Ranger would call total shirt. ]
[Sunday takes the glasses in his fingertips and holds them away from his body as if they were covered in disease and filth. Which, when he thinks about it, they might be. And they are absurd things; they do not match his aesthetic at all. There hadn't been much time to change his clothes after he left his cell. The longcoat is already wrinkled in places, and under scrutiny its gold clasps do not perfectly match the ones on his boots. Just those small details are frustrating. How can he maintain a coordinated outfit wearing Aventurine's ostentatious glasses?
...That's the point, he realizes. He can't. He would never wear them. So he must.
With a defeated sigh, he slips the glasses over his face.]
First of all, let's think of a better nickname, shall we? I'd rather not be "birdie".
[The glasses are immediately uncomfortable with their temple tips rubbing up against the delicate feathers of his wings. For now, he will have to ignore it.]
Second, I--
[He unfastens the clasps of his longcoat and shrugs it from his shoulders, leaving him in the dark, embroidered shirt he'd always worn under his vest as Bronze Melodia. The feeling of having so little fabric hanging from his body causes his thoughts to scatter like motes of dust. With a small sound of distress, he tucks his longcoat under one arm, adjusts the glasses against his wings, and peers at Aventurine.]
I forget. [He mutters, embarrassed.] Never mind, whatever my second point was, it must not have been important.
[He slides his coat back into his hands, dextrously flips it inside out, then pulls it back on. When he reaches for the clasps again, he notices they will not work facing backwards like this. The long strips of fabric holding them are lost somewhere against his hips.]
I suppose this is going to be a problem. [His golden gaze stares down at his chest, and the emblem of Ena prominently emblazoned there. As Bronze Melodia, he'd displayed the emblem proudly. Back then, the All-Seeing Eye of the Order had been a subtle symbol, recognizable by very few, of where his true allegiances were. Now, it is a reminder of his mistakes. Not worthy of display, but not worthy of being discarded either. It is a valuable part of his story.]
Any recommendations? Other than turning my shirt inside out. I am supposed to look like a scientist, not a lunatic.
[ A pet is the sort of long term investment that Aventurine does not allow himself. It is a weakness and a tether to life that he simply cannot afford. All the same, he is fairly certain that the coming hour will be spent getting a glimpse into what it's like to own an exotic, pedigree show bird. Between the visceral disdain for Aventurine's (very fashionable! designer!) sunglasses and the sudden, overwhelming awkward lock up, he half expects Sunday's wings to start molting there on the spot.
For a blessing, he doesn't shed. Just stands there looking pitiful for a moment before resuming the work of turning his clothes inside out. And there Aventurine catches himself gritting his teeth, subconsciously resisting the feel of something threatening to root between the rungs of his ribcage. Whatever it is, this man deserves nothing from him but professional courtesy.
When Aventurine finally speaks, he's all smooth incredulity. ]
Since when are you in a position to make demands? Take a breath! We don't need to rush.
[ Except they do. They need to hurry. Who knows when the Express will depart? If this goes wrong-
Whatever. He'll make it work. It'll be easier to escort the bird to the station if he's not shaking apart from dread over unfinished business.
Aventurine's phone buzzes in his pocket. He'll check it in a moment, well aware that he will not like the contents. ]
You know- [ Their hastily established imaginary armistice demarcation line collapsed as Aventurine steps closer, removing the gold checked shawl from where it is tucked around his coat's fur lining. ] -I know plenty of scientists that also pass for lunatics. Here, wings up, I'm going to fix this...
[ He shoves down the familiar discomfort of stepping too far into someone else's space, takes a second to remind himself that Sunday is not some corrupting force that will drag him back to his own personal hell with a touch, and gingerly drapes the scarf, dull side up, over Sunday's shoulders. With deft fingers, he works a fancy, braided knot that leaves the scarf's tails covering the offending emblem. Then, out of habit and wearing a blank frown, he adjusts the lines of Sunday's coat before taking one large step back, like he needs the space to breathe again.
Not his best work, but it'll do for now. Briefly, Aventurine considers reminding Sunday that he'll want those items back. But he's not so sure he actually does, now. ]
If you remember, feel free to tell me your second request. Until then, lead the way, and let's get the Dream mended.
[Aventurine isn't the only one who is uncomfortable in someone else's space. Sunday tenses as he steps in close and lifts a gloved hand, ready to swat him away like a cat batting an intruder with its claws. Far too many people have attempted to be near him over the years. Dreamers clapping him on the shoulder would lift their fingers to touch his wings. The desperate stowaways, eager for his guidance, rushed into his arms and embraced him as if he were a lifebuoy in turbulent waters. Always, he held them until their breathing slowed and he could tell they were inhaling his scent, feeling his warmth, their need for comfort drifting into a different, more carnal need. So when Aventurine steps in close to tuck a scarf around his neck, his posture is defensive. The sunglasses hide his corrosive glare, but the curl of his lips says enough.
He wants to snarl at the gambler to back away and remember his place. But he is a fallen sun; his body is no longer sacrosanct. From now on, he and Aventurine walk on equal ground. There is no point in protecting himself just yet.
To his surprise, Aventurine adjusts the scarf and does nothing else. No wandering fingers touch his hair or feathers, no hand drops to the dip of his waist for a brief, curious caress. The Stoneheart simply maneuvers the fabric until it covers Ena's eye, then he's stepping back again.
Sunday releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, feeling foolish.]
If I remember, I'll be sure to mention it.
[The raised, warning hand drops to fuss with the scarf a bit more, until the tails are aligned with the middle seams of his shirt and the buckle of his belt. Adjusting his appearance in front of someone else is a bit shameful, but less so than walking out into public and doing it there.
Once he's satisfied, he turns his attention away from the scarf and toward the atmosphere of Dreamflux Reef. Most of the Oak Family never knew this place was here, so the distorted notes are quieter. Quieter, but present, and he can feel one of them close by.]
This way. [He says and starts walking, not bothering to see if Aventurine actually follows.]
And we do need to rush, Mister Aventurine. The longer we linger, the more likely the Bloodhounds are to catch our scent. So please hurry.
Aventurine rolls his eyes, turns his attention to his pockets before he follows behind. His phone is, indeed, flooded with the sort of polite corporate messages that denote both panic and blame. He fires off one or two, assuring the assembled and Lady Jade that he has found their missing package and will be hand delivering it to its intended recipient, undamaged.
Boy is he getting tired of Sunday's knack for leading him into hot water.
When he glances up, the feathered fugitive is indeed several paces ahead. Ever prim and proper, he marches headlong toward duty and the assumed death sentence that waits just beyond. How just of him. Aventurine could almost believe he really does think it's all in service to some greater good. Except he still remembers quite clearly the smile Sunday wore as he drove Harmony's hot brand into his mind.
Sunday's arrogance is not that of a fledgling about to fail his first flight. It is a pride decidedly more patriarchal -- and naive in a different way. At least it makes devising ways to steer him around easier. And the Express's crew, that too soft family of do-gooders known for their ability to forgive and forget, will take good care of him. He'll need it. Silly bird, with his cinched waist coat and perfect trouser lines. ]
I doubt the Hounds will come this far. The biggest obstacle we'll find down here is some lingering memetic banana nonsense. But- [ A sigh. ] -I guess it'd be best if we got this over with quickly. Your adoring audience is waiting.
[ It takes him three long strides to catch up, putting himself beside his charge now, but leaving ample space. ]
You aren't going to have to sing to do this, are you?
Not for this, no. [He glances back at Aventurine with a raised brow, his expression almost playful.] Heh. Why? Do you dread hearing my singing voice that much?
[Sunday looks forward again and follows the wordless song of Order to a dark terrace overlooking sparking neon signs and filth. It's a spot he recognizes immediately. He'd opened his eyes and drawn an unexpected breath here after Gallagher summoned a beast to spirit him away. At the time, he thought he was dead.
Now, he thinks he should be.
The air ripples around his feathers as he lifts his hand and feels for the out-of-place notes in Dreamflux Reef's harmony.
There..]
Reveal thyself unto me, as is customary [His voice is hard and commanding as he speaks the incantation.] All creatures endowed with eyes bear souls of equal worth.
[A simple orb of golden light obediently manifests in front of him. He spares a glance back at Aventurine before turning his focus back to the distortion.
The light gleams in familiar hues, like the dazzling rays of the sun. The melody within the light is even more familiar, its rhythm matched to the beating of his heart. This distortion looks like him, sounds like him. It is him. Most of the distortions have been. Maybe that shouldn't surprise him as much as it does. The Oak Family were true believers, and Gopher Wood was the greatest of them. But Sunday had been the most willful and determined. His ironfisted rule of Penacony has left dents behind where his fingers clenched too hard.
Who else but he can mend these wounds?
His eyes drift shut, and he reaches into the distortion with his mind. After a few agonizing heartbeats spent counter-tuning his own melody, the golden orb fades away.]
I'm sorry. [He whispers to the empty air.] This is my fault, but I'll make it right.
[Movement at the corner of his eyes reminds him that Aventurine is still beside him. He straightens himself, turns, and meets his reluctant companion's gaze.]
This is the only Afterecho in Dreamflux Reef. Would you please escort me back to the dream proper? The Moment of Morning Dew is the last stop on my journey of penance. After that, you may return me to my cell.
[ How galling, that look on his face, as though the two of them are in any position to joke around with one another. Aventurine only stares back, working his jaw, and falls in step when Sunday sets off again. A system hour. That's all they'll need. The albatross will board a train, and Aventurine won't have to trouble himself over white feathers or golden eyes or Order ever again.
It does burn, though, the dawning reality of things. Aventurine is not one to spin yarns for his own comfort, but there had been an ease in weaving an image of Sunday's secret cruelty. The imagined sadist, born to privilege and power, bored with the ordinary, delighting in raking others over coals under the guise of divine justice -- he'd first taken shape in the weeks Aventurine had spent in a hospital bed after being fished out of the deepest reaches of the Dream. But now... now there is clarity. Aventurine's boogeyman doesn't exist. It is just a phantom crafted to assign greater meaning to what he had been forced to relive, and Sunday is only one more fool, certain of his own righteousness.
Aventurine cannot decide whether it's better or worse than the monster was never real. The pointlessness of it weighs on him, enough to stall his breath, but not enough to keep him from getting his work done. He will ever be a model corporate cog, and he stands, unmoving, showing no outward sign of anger or fear, as Sunday works his magic.
It is uncomfortable, but discomfort has long been Aventurine's constant companion. Still, he looks away when Sunday tries to meet his eye. ]
Sure, Morning Dew. Going to be a little more heavily patrolled than here, but I'm sure we can make it work.
[ He pulls out his phone to give himself something else to focus on, but there are no new notifications. That, in and of itself, is message enough, so he pockets the phone once more and sets off toward one of Dewlight's many dark and winding exits. The path leads them down an almost uncomfortably narrow alley ending in a strange framed painting of a tear in space surrounded by grasping hands. ]
Any clue where your body is, Mister Sunday? In the waking world, I mean.
[His voice drops low in his throat and rattles out as a whisper. It's not safe, and there is nothing to be done about that. The only way he can do his work is by not thinking about it, which has been difficult. Whenever he feels his mind wander, it wanders back there, to the waking world and the corpse-like heap where his mind once was.
His stride slows, then pauses.]
Yes, I suppose it would be prudent to know where it is, unless you were planning to shackle my dreaming mind. [He turns to fully face Aventurine and his wings flutter in worry.]
Most of the Reverie Hotel is under careful surveillance, but there is one place with no cameras or security patrols. Behind the building, there are pillars with hanging tapestries of my sister. She used to do performances there, but it is an unused staging area now. So nobody goes there.
Five feet to the left of the pillars is a crack in the wall. [Here, some old memories rise to the surface and he laughs a small, musical laugh.]
Haha... I've actually been meaning to have it fixed for a long time, but-- [Not important. He waves a glove through the air.] It's for the best that I didn't. That's where I am. Inside the wall with a memoria bubble...
[He pauses a moment to let the implication of that sink in.]
The truth is, I'm a stowaway in my own home. I used a memoria bubble and tuned myself to sink into the dream. I'm surprised it worked, to be honest. For now, at least. The Hounds are not the only threat to me, Mister Aventurine. The way I came here is very dangerous. In time, if I am not captured, then... [Exposure to unprocessed memoria will degrade his mind and body until he is completely unfamiliar to himself.]
Anyway, that is where you will find me. I may require your assistance to wake up.
[ Not that there had been any doubt, but Sunday again proves his own conviction in revealing how he'd re-entered the dream. Dangerous, foolish, and entirely unsurprising. Wrly, Aventurine thinks that such a performance would've played well before a more sympathetic audience.
As it stands, it's only a relief that he needn't go too far out of the way to claim their prize package and get it to where it needs to go. The sooner he can be parted from the man who still looks at him like he's the criminal, the better. ]
Surprisingly daring of you, Mister Sunday. [ It is, after all, not in keeping with Monsignor Stick-in-the-Mud's perfectly logical and moral image. ] Through here.
[ Aventurine presses a palm to the painting at the end of the alley, and the both of them are drawn through to a dreamy realm of strange geometry. It is by no means easy to navigate, and Aventurine himself cannot hope to tap into some innate sense of navigation for fear of winding up in that pitch black ocean of nothing again, but luck is, as ever, on his side. So he lets that guide him.
He picks a path that feels right, leads them down a path that angles up into the sky, and before long finds another portrait. He has a feeling this is where they need to be.
When he speaks, his characteristic slick, chipper tone feels particularly artificial. ]
Here we go! The Moment of Morning Dew, and then we'll get you to where you need to be. Taking care not to injure your body or mind, of course. You have my word.
[Sunday looks askance at Aventurine's comment about his daring. There is something sardonic in the way he says it, as if he had any comprehension of the true depths of Sunday's heart. Lying in a wall is unsafe, filthy, and beneath the dignity of the Sun. But a Sun darkened by death and reduced to the atomic size of a neutron star will do whatever it can to make certain some of its dwindling warmth can still be spread.
He says nothing about this and follows Aventurine up through the twisting, impossible shapes of the memoria between worlds. It doesn't seem like his guide knows where to go, though Sunday can feel his own senses pull him one way or another. A lifetime in the dream has given him instincts for navigating its illogical expanses. Surprisingly, Aventurine, whether by wit or luck, manages to choose all the correct pathways until they emerge back into Penacony.
Sunday looks up at the looming silhouette of Dewlight Pavilion a block away. Within it, a half dozen Afterechoes sing his soul's doleful melody.]
There are secret passages in and out of the Pavilion. [He says softly, hoping to ease any of Aventurine's worries.] Only the Family Heads know about them, so they should be unpatrolled. It's the safest way in.
[One of the Afterechoes is no doubt in his old office, where he plotted and schemed and drove the claws of the Order further into the Harmony. It is also where he received and tuned Aventurine. A necessary action to keep a rival on a tight leash and flush out a murderer who never actually existed. At the time, of course, the murderer seemed like a deadly reality. One who had slain Robin. The tuning was an act of brutal justice, but he doubts his companion sees it that way.
He peers at Aventurine from beneath his hood.]
I can do this part alone if you trust me not to run away.
[ Aventurine's eyes narrow ever so slightly. A little insulting to assume that he'd be afraid to stand in the room where he'd been given a death sentence. Whether or not it's true is beside the point. He wouldn't let something as silly as fear (pain, dread, terror) stop him from seeing a job through. ]
You wouldn't run. I think if you thought it was the right thing to do you'd walk yourself into a bonfire and have a seat.
[ Still, it wouldn't be so bad, waiting out here to get things done. The thought of that room, dimly lit and windowless, near empty but still somehow cramped, sits askew in his mind still. Aventurine crosses his arms, hums a thoughtful sound as he considers. ]
What I'm afraid of is you handing yourself over to the first contractor or maid you accidentally stumble across.
[ And the absolute last thing they need right now is for more than just the Bloodhounds knowing he's escaped and wandering around the dream again. It'll be hard enough to get the bird from behind the hotel to the fore without everyone noticing, let alone convincing the Express to take him if they've got half the lobby staff on their tail.
Aventurine sweeps an arm out, gesturing for Sunday to again take the lead. ]
So, let's get your Dream fixed. I promise I'll be fine.
[Sunday's wings flutter. In truth, he'd hoped Aventurine would stay and give him a system hour or so of quiet. Quiet he knows he'd have ruminated in until he felt sick to his stomach. There are other reasons too, however, and after a breath he says as much.]
All right... I was hoping you would stay here, honestly. [Though as he speaks, he turns and starts walking down the alley, making his way to where he remembers the tunnels to be.] If you are accompanying me, then do not speak a word of these tunnels to anyone. [His voice gains an edge of steel. This is a demand, not a request.] I may not be a Family Head anymore, but my sister... If something happened and she couldn't use her one means of escape, all because of me, then I would never forgive myself. Never.
[And maybe that propensity for guilt is the reason Aventurine thinks he'd behave foolishly if caught in the open.]
...One more thing. You think far too little of me. Just because I should be dead doesn't mean I want to be. I would not turn myself in to the Family. More than anything, I want to live. [Here he pauses and looks back at Aventurine with an expression that is both mournful and icy, though it is partially hidden beneath the sunglasses.] But I accept that my future is not currently in my hands.
[ Aventurine's feet stall when Sunday speaks of blame and guilt, of family lost to foolishness. His hands tighten to fists at his sides, resisting the embers of memory that threaten to come alive again in his mind. When Sunday finally turns to point that desolate, frosty stare that way, Aventurine answers it with dark, empty eye contact. The glow behind those pink sapphire eyes suddenly seems hollow, light flickering in the windows of a haunted house. ]
You don't forgive yourself. Ever. And protecting other sisters from their foolish brothers doesn't help, no matter how many times you try.
[ He starts walking again, brushing past Sunday as they amble down the narrow path. More than anything he wants to leave this conversation behind, and this infuriating halovian in the hands of someone better suited to managing him. ]
I wouldn't endanger her. And part of that? It's keeping you in once piece.
[ Aventurine stops, turns, and looks Sunday up and down. ]
If it'll make you feel better, I'll wait here. It won't hurt to have someone keeping watch. Fifteen minutes, though. And then I come get you.
Hngh. I doubt that will be enough time. But I'll try.
[He walks off down the alley alone. Along the way, he thinks about Aventurine's words. I wouldn't endanger her. And part of that? It's keeping you in once piece..
Sunday will have to protect himself for Robin's sake, and it's not something he's used to doing. The high walls of Dewlight Pavilion and the bright lights of Penacony have always sheltered him. In the rare times he left the Hotel to make public appearances in the waking world, he had his Honor Guard. But not anymore. Now, the only person he can rely on is himself.
He's not sure if he's very reliable.
A dark alley stretches before him, ending in the wall of a smaller office building. Or so it seems. The illusion is strong enough to fool all but the most powerful of tuners. When one looks at it, it is made of bricks. Lying a hand upon it, one feels solid stone. But its structure is slightly askew, every molecule one atom to the left of where it should be—a purposeful flaw in the weave of the Dream, exploitable by Family Heads.
Sunday twirls his fingers in the air.]
Oh, Triple Faced Soul! Here the light will lie! Lend me your wisdom, that I may see the truth!
[The incantation loops through the air like a song, dispelling the illusion, but for his eyes alone. With another sigh, he slinks into the tunnels.
Fifteen minutes later, he still has not reemerged.]
[ With the IPC now owning a considerable stake in Penacony, it'd be nothing to waltz through the front doors of the Pavilion, but Aventurine relishes having a few minutes to himself. In the quiet surrounding Dewlight, without Sunday there to distract him, there's no ignoring the rabbit's pace of his heart.
His phone is no solace, but he pulls it out anyway and leans against a stone wall that should feel damp and cold but isn't. Aventurine fires off a message to Topaz, and promptly, unsurprisingly, gets a neatly organized wall of text back, updates about the status of the Astral Express. Rumors of fuel issues. Last minute shopping and business settling, it sounds like. Some other traveler they're taking on, a Foxian in an ornate kimono. At least they've got a good chance at getting Sunday an audience, still.
Assuming he isn't holed up in his old stomping grounds all day.
Fifteen minutes comes and goes, and Aventurine paces down and back up the alley. If there's a path here leading into the manor, it will not open for him, and so it seems he must head in through the front.
Just as he steps back out onto the main street, three Bloodhounds in crisp slacks, black shirts, and suspenders walk by. He offers a smile and a tip of the hat as they pass, expression not betraying a sudden spike of panic. Damn. Did Sunday recover his phone? Even if he has it, what if the thing's confiscated?
Aventurine glances over his shoulder, peering back down the alley, and decides to... wait. Three more minutes. Just to see where the Bloodhounds are headed, then it's time to find the bird and flee. ]
[Led by the instincts of a tuner, Sunday finds the Afterechoes quickly, and silences their music until there are no longer any stray notes of Order in the Pavilion. No notes of himself.
He takes a moment, a dangerous moment, he realizes, to linger in his old office. The smells are dulled from the dream. If the building existed in reality, he imagines it would smell like leather and old books. Distant, muffled sounds seem loud in the room's stillness. This now-empty place had once been a second home to him. Here he plotted and schemed and spent his adult years aiming his life toward one single moment. And he will never return.
He lingers longer than he knows he should, giving his wordless goodbyes, then ducks back into the tunnels beyond the bookshelf. Along his walk, he thinks dark thoughts.
Lady Bonajade had released him from his cell. So why has another agent come for him? Maybe the doctor had been right when he said the Stonehearts weren't always in alliance. Aventurine has reasons for hating him and turning him over to the Family, regardless of Bonajade's actions. The gambler must be eager to get his hands on him once more.
And I will allow it, Sunday thinks to himself as he emerges from the tunnels. If he is to be tried as a heretic and executed upon Xipe's altar, his song made forever silent, then so be it. At least Penacony will be safe. And the gambler's smirking, triumphant face over another victory in a storied career is something Sunday will have to try not to think about.
When he turns the corner, he sees Aventurine, waiting casually at the mouth of the alley. He glides up behind him and touches his arm.]
Please forgive my unpunctuality. [His voice is even and calm, but beneath his hood, his pale skin has gone gray. The closer he gets to his inevitable death, the less ready for it he is.] I took some time to bid my old home farewell.
I'm ready now. [He isn't. But he never will be.] Do you remember where my body is?
[ Aventurine doesn't quite startle at Sunday's touch, but his muscles do go taut. He turns, whip quick, and clamps a palm over Sunday's mouth, urging him back into the alley. There, soundless, he presses a finger to his own lips, and glances back out onto the main street.
He can't spot the Bloodhounds. Maybe they've just turned a corner or gone inside, but still... ]
I remember. [ His voice is hushed, calm but urgent. This close to the finish line, they can't afford a misstep. ] Stay where you are when you wake. No sentimental strolls across the grounds, got it? I'll be there in no time.
[ He's so ashen-faced. It's jarring, like his fall really did scorch him hollow. Sunday's utter defeat is deserved. However noble his ideals, his methods were as cruel as they were foolish, and inconvenient besides. Terribly, excruciatingly inconvenient.
The albatross at his lowest, Aventurine would take pleasure in the sight.
Kakavasha does not.
He shuts his eyes and puts on a sparkling grin, letting his hand fall from Sunday's mouth to his side. ]
Buck up, Feathers. The fun's just beginning. Wakey wakey, now.
[Sunday's wings flap in alarm when a palm is clamped over his mouth, and he's backed into the shadows of the alley behind him. Aventurine gives a shushing gesture, indicating the nearby presence of Hounds, but that doesn't matter to the Halovian, who feels like he is being manhandled. His eyes flash in violent range behind the sunglasses, and his own hands fly upward to clutch Aventurine by the throat. Ringed fingers press into the Stoneheart's trachea with enough strength to be a warning but not enough to crush.
The blazing fury remains on Sunday's features even when his mouth is finally freed.]
Do not touch me again, you reprehensible dog! [He hisses] If you require silence, then a gesture will suffice. Understand!? [His voice is quiet but strained with anger and stress. Aventurine is flinging him around like a doll. He is about to die, and he is being flung around like a doll. Can't a doomed man at least keep his dignity?
It takes a few breaths for him to calm himself down enough to ease the tension from his wings and release his near stranglehold on Aventurine. By the time his heart has settled back to its usual pace, he feels embarrassed for his outburst, though not enough to say anything. Some guilt still reflects in the tight pull of his lips.]
...Behind the Hotel. As I said, I may have trouble waking on my own.
[ Fingers lock around his throat, and Aventurine starts to laugh right away, the sound soft and strained by a narrowed airway. There is the brutality Aventurine knows, the fury he'd expected was sleeping somewhere. Violence is familiar. All at once, the monster he'd made in his mind is real again. Gratifying, to be right, and gratification is a far brighter, louder feeling than the icy nausea that threatens to curl up from the pit of his stomach.
Sunday's hand falls. There is that bad dog look in his eye, shame over doing what time and experience have taught him to do in situations like this. But how many bad dogs has Aventurine known? How much regret has he seen in the eyes of those who have raised a hand or a blade or a gun to his throat? This one is no different than the rest. Sunday will join a long line of powerful people let loose on the universe when their number should've been up, and Aventurine is going to help.
He keeps laughing, stifling the half-maddened sound behind the back of his hand, and says nothing more before he flickers out of sight.
Aventurine wakes in the Grand Hotel, tears in his eyes and strained, painful giggles in his throat. He climbs out of the Memoria pool, grabs his hat and glasses, cards a hand through his still messy blonde hair.
The elephant of a thought does cross his mind as he hurries down to the lobby -- just leave. Hasn't he done his due diligence at this point? More, even. They'd given the wannabe god a fair shot, set him loose, and he didn't manage to take flight on his own. That's just natural selection, right?
The Express Crew is assembled at the hotel front desk, hashing out final plans before leaving once more. Aventurine stalls and stares a moment. Before meeting the walking Stellaron and their adoring family, his only brush with Trailblaze had spelled the total destruction of everything he'd known and loved. The Nameless are truly the most dangerous force in the galaxy. They are also its best hope.
Outside the hotel, he makes it as far as asking a valet to bring his shuttle around.
Sunday, left to his own devices, would only be retrieved by The Family; not thrown upon the pyre, but saved for later use. He is too valuable a pawn in the coming Aeon War. And the Express is his best chance at making his own choices about whose side he takes. Aventurine does not have that luxury, but the opportunity presents to give it to someone else.
Aventurine wanders away from the pickup area, 'round the back of the hotel. Behind tapestries and pillars, tucked away, he finds Penacony's fallen prince. One final burst of anger at the sight of him fizzles. This is for the IPC. It's for Robin. It will be good for him. It has nothing to do with the fool albatross.
His touch is gentle, fingers checking pulse points for a heartbeat before he attempts to wake the former Bronze Melodia. ]
Alright, Sunshine, good morning. Time to get up.
[ Behind him, he hears footsteps. Aventurine clenches his teeth, but does his best to remain calm. ]
[Sunday is falling through a starless night sky. Above him, a vast raven with feathers of black nothingness wheels, scolds, and laughs.
"Failed so soon?"
He draws a breath to explain that he has not yet failed. A unifying chorus can still ring out across humanity. His paradise can be saved.
The retort dies on his lips. Sometimes, he thinks, it is better to remain silent than respond to foolish accusations.
"You were supposed to rise, not fall. You were supposed to be the Sun, shining upon the world in an eternal vigil, were you not?"
I was. Sunday thinks miserably to himself. I am a dead sun now. Day after day, there is less and less of me. Soon, I will be hollow. Maybe I already am.
The sickly feeling of motion in his stomach intensifies, as if he were falling faster, but with no wind nor light, it is hard to tell if he really is. He is rushing toward something, he knows. Or it is rushing toward him.
"Foolish child," croaks the raven, "If you want to accomplish anything, you have to act."
Yes.
But if you're going to act, then you have to wake up!"
Sunday crashes through the darkness into brilliant, blinding light.
---
Within the crack in the wall, Sunday sits curled in a fetal position, a bubble of memoria held to his chest, and his wings folded over his eyes.
At first, he doesn't stir, but on a second gentle prodding, he draws in a violent gasp and jerks hard enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder against a wall stud. The bubble rolls from his lap as he pushes past Aventurine into daylight. The last daylight, he realizes, that he will ever see. Never again will he smell this air, feel the wind in his feathers, or hear his sister's voice.
Suddenly, his heart seems to seize in his chest, and his lungs stop working. Robin. There is so much he wishes he could tell her. She needs to know he loves her, that he always has, that he loves her songs even if he's never mentioned it. That his near conquest of the world had been done out of love for her and everything they've ever known.
He leans against a pillar to prevent himself from toppling into Aventurine's arms and nearly sicks into the grass. A few deep breaths calm him down enough to finally register what he just heard.]
What? A train?
[There is only one train he knows of, and it ran him over multiple times. Puzzle pieces slide together in his mind.]
Oh, I see. The IPC bargained with the Nameless. You are passing me from one executioner to another. Well, that is certainly one way to dispose of me...
[Maybe he is assuming too much. The Nameless don't seem like the sort of people who would kill him. More likely, they will chain him up in the back of the train, where he will be alive and safe but unable to harm anyone.
That's better. Alive is better.
He pushes a glove through his hair, brushing out pieces of wood and drywall.]
[ Rare exotic bird, indeed. It really is a wonder he doesn't start yanking his feathers out, on top of everything else. Were it anyone else, Aventurine might have more sympathy, but he simply can't muster anymore. He takes a half step back as Sunday throws himself against a pillar, unwilling to repeat that earlier bit of violence out here in the waking world. Patiently if not particularly warmly, he waits until Sunday breathes through a panic attack, knowing he is partially responsible for it.
He crosses his arms, refusing to feel any particular way. Refusing to offer Sunday anything more than his physical presence.
The fallen sun doubles down on his paranoid distrust, lobbing venom at the only people in the galaxy that might show him as much mercy as his sister, and a terribly heavy, cold feeling runs up Aventurine's spine, down to his fingertips. He needs to be rid of this man, or he is going to go mad. ]
The Nameless still think you're in Family custody. [ He murmurs, deadpan. ] Want another chance at that ridiculous dream of yours? Convince them you're a burden worth taking on. But wait here, first.
[ Aventurine shoves past a heavy tapestry with a flourish, finding exactly what he expects on the other side, Hounds. He cuts them off before they can lay in with their usual heavy-handed interrogation tactics, greeting the Family's investigators with every ounze of insufferably smug arrogance and dazzlingly air-headed charm he can manage.
"Aventurine. IPC Manager, P45. With the Stonehearts? Now that we're... reinvested in the Sweet Dream, your little problem has become ours. And I regret to inform you, I don't think your stowaway's a stowaway anymore, boys."
Murmuring, then, one voice above the rest, "What do you mean? Clarify."
A sound of shuffling feet. Of Aventurine clicking his tongue. "You really need to get maintenance back here. There's a crack in the way big enough for an adult human to climb through, and it leads right into what looks like a storage closet."
Hushed, panicked chatter, all indecipherable.
"I've sealed that little weak point up for you for now, but you're going to need to get to it before long. You're welcome, by the way. Since we all benefit from the hotel being in top shape, I'll keep this between us. No labor invoices from HQ or anything." There is a long pause. Almost too long, and certainly tense, before Aventurine adds, "Better hurry."
Footsteps again. Quicker this time, sprinting away. Seconds later, Aventurine shoves past the tapestry again, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. ]
[Sunday doesn't move when Aventurine shoves past him. He is waiting here, he realizes. Obediently. Like a lost hound, he's allowing the other man to leash him, tell him where to go, which scents to follow, and which to ignore. Aventurine has even seen him in a vulnerable state now. He must delight in it.
The urge to sick sweeps over him again, this time because of revulsion, not panic. He is a fallen sun, and there seems to be no dignity left in his embers, only a desperation not to be extinguished completely.
A poster flutters in the light breeze, and he looks toward it. Robin's beatific face smiles down on his own disconsolate one. Usually, her smile lightens his spirit, but now, in this moment, it makes him feel even more hollow. Once again, he is the brother who disappoints his sister.
Oh, sister. What have I done?
Before he can ruminate further about his failure, Aventurine pushes back through the tapestries and gestures over his shoulder. Sunday steps away from the pillar.]
What am I running to?
[The train, he's guessing, though the question feels much bigger than that literal answer when he asks it. Where will his life go from here? What shape will it have when he opens his eyes tomorrow morning?]
[ Somewhere between the hospital bed where he'd first stirred from Nihility's haze and the conference room where Diamond reforged the stone that binds him, Aventurine had glimpsed something like hope. It was ultimately frivolous, and at least partly the fault of the Trailblazers, he thinks, for making him think that such things were possible at all. But he does not begrudge them.
It had been his own failure, his own inability to prove that he is anything more than another cog in Preservation's infinite machine. And it had been nice to dream, however briefly, of freedom.
Unfortunately, his trial has come and gone. His hands are tied again, neck shackled, head turned forcibly in service to the IPC. Standing before someone who had wronged him, who is so ungrateful for a gift he himself will always be denied is infuriating. ]
Wherever you want, Feathers. If you're asking for advice? Toward something that teaches you how to bend instead of breaking.
[ Neither one of them has time for philosophical debates at the moment. The Hounds will realize his lie shortly. The Express is leaving. He turns on his heel. ]
Welcome to the rat race.
[ Aventurine sets off at an undignified sprint for the front of the hotel. ]
[Sunday breaks into a run after Aventurine and quickly starts to flag.
Dream Nurses usually advise the residents of Penacony to get at least a few hours of wakefulness per month, as it is good for the body and mind. For someone as young as Sunday, they advised much, much more. He'd spent many of his waking hours jogging and lifting weights to keep himself toned, not out of vanity, but necessity. A strong body moves well and has good posture. As the Head of the Oak Family, this seemed important. When he gave speeches in the waking world, he wanted to project the same confidence he had in the dream. So he took care of himself.
For a while, anyway.
As the Charmony Festival drew near and his grip on Penacony tightened, Sunday stopped jogging and lifting weights. Against the wishes of the Nurses, he stopped waking up at all. His flesh was left forgotten in a Dreampool, like a discarded coat. Why bother maintaining a body he never planned to return to?
...A foolish decision in hindsight. There should have been a contingency plan for failure. While his muscles have not atrophied as badly as he thought, he is still weak and ragged when Aventurine finally stops. He slows himself to a walking pace until he's standing beside the Stoneheart once more. Behind his ribcage, his heart is pounding. He wants to fall into a crouch and catch his breath, but that would show too much weakness. So he keeps his shoulders back and chin proudly lifted, lips pulled into a tight, expressionless line. The steady heaving of his chest gives him away.]
Well, [He speaks in a carefully controlled voice on exhale] if that is what people mean by "rat race", I don't think I care for it... [A joking remark, though his strained breathing makes it hard to tell if he really is joking. He's not sure if he is, either.]
Now, will you please tell me why you have led a fugitive to the front of the Hotel? You are unlikely to find more traffic anywhere than here.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cw: Sunday's analogies
You're mocking me. [He says warily.] I am living on borrowed time, Mister Aventurine, please don't waste it.
As long as the Order interferes with the Harmony, Penacony will be...imbalanced. Over time, the Harmony here will become discordant, then fall apart, leaving the dreamers in wild, unrestrained seas of memoria. [A process that could take years. Decades maybe. Centuries even. But such slow, subtle processes are hard for people to notice until it's too late.]
If I am asking you for mercy, it is only that you give me a chance to mend my home and leave with no regrets. [His musical voice lowers. Leaving to be imprisoned for life or killed. It doesn't matter, as long as he finishes his work.] Penacony does not deserve to sink into a Hell of my making.
[Sunday walks slowly past Aventurine. His stride is slow and thoughtful, but his shoulders are squared and his posture erect. When he turns back, he lifts a dark glove to gesture next to his makeshift hood.]
...As for my appearance, I can mask it...but... I severed my halo when I left my cell. I am still a tuner. A good one. But without the Harmony's blessing, I am not as strong as I once was. Masking myself requires tuning. Fixing the dream requires tuning as well. Doing both simultaneously means splitting my focus. I don't know if you have ever had to do that, but it's like trying to fork a rushing river while standing in the middle of its currents. You are more likely to be swept away than succeed. One of my tuning processes would likely fail and... I would rather risk capture than leave any stray notes of Order.
blanket cw for theater kid shit for this whole psl prob tbh
The revelation that Sunday's abilities are diminished offers little relief. If anything, the bird's wings could stand to be clipped a little closer to the quick. Idly, Aventurine fixes the cuffs of his jacket as he listens to Sunday explain.
He can at least trust that Monsignor Stick-in-the-Mud means what he says. The man hardly seems capable of telling a real joke. And, for better or worse, Aventurine does believe that Sunday feels he is the only one who can fix what he has broken. ]
We're all living on borrowed time, birdie.
[ Aventurine steps past glowing memoria and less lovely rubbish, removes his glasses, checks them for smudges, and then offers them out. ]
A mundane disguise, then. Put these on.
[ He inclines his head, considering. Sunday is sort of unmistakable. Aventurine is sure he, himself, could pick the man out in a crowded room with little more than a glance, but then, Aventurine also enjoys a unique sort of terror-based relationship with the former Bronze Melodia's silhouette. He frowns. ]
Hmm. That coat of yours looks nice enough. Bet the seams are lapped on both sides. Turn it inside out and pull your hood up. We can pass you off as someone from the Guild or Madam Herta's station until everything sounds pretty again and we can get you to where you're going.
[ The Express, hopefully. Unless everything's gone to what a certain salt of the earth Galaxy Ranger would call total shirt. ]
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...That's the point, he realizes. He can't. He would never wear them. So he must.
With a defeated sigh, he slips the glasses over his face.]
First of all, let's think of a better nickname, shall we? I'd rather not be "birdie".
[The glasses are immediately uncomfortable with their temple tips rubbing up against the delicate feathers of his wings. For now, he will have to ignore it.]
Second, I--
[He unfastens the clasps of his longcoat and shrugs it from his shoulders, leaving him in the dark, embroidered shirt he'd always worn under his vest as Bronze Melodia. The feeling of having so little fabric hanging from his body causes his thoughts to scatter like motes of dust. With a small sound of distress, he tucks his longcoat under one arm, adjusts the glasses against his wings, and peers at Aventurine.]
I forget. [He mutters, embarrassed.] Never mind, whatever my second point was, it must not have been important.
[He slides his coat back into his hands, dextrously flips it inside out, then pulls it back on. When he reaches for the clasps again, he notices they will not work facing backwards like this. The long strips of fabric holding them are lost somewhere against his hips.]
I suppose this is going to be a problem. [His golden gaze stares down at his chest, and the emblem of Ena prominently emblazoned there. As Bronze Melodia, he'd displayed the emblem proudly. Back then, the All-Seeing Eye of the Order had been a subtle symbol, recognizable by very few, of where his true allegiances were. Now, it is a reminder of his mistakes. Not worthy of display, but not worthy of being discarded either. It is a valuable part of his story.]
Any recommendations? Other than turning my shirt inside out. I am supposed to look like a scientist, not a lunatic.
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For a blessing, he doesn't shed. Just stands there looking pitiful for a moment before resuming the work of turning his clothes inside out. And there Aventurine catches himself gritting his teeth, subconsciously resisting the feel of something threatening to root between the rungs of his ribcage. Whatever it is, this man deserves nothing from him but professional courtesy.
When Aventurine finally speaks, he's all smooth incredulity. ]
Since when are you in a position to make demands? Take a breath! We don't need to rush.
[ Except they do. They need to hurry. Who knows when the Express will depart? If this goes wrong-
Whatever. He'll make it work. It'll be easier to escort the bird to the station if he's not shaking apart from dread over unfinished business.
Aventurine's phone buzzes in his pocket. He'll check it in a moment, well aware that he will not like the contents. ]
You know- [ Their hastily established imaginary armistice demarcation line collapsed as Aventurine steps closer, removing the gold checked shawl from where it is tucked around his coat's fur lining. ] -I know plenty of scientists that also pass for lunatics. Here, wings up, I'm going to fix this...
[ He shoves down the familiar discomfort of stepping too far into someone else's space, takes a second to remind himself that Sunday is not some corrupting force that will drag him back to his own personal hell with a touch, and gingerly drapes the scarf, dull side up, over Sunday's shoulders. With deft fingers, he works a fancy, braided knot that leaves the scarf's tails covering the offending emblem. Then, out of habit and wearing a blank frown, he adjusts the lines of Sunday's coat before taking one large step back, like he needs the space to breathe again.
Not his best work, but it'll do for now. Briefly, Aventurine considers reminding Sunday that he'll want those items back. But he's not so sure he actually does, now. ]
If you remember, feel free to tell me your second request. Until then, lead the way, and let's get the Dream mended.
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He wants to snarl at the gambler to back away and remember his place. But he is a fallen sun; his body is no longer sacrosanct. From now on, he and Aventurine walk on equal ground. There is no point in protecting himself just yet.
To his surprise, Aventurine adjusts the scarf and does nothing else. No wandering fingers touch his hair or feathers, no hand drops to the dip of his waist for a brief, curious caress. The Stoneheart simply maneuvers the fabric until it covers Ena's eye, then he's stepping back again.
Sunday releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, feeling foolish.]
If I remember, I'll be sure to mention it.
[The raised, warning hand drops to fuss with the scarf a bit more, until the tails are aligned with the middle seams of his shirt and the buckle of his belt. Adjusting his appearance in front of someone else is a bit shameful, but less so than walking out into public and doing it there.
Once he's satisfied, he turns his attention away from the scarf and toward the atmosphere of Dreamflux Reef. Most of the Oak Family never knew this place was here, so the distorted notes are quieter. Quieter, but present, and he can feel one of them close by.]
This way. [He says and starts walking, not bothering to see if Aventurine actually follows.]
And we do need to rush, Mister Aventurine. The longer we linger, the more likely the Bloodhounds are to catch our scent. So please hurry.
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Aventurine rolls his eyes, turns his attention to his pockets before he follows behind. His phone is, indeed, flooded with the sort of polite corporate messages that denote both panic and blame. He fires off one or two, assuring the assembled and Lady Jade that he has found their missing package and will be hand delivering it to its intended recipient, undamaged.
Boy is he getting tired of Sunday's knack for leading him into hot water.
When he glances up, the feathered fugitive is indeed several paces ahead. Ever prim and proper, he marches headlong toward duty and the assumed death sentence that waits just beyond. How just of him. Aventurine could almost believe he really does think it's all in service to some greater good. Except he still remembers quite clearly the smile Sunday wore as he drove Harmony's hot brand into his mind.
Sunday's arrogance is not that of a fledgling about to fail his first flight. It is a pride decidedly more patriarchal -- and naive in a different way. At least it makes devising ways to steer him around easier. And the Express's crew, that too soft family of do-gooders known for their ability to forgive and forget, will take good care of him. He'll need it. Silly bird, with his cinched waist coat and perfect trouser lines. ]
I doubt the Hounds will come this far. The biggest obstacle we'll find down here is some lingering memetic banana nonsense. But- [ A sigh. ] -I guess it'd be best if we got this over with quickly. Your adoring audience is waiting.
[ It takes him three long strides to catch up, putting himself beside his charge now, but leaving ample space. ]
You aren't going to have to sing to do this, are you?
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[Sunday looks forward again and follows the wordless song of Order to a dark terrace overlooking sparking neon signs and filth. It's a spot he recognizes immediately. He'd opened his eyes and drawn an unexpected breath here after Gallagher summoned a beast to spirit him away. At the time, he thought he was dead.
Now, he thinks he should be.
The air ripples around his feathers as he lifts his hand and feels for the out-of-place notes in Dreamflux Reef's harmony.
There..]
Reveal thyself unto me, as is customary [His voice is hard and commanding as he speaks the incantation.] All creatures endowed with eyes bear souls of equal worth.
[A simple orb of golden light obediently manifests in front of him. He spares a glance back at Aventurine before turning his focus back to the distortion.
The light gleams in familiar hues, like the dazzling rays of the sun. The melody within the light is even more familiar, its rhythm matched to the beating of his heart. This distortion looks like him, sounds like him. It is him. Most of the distortions have been. Maybe that shouldn't surprise him as much as it does. The Oak Family were true believers, and Gopher Wood was the greatest of them. But Sunday had been the most willful and determined. His ironfisted rule of Penacony has left dents behind where his fingers clenched too hard.
Who else but he can mend these wounds?
His eyes drift shut, and he reaches into the distortion with his mind. After a few agonizing heartbeats spent counter-tuning his own melody, the golden orb fades away.]
I'm sorry. [He whispers to the empty air.] This is my fault, but I'll make it right.
[Movement at the corner of his eyes reminds him that Aventurine is still beside him. He straightens himself, turns, and meets his reluctant companion's gaze.]
This is the only Afterecho in Dreamflux Reef. Would you please escort me back to the dream proper? The Moment of Morning Dew is the last stop on my journey of penance. After that, you may return me to my cell.
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It does burn, though, the dawning reality of things. Aventurine is not one to spin yarns for his own comfort, but there had been an ease in weaving an image of Sunday's secret cruelty. The imagined sadist, born to privilege and power, bored with the ordinary, delighting in raking others over coals under the guise of divine justice -- he'd first taken shape in the weeks Aventurine had spent in a hospital bed after being fished out of the deepest reaches of the Dream. But now... now there is clarity. Aventurine's boogeyman doesn't exist. It is just a phantom crafted to assign greater meaning to what he had been forced to relive, and Sunday is only one more fool, certain of his own righteousness.
Aventurine cannot decide whether it's better or worse than the monster was never real. The pointlessness of it weighs on him, enough to stall his breath, but not enough to keep him from getting his work done. He will ever be a model corporate cog, and he stands, unmoving, showing no outward sign of anger or fear, as Sunday works his magic.
It is uncomfortable, but discomfort has long been Aventurine's constant companion. Still, he looks away when Sunday tries to meet his eye. ]
Sure, Morning Dew. Going to be a little more heavily patrolled than here, but I'm sure we can make it work.
[ He pulls out his phone to give himself something else to focus on, but there are no new notifications. That, in and of itself, is message enough, so he pockets the phone once more and sets off toward one of Dewlight's many dark and winding exits. The path leads them down an almost uncomfortably narrow alley ending in a strange framed painting of a tear in space surrounded by grasping hands. ]
Any clue where your body is, Mister Sunday? In the waking world, I mean.
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[His voice drops low in his throat and rattles out as a whisper. It's not safe, and there is nothing to be done about that. The only way he can do his work is by not thinking about it, which has been difficult. Whenever he feels his mind wander, it wanders back there, to the waking world and the corpse-like heap where his mind once was.
His stride slows, then pauses.]
Yes, I suppose it would be prudent to know where it is, unless you were planning to shackle my dreaming mind. [He turns to fully face Aventurine and his wings flutter in worry.]
Most of the Reverie Hotel is under careful surveillance, but there is one place with no cameras or security patrols. Behind the building, there are pillars with hanging tapestries of my sister. She used to do performances there, but it is an unused staging area now. So nobody goes there.
Five feet to the left of the pillars is a crack in the wall. [Here, some old memories rise to the surface and he laughs a small, musical laugh.]
Haha... I've actually been meaning to have it fixed for a long time, but-- [Not important. He waves a glove through the air.] It's for the best that I didn't. That's where I am. Inside the wall with a memoria bubble...
[He pauses a moment to let the implication of that sink in.]
The truth is, I'm a stowaway in my own home. I used a memoria bubble and tuned myself to sink into the dream. I'm surprised it worked, to be honest. For now, at least. The Hounds are not the only threat to me, Mister Aventurine. The way I came here is very dangerous. In time, if I am not captured, then... [Exposure to unprocessed memoria will degrade his mind and body until he is completely unfamiliar to himself.]
Anyway, that is where you will find me. I may require your assistance to wake up.
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As it stands, it's only a relief that he needn't go too far out of the way to claim their prize package and get it to where it needs to go. The sooner he can be parted from the man who still looks at him like he's the criminal, the better. ]
Surprisingly daring of you, Mister Sunday. [ It is, after all, not in keeping with Monsignor Stick-in-the-Mud's perfectly logical and moral image. ] Through here.
[ Aventurine presses a palm to the painting at the end of the alley, and the both of them are drawn through to a dreamy realm of strange geometry. It is by no means easy to navigate, and Aventurine himself cannot hope to tap into some innate sense of navigation for fear of winding up in that pitch black ocean of nothing again, but luck is, as ever, on his side. So he lets that guide him.
He picks a path that feels right, leads them down a path that angles up into the sky, and before long finds another portrait. He has a feeling this is where they need to be.
When he speaks, his characteristic slick, chipper tone feels particularly artificial. ]
Here we go! The Moment of Morning Dew, and then we'll get you to where you need to be. Taking care not to injure your body or mind, of course. You have my word.
[ However little that is worth here and now. ]
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He says nothing about this and follows Aventurine up through the twisting, impossible shapes of the memoria between worlds. It doesn't seem like his guide knows where to go, though Sunday can feel his own senses pull him one way or another. A lifetime in the dream has given him instincts for navigating its illogical expanses. Surprisingly, Aventurine, whether by wit or luck, manages to choose all the correct pathways until they emerge back into Penacony.
Sunday looks up at the looming silhouette of Dewlight Pavilion a block away. Within it, a half dozen Afterechoes sing his soul's doleful melody.]
There are secret passages in and out of the Pavilion. [He says softly, hoping to ease any of Aventurine's worries.] Only the Family Heads know about them, so they should be unpatrolled. It's the safest way in.
[One of the Afterechoes is no doubt in his old office, where he plotted and schemed and drove the claws of the Order further into the Harmony. It is also where he received and tuned Aventurine. A necessary action to keep a rival on a tight leash and flush out a murderer who never actually existed. At the time, of course, the murderer seemed like a deadly reality. One who had slain Robin. The tuning was an act of brutal justice, but he doubts his companion sees it that way.
He peers at Aventurine from beneath his hood.]
I can do this part alone if you trust me not to run away.
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You wouldn't run. I think if you thought it was the right thing to do you'd walk yourself into a bonfire and have a seat.
[ Still, it wouldn't be so bad, waiting out here to get things done. The thought of that room, dimly lit and windowless, near empty but still somehow cramped, sits askew in his mind still. Aventurine crosses his arms, hums a thoughtful sound as he considers. ]
What I'm afraid of is you handing yourself over to the first contractor or maid you accidentally stumble across.
[ And the absolute last thing they need right now is for more than just the Bloodhounds knowing he's escaped and wandering around the dream again. It'll be hard enough to get the bird from behind the hotel to the fore without everyone noticing, let alone convincing the Express to take him if they've got half the lobby staff on their tail.
Aventurine sweeps an arm out, gesturing for Sunday to again take the lead. ]
So, let's get your Dream fixed. I promise I'll be fine.
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All right... I was hoping you would stay here, honestly. [Though as he speaks, he turns and starts walking down the alley, making his way to where he remembers the tunnels to be.] If you are accompanying me, then do not speak a word of these tunnels to anyone. [His voice gains an edge of steel. This is a demand, not a request.] I may not be a Family Head anymore, but my sister... If something happened and she couldn't use her one means of escape, all because of me, then I would never forgive myself. Never.
[And maybe that propensity for guilt is the reason Aventurine thinks he'd behave foolishly if caught in the open.]
...One more thing. You think far too little of me. Just because I should be dead doesn't mean I want to be. I would not turn myself in to the Family. More than anything, I want to live. [Here he pauses and looks back at Aventurine with an expression that is both mournful and icy, though it is partially hidden beneath the sunglasses.] But I accept that my future is not currently in my hands.
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You don't forgive yourself. Ever. And protecting other sisters from their foolish brothers doesn't help, no matter how many times you try.
[ He starts walking again, brushing past Sunday as they amble down the narrow path. More than anything he wants to leave this conversation behind, and this infuriating halovian in the hands of someone better suited to managing him. ]
I wouldn't endanger her. And part of that? It's keeping you in once piece.
[ Aventurine stops, turns, and looks Sunday up and down. ]
If it'll make you feel better, I'll wait here. It won't hurt to have someone keeping watch. Fifteen minutes, though. And then I come get you.
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Hngh. I doubt that will be enough time. But I'll try.
[He walks off down the alley alone. Along the way, he thinks about Aventurine's words. I wouldn't endanger her. And part of that? It's keeping you in once piece..
Sunday will have to protect himself for Robin's sake, and it's not something he's used to doing. The high walls of Dewlight Pavilion and the bright lights of Penacony have always sheltered him. In the rare times he left the Hotel to make public appearances in the waking world, he had his Honor Guard. But not anymore. Now, the only person he can rely on is himself.
He's not sure if he's very reliable.
A dark alley stretches before him, ending in the wall of a smaller office building. Or so it seems. The illusion is strong enough to fool all but the most powerful of tuners. When one looks at it, it is made of bricks. Lying a hand upon it, one feels solid stone. But its structure is slightly askew, every molecule one atom to the left of where it should be—a purposeful flaw in the weave of the Dream, exploitable by Family Heads.
Sunday twirls his fingers in the air.]
Oh, Triple Faced Soul! Here the light will lie! Lend me your wisdom, that I may see the truth!
[The incantation loops through the air like a song, dispelling the illusion, but for his eyes alone. With another sigh, he slinks into the tunnels.
Fifteen minutes later, he still has not reemerged.]
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His phone is no solace, but he pulls it out anyway and leans against a stone wall that should feel damp and cold but isn't. Aventurine fires off a message to Topaz, and promptly, unsurprisingly, gets a neatly organized wall of text back, updates about the status of the Astral Express. Rumors of fuel issues. Last minute shopping and business settling, it sounds like. Some other traveler they're taking on, a Foxian in an ornate kimono. At least they've got a good chance at getting Sunday an audience, still.
Assuming he isn't holed up in his old stomping grounds all day.
Fifteen minutes comes and goes, and Aventurine paces down and back up the alley. If there's a path here leading into the manor, it will not open for him, and so it seems he must head in through the front.
Just as he steps back out onto the main street, three Bloodhounds in crisp slacks, black shirts, and suspenders walk by. He offers a smile and a tip of the hat as they pass, expression not betraying a sudden spike of panic. Damn. Did Sunday recover his phone? Even if he has it, what if the thing's confiscated?
Aventurine glances over his shoulder, peering back down the alley, and decides to... wait. Three more minutes. Just to see where the Bloodhounds are headed, then it's time to find the bird and flee. ]
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He takes a moment, a dangerous moment, he realizes, to linger in his old office. The smells are dulled from the dream. If the building existed in reality, he imagines it would smell like leather and old books. Distant, muffled sounds seem loud in the room's stillness. This now-empty place had once been a second home to him. Here he plotted and schemed and spent his adult years aiming his life toward one single moment. And he will never return.
He lingers longer than he knows he should, giving his wordless goodbyes, then ducks back into the tunnels beyond the bookshelf. Along his walk, he thinks dark thoughts.
Lady Bonajade had released him from his cell. So why has another agent come for him? Maybe the doctor had been right when he said the Stonehearts weren't always in alliance. Aventurine has reasons for hating him and turning him over to the Family, regardless of Bonajade's actions. The gambler must be eager to get his hands on him once more.
And I will allow it, Sunday thinks to himself as he emerges from the tunnels. If he is to be tried as a heretic and executed upon Xipe's altar, his song made forever silent, then so be it. At least Penacony will be safe. And the gambler's smirking, triumphant face over another victory in a storied career is something Sunday will have to try not to think about.
When he turns the corner, he sees Aventurine, waiting casually at the mouth of the alley. He glides up behind him and touches his arm.]
Please forgive my unpunctuality. [His voice is even and calm, but beneath his hood, his pale skin has gone gray. The closer he gets to his inevitable death, the less ready for it he is.] I took some time to bid my old home farewell.
I'm ready now. [He isn't. But he never will be.] Do you remember where my body is?
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He can't spot the Bloodhounds. Maybe they've just turned a corner or gone inside, but still... ]
I remember. [ His voice is hushed, calm but urgent. This close to the finish line, they can't afford a misstep. ] Stay where you are when you wake. No sentimental strolls across the grounds, got it? I'll be there in no time.
[ He's so ashen-faced. It's jarring, like his fall really did scorch him hollow. Sunday's utter defeat is deserved. However noble his ideals, his methods were as cruel as they were foolish, and inconvenient besides. Terribly, excruciatingly inconvenient.
The albatross at his lowest, Aventurine would take pleasure in the sight.
Kakavasha does not.
He shuts his eyes and puts on a sparkling grin, letting his hand fall from Sunday's mouth to his side. ]
Buck up, Feathers. The fun's just beginning. Wakey wakey, now.
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The blazing fury remains on Sunday's features even when his mouth is finally freed.]
Do not touch me again, you reprehensible dog! [He hisses] If you require silence, then a gesture will suffice. Understand!? [His voice is quiet but strained with anger and stress. Aventurine is flinging him around like a doll. He is about to die, and he is being flung around like a doll. Can't a doomed man at least keep his dignity?
It takes a few breaths for him to calm himself down enough to ease the tension from his wings and release his near stranglehold on Aventurine. By the time his heart has settled back to its usual pace, he feels embarrassed for his outburst, though not enough to say anything. Some guilt still reflects in the tight pull of his lips.]
...Behind the Hotel. As I said, I may have trouble waking on my own.
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Sunday's hand falls. There is that bad dog look in his eye, shame over doing what time and experience have taught him to do in situations like this. But how many bad dogs has Aventurine known? How much regret has he seen in the eyes of those who have raised a hand or a blade or a gun to his throat? This one is no different than the rest. Sunday will join a long line of powerful people let loose on the universe when their number should've been up, and Aventurine is going to help.
He keeps laughing, stifling the half-maddened sound behind the back of his hand, and says nothing more before he flickers out of sight.
Aventurine wakes in the Grand Hotel, tears in his eyes and strained, painful giggles in his throat. He climbs out of the Memoria pool, grabs his hat and glasses, cards a hand through his still messy blonde hair.
The elephant of a thought does cross his mind as he hurries down to the lobby -- just leave. Hasn't he done his due diligence at this point? More, even. They'd given the wannabe god a fair shot, set him loose, and he didn't manage to take flight on his own. That's just natural selection, right?
The Express Crew is assembled at the hotel front desk, hashing out final plans before leaving once more. Aventurine stalls and stares a moment. Before meeting the walking Stellaron and their adoring family, his only brush with Trailblaze had spelled the total destruction of everything he'd known and loved. The Nameless are truly the most dangerous force in the galaxy. They are also its best hope.
Outside the hotel, he makes it as far as asking a valet to bring his shuttle around.
Sunday, left to his own devices, would only be retrieved by The Family; not thrown upon the pyre, but saved for later use. He is too valuable a pawn in the coming Aeon War. And the Express is his best chance at making his own choices about whose side he takes. Aventurine does not have that luxury, but the opportunity presents to give it to someone else.
Aventurine wanders away from the pickup area, 'round the back of the hotel. Behind tapestries and pillars, tucked away, he finds Penacony's fallen prince. One final burst of anger at the sight of him fizzles. This is for the IPC. It's for Robin. It will be good for him. It has nothing to do with the fool albatross.
His touch is gentle, fingers checking pulse points for a heartbeat before he attempts to wake the former Bronze Melodia. ]
Alright, Sunshine, good morning. Time to get up.
[ Behind him, he hears footsteps. Aventurine clenches his teeth, but does his best to remain calm. ]
You've got a train to catch.
cw: panic attack in here
"Failed so soon?"
He draws a breath to explain that he has not yet failed. A unifying chorus can still ring out across humanity. His paradise can be saved.
The retort dies on his lips. Sometimes, he thinks, it is better to remain silent than respond to foolish accusations.
"You were supposed to rise, not fall. You were supposed to be the Sun, shining upon the world in an eternal vigil, were you not?"
I was. Sunday thinks miserably to himself. I am a dead sun now. Day after day, there is less and less of me. Soon, I will be hollow. Maybe I already am.
The sickly feeling of motion in his stomach intensifies, as if he were falling faster, but with no wind nor light, it is hard to tell if he really is. He is rushing toward something, he knows. Or it is rushing toward him.
"Foolish child," croaks the raven, "If you want to accomplish anything, you have to act."
Yes.
But if you're going to act, then you have to wake up!"
Sunday crashes through the darkness into brilliant, blinding light.
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Within the crack in the wall, Sunday sits curled in a fetal position, a bubble of memoria held to his chest, and his wings folded over his eyes.
At first, he doesn't stir, but on a second gentle prodding, he draws in a violent gasp and jerks hard enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder against a wall stud. The bubble rolls from his lap as he pushes past Aventurine into daylight. The last daylight, he realizes, that he will ever see. Never again will he smell this air, feel the wind in his feathers, or hear his sister's voice.
Suddenly, his heart seems to seize in his chest, and his lungs stop working. Robin. There is so much he wishes he could tell her. She needs to know he loves her, that he always has, that he loves her songs even if he's never mentioned it. That his near conquest of the world had been done out of love for her and everything they've ever known.
He leans against a pillar to prevent himself from toppling into Aventurine's arms and nearly sicks into the grass. A few deep breaths calm him down enough to finally register what he just heard.]
What? A train?
[There is only one train he knows of, and it ran him over multiple times. Puzzle pieces slide together in his mind.]
Oh, I see. The IPC bargained with the Nameless. You are passing me from one executioner to another. Well, that is certainly one way to dispose of me...
[Maybe he is assuming too much. The Nameless don't seem like the sort of people who would kill him. More likely, they will chain him up in the back of the train, where he will be alive and safe but unable to harm anyone.
That's better. Alive is better.
He pushes a glove through his hair, brushing out pieces of wood and drywall.]
Fine. [Then he too hears the footsteps.]
...What now?
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He crosses his arms, refusing to feel any particular way. Refusing to offer Sunday anything more than his physical presence.
The fallen sun doubles down on his paranoid distrust, lobbing venom at the only people in the galaxy that might show him as much mercy as his sister, and a terribly heavy, cold feeling runs up Aventurine's spine, down to his fingertips. He needs to be rid of this man, or he is going to go mad. ]
The Nameless still think you're in Family custody. [ He murmurs, deadpan. ] Want another chance at that ridiculous dream of yours? Convince them you're a burden worth taking on. But wait here, first.
[ Aventurine shoves past a heavy tapestry with a flourish, finding exactly what he expects on the other side, Hounds. He cuts them off before they can lay in with their usual heavy-handed interrogation tactics, greeting the Family's investigators with every ounze of insufferably smug arrogance and dazzlingly air-headed charm he can manage.
"Aventurine. IPC Manager, P45. With the Stonehearts? Now that we're... reinvested in the Sweet Dream, your little problem has become ours. And I regret to inform you, I don't think your stowaway's a stowaway anymore, boys."
Murmuring, then, one voice above the rest, "What do you mean? Clarify."
A sound of shuffling feet. Of Aventurine clicking his tongue. "You really need to get maintenance back here. There's a crack in the way big enough for an adult human to climb through, and it leads right into what looks like a storage closet."
Hushed, panicked chatter, all indecipherable.
"I've sealed that little weak point up for you for now, but you're going to need to get to it before long. You're welcome, by the way. Since we all benefit from the hotel being in top shape, I'll keep this between us. No labor invoices from HQ or anything." There is a long pause. Almost too long, and certainly tense, before Aventurine adds, "Better hurry."
Footsteps again. Quicker this time, sprinting away. Seconds later, Aventurine shoves past the tapestry again, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. ]
We should run.
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The urge to sick sweeps over him again, this time because of revulsion, not panic. He is a fallen sun, and there seems to be no dignity left in his embers, only a desperation not to be extinguished completely.
A poster flutters in the light breeze, and he looks toward it. Robin's beatific face smiles down on his own disconsolate one. Usually, her smile lightens his spirit, but now, in this moment, it makes him feel even more hollow. Once again, he is the brother who disappoints his sister.
Oh, sister. What have I done?
Before he can ruminate further about his failure, Aventurine pushes back through the tapestries and gestures over his shoulder. Sunday steps away from the pillar.]
What am I running to?
[The train, he's guessing, though the question feels much bigger than that literal answer when he asks it. Where will his life go from here? What shape will it have when he opens his eyes tomorrow morning?]
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It had been his own failure, his own inability to prove that he is anything more than another cog in Preservation's infinite machine. And it had been nice to dream, however briefly, of freedom.
Unfortunately, his trial has come and gone. His hands are tied again, neck shackled, head turned forcibly in service to the IPC. Standing before someone who had wronged him, who is so ungrateful for a gift he himself will always be denied is infuriating. ]
Wherever you want, Feathers. If you're asking for advice? Toward something that teaches you how to bend instead of breaking.
[ Neither one of them has time for philosophical debates at the moment. The Hounds will realize his lie shortly. The Express is leaving. He turns on his heel. ]
Welcome to the rat race.
[ Aventurine sets off at an undignified sprint for the front of the hotel. ]
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Dream Nurses usually advise the residents of Penacony to get at least a few hours of wakefulness per month, as it is good for the body and mind. For someone as young as Sunday, they advised much, much more. He'd spent many of his waking hours jogging and lifting weights to keep himself toned, not out of vanity, but necessity. A strong body moves well and has good posture. As the Head of the Oak Family, this seemed important. When he gave speeches in the waking world, he wanted to project the same confidence he had in the dream. So he took care of himself.
For a while, anyway.
As the Charmony Festival drew near and his grip on Penacony tightened, Sunday stopped jogging and lifting weights. Against the wishes of the Nurses, he stopped waking up at all. His flesh was left forgotten in a Dreampool, like a discarded coat. Why bother maintaining a body he never planned to return to?
...A foolish decision in hindsight. There should have been a contingency plan for failure. While his muscles have not atrophied as badly as he thought, he is still weak and ragged when Aventurine finally stops. He slows himself to a walking pace until he's standing beside the Stoneheart once more. Behind his ribcage, his heart is pounding. He wants to fall into a crouch and catch his breath, but that would show too much weakness. So he keeps his shoulders back and chin proudly lifted, lips pulled into a tight, expressionless line. The steady heaving of his chest gives him away.]
Well, [He speaks in a carefully controlled voice on exhale] if that is what people mean by "rat race", I don't think I care for it... [A joking remark, though his strained breathing makes it hard to tell if he really is joking. He's not sure if he is, either.]
Now, will you please tell me why you have led a fugitive to the front of the Hotel? You are unlikely to find more traffic anywhere than here.
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cw: torture, guilt
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cw: yapping, Sunday's analogies
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cw: suicidal ideation
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cw: uh
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cw: suicidal ideation (sort of)
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