[ 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.
[ Aventurine stands staring up at the glittering network of shuttles and ships zipping around overhead. A sea of dreamchasers all itching to get into a paradise that is no longer entirely safe, and the one group of visitors he'd needed to see with are presently departing. He gestures, arm outstretched, past smaller vessels toward the train in the distance, locking mechanisms disengaging so that it can continue along on its ethereal silver rail. ]
That is why I led you here. [ he bites back, turning to stare Sunday down. ] Your best chance at real freedom, currently leaving the station.
[ His gaze cuts over Sunday's shoulder. At the hotel's front door, a crowd of Hounds, their uniform simple but unmistakable, gather. ]
You think if they catch you, they'll kill you, force you to face some sort of due justice, but they won't. It'll be worse.
[ Does he know that for certain? No. But countless bruises, brands, and scars have clued him in to how the galaxy works, how Aeons and their followers operate. Every soul is bled dry, of money, of time, of power, in service to entities that don't even care. ]
You're not a player, anymore, Feathers. You're a piece. A powerful one. I'd rather just... leave you here to face it. [ No he wouldn't. Not Kakavasha, who cannot stand to see others shackled. But he is not being Kakavasha right now. ] But Jade hates favors left unpaid, and Diamond's got plans that hinge on you not singing for the Family. So, if you really want to live, want the chance to see everyone's favorite angel again-
[ Almost bizarrely on cue, a young woman clad in the clothes of a hotel valet jogs up from a waiting IPC black-and-red shuttle to stand beside them, "Mister Aventurine?"
Aventurine retrieves his phone from his pocket one handed, hold the other out, palm up, expectantly. The hotel employee deposits a fob in his hand. "Your shuttle, sir."
A few swipes on his phone, and he tips the young lady enough credits to make her breath catch and eyes glaze. "Thank you, sir!"
She jogs off to a gaggle of other valets, assumedly to gab about the money she's just received. The valet doesn't even glance at Sunday before going. Just another random patron standing between her and her shift's end, which just got infinitely more exciting. ]
-then we've got to leave Penacony now. Are you coming?
[Pulled from the plans of the Oak Family and shoved into the plans of the IPC, then. Sunday's expression sours. With the Oaks, at least, he had an advantage. He'd used them as much as they'd used him. In the end, helping them achieve their ambitions became one step in achieving his own. But the Oak Family was relatively small. If the IPC traps him in their bureaucratic hell, he doubts he'll be able to escape.
The incoming Hounds represent his only other option: Be captured by The Family and killed. Or worse. It's hard to imagine what would be worse than dying. Living to see others die, maybe. That would be worse. Being imprisoned for use as a weapon. That would be worse. By now, The Family knows that Gopher Wood's adopted son is a man with a soul sturdy enough to become an Emanator of the Harmony if needed. The Embryo of Philosophy could rise again. Next time, it will give birth to a much worse god. He could become the Embryo of Finality itself.
The more he thinks, the more he knows one thing for certain: Falling into the hands of The Family is not an option. With the IPC, there is hope, weak though it may be.
Sunday sighs and looks up at the edifice of the Reverie Hotel.]
Farewell, Penacony. When I return...if I return... it will be as a traveler. You may not recognize me anymore, but I hope to make you proud, nonetheless.
[He adjusts his hood, makes sure his wings are well tucked beneath it, then looks over at Aventurine.]
...I cannot stay. I'll come with you, if you are certain you're okay with that.
[ Time may be wearing thin, but Aventurine does not interrupt Sunday's goodbyes. He does not react to the former Bronze Melodia's idealistic promise to the place that had once been his kingdom, choosing to bury his nose in his phone, instead. Any person ripped from all they know deserves at least that much.
In the meantime, Aventurine fires off several messages about undeliverable packages, unavailable recipients, and difficulties with customs. Overhead, the Astral Express makes a slow departure for deeper space. If they are quick, perhaps he'll have the time to dump Sunday in their observation car while they do that twee little voting ritual of theirs.
Sunday's next words yank him from his planning with the force of a hard stop. He laughs, brows knitting up in disbelief. ]
Oh! So you are aware that others have boundaries. [ Only when at his lowest. Only when owing a favor. Just like everyone else. ] Don't worry, you stomped over any I might've had weeks ago. I'm certain that what's best for both of us is I get you away from Penacony, and that's enough.
[ Phone into pocket, he beckons with his newly free hand. Behind them, a man in a shirt, tie, and suspenders shouts for him. Aventurine ignores it as though he's forgotten his own name, keeping his unhurried pace.
With a click of an invisible button on the smooth black fob in hand, the doors on the IPC shuttle slide open. It's a sleek three-seater meant for land travel and short ship-to-planet trips. There's something sort of ominous about the all black leather interior, and Aventurine, in his bright gold and jewel tones and peacock attire, looks entirely out of place as he slides into the pilot's seat.
One hand resting on the controls, he turns and pats one of the other two bucket seats, all jovial smarm again. ]
[There is snide disbelief in Aventurine's voice when he looks up from his phone and a glimmer of acid in his jewel-like eyes.]
Of course I am.
[But the gambler doesn't understand. He could never understand the immense burden Sunday had carried when he invoked the Harmony's consecration.
With a sigh, Sunday slips into the cramped shuttle. The tight space doesn't bother him, not after so much time spent in a confessional, but the sheer black is strangely oppressive. This must be the IPC's idea of modern stylishness, very different from the whimsical architecture of Penacony.
Once he is fully seated, he leans forward to address Aventurine.]
I am agreeing to accompany you, Mister Aventurine, but please do not speak to me that way. [While his voice is mostly light, there is a steely edge to it.] I'm sure I must be a burden to you, but I am not the one who assigned you whatever job this is. So don't take your frustrations out on me.
[ Aventurine does not immediately close the shuttle doors. He angles further in his seat, tucking an elbow against the plush headrest of the pilot's seat. His eyes reflect the dim overhead light, the red glow of accent lights inside the otherwise dark craft interior as his gaze flicks down and then back up. ]
Do you remember how you smiled? That smug little grin on your face when you invoked an Aeon you don't even worship and branded me, I mean. You liked it, didn't you? Punishing me for my arrogance. A death sentence wasn't enough. But dragging me back through... famine and fire and war because I wronged you? Oh, that did it, didn't it? Justice undeniably served.
[ Aventurine takes a breath, voice calm, musing over their past interactions as though he does not ruminate over them daily, as though they do not figure prominently into his restless, horrifying nightmares, bleeding into Nihility's ocean. Outside, the Hounds close in around the shuttle. ]
I don't carry Harmony's brand, anymore, Mister Sunday, but I do carry your smile still. And I am here because of you. So, I don't think my "frustrations" are misplaced.
[ One of the Hounds, a broad-shouldered man, crouches down as though about to reach into the shuttle. Aventurine turns, sitting forward once again, flicks a switch on the shuttle dash and the doors snap shut soundlessly. Another button press, a tilt of the controls, and the shuttle rockets skyward, zipping past other vessels to leave Penacony's cloud of memoria, bound for Aventurine's private ship. ]
But, sure. We can keep it professional from here on out.
[ With any luck at all it won't be much longer. If he plays his cards right, the albatross will board the train and he can go back to just being at the bottom of Diamond's naughty list. ]
[Sunday thinks, reflecting on that night in his office when he, maddened by the news of his sister's death, made the one move available to him.]
You had come to purchase my paradise from under me when I was so close to ascension, were you not? [Which is not something he'd been told, but something he'd figured out. The timing of Aventurine's arrival and his movements afterward had suggested something untrustworthy about him. Sunday suspected the IPC was using their ambassador as a means of destabilizing Penacony and having an excuse to retake it. He hasn't spent much time outside his home, but he knows how corporations operate and what greed motivates them to do.]
Using you to investigate my sister's murder seemed like the best option. It would solve two problems at once. And when you approached me, your confident swagger disgusted me. We hadn't yet spoken, and you already considered yourself the victor. So... yes, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed watching you experience humility. It was justice...
[But the way Aventurine talks about it sounds wrong. As if Sunday had bored into his mind, dragged his memories to the surface, then threw them about like unwanted refuse. Sunday doesn't remember doing any of that. All he remembers is a desperate gambler giving away his gems, then making his way to the Grand Theater.]
Your noisome flailing scattered the Hounds directly into my grasp and they were the ones I was truly after.
[Guilt knots his chest when he hears himself say those words. The Hounds were the true cause of his pain and frustration. Aventurine had been a convenient pawn, that was all. One that had been damaged in the midst of the game, and he'd never noticed. He reaches out and grasps Aventurine's shoulder.]
You were intended to undergo a trial. At the end, I was to decide whether you could coalesce into the Harmony or perish. I wanted you to face my judgment, yes, but it was not my intention to harm you. I am sorry that happened.
[A gentle squeeze, then he sits back and watches his home spiral away into the distance outside the shuttle window.]
[ Aventurine does not flinch under Sunday's touch, but he does roll his shoulder once he's drawn his hand away. He sits in silence, not feeling nothing, just refusing to acknowledge the roil of it all inside, gloved hands tightening on the controls. No reason to answer what was hardly an apology, anyway.
Even with Mythus and the Fools directing separate shows, the Oak Family and Sunday singing songs distinct from each other and the Harmony, even with layers upon layers of betrayal woven into every tale, every part had been played to perfection. Each actor in their role, using others to meet their specific goals. Aventurine perhaps more than most -- though he had, it seems, been well used in return.
He thinks again that perhaps he'd deserved the brand and the punishment that followed. Diamond binding him anew was both further deserved punishment and not enough. No matter how he hates it, hates this, he feels neither cleansed nor uplifted by experience. Nothing makes his survival feel earned. And yet he still wakes at night in a cold sweat, terrorized by the idea that what little of him remains might sublimate as he sleeps, destroyed or consumed by Harmony's whole. To know that his bespoke torment is the one thing Sunday had not conducted himself -- why, then? Had there been a reason for it? A purpose in it at all?
Lights streak by. Penacony shrinks into a glittering cloud, ahead only the sea of stars waits. Faster, faster, past ships meant for travel in deep space, into the dark. He and Ena's fallen prince, another cast off of the machinations of gods. He hates having anything in common with the albatross. Hates his stupid non-apology. The quiet music of his voice compared to what he recalls in his dreams. That he has the capacity to be so gentle, so warm, when what he'd done had been so relentlessly cruel.
The dash beeps. A red light flickers. ]
Damn. [ Aventurine banks the shuttle just in time to catch the tail lights on the express glowing red. As his mouth opens to protest, the train stretches into a long line of light, blinking away for parts unknown, silver trail left in its wake. ] Damn!
[ He fights the urge to sit in stunned silence and steers the shuttle back toward his own ship, one modest silver-white vessel idling among many others within Penacony's orbit. A few more button presses, a hangar opens on the vessel, and the shuttle docks with ease. Aventurine pulls out his phone and begins typing furiously; he needs to know where the Express is going, what their current options are.
While he waits for the shuttle doors to open, he turns in his seat again, fixing himself up with some of that confident swagger that Sunday evidently despises. ]
Looks like we're both stuck in purgatory a bit longer, Mister Sunday. Don't worry. I'm sure we'll both land on our feet.
[ Finally, the shuttle opens. Beyond its doors is a small, brightly lit cargo bay, all cream with patterned turquoise accents, neatly organized boxes on stacked and labeled, all of it considerably warmer than the ominous red and black of the shuttle.
With a bit more urgency than he means to show, he climbs out of the shuttle. ]
But we really shouldn't linger in Asdana. So, where to? Washtopia?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
---
Within the crack in the wall, Sunday sits curled in a fetal position, a bubble of memoria held to his chest, and his wings folded over his eyes.
At first, he doesn't stir, but on a second gentle prodding, he draws in a violent gasp and jerks hard enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder against a wall stud. The bubble rolls from his lap as he pushes past Aventurine into daylight. The last daylight, he realizes, that he will ever see. Never again will he smell this air, feel the wind in his feathers, or hear his sister's voice.
Suddenly, his heart seems to seize in his chest, and his lungs stop working. Robin. There is so much he wishes he could tell her. She needs to know he loves her, that he always has, that he loves her songs even if he's never mentioned it. That his near conquest of the world had been done out of love for her and everything they've ever known.
He leans against a pillar to prevent himself from toppling into Aventurine's arms and nearly sicks into the grass. A few deep breaths calm him down enough to finally register what he just heard.]
What? A train?
[There is only one train he knows of, and it ran him over multiple times. Puzzle pieces slide together in his mind.]
Oh, I see. The IPC bargained with the Nameless. You are passing me from one executioner to another. Well, that is certainly one way to dispose of me...
[Maybe he is assuming too much. The Nameless don't seem like the sort of people who would kill him. More likely, they will chain him up in the back of the train, where he will be alive and safe but unable to harm anyone.
That's better. Alive is better.
He pushes a glove through his hair, brushing out pieces of wood and drywall.]
Fine. [Then he too hears the footsteps.]
...What now?
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He crosses his arms, refusing to feel any particular way. Refusing to offer Sunday anything more than his physical presence.
The fallen sun doubles down on his paranoid distrust, lobbing venom at the only people in the galaxy that might show him as much mercy as his sister, and a terribly heavy, cold feeling runs up Aventurine's spine, down to his fingertips. He needs to be rid of this man, or he is going to go mad. ]
The Nameless still think you're in Family custody. [ He murmurs, deadpan. ] Want another chance at that ridiculous dream of yours? Convince them you're a burden worth taking on. But wait here, first.
[ Aventurine shoves past a heavy tapestry with a flourish, finding exactly what he expects on the other side, Hounds. He cuts them off before they can lay in with their usual heavy-handed interrogation tactics, greeting the Family's investigators with every ounze of insufferably smug arrogance and dazzlingly air-headed charm he can manage.
"Aventurine. IPC Manager, P45. With the Stonehearts? Now that we're... reinvested in the Sweet Dream, your little problem has become ours. And I regret to inform you, I don't think your stowaway's a stowaway anymore, boys."
Murmuring, then, one voice above the rest, "What do you mean? Clarify."
A sound of shuffling feet. Of Aventurine clicking his tongue. "You really need to get maintenance back here. There's a crack in the way big enough for an adult human to climb through, and it leads right into what looks like a storage closet."
Hushed, panicked chatter, all indecipherable.
"I've sealed that little weak point up for you for now, but you're going to need to get to it before long. You're welcome, by the way. Since we all benefit from the hotel being in top shape, I'll keep this between us. No labor invoices from HQ or anything." There is a long pause. Almost too long, and certainly tense, before Aventurine adds, "Better hurry."
Footsteps again. Quicker this time, sprinting away. Seconds later, Aventurine shoves past the tapestry again, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. ]
We should run.
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The urge to sick sweeps over him again, this time because of revulsion, not panic. He is a fallen sun, and there seems to be no dignity left in his embers, only a desperation not to be extinguished completely.
A poster flutters in the light breeze, and he looks toward it. Robin's beatific face smiles down on his own disconsolate one. Usually, her smile lightens his spirit, but now, in this moment, it makes him feel even more hollow. Once again, he is the brother who disappoints his sister.
Oh, sister. What have I done?
Before he can ruminate further about his failure, Aventurine pushes back through the tapestries and gestures over his shoulder. Sunday steps away from the pillar.]
What am I running to?
[The train, he's guessing, though the question feels much bigger than that literal answer when he asks it. Where will his life go from here? What shape will it have when he opens his eyes tomorrow morning?]
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It had been his own failure, his own inability to prove that he is anything more than another cog in Preservation's infinite machine. And it had been nice to dream, however briefly, of freedom.
Unfortunately, his trial has come and gone. His hands are tied again, neck shackled, head turned forcibly in service to the IPC. Standing before someone who had wronged him, who is so ungrateful for a gift he himself will always be denied is infuriating. ]
Wherever you want, Feathers. If you're asking for advice? Toward something that teaches you how to bend instead of breaking.
[ Neither one of them has time for philosophical debates at the moment. The Hounds will realize his lie shortly. The Express is leaving. He turns on his heel. ]
Welcome to the rat race.
[ Aventurine sets off at an undignified sprint for the front of the hotel. ]
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Dream Nurses usually advise the residents of Penacony to get at least a few hours of wakefulness per month, as it is good for the body and mind. For someone as young as Sunday, they advised much, much more. He'd spent many of his waking hours jogging and lifting weights to keep himself toned, not out of vanity, but necessity. A strong body moves well and has good posture. As the Head of the Oak Family, this seemed important. When he gave speeches in the waking world, he wanted to project the same confidence he had in the dream. So he took care of himself.
For a while, anyway.
As the Charmony Festival drew near and his grip on Penacony tightened, Sunday stopped jogging and lifting weights. Against the wishes of the Nurses, he stopped waking up at all. His flesh was left forgotten in a Dreampool, like a discarded coat. Why bother maintaining a body he never planned to return to?
...A foolish decision in hindsight. There should have been a contingency plan for failure. While his muscles have not atrophied as badly as he thought, he is still weak and ragged when Aventurine finally stops. He slows himself to a walking pace until he's standing beside the Stoneheart once more. Behind his ribcage, his heart is pounding. He wants to fall into a crouch and catch his breath, but that would show too much weakness. So he keeps his shoulders back and chin proudly lifted, lips pulled into a tight, expressionless line. The steady heaving of his chest gives him away.]
Well, [He speaks in a carefully controlled voice on exhale] if that is what people mean by "rat race", I don't think I care for it... [A joking remark, though his strained breathing makes it hard to tell if he really is joking. He's not sure if he is, either.]
Now, will you please tell me why you have led a fugitive to the front of the Hotel? You are unlikely to find more traffic anywhere than here.
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That is why I led you here. [ he bites back, turning to stare Sunday down. ] Your best chance at real freedom, currently leaving the station.
[ His gaze cuts over Sunday's shoulder. At the hotel's front door, a crowd of Hounds, their uniform simple but unmistakable, gather. ]
You think if they catch you, they'll kill you, force you to face some sort of due justice, but they won't. It'll be worse.
[ Does he know that for certain? No. But countless bruises, brands, and scars have clued him in to how the galaxy works, how Aeons and their followers operate. Every soul is bled dry, of money, of time, of power, in service to entities that don't even care. ]
You're not a player, anymore, Feathers. You're a piece. A powerful one. I'd rather just... leave you here to face it. [ No he wouldn't. Not Kakavasha, who cannot stand to see others shackled. But he is not being Kakavasha right now. ] But Jade hates favors left unpaid, and Diamond's got plans that hinge on you not singing for the Family. So, if you really want to live, want the chance to see everyone's favorite angel again-
[ Almost bizarrely on cue, a young woman clad in the clothes of a hotel valet jogs up from a waiting IPC black-and-red shuttle to stand beside them, "Mister Aventurine?"
Aventurine retrieves his phone from his pocket one handed, hold the other out, palm up, expectantly. The hotel employee deposits a fob in his hand. "Your shuttle, sir."
A few swipes on his phone, and he tips the young lady enough credits to make her breath catch and eyes glaze. "Thank you, sir!"
She jogs off to a gaggle of other valets, assumedly to gab about the money she's just received. The valet doesn't even glance at Sunday before going. Just another random patron standing between her and her shift's end, which just got infinitely more exciting. ]
-then we've got to leave Penacony now. Are you coming?
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The incoming Hounds represent his only other option: Be captured by The Family and killed. Or worse. It's hard to imagine what would be worse than dying. Living to see others die, maybe. That would be worse. Being imprisoned for use as a weapon. That would be worse. By now, The Family knows that Gopher Wood's adopted son is a man with a soul sturdy enough to become an Emanator of the Harmony if needed. The Embryo of Philosophy could rise again. Next time, it will give birth to a much worse god. He could become the Embryo of Finality itself.
The more he thinks, the more he knows one thing for certain: Falling into the hands of The Family is not an option. With the IPC, there is hope, weak though it may be.
Sunday sighs and looks up at the edifice of the Reverie Hotel.]
Farewell, Penacony. When I return...if I return... it will be as a traveler. You may not recognize me anymore, but I hope to make you proud, nonetheless.
[He adjusts his hood, makes sure his wings are well tucked beneath it, then looks over at Aventurine.]
...I cannot stay. I'll come with you, if you are certain you're okay with that.
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In the meantime, Aventurine fires off several messages about undeliverable packages, unavailable recipients, and difficulties with customs. Overhead, the Astral Express makes a slow departure for deeper space. If they are quick, perhaps he'll have the time to dump Sunday in their observation car while they do that twee little voting ritual of theirs.
Sunday's next words yank him from his planning with the force of a hard stop. He laughs, brows knitting up in disbelief. ]
Oh! So you are aware that others have boundaries. [ Only when at his lowest. Only when owing a favor. Just like everyone else. ] Don't worry, you stomped over any I might've had weeks ago. I'm certain that what's best for both of us is I get you away from Penacony, and that's enough.
[ Phone into pocket, he beckons with his newly free hand. Behind them, a man in a shirt, tie, and suspenders shouts for him. Aventurine ignores it as though he's forgotten his own name, keeping his unhurried pace.
With a click of an invisible button on the smooth black fob in hand, the doors on the IPC shuttle slide open. It's a sleek three-seater meant for land travel and short ship-to-planet trips. There's something sort of ominous about the all black leather interior, and Aventurine, in his bright gold and jewel tones and peacock attire, looks entirely out of place as he slides into the pilot's seat.
One hand resting on the controls, he turns and pats one of the other two bucket seats, all jovial smarm again. ]
Your chariot, majesty.
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Of course I am.
[But the gambler doesn't understand. He could never understand the immense burden Sunday had carried when he invoked the Harmony's consecration.
With a sigh, Sunday slips into the cramped shuttle. The tight space doesn't bother him, not after so much time spent in a confessional, but the sheer black is strangely oppressive. This must be the IPC's idea of modern stylishness, very different from the whimsical architecture of Penacony.
Once he is fully seated, he leans forward to address Aventurine.]
I am agreeing to accompany you, Mister Aventurine, but please do not speak to me that way. [While his voice is mostly light, there is a steely edge to it.] I'm sure I must be a burden to you, but I am not the one who assigned you whatever job this is. So don't take your frustrations out on me.
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Do you remember how you smiled? That smug little grin on your face when you invoked an Aeon you don't even worship and branded me, I mean. You liked it, didn't you? Punishing me for my arrogance. A death sentence wasn't enough. But dragging me back through... famine and fire and war because I wronged you? Oh, that did it, didn't it? Justice undeniably served.
[ Aventurine takes a breath, voice calm, musing over their past interactions as though he does not ruminate over them daily, as though they do not figure prominently into his restless, horrifying nightmares, bleeding into Nihility's ocean. Outside, the Hounds close in around the shuttle. ]
I don't carry Harmony's brand, anymore, Mister Sunday, but I do carry your smile still. And I am here because of you. So, I don't think my "frustrations" are misplaced.
[ One of the Hounds, a broad-shouldered man, crouches down as though about to reach into the shuttle. Aventurine turns, sitting forward once again, flicks a switch on the shuttle dash and the doors snap shut soundlessly. Another button press, a tilt of the controls, and the shuttle rockets skyward, zipping past other vessels to leave Penacony's cloud of memoria, bound for Aventurine's private ship. ]
But, sure. We can keep it professional from here on out.
[ With any luck at all it won't be much longer. If he plays his cards right, the albatross will board the train and he can go back to just being at the bottom of Diamond's naughty list. ]
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You had come to purchase my paradise from under me when I was so close to ascension, were you not? [Which is not something he'd been told, but something he'd figured out. The timing of Aventurine's arrival and his movements afterward had suggested something untrustworthy about him. Sunday suspected the IPC was using their ambassador as a means of destabilizing Penacony and having an excuse to retake it. He hasn't spent much time outside his home, but he knows how corporations operate and what greed motivates them to do.]
Using you to investigate my sister's murder seemed like the best option. It would solve two problems at once. And when you approached me, your confident swagger disgusted me. We hadn't yet spoken, and you already considered yourself the victor. So... yes, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed watching you experience humility. It was justice...
[But the way Aventurine talks about it sounds wrong. As if Sunday had bored into his mind, dragged his memories to the surface, then threw them about like unwanted refuse. Sunday doesn't remember doing any of that. All he remembers is a desperate gambler giving away his gems, then making his way to the Grand Theater.]
Your noisome flailing scattered the Hounds directly into my grasp and they were the ones I was truly after.
[Guilt knots his chest when he hears himself say those words. The Hounds were the true cause of his pain and frustration. Aventurine had been a convenient pawn, that was all. One that had been damaged in the midst of the game, and he'd never noticed. He reaches out and grasps Aventurine's shoulder.]
You were intended to undergo a trial. At the end, I was to decide whether you could coalesce into the Harmony or perish. I wanted you to face my judgment, yes, but it was not my intention to harm you. I am sorry that happened.
[A gentle squeeze, then he sits back and watches his home spiral away into the distance outside the shuttle window.]
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Even with Mythus and the Fools directing separate shows, the Oak Family and Sunday singing songs distinct from each other and the Harmony, even with layers upon layers of betrayal woven into every tale, every part had been played to perfection. Each actor in their role, using others to meet their specific goals. Aventurine perhaps more than most -- though he had, it seems, been well used in return.
He thinks again that perhaps he'd deserved the brand and the punishment that followed. Diamond binding him anew was both further deserved punishment and not enough. No matter how he hates it, hates this, he feels neither cleansed nor uplifted by experience. Nothing makes his survival feel earned. And yet he still wakes at night in a cold sweat, terrorized by the idea that what little of him remains might sublimate as he sleeps, destroyed or consumed by Harmony's whole. To know that his bespoke torment is the one thing Sunday had not conducted himself -- why, then? Had there been a reason for it? A purpose in it at all?
Lights streak by. Penacony shrinks into a glittering cloud, ahead only the sea of stars waits. Faster, faster, past ships meant for travel in deep space, into the dark. He and Ena's fallen prince, another cast off of the machinations of gods. He hates having anything in common with the albatross. Hates his stupid non-apology. The quiet music of his voice compared to what he recalls in his dreams. That he has the capacity to be so gentle, so warm, when what he'd done had been so relentlessly cruel.
The dash beeps. A red light flickers. ]
Damn. [ Aventurine banks the shuttle just in time to catch the tail lights on the express glowing red. As his mouth opens to protest, the train stretches into a long line of light, blinking away for parts unknown, silver trail left in its wake. ] Damn!
[ He fights the urge to sit in stunned silence and steers the shuttle back toward his own ship, one modest silver-white vessel idling among many others within Penacony's orbit. A few more button presses, a hangar opens on the vessel, and the shuttle docks with ease. Aventurine pulls out his phone and begins typing furiously; he needs to know where the Express is going, what their current options are.
While he waits for the shuttle doors to open, he turns in his seat again, fixing himself up with some of that confident swagger that Sunday evidently despises. ]
Looks like we're both stuck in purgatory a bit longer, Mister Sunday. Don't worry. I'm sure we'll both land on our feet.
[ Finally, the shuttle opens. Beyond its doors is a small, brightly lit cargo bay, all cream with patterned turquoise accents, neatly organized boxes on stacked and labeled, all of it considerably warmer than the ominous red and black of the shuttle.
With a bit more urgency than he means to show, he climbs out of the shuttle. ]
But we really shouldn't linger in Asdana. So, where to? Washtopia?
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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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