Chapter Text
Ever since he was a child Sunday has always been quite lonely. He didn't have many friends even before The Cancer of All Worlds destroyed everything he and his sister knew, taking their home and their loved ones from them. Robin has always been his only true friend. Even when they were light years apart. During her tours, with her schedule being as busy as it is, she still made sure to reserve some time to compose letters for him.
Sunday was very grateful for her and saved every single one, storing them in a neat little box that he kept on top of one of his bookshelfs, sorted out by date. And so on those nights when he couldn't fall asleep for way too long, he would hide it in his drawer instead. He slept with a key under his pillow, clutching it in his hand. It helped, even if sometimes he woke up with his fingers red from holding on to it too tightly. He couldn't imagine himself lasting a day knowing he'd lost one of those letters, let alone the whole box.
It's not like those letters contained within some kind of secret. But in the back of his mind there were those intrusive thoughts that kept singing praises to death, making up scenarios that could potentially end his sister's journey before she even got the chance to make her dreams come true. He kept fighting with himself, trying to fall asleep instead of looking at an imaginary Robin - wings broken, eyes filled with tears, mouth agape, words left unsaid and a song forever unfinished. And so sometimes, when the thoughts became unbearable, he opened up that box and read through the letters one by one, starting from the very first letter he received, not stopping until he was able to breathe again.
And so it feels very odd now, uncomfortable even, to sleep, eat and rest in a space where he can't just get up and read those letters like he always used to. They're not here anymore, he lost all of them because he lost access to his room long ago, when he decided to sacrifice himself for the sake of humanity. When he decided that all things and feelings he has will forever be worth less to him than his sister's dream, her happiness.
He takes a deep breath. It's quiet. His new room smells like greenery. A beautiful white lie. The surface of this planet is bare, each city brimming with technology yet outside of those gardens within luxury hotels there's not a single flower in sight. Even far away from Penacony, he can still witness living beings' need to escape from reality and the consequences of their actions, hiding from their problems behind green glasses.
His sheet of paper is now littered with tiny black dots. He decides he doesn't want to use it anymore but it's still good enough to pen a draft. He's not going to waste paper for the sole purpose of making something look aesthetically pleasing. But he still needs to think of what to write...
"Maybe I can get the letters back." Sunday muses instead.
And, sure, he might have lost them but, really, it doesn't quite count as losing if he knows exactly where the letters should be at this very moment. Unless the IPC decided to ransack his apartment, which is not too farfetched at this point...
Tick, tick, tick. Like a hand of a broken clock, his pen is stuck in one place, leaving behind tiny inconsistent markings on an empty sheet. He should think of something interesting to write about. Maybe that weird creature with three glowing tails he saw on his way here? She would've loved to know about those...
He thinks about the IPC again. Maybe they did ransack his apartment. Maybe they thought they'd find something useful about his whereabouts and turned the place upsidedown, trying to figure out if he left something behind.
Hmph. Wishful thinking. Sunday would like to pride himself on being cautious when it comes to his plans, especially those he's supposed to conceal from the public or the damned corporation. And sure, not everyone would find cautiousness to be something to be proud of or to be desired, but it's definitely a perfect trait for a Family head.
Or a criminal. Not that he is one, if you ask him. People just misunderstood his intentions. He should've tried better to get his point across.
It's sudden when he hears it. He listens carefully. Tuck, tuck, tuck. He can tell the person is wearing heels. The door creaksbopen and the light pools in through the entrance, making the room look dark in comparison.
"Good evening, angel" that person murmurs from the entrance. Their voice is already almost familiar to him. Sunday puts his pen aside.
"Kafka" he stands up from his desk in greeting and smiles politely. "Is something the matter?" He asks and looks at her. Then at her hands instead. Then back at her. His own hands are occupied with his gloves. Behind his back he pulls at the fabric slightly, to not put too much stress on it. His shoulders are relaxed a bit too much for it to look natural.
Kafka lets out a chuckle, her nails running across the wall. She obviously sees through his facade but doesn't comment on it. She can probably tell he is still unwilling to trust any of them wholeheartedly but she doesn't seem to mind it. And that's good. "Just checking up on you." she says, her voice silky, smooth. "You seemed so lost in thought I was starting to feel like I'm interrupting something."
Sunday looks to the side, his gaze lingering on the paper that he left on the table, smeared with ink yet empty still, no words written on it. For a second he entertains the idea of telling her.
"No need to tell me anything you don't want to." A step. And then another one. She's suddenly in front of him, looking seemingly nowhere, humming under her breath something akin to a lullaby. He decides it's better to stay quiet and let her finish.
It's short. She's done before he can register what the song reminded him of.
"Whatever it is that you've got this head of yours occupied with... I don't think it matters. Especially to me. As long as you're enjoying yourself and not actively trying to get in trouble." She then taps her lip, moving as if the world has been slowed down, their dialogue a scene in the movie. "But if you're feeling stuck... We can chat. Sometimes all you need is as simple as asking the right question."
Sunday can feel heat crawling up his neck. His hands are getting warm and the fabric of his gloves clings uncomfortably to his skin.
"Well." he straightens himself and looks her in the eyes. "One should exercise caution when dealing with someone they cannot fully trust. Even if I'm willing to share certain things with you..."
"But aren't you worried I already know what you will say because it was mentioned in my script?" And it doesn't sound like a threat yet he might as well treat it as one with the way she always has her eyes glowing with curiosity of a person capable of drawing blood.
There's also script. He's been thinking about that thing ever since he joined them. Unlike Ena the Order, who's sweet dream would have let anyone achieve whatever it is their heart desired, the script has things that cannot be changed no matter what. Sunday's chest tightened with anxiety every time he thought about it, the walls and the ceiling looking threatening like they never did before.
What if according to the script Robin was supposed to die for the universe to achieve it's happy ending? It felt like someone poured acid down his throat every time he thought about it.
Elio made him understand that his actions don't really matter in the grand scheme of things. He can't gain control over destiny.
"...I was under the impression that Elio does not provide scripts that have information on our day to day lives."
Only the important things are mentioned in the script. The weak and the ordinary matter not to the grandiose.
"Is that so?" Kafka hums and he can't help but smile a bit more just to try and pry control out of her hands.
He doesn't say anything. Instead he pries his hands from behind his back with his fingertips facing downwards and presses them together, forming something akin to a triangle.
This is exactly why he cannot abandon his dream. Elio cannot see reality, his way of understanding the world obscure and one-sided, delusions of unattainable happy ending plaguing his mind. A puppet of Destiny pulling on the strings. His actors, lost and desperate, running around the stage with nowhere to go, putting on a spectacle of ignorance.
Fortunately Sunday's used to being an actor. It shouldn't be too hard to get himself some strings to put on a show. The puppeteer is blind after all.
"You amuse me, angel." She says. The sound of her heels echoes through the room again and she sits on his bed, patting the space beside her. The audacity of that woman...
Sunday stays where he's at and looks at her, his expression showing something akin to contemplation.
"Don't be so scared. I'm not going to bite you, am I?" She smiles at him and lifts her hand up, each finger following the other in a fan-like motion. He follows it with his eyes, tracing the movement. He got enough sleep today and yet this interaction is making him feel tired.
He moves his hand behind his back and draws a little symbol. An arc, a triangle and a few dots.
He blinks twice. "Would you mind sharing with me the reason why you need me to sit on the bed as well?"
"So you'll feel more comfortable while we chat, silly." Kafka places her hands in her lap and moves away a bit. "So much drama for an audience of one... But the theatrics are quite entertaining. And that's praise worthy." She leans back, looking comfortable and even... cozy...
He doesn't move for a few seconds more but in the end sits down beside Kafka anyway. He then turns to look at her and offers her his undivided attention. Better to get this over with as soon as possible.
"You know... Since your arrival things have already changed quite a bit" she starts. He sees her smile fade away, replaced with something he can't quite put his finger on. If he had to describe it to anyone he would probably call it cold and distant. What made it hard to describe was that there was nothing personal behind those feelings, it wasn't about him. "Change comes in goes in waves, it always does. Those who fail to embrace it struggle against it's currents."
The room got even more quiet then before. Nothing actually changed yet somehow everything around them started to drift away, as if visuals became sounds and a soft white noise was shielding them from reality. The feeling reminded him of home. If you were to ask Sunday he would've probably denied it but Kafka's presence always brought with her a strange and foreign sort of comfort. He felt like he was a puppet who's strings suddenly felt loose, bringing a false sense of safety.
He stretches out his fingers. He can't do this right now... She would be able to see it.
"What exactly do you plan on "chatting" with me about?" Sunday asks.
"That problem of yours. The one that got you so occupied you've been sitting in this room all day. I hope you don't plan on dying from starvation. It's a very painful and slow death."
"And what if I don't want any help? Or letting you know what I'm doing?" So irritating. Why does she want to know? Why is she pretending to care? He can very much help himself to the kitchen, he's in no way incapable.
"That's fine." She sounds relaxed and unbothered. He stretches out his fingers again trying to suppress the urge to draw his hand behind his back. "I'm mostly just curious. Each Hunter is like a little puzzle box. Bladie is not very talkative, as you know, but I am still curious about his past. So naturally same goes for you"
That explains their previous interactions then.
"I'm planning on following Elio's script's instructions. Not whatever other Hunters consider to be entertaining." Because the best kind of lie is a half-truth. Sunday can't tell if Kafka believes him though. But he doesn't quite understand how to deal with her. He always found people like this to be unpleasant.
"You know." Kafka says suddenly. "There's this game I like to play... Silver Wolf really likes it too, she almost always wins. It's called Truth and lies. According to the rules both sides ask each other two questions, then give one true answer and one false answer each. So let's make a deal. We play this game and if I win you tell we what you're up to. If you win I'll leave you to your secretive task."
It's... an unexpected offer. There's no denying this woman's intelligence and she undoubtedly has a means to gain people's trust to then use their weakness in her favor, given her bounty and reputation. It does make him think that she has an ulterior motive. What does she need from him that would make her want to come here and insist on helping him, nevermind play some odd games?
He has to admit to himself that he does find this game's premise appealing. Perhaps he might be able to coax some information out of her using his own abilities instead—
No. He doesn't... actually know if he can still use them. He's hesitant to try.
Still... "Do you mind me asking... can we guarantee each other's sincerity?"
"Well" Kafka muses outloud. "You could cheat. Or even decline my offer altogether. Nothing is stopping you." She offers, extending her hand towards him "This game is not about the questions or the answers anyway. Although they certainly play an important part. As for me... I would give you my word but it wouldn't mean much. Hence... a different argument; I proposed we play. Why would I break my own rules?"
Sunday decides to give himself a few seconds to think about it by looking out the window. He can barely see this planet's star, it's dim light barely touching the clouds in the evening sky. The city is glowing, it's walls covered in billboards, messages dancing around the buildings. He can see a banner talking about the importance of ecology. He almost starts laughing bitterly to himself.
Truth and lies. The game is so simple he can't put a finger on a good enough reason to decline. If there's anything malicious about it he has no reason to disclose to her anything he doesn't want her to know. Because unlike his unfortunate not-friend from the IPC he's under no obligation to tell the truth. So he decides to ignore his unreasonable intrusive thoughts and nods.
"Alright then." Coming up with questions is rather easy given his conversation partner. "Would you like me to start?"
"Hmm." Kafka puts a finger on her chin as if giving it a thought. "Sure"
His feathers brush his face as he tries to navigate through various question-options he managed to come up with. There's a lot of things he's curious about. But as this thought enters his mind a different one follows reminding him of his experiences being in a similar position prior to this. He has to ask the right thing.
"Do you think you are a good person?" is what he settles on. It's a question that gives you a lot of room for thought, which could be both a blessing and a curse. He watches Kafka and waits for her expression to melt into frustration or contemplation. It doesn't.
"I don't think I can call anyone a good person. Or a bad one at that." She looks to the side. "Even when it comes to fiction... being the antagonist just means the main character thinks you're in their way and tries to do something about it. Doesn't make anyone wrong or right. The world is not that simple" Kafka crosses her legs, a smile tugging at her lips, eyes half closed. "Does this answer your question?"
"It does" And there's that. The first question was quite simple, not too deap or existential but just enough to set the tone for the next one. Or at least that's what it was supposed to seem to be doing. But he wouldn't say he expected an answer like this. "Let us continue then"
When Kafka opened her mouth to speak Sunday held his breath. It didn't help to calm him down but he just... did it anyway.
"You're more eager than what I was expecting" she says... "So then answer this. You asked if I consider myself to be good. It's a curious question in my humble opinion. Did you like my answer?" Her gaze felt cold on his skin, nothing like the soft facial expression she wore. "Was it correct?" she asked. Hearing those words made Sunday go rigid, his hand closest to Kafka closing in on itself.
So she saw right through it all.
Sunday realized then why did the Stellaron Hunter decided to play this game with him. Questions they ask, answers they give... Are actually a dialogue they are having with each other, words holding two different meanings at the same time. Kafka giggles, cold melting away.
"Relax, birdie, I didn't want to scare you. This game is not that serious" she says. There's no real remorse behind her words.
"No..." He ignores her comment and answers her question instead. "There's no heroes or antagonists." He closes his eyes. "There's only those who make incorrect choices. But there's no blaming them. The author gave them their role. They cannot fight against their creator." If only those who create loved their children as much as they do themselves.
Sunday smiled. "The author of a story is cruel. They insist on teaching their creations to be afraid of the world, to feel hurt and hurt others. Can they be blamed for wanting to run away from a story like this?"
He opens his eyes to watch Kafka. She just nods to herself, thinking about something else. "The way you smile is endearing." Is what she tells him. "Yet there's fire in your eyes. I love people that are passionate" Then "As for your question... The author is not cruel. What is cruel about telling an interesting story? But wether or not the story is understood correctly depends on the person who's reading."
Sunday takes her words in. There's a lump forming in his throat.
"My last question then." Kafka says.
"You are so insistent on blaming the author. There's something weirdly sweet about it..." She looks at his desk. There's nothing on it except for his pen and a few pieces of paper he left there earlier.
"Could it be...That you are actually just scared of bad endings?"
Sunday tries to swallow down whatever it is that's holding onto him so tightly.
"N-no" he manages. It's firm enough to sound believable but Sunday is sure he lost the game.
It occurs to him then that he wasn't supposed to let her know that much information about himself in the first place. By letting her pull him in, making the game sound interesting and harmless, he walked into a spider web and became it's cunning master's prey. So foolish of him. Sunday digs into his own palm with his fingernails, leaving behind little crescent shaped lines.
Kafka stands up from his bed and turns to face him. She seems completely unaffected. Her pose is relaxed and her gaze is soft yet glowing within is her silent numb curiosity.
"This was fun." she murmurs. "I suppose you made my job a little bit too easy though. But... don't think much about the conditions of the deal we've made. About telling me what you're up to?" She leans down and circles Sunday's eye with her long fingernail, making him squint "I think I would rather you tell me once you're willing to do it yourself. If you'd want to that is" And well isn't that so kind and generous of her. "There's actually something else I'd like to ask though."
Sunday straightens himself and looks up at her, his embarrassment and anxiety be damned. "Yes, what is it?"
"Do you know what time it is?"
He blinks.
"...I'm pretty certain all of us own a device containing a built-in clock app within it." Sunday gives her. Such an odd question. But he has to admit it's been a while since he checked the time. It's nowhere near midnight yet but the sky has almost lost all of it's remaining pinks so it's definitely quite late.
"That is the case, yes. But that's not what I asked now, is it?" She tilts her head a little bit, strands of her hair falling from her shoulder.
"Then I suppose I don't." He answers truthfully. The questions is so out of nowhere he can't help but feel confused.
"It's almost eight." She says. And oh. Sunday's wings flap as he registers the meaning of that statement. And here he thought Kafka was exaggerating when talking about him planning to starve himself. He feels his stomach twist uncomfortably, reminding him of why it's not a great idea to eat the most important meal of the day but skip all remaining ones.
"Me, Bladie and Wolfie were actually planning on going out tonight for a change of pace. There's this cute little place not too far away from our building." And Sunday already knows where she's going with this
"Miss Kafka, are you inviting me to join you for dinner tonight?"
She blinks in surprise and he can't quite discern if it's mocking or genuine. Then she laughs "Why, is that such an odd request in your opinion? Angel, don't tell me you think we're soulless mannequins that never get to have any fun." His wings flap again.
"Are we not... wanted by the entire cosmos?" Sunday asks as if this question actually needs answering. Kafka giggles at that.
"Sure are. Doesn't mean we can't go out."
She says that with such nonchalance Sunday doesn't have it within him to question her. Although he does feel like there's a catch to this he's still unaware of.
There's also his... His letter. He looks to the side, where his abandoned draft has been sitting for the entirety of their conversation. His expression turns sour and his small wings curl in on themselves. He should stay here and finish it. Or, well, not finish but start and then continue and then get a different piece of paper because when—
Kafka places a hand on his shoulder and he flinches.
"Sunday" Kafka is looking at him and there's something about the way she holds on to him, her touch barely there. "You can stay here..." She tilts her head a bit "But trust me when I say you're not going to make any progress sitting in this stuffy apartment. So if you're not planning on tagging along... Better do something else."
She turns around and starts walking towards the door.
"How..."
Sunday hesitates
"How much time do I have to get ready?"
Kafka smiles and Sunday has to talk himself out of calling this glint in her eyes "endearment" it's not.
He doesn't have to agree with Elio or anyone at that to allow himself to spend time with those people! Especially when staying inside is less productive. Especially because Kafka is right. Because he haven't eaten anything since morning. And not because he misses Penacony and it's loud festive atmosphere. Or because he's glad he has people to be around that are closer to him than any members of the Family have ever been.
Robin wouldn't... Robin wouldn't have been upset at him for taking his time with his letter. He can't deny he has been stuck so he will come back to it when he's back. He's doing this for Robin. Yes, for Robin...