Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two knocks rapped on the door to Sunday’s room. 

“We’re having dinner in the dining car. You’re welcome to join us.” 

It was never the same person twice in a row. Sunday wondered if the crew drew lots, picturing the one who pulled the short straw groaning in frustration before trudging to his room and inviting him, yet again, to dinner. This time it was the Xianzhou fellow, Dan Heng. 

Like always, Sunday said nothing and waited for Dan Heng to walk away. Today marked the seventh day since he boarded the Astral Express and the eighth since they found him in the first place. All in all, he wasn’t sure he exchanged more than fifty words total with any member of the crew since he joined. Every so often his phone would buzz with a notification from the “Astral Express Family” group chat he had been added to. He read every text but never responded.

Sunday pressed his face into the pillow. He could feel another headache coming on, the telltale pain building up bit by bit behind his eyes. He imagined burrowing deeper into the pillow, then into the mattress. He pictured the entire bed closing around him like a hungry mouth and never opening again, leaving him to rot until he had been dissolved completely. He batted away the useless thought as soon as it crystallized into something he could throw out. 

He rolled over and stared at the off-white ceiling. His room on the Express was bare. It had all the necessities: a closet, mirror, bed, TV, and a desk. The walls were painted a tasteful light blue. On the desk lay a leather black journal, one of the only things Sunday purchased after leaving Penacony with his limited funds. He would have used this time to write in the journal, but the book was just about full, pages filled with inky scrawls. The TV only had news channels and soap operas, both of which were meaningless to Sunday. The clock in his head tick, tick, ticked away. He could go and do his evening routine, but the thought of running into one of the Express members made his skin crawl. 

Nothing left to do but wait until nighttime. 

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Sunday slipped on his shoes and quietly opened the door. The express lights in the hallway had dimmed to simulate nighttime. The clock on the wall outside of his room read 2:31AM.

A new little quirk that Sunday's body had developed along with the headaches was a bout of insomnia. It wasn't hard to pinpoint the cause; poor adjustment and frequent nightmares made sleep a fickle thing, only blessing him with true rest for a few hours a night if he was lucky. No matter. If anything, being up this late was good for him since it meant he could do things like explore the Express or have dinner without running into anyone. 

He heard shuffling just behind the door to the dining car and paused. It was no doubt the conductor. He came across Pom-Pom more than a few times during his nightly excursions. The first time he happened upon them, the small creature didn't ask questions and only gave him a friendly wave. In the following instances where Sunday ran into them, the two exchanged silent nods, not a word passing between them. Thus, an unspoken camaraderie developed between him and the conductor, much to Sunday’s relief. 

Gently, he pushed open the door to the dining car, expecting to see the conductor puttering about the kitchen, and froze. 

March stood with her back to the door, holding something large that required both of her hands. Stelle was leaning on the counter, squinting down at a book. Her oversized shirt, coated in white powder, bore the image of a cartoon character Sunday didn’t recognize. Several ingredients, including a bag of flour, a carton of eggs, and a tub full of what must have been sugar were strewn about on the countertop. 

“Do we really have to start over? I mean, baking soda and baking powder can’t be that different—” Stelle looked up from the book and jumped upon spotting Sunday. 

“Yes, they are. I told you! You can't just switch them around— ugh, you aren’t even listening to me! What are you staring at, anyway?” March whined, before turning around and doing a double take.

“Er, hi, Sunday,” Stelle began weakly. 

March gave a stilted wave. In the back of his mind, Sunday registered that March was covered in flour and the large thing in her hands was a bowl. He wondered distantly what the two had been trying to make.

“Did we wake you? I guess we weren’t as quiet as we thought,” March murmured. 

Sunday shook his head. “No. I couldn’t sleep, and figured I’d get a snack. Apologies for disturbing you.” He tried to shut the door, but March hastily stepped forward. 

“Wait, no, you don’t have to leave! I-it’s fine, anyone can use the kitchen. Go ahead and grab something,” March insisted. Sunday didn’t have any particularly strong feelings towards March, but for a moment, he hated her bubbly nature. Couldn’t she have at least allowed him a peaceful exit? 

The awkwardness was stifling. Stelle and March had gone completely silent. Sunday felt like he couldn’t breathe. He pretended not to notice the panicked glances the two were shooting at each other and shuffled over to the large refrigerator. He grabbed the first thing he saw —an apple— and wasted no more time in leaving the dining car. As soon as he shut the door, he immediately heard frantic conversation taking place in whispers. 

At that moment, as Sunday slowly made his way back to his room, he suddenly realized an important truth:

These people would never accept him into their family. 

He closed his eyes, ignoring the sick feeling squirming its way through his stomach. Hot embarrassment seared his face. Did he truly expect otherwise? All because of what? Because he’d been added to the “Astral Express Family” group chat? Was he really foolish enough to think he could just fit right in? What a farce. Anyone could see the tight-knit bond between the Nameless. It would be difficult for any new person to slot themselves into it, let alone someone with a record like Sunday’s. 

All this for an apple he had long lost the appetite for. 

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The following morning, Sunday woke up egregiously late. At this rate, if he didn’t get his sleep schedule sorted, he was bound to become nocturnal. He rubbed his eyes and got to his feet. 

He desperately needed a routine. The lack of daily structure left an itch under Sunday’s skin that was growing painful.

The bathroom. That was a good place to start. Sunday walked through his usual morning toilette that he’d start his days on Penacony with. After brushing his teeth, he ducked into the tiny shower. It took some careful maneuvering to avoid pushing his wings directly under the stream of water, but he managed, albeit with considerable strain to his shoulders. Out of habit, he reached for a spray bottle to mist his wings. He blinked down at his empty hands, and sighed. The steam from the shower would have to suffice for now, even though it was far from ideal. He made a mental note to secure a spray bottle the next time that the Express stopped at a civilization. 

At least he could go a bit longer without preening his wings, but eventually he would need to take care of that as well. Sunday couldn’t stand the feeling of grime under his feathers. 

After toweling himself off, he raked his hands through his hair and added “comb” to the mental checklist. He unfolded his wings, inky blue feathers filling the tiny bathroom, and gave them a test flap. Deeming them sufficiently dried off, he folded them over his body and tugged a fresh, white long-sleeve shirt on and a pair of gray linen pants. “Opaque tops” was added to the checklist when he saw that the deep color of his wings shone through the sheer shirt. 

Feeling refreshed and marginally more like a person, Sunday hung the towel over his shoulders to catch the moisture from his hair and made his way back to his room. 

“Oh, Sunday. Hello there,” March greeted him from down the hall. She was fully dressed, either returning from or about to head out on another adventure. 

“Good morning, March,” His voice came out gravelly and strange, and he turned to discreetly clear his throat.

“Morning?” 

That’s right, Sunday had slept far past the acceptable timeframe that could be called morning. How embarrassing. March didn’t press the subject further, to his relief. She instead turned her gaze to the ground and fidgeted with her fingers. 

“Listen, I, uh, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. For last night, I mean. Me and Stelle both are, but she’s out right now and I didn’t want to put this off.” She tugged at a lock of her hair. 

“There is no need. Neither of you did anything wrong,” He assured her. In all honesty, he was confused. What was March apologizing for? Using the dining car late at night? She and Stelle lived here. As far as Sunday was concerned, they were fully at liberty to do whatever they wanted on the Express.

Her eyes snapped upwards to meet his. “Yes, we did! We shouldn’t have been so weird towards you. We were just surprised to see you at all, especially up so late. Usually, it’s only Stelle who can’t fall asleep, but I had this soda drink from the Herta Space Station that I didn’t realize was caffeinated, and — anyways! It doesn’t matter. We’re sorry we acted like that.” She lowered her head in shame. 

Still baffled, he shook his head. “Like I said, there is no need to apologize. I am well aware that a newcomer on the Express, especially one with my history, is hard to adjust to.” Did she think Sunday expected to be welcomed with open arms? 

“Well, no— I mean, yes, it’s a little odd having you here, especially since the last time I saw you, I watched you get hit by this train.” A wry smile tugged at Sunday’s mouth. That seemed to embolden March, and she puffed up a bit. “But! We do want to adjust to you. You’re here now, which means you’re as much a part of the Express as the rest of us!”

Sunday was a part of nothing. This would never be home. There would never be family for him here. He didn’t lament the fact. He’d long made his peace with it. He wished March would stop the charade. 

Instead, he nodded. “I understand. Thank you, although your apology is still unnecessary.” 

A sigh of relief escaped March, and her body seemed to let go of the tension it had been holding. 

She reminded him a little of —

I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to break it! I was just trying to reach the shelf above it, and I knocked it over. I’m really sorry, Brother!

It’s okay. It’s just a figurine. You don’t need to apologize. I know you were only trying to help.

Still! It was your figurine! I know it was your favorite!

I promise, it’s fine. Besides, I can always get a new one. It’s not like they’re rare. It’s alright.

Sunday didn’t realize he was digging his nails into his palms until March’s expression turned from relieved to concerned.

“Hey, are your hands alright?” 

Stupid. He’d completely forgotten he wasn’t wearing gloves. Why was he being so careless today? He tucked his hands behind his back. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t look like ‘nothing.’ You’re bleeding.” He looked down, and sure enough, there was a streak of blood on the front of his shirt where his hand had brushed against it. He cursed his ridiculously delicate skin. “There’s a med kit in the bottom drawer of the bathroom. Hang on, I can get it —”

Something about March’s concern made Sunday crack. “I said I’m fine,” He snapped, with more force than he intended. She shrunk back, and immediately regret bled into his bones.  

“Sorry. I just wanted to — I’ll leave. Bottom drawer,” she repeated, voice small.

I know you were only trying to help. 

Something cold and barbed curled around Sunday’s heart. He almost did an insane thing like reach out for March, but she disappeared into her bedroom before he could do anything.

Chapter Text

A few days later, the Express docked on the planet Jarilo-VI. All five Nameless disembarked for one reason or another. Dan Heng, March, and Stelle were the first to set off, intent on reuniting with old friends. Later, Himeko departed as well, citing a meeting with the Supreme Guardian. Welt, however, hung back. 

“Sunday.” Welt sat down on the same couch in the parlor car as Sunday, several feet away. “Would you like to join us? I imagine you haven’t been to Belobog before, and it never hurts to get some fresh air.”

Sunday adjusted his gloves. He had mistakenly thought no one was left on the Express, and wanted to take the opportunity to read alone in the parlor car. The bland four walls of his bedroom were starting to drive him insane. 

That being said, Sunday wasn’t an idiot. Diplomacy required paying attention to social cues. He knew when he was and wasn’t wanted. Ever since his harsh retort to March, the trio had stiffened up even more around him, with them and Sunday doing their best to avoid each other. From his window, he had seen March lead the other two with a wide smile on her face and a skip in her step when they disembarked, like she had left behind a massive weight on the Express.

“I appreciate the invitation, Welt, but I think I’ll remain here for now,” He declined politely. He hoped the other man wouldn’t take offense.

When Sunday had boarded the Express for the first time, the first conversation he’d had with anyone on the train was with Welt. He had led him to his new room, and they were just about to part ways so he could unpack his few belongings when Sunday had thanked him.

“I appreciate the help, Mr. Yang. I am indebted to you and to the Express.” The words flowed out of Sunday naturally, always the diplomat. 

“Of course. Take your time settling in. Oh, and one other thing,” Welt gave him a kind smile. 

“Those three are insistent on calling me ‘Mr. Yang,’ but I’ve told them time and again that ‘Welt’ is just fine. At this point I’ve given up on trying to sway them, however, the same goes for you,” he’d said. “The formality is unnecessary, but whichever you find more comfortable is fine by me.”

Sunday had swallowed, suddenly tense, and nodded. “I understand. Thank you, Welt.” He’d corrected, and Welt’s smile had turned pleased. 

Welt sighed, jerking Sunday’s attention back to the present. “Alright. I’ll be setting off shortly as well, but before I go, I just wanted to mention something else to you.” Welt turned his entire body to face him. “Please don’t misinterpret those three’s awkwardness for disdain. They were going to invite you with them, but thought you were asleep. I know that this environment is quite different from the one you are used to, and that it takes time to acclimate to new surroundings, but just keep in mind that you are welcome on the Astral Express, for however long you choose to stay here.” Welt met his eyes, and Sunday was surprised at how young and old he looked at the same time. 

Deja-vu washed over him in a wave. “I…” He struggled to find his next words. “I see. Thank you, Welt. I pray my lack of engagement has not been taken for dissatisfaction.”

“Not at all. We are glad to see you, however infrequent that may be.” He smiled, and Sunday had the distinct feeling that he was being teased. “Well, I won’t impose my presence on you any longer. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to text any of us, and we can grab it while we’re here.” And with that, Welt Yang disembarked from the Express, the doors closing again with a hiss. Sunday was alone again. 

The parlor car felt colder, like Welt had taken all the warmth with him when he left. 

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Sunday grew bored of his book shortly. It was a dry account of Belobog’s history he’d found in the Express’s library. He figured if he wasn’t going to see the civilization itself, he might as well learn about it elsewhere. Or he would’ve, if the author didn’t ceaselessly drone on and on about soil and rock and Geomarrow classifications. 

He left the book on the couch and stood up to stretch. This was the first time he had the entire Express to himself and could explore everything at leisure. 

He strode to the next car, where the bedrooms were, and paused at the first door. He had overheard Dan Heng discuss the Express’s data bank with the other crew, and he’d been curious to see it for himself. However, Dan Heng and Sunday seemed to be neck-in-neck in the recluse competition, and the Xianzhou man was often in the data bank room, meaning Sunday wasn’t able to enter. 

With no such barrier stopping him, he walked in. Wall to wall, the computers encapsulated the room, lending a soft hum to the environment. Over the railing, Sunday saw a rumpled bedroll, and scoffed. Some work-life balance.

He methodically went through each and every category. He found Dan Heng’s entries on the enemies they had encountered to be the most intriguing. The Stellaron Hunter Kafka, Phantylia, Stoneheart Aventurine... it was incredible. He had severely underestimated the Astral Express. If Sunday had been aware of the magnitude of the foes the Nameless had defeated, he would have definitely reconsidered his approach in battling them.

Speaking of which, another entry soon caught Sunday’s eye.

“Harmonious Choir,” The Great Septimus. 

A nest of spiders hatched in his stomach at the sight, so he elected to skip that entry entirely. 

He had to hand it to Dan Heng. The man was nothing short of thorough. His keen eye, attention to detail, and ability to succinctly arrange information were laudable. However, though correct, some of his information regarding Penacony was missing a few important pieces. He had likely been too occupied (thanks to Sunday) to gather additional material for the data bank.

The door opened loudly behind him, startling Sunday. He whirled around and met Dan Heng’s equally surprised face.  

“Oh. Hello there,” Dan Heng said. 

“Welcome back. I didn’t realize you three had returned,” Sunday replied stiffly. 

“It’s just me. I chose to come back early. I do not have quite the social battery that March and Stelle do.”

“Ah. I see.”

An awkward silence descended upon the room. Sunday was growing extremely tired of creating these situations. 

“Is there something I can help—”

“Your data on the Dreamscape—”

They both started at the same time, then stopped. Sunday held back a cringe. Dan Heng motioned for him to go ahead. 

“I don’t mean to intrude. I’ve just been going through your data bank. All your information regarding Penacony is accurate, however, it has some gaps.” Sunday fixed his gloves. “I mean no offense, but if you would like, I would be happy to share my knowledge as the former head of the Oak Family.”

Something changed in Dan Heng. The uncomfortable expression he’d been poorly hiding melted away into eagerness. “Of course.” He fully entered the room instead of hovering awkwardly in the doorway. Sunday hadn’t realized how much of a height advantage he had over Dan Heng until now. “One moment.” He stepped aside so Dan Heng could access one of the terminals, opening up a document with a large Penacony symbol on it. Seeing that symbol made something in Sunday’s chest ache. 

He had to get his mind on a different track. “Aren’t you tired from your trip? We can always do this another time.”

Dan Heng waved him off. “I appreciate the concern, but in case you couldn’t tell, I enjoy adding to the data bank. It doesn’t tire me any more than sleep does.”

“I can tell indeed. Your entries are comprehensive, and all of the information you have collected is synthesized expertly without skimping on detail.” 

Dan Heng’s whole body seemed to stutter and his eyes jumped back to the monitor in front of him. 

Ah, so he’s the sort to be easily caught off guard by praise. Sunday made a mental note of this observation out of habit, before realizing how futile it was. In the past, such information would prove invaluable to Sunday. Knowing which people were susceptible to flattery and which weren’t was a detail that was often critical in negotiation. Anything to get the upper hand when striking a deal, calming a furious patron, or soliciting help from outsiders. However, there was no upper hand to be had in this encounter, or in any encounter thus far aboard the Express. There was no value in knowing that Dan Heng became flustered when complimented. This was just a quirk Sunday happened to pick up on. Useless.

How unnerving.

Dan Heng cleared his throat. “All right. I’m set up. I do have some questions I’d like to ask and data I want to cross-reference. However, since you already seem to have areas in mind where we are missing info, we can start with your lead, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course.” At least Sunday’s skills as an orator would be put to good use. 

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“I’m glad you stopped by, Sunday. I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d mind helping me expand the data bank’s entries on the Dreamscape, but I wasn’t sure if…” He glanced over at Sunday, before looking back at the terminal. “...If you’d be amenable.”

“Certainly. The Express has been nothing but accommodating towards me. It’s the least I can do to repay the Nameless.” 

Dan Heng frowned. “That’s not how the Express works.” 

“No?”

“You do understand that by joining us, you yourself are part of the crew? It’s not a position you have to earn nor is it conditional on anything. So long as you are aboard the Express, you aren’t ‘repaying the Nameless,’ you’re one of us.”

Sunday went quiet. He’d read plenty about the Nameless. He understood their purpose, and the drive of their deceased Aeon. Anyone could join the Trailblaze, in theory. 

In practice, it all seemed ridiculous. 

“Apologies if I overstepped.” Dan Heng broke his train of thought. “I just… I cannot help but feel a sense of deja-vu. Himeko gave me this exact speech when I first boarded the Express.”

This was new. Sunday’s ears pricked up, attention fully caught.

“I felt indebted to the Express for giving me a safe place to stay. It took me a while to find my footing, and even longer to understand that my work as an archivist wasn’t to fulfill a debt, but rather to help further the collective goal of Trailblazing.” 

Sunday didn’t have the entire picture regarding the man before him, but from what he could piece together from the data bank, he had been running from his past for quite a long time. 

“But that is where our situations differ,” Sunday pointed out. 

“You are mistaken.” Dan Heng cut himself off before he could continue. “I didn’t mean to derail things. I simply noticed that you may have a misconception about what it means to join the Express.” At that moment, his phone buzzed in his pocket, as did Sunday’s. 

“It looks like they’re back.” Dan Heng noted, scanning the text on the screen. “And it seems they are asking for you.”

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Sunday squinted in suspicion at the paper shopping bag that Stelle was poorly concealing behind her back. 

“We got you something. Think of it as a belated welcome present from the Express.” She held out the bag for him to take. Sunday’s curiosity won out over his distrust, and he dug around in the bag until his fingers closed around an unfamiliar, heavy object. He pulled it out to inspect, its cool weight palpable through his glove. 

“Ta-daaa! It’s your own little dove! It’s a native species in Belobog and not a Charmony dove, unfortunately, but we figured it was close enough.” March beamed. 

He twisted the glass figure. It fit snugly in his palm. The bird caught the low lighting in the parlor car and cast rainbows on the floor and ceiling.

Sunday chuckled. At Stelle and March’s confusion, he laughed harder. 

“Does that mean you like it?” Stelle asked tentatively. Dan Heng shot them both an unimpressed look, apparently having made the same realization as Sunday. 

“...This is a pigeon,” Sunday explained after a pause. “You have brought me a pigeon.” Thankfully, he managed to get himself under control, but he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face.  

Stelle and March turned to each other, wide-eyed in horror, and the sight had Sunday stifling a snicker with his free hand. 

“Stelle!”

“How was I supposed to tell? Dove, pigeon, robin, sparrow… All the little birds look the same. Plus, when I bought it Sampo told me —” She cut herself off, and a shadow darkened her face. March glowered as well. 

“Sampo,” The pair seethed in unison.

“Please.” He waved them off. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m grateful for the pigeon. Thank you both. Besides,” He held the pigeon up to eye level. Its glass eyes sparkled back at him. “It has a certain charm to it,” He murmured, missing the amazed looks exchanged between the other three. Himeko hid a smile of her own. 

“Yay! See, I told you he would like it!” March cheered. His chest tightened at the thought that the gift had been her idea.

A new truth sharpened and crystallized in his mind.

These people would never be family to Sunday, that much was certain. Allies, however, was a possibility. It never hurt to have more people on his side. 

The bird’s glass eye sparkled, like it was winking at him.

Chapter Text

Sunday shot upright in bed, shaking hands clutching the fabric over his chest. His heavy pants cut through the silence of his bedroom. The more he came back into the world of the waking, the more the dream faded away from his memory. He glimpsed bits and pieces; Robin dying in his arms, buildings crumbling down, Gallagher’s monster stabbing him through the chest again and again and again-

He gripped his arms hard, the pain grounding him. The automated lights in the bedroom slowly brightened to a dim glow, sensing that its inhabitant was awake. His breath eventually returned back to his chest. 

He knew from years of experience that sleep would be impossible now. He glanced over at his new roommate, the little glass pigeon, perched on the wooden shelf across from his bed. At least he would have company this time. 

He stretched, and got out of his bed, carefully making it up again. If he wasn’t falling back asleep, there wasn’t much point in lying awake staring at the ceiling. He tucked a book under his arm, a collection of fairy tales from the Xianzhou Luofu, and decided to head for the parlor car for a change in scenery. 

Or at least, he tried. 

As soon as Sunday opened the door, he jumped at the sight of Stelle, staring back at him, equally shocked. Her fist was in the air, poised to knock. She had donned a different oversized t-shirt, this time with some sort of orange-and-red dog creature on it.

“Hey,” she finally said, lowering her hand. 

Many questions swirled in Sunday’s head. Despite his restlessness, though, exhaustion bled at the corners of his mind, and all he could say in response was, “Hello.”

There was a beat of silence. 

 “Can I help you?” He finally asked. Behind her, the clock in the hallway read 3:31AM. 

Another pause. Stelle seemed to be just as disoriented as him. Sunday debated shutting the door in her face and lying awake to stare at the ceiling for the rest of the night when she spoke up. 

“I couldn’t sleep, and I know sometimes you can’t either.” She finally explained. “I had a hunch you were up, and I was going to ask if you wanted to get a snack with me.”

He blinked. He had no idea what expression was on his face. 

“It’s alright if you don’t—”

“I would like that,” his voice came out all in a rush, to his embarrassment. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for the offer.”

Stelle opened and closed her mouth, then smiled. It occurred to Sunday that he had never seen her do that before. 

“Cool. Synthesizer’s in the parlor car. Follow me.”

They walked in silence. This was the first time quiet had fallen between Sunday and a member of the Astral Express without making him want to shrivel up.

“I’m getting a slice of Clockie Pizza. You want some?” She asked, punching in her order on the synthesizer. 

Sunday couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose. Finger foods never sat right with him. Just the thought of an oily film on his fingers made him queasy. “I’m alright. Thank you, though.”

Stelle shrugged. “Suit yourself. There’s tons of other stuff on the synthesizer, if you’ve got pizza trauma or something.” A huff of laughter left Sunday before he could stop it. “We have a lot of recipes from Penacony. Probably isn’t gonna be the same, but it won’t be awful,” she added, taking a seat on the same wide couch as him.

Sunday scrolled through the myriad of foods and, bizarrely, non-foods (a hammer?) until his eyes caught a colorful and familiar treat. 

The synthesizer hummed once Sunday ran the command, adding a soothing ambience to the parlor car. He stared out of the massive windows, letting his eyes wander among the stars. 

“Sunday.” 

“Yes?”

Just then, the synthesizer beeped, and the faint smell of pizza wafted from the machine. She got up and plated her dish, then sat back down with a flop.

She swallowed the big bite of pizza she’d taken. Grease was smeared around her mouth. Sunday's hands itched for a napkin. 

“Do you want to be here?” she finally asked. 

Whatever he’d been expecting her to say, it wasn’t that.

Sunday spent the majority of his life receiving various high-profile guests from across the cosmos, negotiating deals, and hearing confessions. His knee-jerk reaction was to unravel a person’s words until he could spot the real message hidden under layers of pleasantries and smooth-talking. There was none of that aboard the Express.  A pattern he’d noticed among the Nameless, particularly the one before him, was their straightforward manner of speech. There was no point in trying to grasp the hidden meaning behind March whining when her camera ran out of storage or Himeko offering a cup of coffee or Stelle asking him if he wanted to be here, because there wasn’t any.

It was jarring, to say the least. What a strange question. 

“Do I want to be here?” he echoed. She nodded. 

“Yeah. Or are you just sticking around until you find somewhere you like better to settle down?” She took another bite of her pizza just as the synthesizer gave a cheery tune, signaling that Sunday’s dish was complete. He held off on getting the food so he could process the question, or more accurately, figure out how to phrase his response. 

“I am grateful for the generosity of the Nameless in taking me in,” he said carefully, and Stelle sighed. 

“I'm not gonna burst into tears if you say this isn’t your favorite place in the world. We hit you with this train. Multiple times. I wouldn't blame you if you were itching to get off.”

“You three really enjoy bringing that up,” Sunday huffed. “I hold no grudge against the Express for using every weapon available to them to defeat a formidable foe.” He turned back up to the stars. He knew he was letting the silence stretch on for longer than socially acceptable, but if Stelle minded, she gave no indication. 

“What I want is to understand my sister,” he finally said, biting back a spike of pain. “I want to find the value she saw in freedom. I want to see the universe like she does, and figure out why the dream had to end.”

“You wanna know why you lost,” Stelle realized. Sunday froze at her words, eyes shooting up to meet hers. For the first time, he discovered that this Trailblazer had quite the piercing gaze. 

Sunday felt like an open book. He found he couldn’t disagree. 

“Yes. What better way to do that than by traveling with the very people who defeated me in the first place?” He finished, standing up and collecting his dish from the synthesizer. 

After sitting back down with a spoon and a napkin, he almost took a bite, until he saw Stelle gaping at him. 

“What?” He said defensively. Stelle shook her head in wonder. 

“Sunday’s eating a sundae,” she blurted out. 

He rolled his eyes. 

“Very clever. And unique. I have never heard that joke before. You are the first person to take advantage of this wordplay. Well done.” He deadpanned. “Surely this has earned Aha’s gaze. Consider abandoning the Express and pursuing a career in comedy.” 

Stelle snorted. “I just didn’t think you’d have a sweet tooth.” Under her breath, she whispered, “Gap moe.” Whatever that meant. 

“Is it really so strange?” He stared down at his Hundred-Layer Sundae. When they were little, he and his sister would split the treat whenever they got a chance to buy it. However, Robin didn’t particularly enjoy sweets whereas Sunday had always loved them, so it ended up being a 75/25 divide in his favor each time. 

“No, no. It’s not strange. I just figured a stoic guy like you would be into bitter, adult stuff, like black coffee.”

Sunday wrinkled his nose. “I can’t stand black coffee. I have no idea how Robin tolerates it.” A lance of pain struck his chest at the mention of his sister.

“Robin likes her coffee black? Huh. I guess you took all the sweet taste buds and left none for her.”

“That is almost certainly not how genetics work.”

“How would you know?”

“How would you know?”

Stelle tapped her chin. “You’ve got me there.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “You seem different from when we first met.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. I guess if I had to put it into words, you feel more… real. More like a person, instead of ‘the head of the Oak family,’” She mocked, sitting up ramrod straight and placing her hands behind her back. 

“Well,” Sunday muttered. “It must help that I am no longer, in fact, the head of the Oak family. Also, I do not carry myself like that.”

“I meant it as a compliment. It’s a good thing. And yes, you do. Sometimes my back hurts just looking at you.”

“It’s called good posture.” He paused. “What do you mean, ‘a good thing’?”

“I just mean that even though you’re still stiff as a board, you’ve relaxed a little since we first found you and got you aboard the Express.” She drummed her clean hand on the seat of the couch. “It’s nice.”

Sunday blinked. The word “allies” bubbled to the surface of his mind. He shoved a spoonful of his sundae into his mouth so that he didn’t have to immediately reply.

“I dunno how long it’s gonna take you to figure out, but you’re welcome here. Even if you don’t believe it, you can at least pretend to. You could come on missions and have dinner with us. It will probably make you want to die a bit less than isolating yourself forever.”

“I—”

“No, this approach clearly isn’t working with you. Time for a different method.” Stelle leaned back into the seat, stroking her chin, deep in thought. “Oh, I know!”

She stood up, marched over until she was right in front of Sunday, and bent over to glare at him, hands on her hips. He raised an eyebrow.

“After all the trouble the Express has gone through trying to rescue you, you can’t bring yourself to come on missions with us? You’d rather laze around all day, enjoying the amenities of free room and board without ever contributing to the Trailblaze? You could stand to be at least a little grateful to the people that took you in out of the kindness of their hearts.”

Sunday’s jaw dropped at the sudden tone shift. Stelle squinted at him hard, making him feel like a bug under a microscope.

“Nothing to say? Martyring yourself in the name of the Order is no big deal but sharing a meal with your crewmates is where you draw the line? Unbelievable.” Then, she delivered the final blow:

“What would Robin say?”

“Enough.” Sunday held up his hand. A sick feeling pooled in his stomach. Stelle’s expression went from fake anger to concern. 

“Too far?” He nodded. “Sorry.”

After a moment, he let out an exhale. “It’s alright.”

“For the record, she would be ecstatic to see you right now.” His gaze snapped up to hers in alarm. Stelle held up both hands to placate him. “Relax, I didn’t say anything to her. None of us have, and we won’t until you tell us otherwise. It’s just that I know she’s worried out of her mind—”

“Stelle.” 

“She has no idea where you are and she misses her brother—”

“Stelle. Please, stop.” He begged, in a voice he had never heard from himself before. She went quiet. The parlor car was silent except for the low thrum of electricity, keeping the Express afloat.

“I’m sorry.” She said with a note of finality. “I don’t know what’s going on with you guys, and I overstepped. I won’t bring it up again.” She sat back down on the couch, facing him but a little further away this time.

When he found his voice again, he had to clear his throat a couple of times. 

“Where is the Express stopping next?” He asked quietly. 

“The Xianzhou Luofu. Have you ever been?”

“I never left Penacony until I escaped.” Stelle’s mouth parted in an ‘o.’ Sunday hurried to get out his next sentence. “I would like to join this time when you disembark.”

The ‘o’ got wider, then Stelle grinned. “I think that can be arranged.”

Sunday snorted despite himself, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Chapter Text

Two knocks rapped on the door to Sunday’s room. 

“We’re landing at the Xianzhou Luofu soon. March, Stelle, and I are planning to do some shopping for the Express once we get there. Are you still interested in coming with?”

Sunday was about to reply, then realized that talking through a door was rude. He instead opened it, to Dan Heng’s surprise. “I am. Thank you for letting me know.”

He nodded. “We’re docking in about a system hour. Be ready to leave by then.” He turned to go, then stopped. "I'm glad you're joining us," he murmured before leaving Sunday alone with a strange warmth in his chest. He frowned. Hopefully, he wasn’t coming down with something. 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The Xianzhou Luofu was bustling and humming with activity. Shopkeepers peddled their wares, a group of children kicked a ball around with laughter, and Cloud Knights stood guard at every entrance, periodically answering questions from passer-bys. 

If Sunday were alone, he would be overwhelmed, clueless as to where to start. Thankfully, March was on a mission and happily led the way.

The first place she took them to was, oddly enough, a vending machine. 

“You can’t get the full Luofu experience without trying their infamous Mung Bean Soda!” She exclaimed, shoving some credits into the machine, and before Sunday knew it, a cold soda can was pressed into his hands. 

Something wasn’t quite right. Stelle, March, and even Dan Heng were all looking at him with a gaze akin to cats eyeing a mouse. Sunday wondered if he was walking right into a trap. 

Perhaps this was a test of some sort, a trust exercise unique to the Astal Express with rules that Sunday wasn’t privy to. Whatever it was, if they had wanted to poison him, there was ample opportunity beforehand, so whatever he was about to drink likely wouldn’t hurt him.

Sunday popped the tab of the soda can and took a long sip. His mouth filled with bubbles, and at first he couldn’t taste anything.

Then the carbonation fizzed away, and the flavor settled on his tongue.

It took every ounce of self-control in Sunday’s body to not do something crass like spit the soda out on the sidewalk. He hastily swallowed and coughed into his elbow. 

“What in Xipe’s name—” He managed to choke out. March burst into giggles, and Dan Heng failed to hide his smile. 

“Indescribable, isn’t it?” Dan Heng said sympathetically. Sunday glared at them both in betrayal. 

“Oh, don’t look at us like that. Every Express member has to go through the Mung Bean Soda experience at least once. Here,” Stelle chuckled, offering a tall, light brown drink in a plastic cup. “A reward for your trial. You’ll actually like this one, I promise.”

Sunday eyed the brown bead-looking things at the bottom of the cup warily. “You cannot possibly expect me to accept a drink from you after what you just made me endure.” The awful flavor still lingered in his mouth. Dan Heng was right; it truly was indescribable.

“You haven’t had milk tea before? It’s really good! This one’s called Immortal’s Delight, and it’s my second favorite drink ever after juice!” March encouraged. “The worst thing you’ll experience is a sugar rush, I swear!”

Sunday’s gaze slid over to Dan Heng. He nodded in affirmation. “I find it too syrupy, but if you like sweets, you’ll definitely enjoy it.”

“What are the… things at the bottom?” 

“Tapioca pearls, a common milk tea topping. Some people like them, some don’t. They’re chewy and mildly sweet.”

“Sunday, if you don’t like this drink, I’ll bark like a dog right in front of the marketplace.” Stelle fixed him with a serious look. 

“And I’ll happily take it off your hands!” March chimed in.

“That will not be necessary.” Sunday took the cup from Stelle’s hands. They had seemed earnest enough. He shot one last warning look at each of them, then tentatively took a sip. A cold, sweet coffee flavor blissfully washed the rancid soda taste out of his mouth. The tapioca pearls bouncing across his tongue startled him, but after chewing on one, he found he didn’t mind the texture. He took another sip. 

Then another sip. 

Then another. 

“Well? What do you think?” March prompted. 

“Judging by how he’s almost halfway through, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say he likes it,” Dan Heng deadpanned. 

“I didn’t think he’d like it that much. Hey, slow down, you’ll give yourself a-”

Pain bloomed behind Sunday’s eyes, and he winced, rubbing his forehead. He hadn’t given himself a brain freeze in years. 

“You weren’t kidding, Stelle,” March marveled. “He really does have a sweet tooth.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The Cloud Knight General was a man who clearly had seen a great many things in his life. When the Astral Express members barged into the Realm-Keeping Commission looking for him, he didn’t bat an eye, not even at the tall, foreign new addition to their team with wings sprouting out of his head. Every other person in the room gawked at Sunday, which was nothing out of the ordinary. He tended to turn heads wherever he went. 

“It’s good to see the Nameless again! It has been far too long.” The General wore a soft, almost sleepy smile. Sunday couldn’t help but notice that his expression changed a little when his eyes landed on Dan Heng. It turned into pain. He made a mental note to ask the archivist about that later.

“Hello, General. We’re doing a supply run and figured we would stop by to say hi.” Stelle piped up. Sunday coughed into his fist to hide his astonishment. 

‘Stop by to say hi’ to one of the most powerful and likely most busy people on this world? Sunday had vastly underestimated the Astral Express if these were the kinds of relationships their Trailblazing had forged. 

“Always a pleasure. I see a new companion has joined your ranks.” He bowed in Sunday’s direction. “I am Jing Yuan, one of the seven Arbiter-Generals of the Luofu. It is not often that a Halovian graces our world with a visit. On behalf of the Luofu, I extend my warmest welcome to you.”

Sunday placed his palm over his heart and dipped his head to reciprocate the gesture in Penacony fashion. These were familiar waters to navigate. “Thank you, General. My name is Sunday, and you are correct, I am currently traveling alongside the Express. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”

“The honor is mine. I imagine this environment is quite different from Penacony.” Jing Yuan’s smile went from friendly to cold. “I do hope you are able to adjust. Cloud Knights are posted at just about every corner of the Luofu, and they would be more than happy to help you find your way.”

Now this sort of interaction was especially familiar. Sunday was well-versed in reading between the lines: I know you are the escaped Oak Family fugitive, and I have my eye on you. Try anything on the Luofu and the repercussions will be severe, was what Jing Yuan meant. 

He held the General’s gaze, respectful but firm. “I understand. You’re right, the Xianzhou Luofu isn’t anything like Penacony, but I find I’m quite enjoying myself here so far. The Cloud Knights have been nothing but helpful, and my companions know the area well.” I have no ill intentions, I am aware of the presence of law enforcement, and the company of the Astral Express should say something about my trustworthiness and low threat index.

Jing Yuan relaxed a tiny bit, and that sleepy smirk reappeared on his face. “That is good to hear.” He turned to address the group as a whole. “As entertaining as your visits always are, unfortunately I can only put off my responsibilities for so long. I won’t keep you four from your excursions any longer. If and when trouble finds you, do try to keep the collateral to a minimum,” He teased. “Oh, and watch out for Yanqing. I fear he has been particularly hungry for sparring partners as of late.”

“Yes, General!” Stelle gave an exaggerated salute.

Once they left the Realm-Keeping Commission, the three of them all turned to stare at him. “What?” He asked. 

“‘I am currently traveling alongside the Express,’” March mocked in a deep voice, putting her hand on her chest. 

Sunday just barely managed to hide his flinch, and something in his stomach tightened. “Am I incorrect?”

“Is it really so awful to call yourself an Astral Express member?” She whined. He fidgeted with his glove behind his back. 

Follower of the Order, reject of the Harmony, Ena’s voice hissed in his head. Sunday squeezed his hands together hard enough for pain to burst between his knuckles. 

For all his diplomacy training, he lacked the words to explain to any of them that yes, it was that awful. 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“It’s the Astral Express!” A youthful voice cried when they deboarded their starskiff at Aurum Alley. All four heads turned around to meet a young, blonde man dressed in blue waving cheerfully.

“Yanqing!” March beamed. The other two seemed equally pleased. A friend of the Express, then. Sunday let his face fall into a practiced calm neutrality. “The General said we might run into you. It’s good to see you! How have you been?”

“Good as ever. Have you been practicing your sword moves since I last saw you?” Was the boy a teacher to March? Sunday took another long look at him. Something about this Yanqing fellow distinctly reminded him of the General. Perhaps it was the mature air of a warrior that he carried, despite the lingering baby fat on his cheeks, or the shrewdness in his eyes. Was this his son?

“Uh, o-of course! I’ve always been a diligent student!” March stammered.

“Excellent!” Yanqing’s smile sharpened. Sunday decided no matter his age, this boy was not to be underestimated. “Then you won’t mind if we test those skills that you have been polishing?”

“Umm…”

March looked back at the group with pleading eyes, but Stelle had become quite interested in her nails and Dan Heng was looking in the opposite direction, pretending to be distracted. Sunday opted to meet her gaze with a blank stare.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to, March,” Yanqing assured, “However, the Astral Express promised me a spar the last time we met. Do you not remember?”

“No, I remember,” March murmured, defeated.

“If it’s not March, one of you is going to have to take up the mantle. Don’t tell me the Nameless go back on their promises! Stelle? Dan Heng?”

“We keep our promises! It’s just… Not it!” Stelle shouted, touching her finger to her nose. Before Sunday could register what was happening, Dan Heng and March did the same. 

Internally, he groaned. What a bunch of children. 

“Oh, where are our manners?” Stelle gasped in feigned horror. She grabbed Sunday by the arm and tugged him forwards. “Yanqing, this gentleman who has graciously volunteered to spar with you is Sunday, the newest member of our crew.”

“I did no such thing,” Sunday retorted. He turned to glare at the trio, and found himself on the receiving end of three Cheshire-like grins, even from Dan Heng, for whom a “Cheshire-like grin” was a minute quirk of his lips. 

It would appear that he was cornered. 

“Sunday, you said? I’m Yanqing, Lieutenant of the Luofu Cloud Knights! If you have some free time, would you mind sparring with me, Mr. Sunday?” Yanqing’s hand flew to his hilt, as though he meant to duel right in the middle of the town square. 

A lieutenant. No wonder the others refused to fight him. Sunday weighed his options. It would do him no good as a fugitive, pardoned or not, to challenge a high-ranking officer on a world he was visiting for the first time, especially when Jing Yuan was already distrustful of him. His mind raced with the myriad of ways he could inadvertently cause offense to the Lieutenant, the General, and even the entire Luofu. It simply wasn’t worth it. 

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid—” Sunday began, but stopped.

The eagerness on Yanqing’s face was blinding, as were his big, hopeful eyes. Regardless of his status and how maturely he presented himself, he was clearly still a child who had little practice schooling his expression into a mask. However, at Sunday’s refusal, Yanqing wilted, and he let go of his sword. Crestfallen, his eyes sank to the ground even as he straightened his posture back into that befitting a Cloud Knight officer. 

Guilt pierced through Sunday like a knife. That was a look he had seen before. It reappeared in his nightmares again and again; the face of a child trying to appear strong and pretend that Sunday hadn’t devastated her—

“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Sunday. I have been incredibly disrespectful. I hope I haven’t tainted your image of the Xianzhou Luofu. Please forgive me,” Yanqing murmured, and bent forward into a bow. 

Something awful slithered through his stomach and squeezed his heart. He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to get that look off of Yanqing’s face. 

“It’s me who owes you the apology. I should have been more clear,” he smoothly recovered. “I meant to say that I worry this isn’t an appropriate place for engaging in combat.”

The change was instantaneous. Yanqing perked up like he’d been zapped with electricity. The crushing pressure on Sunday’s chest lightened just a bit. He didn’t need to turn around or activate his halo to feel the shock radiating from his companions.

“Of course, we wouldn’t spar here! Follow me, there’s a big training area for the Cloud Knights that’s not too far.” Yanqing was practically vibrating with excitement. 

While following the boy, Dan Heng jogged up to Sunday and tapped his shoulder. “Are you sure?” He asked, mouth turned down with concern. “We shouldn’t have pushed you into this. I’ve fought Yanqing before, and I have no issue with doing it again. Would you like me to take your place?”

Sunday narrowed his eyes. “I voluntarily accepted the challenge. Do I seem like the sort to back down now?”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

When they reached the arena, the trio shuffled off to the sidelines to watch. “Good luck,” Dan Heng said and clapped him on the shoulder.

“We’re rooting for you, Sunday!” March promised. 

Stelle adopted a look of solemnity. “What she’s not telling you is that if you dishonor Akivili by losing in this duel, you will henceforth be banished from the Astral Express forever.”

“She’s messing with you. Stelle, shut up!” March hissed, and tugged the snickering girl to the outskirts of the arena.

Yanqing passed him a palm-sized device in the shape of a tortoise. A similar one was attached to his belt. “Clip this to your shirt,” he instructed. “It will create a forcefield around your body so that we can use our weapons at full power without actually injuring each other.”

“Are you sure it will be sufficient protection?” Sunday asked, bringing the smiling little tortoise up to his face to examine it. It was heavier than it looked, and glinted green in the sunlight.

Instead of answering, Yanqing summoned a bright blue sword and jabbed it into his own arm. Sunday gasped, horrified, but all Yanqing did was smile. 

He pulled his sword out of his arm, completely unharmed. “The Master Diviner designed it. The device uses the same inventory we use to store our weapons, so the sword isn’t actually going into my arm, it’s going to that inventory.”

“I see.” He fixed the tortoise to the lapel of his shirt.

Yanqing bounced on the balls of his feet. “I’ve never fought a Halovian before! Make sure you don’t go easy on me, because I definitely won’t hold back!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he lied. Yanqing glowered at him. He suddenly swept his hand down in a sharp movement.

Shhk-shhk-shhk. Three swords stabbed into the ground, creating a perfect triangle around Sunday’s left boot. If he had moved a hair in any direction beforehand, at least one of them would be sticking out of his foot.

“Don’t go easy on me,” he warned again, recalling the swords to his side. Sunday felt like a fool for disregarding his own observations: 

Yanqing was not to be underestimated. 

“Understood.” Yanqing must have caught the shift in his demeanor, and smiled. The temperature in the arena suddenly dropped. 

He rolled his shoulders, flexed his wrists, and called his own weapon to his hand. Yanqing’s eyes widened, and he heard squawks and gasps from the sidelines. 

He didn’t blame them. After all, his scythe was stunning, standing almost as tall as him. The massive midnight-blue blade was bordered by silver, while the handle was a smooth, pearly white. Intricate engravings of vines, apples, and wings swirled in white detailing across the blade. When Sunday twisted the handle, the light danced off of the gleaming metal, and the razor-sharp edge grinned in the glow of the sun.

“Your scythe is extraordinary,” Yanqing gushed. He stepped onto one of his swords and flew into the air. With a wave of his fingers, several more swords materialized, floating menacingly by their master’s side. Each sword was a brilliant icy-blue color, adorned with swirling Xianzhou designs and glowing with the Lieutenant's elemental power. 

Sunday twirled the handle of his scythe in his palms, letting Imaginary energy crackle across the handle and spark off of the blade. “As are your swords,” he replied. 

Yanqing grinned. “A strong adversary! Help me improve, Mr. Sunday!” 

He couldn’t help but smile back. “How noisy,” he murmured as the promise of a good fight sang through his veins. 

From the sidelines, Stelle bellowed at the top of her lungs, “Begin!”

The Lieutenant moved as quick as an arrow, and just as sharp. He leapt from sword to sword with breathtaking agility, as though he were dancing. Blade after blade after blade whistled through the air, immediately forcing Sunday into a defensive position. His scythe became more of a shield than a weapon. All of his attention was forced into blocking and weaving between the sharps in the wind, leaving little room for a counter attack. 

However, the problem with an intense offense was a sacrifice in defense. All Sunday had to do was beat the sword volley for just a moment and he would be wide open.

Not to mention, Yanqing had ordered him not to hold back. 

Sunday ducked under the swords and dashed right behind Yanqing. His scythe hummed with Imaginary energy, and he slashed it downwards. The Lieutenant jumped out of the way just in time, and his scythe clanged against the ground, yellow sparks flying everywhere. 

He gritted his teeth. Close, but not fast enough. Yanqing’s swiftness posed the greatest problem to his heavy hits. If he could slow him down the tiniest bit, or at least distract him, he could land a strike. The more he learned about Yanqing’s abilities, the sooner he could spot an exploitable pattern.

The emptiness where he could once feel the power of the Harmony humming through his body ached. He brushed it off. No point in lamenting bygones. 

The temperature dropped again, and Sunday narrowly avoided an icy projectile. He inhaled, exhaled, and lunged again at Yanqing. 

The sound of blades clashing against each other rang out in the arena. “Go, Sunday!” March cheered from the stands. Sunday barely registered her voice through the laser focus that fighting Yanqing demanded of him. Even as he continued his attack, the Lieutenant was grinning with delight.

Sunday’s respect for Yanqing grew tenfold. This child was leagues beyond swordsmen that far trumped him in age and experience. He wielded his swords as though they were extensions of himself. He left almost no openings in his assault, and even when he did, he covered himself so quickly that Sunday couldn’t hope of retaliating. He spun his scythe as fast as he could to deflect and distract, but he was out of practice and his arms were aching from the strain of tossing around the heavy weapon. Yanqing’s strategy soon became clear: he was going to overwhelm and tire Sunday out until he slipped up, then go in for the kill.

Sunday’s single advantage was that he only had one weapon to keep track of. Yanqing would eventually run out of swords. As long as his attention was divided between recovering his blades and blocking Sunday’s attacks, he might have a chance. It would be brief, hardly more than a second given Yanqing’s prowess, but it was the longest opening Sunday would get. 

Sure enough, within seconds Yanqing delicately balanced on the last sword he had left, and swooped around to retrieve the dozens of blue blades that littered the battlefield.

For one tiny flash of a moment, Sunday caught his shift of concentration from his opponent to his swords. Now!

He shot to Yanqing’s left and brought the scythe down in a sweeping curve. 

The Lieutenant's eyes widened and he wobbled on his sword. Just before the scythe could cleave him in two, he ducked. Something shimmery and yellow fluttered to the ground in the space he had just been in. 

It was hair, Sunday realized at the same time as Yanqing, who ran a hand through his locks and gasped at the shorter length. The poor boy’s bangs had taken most of the attack, and he looked a little ridiculous with such a lopsided fringe. 

Sunday’s distraction with Yanqing’s new hairstyle proved to be his downfall. A sword zipped hilt-first between his ankles and he tripped and hit the ground hard, his scythe clattering uselessly beside him. In moments, he was surrounded on all sides by blue-white blades pointed right at his throat, the frost hatching goosebumps on his neck.

“Do you yield?” Yanqing asked, staring down the line of the sword into Sunday’s eyes. It sounded like an order. Unfortunately, it was difficult to be truly intimidated when he looked like a poorly drawn cartoon character.

Well, bad haircut or not, Yanqing had thoroughly bested him. “I yield,” he panted.

Immediately the fight left the Lieutenant's body, and he beamed. “That was awesome! A lot of the Cloud Knights don’t even come close to landing a hit on me.” He hopped off of his sword and extended a hand to Sunday. In the spirit of sportsmanship, he took it, despite how silly it felt to be helped up by a boy half his size. 

He groaned as he rubbed his shoulder, which had taken the brunt of his fall. “You’re an incredible fighter,” Sunday commended. 

“So are you! I’ve never seen anyone with a weapon that big move so fast,” he gushed.

“That’s because this one is different.” He held out his scythe to Yanqing, who took it in awe. 

“It’s so light!” He exclaimed, twirling the weapon between his hands.

“It’s hollow, like a bird bone.” 

Yanqing gave it a few test swings and ran his finger along the blade. “Sharp, too. Thanks for the haircut, by the way.” He shot him a sly grin.

Sunday winced. “My apologies. I didn’t realize hair wasn’t protected by the forcefield.”

“Me neither! Don’t worry, there’s nothing to apologize for. I’m happy I finally got to battle a challenging opponent. Thank you for the fight!” Yanqing passed his scythe back and bowed with enthusiasm. “I look forward to our rematch!”

Sunday smiled. “As do I.” He nodded at the boy. “You are one of the strongest opponents I have ever faced, Lieutenant. I look forward to the day when I am skilled enough to truly pose a challenge to you, even if by then I’m sure you’ll best me anyway.”

Yanqing went bright red. “I— Uh— I-it was an honor to battle you, Mr. Sunday!” He bowed deeply again. “Thank you for the fight!”

“O-ho? What’s this? Has someone managed to fluster the Lieutenant of the Cloud Knights?” A new voice teased. 

“General!” Jing Yuan stepped forward and came into view, wearing that same sleepy smile.

“I heard of a spar between my retainer and the newcomer from the Astral Express, and had to see it for myself. Yanqing, we will be having a long conversation later to refresh you on what hospitality looks like on the Xianzhou Luofu.” He shot a stern look at the boy. “I will say now that challenging a guest to a spar is not an example we will be going over.”

Yanqing’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have—”

“General, if I may,” Sunday interrupted. “My status as a newcomer matters little in the face of a debt. The Astral Express promised a duel to Lieutenant Yanqing, and he rightfully sought us out to collect. I was the one who volunteered to fulfill that promise. The Express does not go back on its word.” 

Sunday was flying by the seat of his pants. He had no idea if he was spouting truth or nonsense, only that it seemed like the right thing to say to defend Yanqing. He gestured to the boy. “Yanqing gave me the honor of dueling with him, and I can truthfully say that I have never fought anyone like the Lieutenant. I am nothing but grateful for the opportunity.”

Yanqing somehow got redder, eyes rounded in awe. The General blinked in surprise, then let out a sigh. He ruffled Yanqing’s hair, eyes crinkling at the boy’s squawks of displeasure. “Alright, thanks to Mr. Sunday’s appeal, you’re off the hook. Your unfortunate new hairdo is punishment enough. However, don’t go challenging anyone but the Cloud Knights from this point on, understand?”

“Yes, General! Thank you, Mr. Sunday!”  

“Just ‘Sunday’ is perfectly fine,” He assured. Yanqing grinned. 

“Thank you, Sunday!” He corrected, before zipping away to collect the rest of his swords. 

Jing Yuan’s expression softened as he turned to him. “It seems my retainer has taken quite a liking to you.”

He squeezed his hands around the handle of his scythe, before flicking it back to his nebulous inventory in one fluid motion. “I’m glad to hear that.” And he really was. Earning Yanqing’s respect and amiability put him in Jing Yuan’s good books. “I meant every word. He is a fearsome opponent. I imagine he’s learned many of his skills from you, General.” 

Jing Yuan threw his head back and laughed. “He takes after me that much, hmm? That does bring me joy. There is something to be said about nature over nurture, though. Yanqing was practically born with a sword in his hand.” He gave Sunday a kind smile, one that reminded him eerily of Welt. “I see why those three have become so fond of you. You fit right in with that bunch.”

It was Sunday’s turn to be caught off guard. “Do I?” He echoed. That familiar warmth bloomed in his chest, followed immediately by a sick squirming in his stomach. 

Jing Yuan leveled him with a piercing gaze, even as his gentle smile did not waver. “Forgive me if I overstep, but when you have lived as long as I, you start to pick up on the tells of the people around you. You carry yourself with no small amount of conflict, am I correct?”

He flinched, unable to hide it this time. Jing Yuan’s eyes softened. “I won’t pretend to understand. I only wish to let you know that you have surrounded yourself with some excellent individuals who have grown to care for you, and that freedom can be a terrifying form of deliverance, but a deliverance nonetheless.”

He wished the General would stop talking, stop smiling, and stop looking at him like he had Sunday all figured out. The sickness in his stomach clawed up his throat. Behind his back, he dug the gloved nails of one hand into the skin of the other. “Thank you, General. I will… keep your words in mind.”

Jing Yuan looked like he was about to say something else, but to Sunday’s great relief, he was interrupted.

“Hi,” said Stelle as she jogged up to them, flanked by March and Dan Heng. “It seemed like you were having a bonding moment, so we didn’t want to interrupt. That was some fight, though.”

“When were you gonna tell us you had a whole entire scythe hidden up your sleeve?” March pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Take it out again. I wanna see it up close.”

He obliged and summoned his scythe, and if he enjoyed the oohs and aahs he received, that was no one’s business but his own. 

“It’s a beautiful weapon,” Dan Heng praised. “Who’s the craftsman?”

“A renowned weaponsmith on Penacony.”

“Did they design it as well?”

“No. I did.”

March gaped. Stelle whistled. Even Jing Yuan looked impressed. “You have quite the eye for detail,” said the General.

Sunday smiled at the scythe. There were a pitiful few things that he had made entirely on his own, and even fewer that he took pride in. His weapon was one of those things, and as such, it was precious to him.

“Thank you,” he replied. He looked back up and found the General looking at him with a strange sadness in his eyes. He recognized the unspoken apology, and nodded at Jing Yuan.

On one hand, the General was completely wrong. Freedom was, by nature, the opposite of deliverance. Choice begot strife. Sunday had learned this lesson many, many times while under the Dreammaster.

March made grabby hands at his scythe, and Dan Heng smacked her lightly, and sighed when Sunday indulged her. Stelle nudged March out of the way to get her hands on the scythe as well, swinging it like a baseball bat. Dan Heng gave another weary sigh, until Stelle passed the weapon to him. Once it was in his grip, he lit up like he had when Sunday helped him add to the data bank. 

On the other hand, Jing Yuan was absolutely correct. Sunday had managed to be found by some extraordinary individuals. 

Look how far you have strayed, follower of the Order, THEY whispered in his mind. Look at how choice is causing you to suffer. Return to the truth, before it is too late. 

March held up her camera. Stelle, who had managed to regain control over the scythe, struck a goofy, villainous pose, aiming the weapon high above Dan Heng’s head. The other man gave them a flat look when March whined for him to look more scared. At that moment, there were lightyears between them and Sunday, as though he were watching a show on TV. Guilt curled like a thorny vine around his intestines, weaving across his ribs and puncturing his trachea. 

Forgive me, he begged. THEY said nothing back.

Chapter Text

“Alright, let’s head back,” said Stelle, her head barely peeking out from the stack of boxes in her arms. Sunday marveled at her strength; he had offered to carry some of the supplies, but she waved him off, and for good reason. She didn’t even break a sweat. 

Beside him, March wilted. “Aw, but it feels like we just got here.”

“Did you need to do something else?”

“I just wanted to swing by Spare Time Bookshop and maybe get some new clothes, but I guess it’s not that important.” Even as she spoke, her face fell and her eyes became downcast. 

“We could split up,” Stelle offered. March perked up with hope. Dan Heng, balancing several bags of groceries, shook his head.

“Remember what Mr. Yang said? It’s not safe to travel on our own. March, you shouldn’t go by yourself.” She deflated again. An idea popped into Sunday’s head. 

“I can go with you.”

All three of them looked at him. Apprehensive, Sunday carefully continued. “I still want to explore the Luofu, and I also need items of my own. I would be happy to tag along, if you don’t mind, March.”

There was a moment of silence where Sunday feared she would refuse, but instead, she beamed at him. “Of course! We barely scratched the surface of the Luofu, and I’m practically an expert. You couldn’t ask for a better tour guide!”

He turned to Dan Heng and Stelle, who seemed to be having a conversation with just their eyes. “Will you two be alright taking the supplies back on your own?” 

Stelle waved him off. “We can just rent a cart or something. Dan Heng thinks it's a frivolous expense, but I’m sure he can make an exception this time.” She shot the man a pointed look. He sighed. 

“I’ll allow it in this circumstance,” He relented. “In that case, Stelle and I will take the groceries back. March and Sunday, please plan to return to the Express within three system hours. Are your phones charged?”

They both glanced at their screens. “I’m at sixty percent. That’s more than enough for three hours!” March reported.

“I’m at ninety.” 

“Okay. Keep in touch.”

“You kids stay out of trouble!” Stelle wagged her finger like a stern parent. 

“You shouldn’t be talking! You’re the one who’s always getting us into trouble!” March stuck her tongue out, and with that, the pairs split ways.

“Thanks for coming along, by the way,” March said to him after they had been walking for some time.  

“It wasn’t just for your sake. I needed something, too.”

“Well, either way, I’m glad you decided to come. Not just to shop with me, but on this trip as a whole. You fit in with us better than you think!”

The honest sincerity on her face was blinding. Sunday’s chest filled with that same warm feeling he got in the morning, followed by deja-vu. However, before he could examine it too closely, March had moved on.

“Anyway, what is it that you need exactly? If it’s just one thing, let's get that first so it's out of the way.”

“A spray bottle.”

“Huh? What for?”

“To clean my wings.”

March’s eyes widened. “Your wings? How does that work?”

“I can’t just pour water on them,” He explained. “My feathers will clump together and become heavy with moisture. That puts weight on the bone, which weakens it over time.”

“I get it.” She drummed her fingers on her arm. Any more invasive questions about Halovian hygiene, March? He thought wryly. “So, does that mean you don’t know how to swim?”

He blinked. “Er, no, I don’t.”

“What?! That’s no good! What if a bad guy pushes you into a pool?”

“I have been trained my entire life to make an effort like that as difficult as possible.”

“So, basically you’d just… drown?”

“... If the bad guy was successful.”

“That’s messed up!”

“You underestimate me. That’s rather hurtful.”

“I’m not— Hey, quit smirking! This is serious! There has to be some technology or special clothing or something out there that makes it so Halovians can get in water. We’re gonna find it and teach you how to not drown!”

“Not even how to swim? Just how to ‘not drown’?”

“Baby steps, grasshopper. Under my tutelage and with patience and hard work, you will surely graduate from tadpole to barracuda in no time.” She crossed her arms and tilted her chin up proudly in an exaggerated show of sapience. 

Sunday responded with an equally dramatic bow. “I am endlessly grateful to you, Master March 7th.”

“You had better be!”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦ 

The atmosphere of the market was slow and sleepy as shopkeepers and pedestrians wound down for the evening. A few places had already closed, but thankfully one of the grocery stores nearby remained open. Sunday picked an attractive blue spray bottle made out of glass and paid for it with the little money he had left over from Penacony.

Afterwards, the pair opted to wander around the market, since the bookstore March wanted to go to was right across the plaza. While examining a camera accessory, she suddenly gasped. 

“I just realized, together we make a whole date!”

Sunday’s brow furrowed. “Come again?” The garish poster of a lion-crab-horse creature that he had been staring at looked just as confused. Something about the hideous, noisy colors had attracted him, the same way one couldn’t help but stare when passing a car crash. 

“Sunday, March 7th.” She seemed quite pleased with the discovery. “What are the odds?”

“Hmm. I hadn’t noticed.” 

“Got any friends named after weekdays or months? With enough people, we could fill the entire calendar,” She joked, picking up a charm of a cartoon bunny with huge eyes. 

Sunday looked off into the distance thoughtfully. “I do have a few half-siblings that fit the bill. We haven’t spoken in a while, but last I heard, Monday had entered medical school and Friday was the CEO of Marketing for SoulGlad Enterprises.”

March nearly dropped the charm, spinning around to face him. “Wait, for real? You actually have—” She froze and narrowed her eyes at him.

Sunday shot her his most innocent smile.

Her expression flattened, and she glared back at him. 

“Ugh, you’re messing with me!” She cried. “I can’t believe I fell for that! You’re just like Stelle. Two of you is way too much to handle!”

“Look, March. It appears the word ‘gullible’ is written on the ceiling.”

“Nice try. You know, if I had realized you were a bully beforehand, I wouldn’t have encouraged so much team-bonding!” She huffed. 

Sunday grinned. “Well, it’s never too late to undo your hard work.”

“Don’t even joke.” She rolled her eyes, then craned her head around to look around him. “Is that print really so interesting? You’ve been staring at it for a long time.”

He turned back to the poster. “It’s like looking at a car crash.”

“... What’s wrong with you?”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

March ended up buying the bunny charm, clipping it to her belt with a pleased hum. They made their way to the bookstore and split off. March was intent on scouting for the latest volume of a light novel she had been keeping up with and Sunday was curious to see what limited editions they carried. Right away, he spotted one of his long-time favorite series, an epic fantasy spanning five books. To his delight, Spare Time happened to carry a collector’s box set of the entire series. 

Carefully sliding the first novel out of the box set, his breath left him a quick exhale. The book felt solid and heavy in his hands. The hardcover had been redrawn into a beautiful rendition of the main character on the steps of the palace. The pages were gilded, and it came with a shimmery green bookmark embroidered with eagles, the protagonist’s motif. Sunday thumbed through the pages with something akin to reverence, and discovered that never-before-seen art had been added as well as a detailed map of the kingdom. This edition was a far cry from Sunday’s beat-up paperbacks at home, worn down from frequent rereads. 

A loud gasp came from behind him, and Sunday jumped. “No way! You read that, too?” March cried, her eyes going wide and shiny with excitement.

“Don’t be so loud,” He chided. “And yes, it's one of my favorites.”

March looked ready to burst from delight. “Me too! I’ve been trying to get Dan Heng and Stelle into King of the Library since forever! I can’t believe you’re a fan! Who’s your favorite character?”

“I always liked the protagonist.”

“The palace scribe? I can definitely see that for you.”

“He was witty, rational, and compelling, and he had a very satisfying arc.” He decided not to mention to her the collection of character merch he had amassed on Penacony from his own scouring and as a running gag from Robin. He opened the book he was holding and turned it around to show March. “This special edition has new official art of him.”

March squealed. “They drew him so handsomely!” She took the book from him and flipped through the pages hungrily.

“What about you?”

“Hmm? Oh! I love the leader of the dance troupe. At first I hoped she and the MC would end up together, but I wasn’t even disappointed when they didn’t. She was so fun to read about on her own, especially during her whole theater arc!”

Sunday nodded. The dancer had been Robin’s favorite, too. “I liked her as well, and I also wondered if the author meant for them to be a couple. I think it made more sense for the story to conclude without the protagonist entering a relationship, though.”

“You know what’s crazy? I agree, and normally I’m all about romance!” Her face turned pensive. “A lot of people think he should have ended up with his roommate, though.”

He wrinkled his nose. “The architect?” The kind and passionate royal architect was certainly a gripping character. He was easily his second favorite, which was convenient since his merch was often sold in sets with the scribe’s. He had enjoyed the bickering between the two and they needed each other in order for their characters to grow, but he had never imagined their relationship in the way March described.

“Yeah! Some fans say they were practically tailor-made for each other.”

“Much of their time was spent disagreeing. Surely a functional relationship cannot be built off of that.”

“It was mostly playful banter! Plus, they’re supposed to disagree. They’re mirrors, remember? The scribe said so himself.”

“But…” Sunday paused. March was correct that the protagonist often mentioned that he viewed the architect as his mirror. The two did have enormous respect for one another and shared an unbreakable bond. Now that he thought about it, it wasn’t hard to view some of the interactions between the scribe and his roommate through a romantic lens. “I suppose I can see that.”

“Right? Ooh, do you read fanfiction? I’ve got a couple of really good ones saved I can send you that totally changed how I view their dynamic.” 

“I don’t, but I’m not opposed.” 

“Yay! I’ll show you when we get back.”

Sunday stared at March as she waved her hands in excitement, explaining what appeared to be the premise of one of her favorite fan-written stories. 

Her voice began to fade out as the ringing in his ears grew louder and louder.

Was this his life now? Shopping for light novels, discussing fanfiction, restocking the Express, and adventuring with the Nameless? 

Do you want to be here? Stelle’s voice echoed in his mind. He turned the question over in his mind again and again. He imagined decorating his bedroom on the Express, like he planned to stay. He imagined midnight chats with Stelle, filling the data bank with Dan Heng, and learning to “not drown” from March. He imagined Akivili, Trailblazing with THEIR original followers and charting the cosmos and beyond. 

The true answer was there. Why couldn’t he reach it? 

You have the answer , THEIR voiceless timber resonated. Return, follower of the Order. Cease this nonsense. You have failed me, but you may always try again. 

Sunday dug his hands into his arms. Forgive me, he begged, his vision swimming. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. 

I do not accept your baseless apology. You know full-well how you can gain my forgiveness. 

His throat closed up. What was he doing? What had he become? Was this all it took to stray away from his reason for being? A bed and the kindness of a few strangers? 

Sunday made a promise to the only person he loved in the entire universe and all he had to show for it was failure and pain, and here he was, holding a collector’s edition of some frivolous fantasy and sparring with children and drinking milk tea while more agony than he could ever fathom transpired every second in the universe, while Ena waited for him to snap out of this daze, while Robin charted the galaxy, easing more pain in seconds than Sunday had in his entire worthless, wretched life—

“...lo? Hello? Anyone home?” March waved her hand in front of his face. Sunday blinked and shook himself out of his stupor. 

“Apologies. I… zoned out. What were you saying, March?” 

“I was asking if you had it in you to go shopping for clothes, too. It’s okay if you don’t. I’m alright with heading back to the Express early.” 

Sunday was nodding before she finished her sentence. The thought of staying still long enough to think made him feel ill. “We can go. I’d like to stock up on new clothes, as well.” 

March kept chattering the entire way to the store, and Sunday’s attention span ebbed and flowed. The disappointment of the Order followed him like a shadow the whole way through.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The trip to the clothing store took much less time than Sunday was expecting. March was surprisingly efficient, purchasing a new skirt that she had seen on display during her last visit. The rest of the time was spent on choosing outfits for him.

He stocked up on basics, grateful for the Express’s strangely bottomless wallet: undershirts stiff enough to keep his wings tight against his body, neutral blazers that would match with anything, and multiple pairs of slacks, both formal and casual. 

“Do you wear anything but blue, gray, and white?” March complained, watching him try on an indigo vest. 

“Of course. Sometimes I branch out into dark blue, and if I’m feeling particularly adventurous, black.”

She scoffed. “You’re ridiculous.” He tried to reach for a periwinkle jacket to try with the vest, but she stopped him. 

“You can’t seriously be planning to wear suits and blazers the entire time you’re with us.”

“Why not?” He frowned. He was genuinely confused. What was so wrong about wanting to keep up appearances and look presentable every day?

“Have you tried having fun? Relaxing? Maybe a pair of sweatpants?” His lip curled in disgust. “Okay, I see we’ll have to work up to the sweatpants. How about something soft but chic, like a sweater?” She scanned the racks before her eyes landed on a gray knit sweater. She nabbed it and held it out for him. 

It wasn’t as aversive as the idea of something so casual as sweatpants, but he still shook his head. “I don’t think it would suit me.”

She gave him a flat look. “It’s a gray sweater, Sunday. It suits anyone. Look, you can even dress it up by layering that vest over it. You’ll still look very respectable, I promise.”

He was skeptical, but he took the two articles of clothing and ducked into the changing room. He could not remember the last time he had worn anything but a suit except to sleep in, and even then he preferred to go to bed in starchy button-ups so his wings wouldn’t crumple any further. He stripped and tugged the sweater over his head, examining himself in the mirror. 

The sweater itself was quite comfortable and soft. Paired with the slacks, the outfit wasn’t egregious, he decided. It still felt highly unnatural to walk around in such casual wear, but he did, in fact, look presentable. Per March’s suggestion, he pulled on the vest, and found that it helped tie everything together. He would have preferred to layer the vest over a shirt with a collar, but this wasn’t too bad, either, although the soft texture would take some getting used to. With a pair of glasses, he could probably pass as a student. 

“You done yet? Lemme see!” called March through the door. When Sunday stepped out, she beamed. “What did I tell you? Are you convinced yet that it’s possible to be comfortable and stylish at the same time?”

“It isn’t awful,” he agreed. She grinned harder.

“I’m glad you like it. Now, hurry up and change back so we can buy it before you change your mind!’

After they paid for Sunday’s clothes and divvied up the bags (Sunday had insisted on carrying his own, but March refused and snatched them out of his hands), March led the way back to the Express. A cool evening breeze swept through the streets, carding its fingers through Sunday’s hair, and his body felt oddly light as March swung the bags back and forth with glee. 

“So,” She began. “You’ve had your first taste of the Xianzhou Luofu.”

He shot her a look. “Yes, literally.” She giggled. He tried to keep glaring, but March had quite the infectious laugh and he found he couldn’t be bothered to continue the act. 

“Yep, literally, too. With everything that’s happened today, how would you rate your experience out of ten?”

He paused to think. Had they really managed to cram mung bean soda, milk tea, fighting Yanqing, meeting the General, and exploring with March all into the span of one day? 

The truth was, it was the most fun Sunday had indulged in for quite a long time. Before he could let the guilt fester in his stomach, he said his answer, confident and true:

“Ten.”

Chapter Text

Sunday flinched as the first spritz of water hit his feathers. Too cold. He used to indulge in the luxury of a built-in shower function in his suite bathroom that incubated water at the perfect temperature. Now, he dumped out the bottle and refilled it with warmer water from the tap. Too hot. He refilled it again. Too cold. He refilled it again.

The water was a touch too warm this time, but it was tolerable and Sunday was too eager to eliminate the dirt from his wings to care. He misted them all over, fluffed out his feathers, then set the spray bottle aside to begin the long process of preening. 

He always started at the top with his head wings, left to right, and then his lower wings, right to left. Using the tip of a comb, he carefully slid it down the length of each feather, first along the top, then the underside. He rinsed the debris off the comb in between feathers and tried not to gag at how much had accumulated due to his own neglect. 

His flight feathers were always tricky to navigate, but years of practice had gotten Sunday used to the routine of tracing the unnatural, disorderly pathways. If he looked away, he could almost pretend they were normal feathers.

Once every feather had been cleaned, then came the oiling. It was virtually the same process, only this time, he first swiped the tip of the comb against the oil gland at the base of each wing, then coated every feather in the filmy substance. This was always his favorite part. It was like sealing in the cleanliness, protecting himself from grime and impurity.

After he had oiled the last feather, he did a final once-over of his wings. Satisfied, he stretched his arms and rolled the kinks out of his shoulders. With a disgusted fascination, he stood in front of the full-length mirror stark naked and spread out his entire wingspan. He never knew what he expected when he did this. Was he looking for some sort of miracle, as though his wings would magically appear healthy and whole like any other Halovian's? 

The first time his flight feathers were clipped, he and his sister were freshly orphaned and promised a new start on Penacony. Hand in hand, he and Robin had snuck out of the Dreammaster’s mansion at night and ventured into the nearby town to explore. Of course, it didn’t take long for the wrong crowd to spot the vulnerable prey that the two children made. If one observant guard hadn’t noticed their absence and tracked them down, Sunday would have left with more than a few scrapes, and Robin with worse. He still remembered the cold scissors against his wings, the colder hands of the Dreammaster guiding him to sit still. 

This is not a punishment, Gopher Wood had said as indigo feathers fluttered to the floor. This is a lesson. His wings had been so sensitive afterwards he could barely tolerate fabric, and every time he preened his eyes would water and his jaw would tense with pain. 

It would be far from Sunday’s last mistake. Years of clippings from a young age had permanently stunted and warped the natural growth of the feathers, leaving them an utter mess. It was as though someone had taken a perfectly healthy pair of wings, chewed up the primary feathers, and hastily attempted to glue them back on. Some feathers stuck out at unnatural angles, others were tangled amidst each other, a handful were missing altogether, and all of them were dry, limp, and lifeless. 

Unable to bear the sight any longer, Sunday folded his wings tightly in their usual position above his stomach and buttoned a black sleep shirt over the mess. He breathed a sigh of relief once they were hidden away. All that mattered now is that they were clean. 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The Xianzhou Luofu excursion marked a distinct shift in the relationship between Sunday and the Astral Express crew. Formalities were completely dropped in favor of lighthearted banter. March would grab his hand to tug him towards something she wanted him to see, or Stelle would jeer and sling an arm across his shoulders. Dan Heng was still rather reserved, but it was the natural kind of reservation that came from his personality rather than discomfort. On more than one occasion, he had exchanged exasperated looks with the man behind Stelle and March’s backs like an inside joke. Sometimes, Sunday even managed to earn such looks himself. 

Each adventure left him hazy with disbelief and awe. As naive as it sounded, Sunday had never truly considered how utterly vast the universe was, and what a miniscule part of it he had experienced. Penacony felt like a pea in comparison. He had no idea there existed planets where it rained diamonds, or trees were sentient, or entire civilizations laid in perfectly preserved ruins. 

And the people!

Again and again, Sunday was baffled at the resilience of sentience. Again and again, he was amazed at how the inhabitants of different worlds adapted to their environments.  He had never been trained in the cultures of planets that, for example, were seemingly barren on the outside, yet glittering with crystals when one ventured underground. The citizens of this geode planet had acclimated by creating machines that enabled them to photosynthesize like plants, eliminating the need for conventional food. These sturdy pieces of hardware were passed down as family heirlooms, and the custom was for each generation to upgrade the model themselves. Sunday had been allowed to hold one such model by a kind, elderly crystalsmith. 

“You’re young, but you’ve lived a long life, haven’t you, my boy? Your eyes are older than the rest of your body,” The old woman said in a gentle tone when he thanked her and handed back the device. 

Sunday, unsure whether he was being complimented or insulted, hadn’t known how to reply. Perhaps if he had ever met his grandparents, he could have discerned the difference. The crystalsmith tutted. 

“I can tell. You and I share a weariness. That is no good; I am on my last legs, however you have many more years ahead of you. A piece of advice from an old woman: allow yourself be a child every now and then.” She took his hand and pressed something small and cool against his palm. “Here. We make these tokens for newborns. Hang it near a light source, and let it serve as a reminder of what I told you.”

Sunday stared down at the iridescent gem, a tear-shaped pendant carefully hewn out of the beautiful pink crystals right next to the old woman’s abode. A silver chain was threaded through the pointy end of the tear. He closed his fingers around the teardrop.

 “I…” A swell of emotion built in his chest. He cleared his throat, shocked at the raspiness of his voice. “Thank you, madam,” was all he could manage as he bowed his head. 

She laughed. “So stiff. Already forgetting what I said to you?” She pinched his cheek and shooed him out of her workshop. “Now, go. Your friends are waiting for you.” Sure enough, March and Stelle had been waving at him from across the crystal gorge bridge, both covered in shiny crystal powder.

Sunday had obeyed the crystalsmith’s instructions and hung it from the lamp next to his bookshelf. He understood why; the brilliant jewel cast flickering rainbow dots around his room, making them twirl like little dancers. Similarly, the old woman’s words bounced around in his head on repeat.

Allow yourself to be a child.

Your friends are waiting for you.

Sometimes, the crew would ask him what his favorite adventure had been so far. His answer was never consistent, and he always named at least three different places because it was so hard to choose, but the geode planet held a special place in his heart. Another particularly precious memory he had made was when he and Stelle had ventured together to a magnificent blue world where the water was breathable and as light as air. Visitors could walk right across the ocean floor with no aquatic gear. Crabs scuttled along the sandy ground right by Sunday’s boots, fish darted in between stalks of sunset-colored coral like bees in a meadow, and the occasional lazy eel drifted by, carried by the airy tide.

A curious little turtle with a shimmery purple shell circled around Sunday, and he reached out for it with a slow and careful hand. The creature bumped its head against his palm once before swimming away, as though shy. That first turtle prompted several of its friends to poke out of coral and examine the new figure in their environment. They swirled all around him, nudging his face, tapping at his legs, and nosing his hair. He had been so overwhelmed with the whimsy of it all that he couldn’t help but laugh in delight. The experience reminded him of when he and Robin visited a Trotter petting zoo as children. One of the more affectionate animals had pounced on him and knocked his then-small frame over. The zookeepers rushed over in alarm, only to find the young Sunday giggling as the Trotter licked his face, his arms wrapped around the creature in a tight hug. There was a picture of the scene somewhere, snapped by Robin herself.

When he turned to Stelle, there was a black-and-orange koi draped around her shoulders like a scarf, but she wasn’t paying attention to the fish beyond absently petting its tail. Her eyes had been on Sunday, and there was satisfaction in her smile. It almost looked like fondness, if he was foolish enough to mistake friendliness for affection.

In the evenings, the Express family and Sunday gathered in the dining car for dinner. It was always a chaotic affair with a complete disregard for table etiquette. Elbows and arms flung this way and that as dishes and seasonings were passed from person to person. Questions, exclamations, and lighthearted jabs flew across the round table. Vivid accounts of the day’s events were told, with theatrical acting, wide gestures and sometimes even props. 

He should have felt aghast at the utter lack of manners, and in the beginning he did. The disorganization of mealtimes on the Express was initially overwhelming and uncomfortable. No one waited their turn to speak or politely called for attention. Drinks were poured in mismatched mugs rather than flutes and goblets. Stelle, for some reason, found the sight of Sunday folding his napkin in half and placing it over his lap hysterical, and made fun of him every time he did so. It had taken at least five dinners for him to acclimate enough to even speak. 

However, when he did get used to it, he discovered that perhaps this wasn’t so bad. It was comforting to eat with the same people every night rather than a revolving door of dignitaries, politicians, and socialites. 

“Sunday,” March whispered once in a loud, obvious voice, scooping a spoonful of fried rice onto her plate, “Did you know that Dan Heng just loves compliments?”

Dan Heng narrowed his eyes. “March,” He said in a warning tone. 

“I did not,” Sunday lied as he passed the platter of fried rice from March to Stelle’s outstretched hand, almost knocking over his own Alfalfa salad.

“It’s true,” added Stelle. Sunday marveled at the heaping mountain of rice she served herself, knowing she would have no trouble putting it all away, going back for seconds, and leaving room for dessert. “He’ll never admit it, but he can’t get enough of them. Shall we demonstrate?”

“Enough. We’re not doing this again,” The soon-to-be victim hissed. He stabbed his chopsticks into his potato fries as if to punctuate. Welt and Himeko hid smiles behind napkins and glasses.

“Oh, Dan Heng,” March sighed dramatically, pretending to swoon. “When will you return my affections? Your handsome visage haunts me day and night, as does your melodic voice.”

Dan Heng scoffed, even as a redness began to peek out from his shirt. “Cut it out.”

Stelle beamed. “Dan Heng, you’re so smart and vigilant! Where would we be without you to guide us on missions and protect us from evil? What an amazing guardian of the Express!” She called across the table. His flush deepened. 

“It’s me who needs protection from you,” He muttered, sinking into his chair. 

“Dan Heng, so loyal and kind!”

“Dan Heng, the best friend ever!”

“Dan Heng, such a role model!”

“Dan Heng, my hero!”

The assault of praise left the poor man in shambles. He hid his face in his collar, not that it masked the obvious blush. “I hate this game,” He groaned, muffled by the fabric. 

 Stelle nudged Sunday. “You try.”

“Do not,” Dan Heng ordered, but it sounded more like a plea for mercy. 

Sunday debated his options. On one hand, he worried that if Dan Heng turned any redder, his head would burst from excess blood flow. He knew what it was like to be overwhelmed, even more so by Stelle and March. He couldn’t help but feel for him.

“I think you should take it easy on him.” March wilted at his words. Stelle frowned and looked away in guilt, and Dan Heng visibly relaxed, straightening back up in relief. 

On the other hand, Sunday was quite enjoying the schadenfreude. 

“After all,” he said, unable to keep the grin off of his face, “Such brilliant and diligent archivists aren’t easy to come by. Think of how horrible it would be to lose him.” 

Himeko choked on the glass of water she had been sipping. Dan Heng’s jaw dropped, and he buried his face in his hands, but not before the blush returned with a vengeance. Even his ears went bright red. The girls cackled beside him. Welt’s mouth was covered behind his fist, but his shoulders were shaking. 

Amidst the chaos, as the Astral Express fell apart in laughter around the dinner table, a warmth bloomed in Sunday’s chest and spread into every corner of his body, until even his fingertips felt light.

Himeko cleared her throat and collected herself, then leaned over to rub Dan Heng’s shoulder in sympathy. “Alright, I think that’s quite enough,” She chided, as though she herself hadn’t been laughing at his plight moments before. “Sunday is correct; we don’t want to lose this gentleman here, and I fear any more teasing will send him to an early grave.”

“We’re sorry, Dan Heng,” March said in between giggles. “We won’t do it again.”

“Liar,” He grumbled, but when his face reemerged from his hands, he was smiling. “To think you even got to Sunday.”

“‘Got to him?’” Stelle snorted. She shot Sunday a knowing look. “Have you met the guy? This kinda thing is right up his alley.”

“Indeed,” He agreed as the warm feeling deepened. “I suppose it’s simply instinctual.” He smirked at Dan Heng. “Consider being less of an easy target.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

With each adventure and each dinner came more fear at the realization that Sunday was changing. Every time he returned to the Express, something shifted ever so slightly within him, like the worsening wiggle of a baby tooth. To make things worse, Ena had gone completely silent, and the quiet in his mind was unnerving. 

One dangerous question began to plague him:

Was this really so wrong?

At night he laid awake, he thought of underwater castles and floating peninsulas, dinners and crystals, turtles and Trotters, and realized if he put aside the void that was Ena’s silence and the pain he felt every time he passed a poster advertising Robin’s tour, this was the happiest he had been since—

Ever. This was the happiest Sunday had ever been. 

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. This was all wrong. This was the exact opposite of everything Sunday had ever been taught, everything he had been made for.

But why did the Express still bring about that infernal warmth in his body?

It didn’t matter in the end. Of course, the facade had to crumble apart eventually. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. 

The first domino toppled over during a trip to Jarilo-VI, the planet Sunday had missed at the very start of his stay with the Express. He had spent hours at the museum, marveling at the myriad of ways these people had overcome such harsh conditions and innovated solutions to problems that even Sunday himself had no idea how he would tackle. 

Later, he had accepted Stelle’s offer to visit the Robot Settlement, and a cheerful young girl had bounded up to them at the entrance. The girl, who Sunday would learn was named Clara, was actually an engineering prodigy, but none of those facts mattered. What mattered was how she addressed him. 

“... This is Sunday, by the way,” Stelle pointed a thumb in his direction. “He likes boring old history stuff and can sometimes be a stick in the mud, but he’s a sweetheart once you get to know him, promise.” He shot her an unamused look. Clara giggled. 

“It’s nice to meet you, big brother!” She beamed up at him, wide-eyed and trusting.

Anything she said after that turned into white noise.

Big brother. 

Sunday had passed countless billboards displaying Robin’s face across almost every planet. He heard her music playing in the streets, her interview in the background of a bar, and kids gushing about her latest photoshoot. Each mention of her had caused a spike of ice to jab through his heart, but none of them… 

None of them had brought him to his knees like this. 

“I’ll be right back,” said Sunday, taking care to keep his voice steady and even. “I’m going to use the bathroom.” Stelle nodded in sympathy. 

“Been there. That Belobog sausage takes some getting used to. I’ll check on you and make sure you’re responsive in fifteen minutes.” Sunday croaked out a laugh before weaving between building and encampments until he reached that main town, his heart pounding louder and louder with each step. Faces became blurry, and more than once he bumped into a cart or stepped on a shoe and had to murmur an apology. Finally in an alleyway, hidden behind some cardboard boxes, he could give up the act.

His breathing came short. He scrabbled at the walls. Was this a dream? Was he alive? He wasn’t sure. Fear and guilt and hurt built and built and built into a scream that he couldn’t set free, lest he attract attention, and he would never recover if someone saw him in such a humiliating state. His legs gave out and he sank to the dirty cobblestone and he was scratching at his arms, taking heaving gulps of air like he had forgotten how. He curled against the wall and tucked his head between his legs, and waited for the primal fear to die down, for the gasps to ebb into pants, until his lungs remembered their purpose and the haze of panic cleared from his mind and he could lift his head and know that he was awake, and alive, albeit dizzy. 

He stood up slowly, blinking away the spots flickering in his vision, and rolled out his stiff joints. A glance at his phone revealed only ten minutes had gone by, to his relief. It felt like hours. 

Big brother. 

A burst of grief so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees again pierced through his body. She would have loved little Clara, would have adored the people of Belobog even more than Sunday. She would have led him down every street and into every shop, striking up a conversation with each owner and employee who looked like they could spare a minute, which they always could because it was Robin and she had that magic about her, the kind of charm that pulled people in. She would listen, and pull stories and secrets and wishes from complete strangers purely from her genuine desire to learn everything she could about everyone around her.

He missed her so, so much. 

When they all regrouped at the train, March tugged at his sleeve to get his attention. 

“Hey, are you feeling alright? You look a little…” She trailed off.

A flare of irritation sizzled through his veins. A little what? He wanted to hiss, but instead pasted a sheepish look on his face and glanced at Stelle. “Well, er…”

Stelle quickly caught on. He thanked her profusely in his head for granting him the perfect excuse. She stepped forward and put her hand on March’s shoulder. “Sunday was fighting for his life in battles he cannot speak of,” She said in a solemn voice.

March rolled her eyes. “Whatever that means,” She muttered, but her concern was gone.

Sunday was never quite the same after Belobog. 

Alerting the Nameless that he was unraveling like a ball of yarn knocked over was not an option. The thought of going to Welt or Himeko and crying about the voices in his head and the hurt in his chest like a child seeking comfort from his parents made him want to cringe out of existence. He wasn’t sure what would be a worse reaction from the crew: treating him like he was fragile out of pity or giving him a wide berth like a strange new creature.

When he returned to his room, he nudged the door shut and hung his coat on the rack behind it. The bedroom was finally beginning to look lived in. A hamper in the corner was slowly filling up with dirty clothes. Books were stacked neatly on the nightstand. The hair ties he had borrowed from March lay scattered on his desk.

His little glass pigeon wasn’t so lonely anymore, either. A propped-up mini calendar where every weekday had been changed to Sunday from Stelle, a Diting charm from another Luofu visit, and a vial of color-changing sand from a volcanic planet now decorated the shelf around the bird.

Sunday had the sudden, wild urge to sweep the trinkets off of the shelf and watch them fall and shatter on the floor. 

There was a knock at his door, startling him out of his thoughts. “Hey, Tuesday,” Stelle called. “We’re gonna play that card game we got from the Luofu the other day. Come join us.”

He wanted to crawl into his bed and tug the comforter over his head, but he did enjoy that card game. Perhaps what he needed was a distraction. “Coming,” He replied, and ditched his suit and slacks for a gray button-up and white linen pants.

He arrived at the parlor car just in time to catch Dan Heng and Stelle arguing over the game. 

“I’m dealing.” Dan Heng snatched the deck from the game board. Stelle squawked. 

“I was going to deal!” She grabbed at the cards, but Dan Heng scooted away from her. 

“You don’t shuffle them properly. Last time we played and you dealt, I got three blue sixes in a row.”

“Maybe that’s a you problem!”

Himeko reached over and plucked the deck out of Dan Heng’s hand. “You’re both wrong. I’ll deal.” March snorted as she snapped a photo of the chaos on her phone.

Dan Heng sighed and sat back down, and Stelle sulked briefly before perking up like nothing happened. 

What Sunday had gathered about the Nameless through extensive observation was that no better word existed to describe the group than “family.” Despite the fact that none of them were related, nor did any one person fall neatly into a role like “mother” or “father,” the five before him shared a bond closer than any he had ever seen. Sunday would watch the interactions between the crew, like Welt and Dan Heng bowing their heads over a document to examine it together, like March whining at Stelle for swiping the last Oak Cake Roll on the table, like Himeko wordlessly passing over a tool when someone offered to help repair the Express, and from his marrow to his skin, his whole body would ache. 

The cruelest thing about the Nameless was that they made it so easy to pretend he belonged, too. They fed that greedy, stupid, childish thing that cried out from within him, tossing enough scraps of amity for him to piece them together into something that felt like home. The curtains only closed when Sunday lay awake at night and stared at the ceiling of the bedroom that wasn’t really his, and he remembered that it started like this and could only end like this: with him, alone in the dark.

The game went by in a blur. It took enormous effort for Sunday to concentrate on the cards in his hands, the letters and numbers swimming in his vision. Miraculously, he managed to win the first round. March won the next, and then Dan Heng. By that point, the group grew bored of the game and the cards lay abandoned on the table in favor of describing all the things they did that day. Sunday smiled and nodded when it was appropriate, but found he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

He counted ten of his own breaths, then another ten, then another.

He would have prayed for guidance, but his throat closed up every time he tried. He would have hoped, but hope was little more than a prayer with nowhere to go. That left dreaming, except dreaming was what got him into this entire mess to begin with.

Praying, hoping, dreaming. The three things that Sunday had spent his entire life doing. The three things Sunday had mastered. The three things that he wasn’t sure if he could ever do again.

If a bird lost its wings, its tail and its feet, was it still a bird? Or was it some new creature so wretched there wasn’t even a word for it?

Sunday felt that familiar sickness roll in his stomach, that awful cocktail of anger and guilt and fear and self-hatred and self-pity and disgust, and he knew that he had to leave. 

“Excuse me,” he murmured as he rose, taking care to keep his tone calm and even. The five Nameless hardly noticed. Distantly he heard Stelle whisper in sympathy, “Poor guy’s still feeling it. Guess he really has a sensitive stomach.” But otherwise, there was no acknowledgement and the discussion proceeded.

He walked until he could shut the parlor car door behind him, then sped towards the bathroom just in time for his stomach to empty itself into the toilet.

When the heaving stopped, Sunday did the most blasphemous thing he had ever done in his life. 

He prayed right there in the bathroom, in a place of filth and waste with his forehead on the cool tile floor. He prayed and prayed until he was unintelligible even to himself, words turning to pleads turning to the whines of that pathetic creature that there was no name for.

You are correct. There is no word for what you have become, THEIR voice whispered. Sunday sat up so fast that black and white dots swam in his line of vision.

You are so much weaker than I thought, THEY continued, and his heart dropped.

Every measure was taken to prepare you for the most noble purpose imaginable, and not only have you failed me, failed your sister, and failed yourself, but a blink of time spent with the TRAILBLAZERS… that word rang so loud and angry in his mind that he clutched his head, whimpering in pain, …is all it takes to taint your once-pure mind and undo a lifetime of Order. You always knew what had to be done. You know what you must do to return to me. You simply do not want to.

For a fleeting moment, Sunday wished he could be swallowed by a black hole, gone from the cosmos and from consciousness for eternity. 

Look around yourself. Who is with you? Have any of the Nameless come to your aid? Could any of them comprehend the weight on your shoulders? There is no one here for you, no one except me. 

It started like this and could only end like this.

Since the day you were brought to me as a sniveling, desperate child, I have watched over you, nurtured you, and prepared you for salvation. It has always been me, and you, and our divine ambitions. 

His back hit the wall and his fingers clawed into the bath mat underneath him. 

Akivili’s sinners are corrupting you and you are welcoming it with open arms. 

His stomach rolled again, but he had nothing left in him. The word sinner reverberated in his head like a gong. He tried to connect the cruel word to March 7th, to Dan Heng, to Stelle, or Himeko, or Welt. He tried to remind himself of the deliverance that lied in the Order. He tried to wrap himself in the comforting blanket that was his predestined path.

Though you have strayed, you are not beyond redemption. You are not too far gone, but you are fast approaching.

Sunday did his best to find the sin in March, showing him her favorite places on the Luofu, in the joy that Dan Heng found in updating the data bank, or in Stelle asking him if he wanted to be here. He tried to find it in Himeko repairing the Express in the beginning, awakening it from its thousand-year slumber. He tried to find it in Welt dispensing advice from a lifetime of wisdom. He tried to find it in the countless bonds the Express and its five crew members had forged throughout the cosmos. He tried to find it in Akivili celebrating a successful Trailblaze, cheering and walking hand in hand with THEIR followers.

For the first time in his life, the Orderly puzzle pieces would not snap into place.

Sunday laid back down on that cool tiled floor and did not move for a very long time.

Chapter Text

The knob to the shower squeaked as Sunday gave it a turn. He tested the stream with his hand. Too cold. He waited a minute, then tested again. Too hot. He got into the shower. Too hot. He scrubbed at himself until he turned pink. Too hot. Recently, he had been showering at least twice a day, sometimes more if the pressure in his skull grew too heavy. His sensitive skin wasn’t pleased about this new habit, what with how lately he’d been flaking like a reptilian creature, but the burn of the hot water offered a rare respite that he couldn’t pass up, especially since he had so few other alternatives nowadays. 

Sleep was no longer an option for reprieve. Granted, it hadn’t been for Sunday in a long time, but before, he at least knew that if he stayed in bed for long enough and counted his breaths, eventually he would drift off somewhere around the six to nine-hundred mark. However, this process had now become torturous, because every time he laid his head down and tried to empty his mind, the scream he had been swallowing since Belobog threatened to tear his chest in two—

There is no word for what you have become.

A few hours of restless sleep was all he could manage on a good night, and that was only if he had exhausted himself so thoroughly during the day that he could hardly stand. 

Food turned into sand on his tongue and settled like sewage in his stomach. He found himself halving all of his portions at mealtimes, then halving them again. He was hungry, or rather, empty, but he didn’t know what would fill that hollowness if he couldn’t even look at rice without the grains morphing into maggots. His diet lately was made up mostly of yogurt, applesauce, and plain white bread, snatched sporadically throughout the day and choked down when the spots in his vision grew uncomfortably large.

The most frustrating development was the headaches that worsened by the day. In fact, it felt less like he was “getting” headaches and more like he was experiencing one long, perpetual throb at his temples. Sometimes, the ache was a dull twinge that fell away into the background, and other times the pain skewered through his head like a nail. He was starting to feel like an addict with the way he had to stash pain relievers in his room and on his person and take them in secret. On more than one occasion, Sunday had needed to excuse himself from the group to sit in the bathroom with the lights off and squeeze his hands against his head, waiting with gritted teeth for the pain to ebb away.

In a sense, though, he was grateful, the same way he was grateful every time he had sat down before the Dreammaster and waited for the cold bite of the shears on his wings. The kindest thing Gopher Wood had ever done for him was present him with a way to atone. It was the reason that sometimes, he abandoned the painkillers and let the pain trample through his mind, unchained. The ache howling in his head, the burn of the hot water, the misery of his worn-out body begging for rest; perhaps that was the way out. If he endured the trial for long enough, he would be delivered, and could emerge pure and whole once more.

Adventures had long lost their shiny gleam of excitement. The planets that he visited were no longer marvels. Now, they were overwhelming, and all blended together in a blur. Trying to remember specific details was like trudging through knee-deep quicksand; arduous and near-impossible because it was all hazy in his mind. Even still, he forced himself to go on missions with the crew. He needed to be in constant motion. When he couldn’t sleep, he paced around his room like a caged animal. If he stayed still, he started to think, and if he started to think, he was led to some frightening places that he wasn’t sure he could return from.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The Nameless weren’t stupid. Over the years, Sunday had perfected his poker face, but no amount of acting could mask bone-deep exhaustion and clothes starting to fit too loosely. Of course they noticed when his face became haggard and he pushed his dinner around on his plate like a child and he could hardly recall adventures that he had just returned from. Himeko and Welt had taken to whispering behind his back in hushed, worried tones. Dan Heng started sticking right by his side when they went out together. When Sunday stumbled, body made clumsy from malnourishment, Stelle was there in a flash to prop him up. March would tug him aside and ask how he’s feeling, even though he gave her some variation of the same answer every time: he was alright, thank you, just having trouble adjusting, just stressed, just tired.

An intervention was inevitable. He simply hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

He tried to go on another mission, a planet with islands or giant birds or libraries of pure thought or maybe all of the above, he couldn’t quite recall the details from their briefing, but March stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. 

This was ridiculous, he wanted to yell at the Nameless. He didn’t need a bodyguard, or a nurse, or a babysitter. He needed—

He didn’t know. Sunday had no idea what he needed, but it wasn’t this.

For one, terrible, desperate moment, Sunday almost cracked. It would be so easy to lean into the touch and then further, to curl against her shoulder and hold onto something as real and warm as a human being. March was affectionate by nature; she likely wouldn’t push him away. On the contrary, she’d probably be glad to reciprocate the hug.

He imagined March squeezing him back. He imagined pulling away and the look of horror on her face when she saw massive, mold-like blemishes on her body from where she had touched him. He imagined her devastation when she realized that the stains were permanent, that Sunday had ruined her forever. 

March, who only wanted to help. March, whose heart shone bright and gold in every action she took. March, who couldn’t see the clock above her head counting down the minutes until she became yet another one of his victims. 

“Listen,” She murmured. “I don’t want to nag, and you don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but you really haven’t been yourself lately. Maybe you’re coming down with something. It might do you some good to sit this one out and rest.”

March, whose warmth was now scorching. 

You haven’t been yourself. She said that like it was a bad thing, as though molting into a new, not-Sunday creature wouldn’t be something to celebrate.

“I’m fine,” He said, forcing his mouth into a smile. “Like I said before, I’m having trouble sleeping and my body is slow to adjust to the new environment, however it’s nothing to fuss over. Thank you for checking in, but your concern is unnecessary.”

This was the third or fourth, or maybe the sixth time they’d had this conversation. Sunday was tired of it, tired of her. He was so, so tired.

March didn’t step aside. “Sunday, I’ll be honest. You look terrible. Something’s clearly wrong and it’s obviously not just sleep problems and I wish you would tell us so we can help—”

There came another problem with being perpetually exhausted and starving: his patience was as thin as a blade. The dial in his head was slowly but surely increasing the pain in his skull with every word that left her mouth. Why couldn’t she just walk away?  

Because March was kind, his own mind answered. She was benevolent. She was pure and she was gentle and her heart wasn’t rotting from the inside out.

“I don’t need your help.” It came out sharper than he meant to. March flinched backwards, and Sunday had a dizzying sense of deja-vu to their first interaction aboard, when she had tried to bandage his bleeding hands. 

However, it seemed she had grown a backbone since then, because it didn’t stop her this time. “It’s not just that. You could get yourself hurt. What if we fight an enemy and someone manages to get the upper hand on you?” She sighed, then nudged him playfully with her elbow. “I just don’t want the bad guy to push you into the pool. You still haven’t learned how to swim, after all.”

There it was again, that scream itching in the back of his throat. So what if his eyes were sinking into his face and his innards were deteriorating and his skin was angry and red and peeling off in chunks like it, too, couldn’t stand to be attached to him? Was it so hard to understand that he was turning inside out, that the filth bubbling under his skin could finally push through the surface and show everyone once and for all exactly what kind of wretch he was? How much uglier did he have to become so that March could wake up and leave him be and save her compassion for someone deserving?

An awful thought floated to the top of his mind, a cruel, barbed dagger of a sentence that he could stab into the smiling girl before him. Warning sirens blared in his head, crying out for him to stop, to back away, to calm down before he said anything more but he batted the thoughts away like flies.

If she refused to look at his repulsiveness, he had no choice but to force her to see. 

“And you, March,” He sneered, leaning down so the two were eye level, “Have not learned to know your place. Your pity and concern are useless to me.”

March blanched, recoiling like he had burned her. Her smile crashed to the floor, but Sunday wasn’t done. He barreled on, dagger poised at her chest. 

“How many times have I had to tell you that I don’t need you to treat me like an invalid? It is truly amazing how quickly our conversations escape your brain.” Then came the slow, evil push of blade into flesh. “Or, perhaps not. After all, from what I gather, forgetting is your specialty,” He hissed. 

The words hung in the air, suspended in the silence that followed. March’s mouth fell open, and for one horrible moment, Sunday relished in her shock. Perhaps now, she would understand.

 Then, her wide eyes began to well up with tears. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” She sniffled, her voice watery and low, “And I’m still worried, and I still want to help, but that was mean .” She swiped a hand over the back of her eyes and turned on her heel, escaping into the parlor car.

Regret washed over him in a great wave, but it was far too late.

He pressed his palms against his own burning eyes and let out a harsh exhale. He desperately wished she had yelled at him, thrown profanities his way, or even attacked him, but of course, that wasn’t who March was. He wanted to reach out, call her name, bring her back, but she was gone.

That scream he had been holding back dug into his ribs, tearing its way through his stomach and gnawing at his heart. He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He felt dizzy and heavy, like he was sinking into the floor, and somehow he made it to his bedroom and managed to crawl under the covers, still fully clothed and trembling.

Intentional abuse personally tailored to strike where it hurt most in exchange for a helping hand. Cruelty in the face of kindness. Broken promises, shattered dreams, and a wake of tears. This was who Sunday was and all that he left behind. Stripped to his essence, relieved of his mental faculties, and alone in his environment, this was who he boiled down to. 

The bird with no wings, no tail, and no feet had a name: helpless victim. So too did Sunday:

Monster.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

When he woke up, the first thing he felt was surprise, because to wake up, he had to have fallen asleep. 

The next thing he felt was a lingering sense of disappointment that he had woken up at all.

The third and most unusual thing he registered was a disgusting sweat that clung to his skin and clumped up his feathers. A strange, unique ache settled all over his body. He groaned and tried to sit up, but his limbs refused to support his weight and he collapsed back on the bed, exhausted from the effort.  He yanked the covers back up over his chin, shivering. When had it gotten so cold?

He blinked, and blinked again, and then he must have slipped under because soon he was surrounded by an empty darkness.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Sunday’s heart pounded in his chest as he ran through the nothingness, breath rushing out of him in quick pants. Behind him, the monster gnashed its teeth together, its horrid eyes blinking out of sync. In the distance, Gallagher howled with laughter. 

“What’s the matter, Birdie? Don’t wanna play with Sleepie here?” The Bloodhound jeered. His meme screeched and soared into the air, before swooping down right in front of Sunday. He ducked out of the way just in time, but the monster was undeterred. It lifted its huge, disgusting body into the air and dove again.

Time after time, Sunday frantically dodged the creature’s attacks. The damn thing barely gave him a second to recover before going after him again and again, relentless in its hunt. It growled in frustration after yet another failed attempt.

“At least fight me yourself, you sadistic brute!” Sunday yelled at Gallagher, or at least, tried to, but his voice coagulated into sludge and slid back down his throat.

For a moment, it seemed as if his command had somehow gotten through to the man, because he whistled and the meme obediently flew to his side. He clicked his tongue in displeasure.

“This is no good. Sleepie isn’t a fan of tag, are you, buddy?” He scritched under one of its monstrous eyes like it was a dog. “Let’s switch things up.” 

Gallagher snapped his fingers, and a new weight sagged on Sunday’s right side. He stared down at the object now holstered at his hip. 

A broadsword, long and sharp and white as snow.

“There. That should make things a little more exciting for you,” He cooed at the meme. It chittered in glee and rose back up into the air, slowly circling around Sunday once more. 

Sunday gritted his teeth. Fine. If Gallagher wanted him to put on a show, he would perform, and defeat his horrible beast. Then, he would cast his blade aside and kill the Bloodhound with his bare hands.

He unsheathed the broadsword, its brilliant white blade glittering in the low light of the nothingness. 

Sunday should have realized something was amiss when the battle ended so quickly. He and the meme danced around each other for a few cycles. 

Not yet, he thought, as the beast dove at him. Not yet, not yet…

Now!

At precisely the right moment, Sunday lunged forward.

The beast’s scream echoed throughout the emptiness as he stabbed the sword into one of its massive, ghastly eyes. He grinned in victory as his blade slid further into the beast. 

Behind him, someone sighed. Sunday spun around, only to find that Gallagher had vanished. In his place stood Gopher Wood, tall, poised, and refined as ever. He folded his hands behind his back and gave Sunday a weary look.

“Oh, dear. What have you done, now?” He chided. “Don’t you ever learn your lesson?”

“It’s over. I killed the beast,” Sunday replied, bemused. The Dreammaster’s face turned pitying.

“Did you?” 

Ice slithered down his spine. With a growing horror, he slowly turned back to the meme, except like Gallagher, it, too, had disappeared.

Instead, there laid Robin, crumpled and crying. Red shone against the white of his blade and the pale blue of her dress, overflowing from her chest and pouring into puddles underneath her body.

“Poor girl,” The Dreammaster murmured. 

Robin reached one trembling hand out towards Sunday. She smiled up at him, even as tears flowed down her cheeks and her face turned ashen. 

“It’s okay, Brother,” She whispered. “Don’t cry. I’ll be fine. It’s okay. I still lo—” She choked, shuddered, then went still.

Sunday couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything but watch as the Dreammaster walked over to his sister’s body. He knelt down and murmured a prayer before gently closing her eyes.

“How many more until you finally understand?” The Dreammaster said, suddenly right by his ear. “How many more additional demonstrations of your destruction do you require?”

Sunday remained frozen, fingers clenched around the sword’s handle.  The Dreammaster hummed, deep in thought. 

“Perhaps clipping your wings was the incorrect teaching method. It seems you are in need of something a bit more… involved.” The Dreammaster clapped his hands, and out of nowhere, dozens upon dozens of clones of Gallagher’s meme manifested in the air, filling his vision. They chattered, screeched, and swarmed around him in a frenzy, tails swishing behind them like knifechains. 

“Go,” commanded the Dreammaster, and the order was all that the monsters needed to spring into action. They swirled faster and faster around Sunday, cackling in delight, until all at once, the monsters lunged through the air, gleaming claws poised to shred him apart—

All of a sudden, yet another new voice joined the emptiness, one Sunday had never heard before. The voice was not attached to a body, at least, not one that he could see, but it resonated throughout the atmosphere regardless, like it was everywhere at once.

Oh, boy, this is.... Wow. Let me see what I can do. 

Sunday felt a sensation like his entire being was yanked, and then his body lifted and crashed back into the ground. He watched in disbelief as the environment shifted and blurred. The memes evaporated into puffs of fog that billowed out of existence. The corpse of his sister disappeared, as did the Dreammaster and the sword. Grass bloomed under his sprawled form, colorful flowers sprouted all around him, the sun peeked out from behind a cloud in the sky, and a single plush lawn chair waited invitingly from inside a nearby garden. 

Sunday should have probably felt disoriented, but he had long stopped trying to make sense of anything in his dreams. He could tell that at least he had regained control of his limbs, twitching a finger to confirm. However, he made no further moves from his position, lying prone on the grass. If the voice minded, it gave no indication.

Sunday had lost count of how many times he had some iteration of this nightmare, of how many different ways he had watched his sister die. The scenes varied, sometimes minutely and sometimes greatly. Gallagher had given him a sword this time; that was new. The main motifs and themes always remained the same, however:

Gallagher’s meme. Sunday failing to protect Robin. Watching her life bleed out before his eyes. It had been a long time since he did the killing himself, though. 

He curled his fingers into the grass and waited for the panic to ebb away, for his heart rate to return to a healthy, steady beat, and for the powerful nausea to stop turning his stomach inside out.

It’s okay, Brother, Robin’s broken, shuddery voice echoed in his mind. I still lo—

“Stop it,” He rasped out loud, forcing himself to his feet. “It’s not real. None of it is real.” Facts. He needed to remember the facts. “That Bloodhound is long gone, as is the Dreammaster. Robin is on tour lightyears away. I am aboard the Astral Express.”

Well, that last one was half-true. His body was sleeping in his bedroom, but his mind… 

Where in Xipe’s name was he?

You’ll have to forgive the shoddy accommodations. It’s the best I could come up with in short notice. The voice came out of nowhere, startling him. It’s been a long time since I last dreamtuned for anyone, and even longer since I built a dream from the ground up. I figured a garden was inoffensive enough. Hard to mess up, really.

Sunday’s entire being seized with horror. He immediately knew who that voice belonged to beyond a shadow of a doubt. “Impossible,” He whispered.

Wait… You can actually hear me this time? Excellent! It finally worked! A pause. Hello, Sunday. It is good to finally meet you. Please, have a seat.

“You…” His voice trembled with fear. “You cannot be here. How did you even…”

It was no walk in the park, I can assure you, THEY complained. Your Ena has quite thoroughly wrapped your mind in protection. I’ve been trying to get through to you for months and could barely bypass the first layer of wards! Ahem, THEY cleared their throat. That’s irrelevant. Basically, your illness has made your mind quite a bit more… fluid, for lack of a better term. Easier for something like me to slip in. 

That explained why his head seemed to be stuffed with cotton. A river of rage roared through his veins. Sunday had never felt so violated in his life. “Leave,” He snarled. “You are not welcome here.” 

I know, I know, you’re not happy to see me. Plus, it’s only a matter of time before that Ena wises up to what I’ve done. I will be brief. THEIR voice lowered a pitch. I responded to your distress signal, and I am here to help.

“Distress signal?” He echoed.

Yes. You didn’t know? It was so strong I was able to scrape myself together and respond, or at least, try to. From your reaction, it seems this was an unconscious transmission. That halo of yours is really something. THEY chuckled nervously. Bear with me here. I’m not too good at these kinds of things.

He couldn’t tell if he was being mocked or not. Disgust swirled in alongside Sunday’s fury at THEIR casual manner of speech. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say. Go away.”

You know, you might just be the most fascinating creature that has boarded my train. Marked by the Order all over, and yet choosing to join my Trailblazers. I sense you have even bonded with them. I don’t blame you. They’re a charming bunch, aren’t they?

He scowled up at the sky. “I haven’t joined anything. I am stuck here. I have nowhere else to go.”

Now, let's be frank with one another. There’s always somewhere else to go. You’re staying here for a reason beyond simple necessity. 

“Get out,” He hissed. 

Hang on. Answer me this: is someone else’s language wrong because it is different from the one you speak?

“You are wasting your time with useless questions.”

I will take that as a no. Follow-up question: if that is what you believe, then why is it that you also believe there is only one right way to happiness, freedom, and salvation?

“Free will is a curse. The elimination of choice is liberating, guiding everyone to live peacefully. True deliverance does not take any other form.” After all, the choices Sunday had made led him here, to the single lowest point of his life.

Have there been worlds that attained peace without following the path of the Order?

“There are countless more that were only able to attain peace through Order.”

And what of those civilizations? Did they last thanks to Order?

He stilled. “Order was overpowered by—”

Did they last? 

Images of kind strangers and flying turtles swirled through his mind.  “I could have—”

Answer my question, Sunday.

“I—”

AKIVILI, an extremely familiar voice roared. The ground shook and the trees trembled. Sunday felt a wave of relief and a surge of fear simultaneously. 

Oh, h-hey there, Ena, haha! Sure has been a while, huh?

AKIVILI, THEY screeched again. Sunday’s head pounded. A perfect circle of grass wilted from green to a dead brown around him.

Okay, Ena, stop. You’re hurting him. You’ve been hurting him this entire time.

YOU WILL NOT DEFILE HIM WITH YOUR FILTHY IDEALS! I RAISED THIS BOY! HE IS MINE!

That’s not true. You do not own him.

AKIVILI! A spike of pain lanced through his skull. Sunday curled in on himself. Several trees toppled over like they had been axed.

Let go already! It’s over! The boy deserves to choose —

GET OUT! GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!

No. I refuse.

“Please, stop,” Sunday begged, clutching his head. The hurt was everywhere; every time one of THEM shouted, the sound waves howled through his bones and hot knives danced across his skin. 

GAZE UPON WHAT YOUR HORRID TRAILBLAZERS HAVE DONE. LOOK AT HOW HIS PURITY HAS BEEN POISONED, HIS SACRED FORM SULLIED. YOU ARE AN ENEMY OF REDEMPTION!

Look at him yourself! What about this is sacred to you?

Punishment. That’s what this must be. Death via Aeonic rupture; a slow, torturous end befitting a beast. A howl left his throat, but it echoed back to him in futility. The last of the trees exploded, sending splintered wood flying in every direction. 

FILTHY, ABHORRENT SNAKE!

Is this really what you want for him?

HE IS MY BOY! THIS IS HIS GLORIOUS PURPOSE!

There is more Trailblaze in him than there ever was Order! How else can I be here now?

BEGONE!

With every word exchanged between the two, another blade stabbed right through Sunday’s skull. He thought he was sobbing, but he was no longer sure. For all he knew, he was bleeding out from his eyes as his flesh and organs collapsed in on themselves.

You know what the biggest joke about you is, Ena? Your very existence is paradoxical. You were absorbed by the Harmony for a reason. You cannot rise without causing disorder, and you’ve packaged up your dissonance and passed it on to this disciple of yours. 

How dare you, THEY went quiet with wrath, offering Sunday a single moment of reprieve. All too soon, though, the moment was cut short. How dare you, HOW DARE YOU, you creature of pure CHAOS!

Dirt, stone, and splintered wood flew everywhere. 

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt—

Sunday. 

SUNDAY!

Here lied atonement for his crimes, and even still, the sinner turned away.

“Stop! Stop, stop, STOP! ” Sunday broke, and on the final “stop,” something snapped with a sickening crunch and the pain from before was nothing compared to the hell he was plunged into now. He couldn’t see, hear, or think. The grassy ground disintegrated underneath him and the sun flashed white before soundlessly imploding in the sky. There was only agony, like his body was liquifying into lava. Hot swords ran through him again and again and again. That scream finally tore free of his throat, long and loud and inhuman. 

There was a crash, distantly, like a door being kicked open. Someone spoke, not from within this time but from the outside. Their voice was murky and high-pitched, shrieking with delight. March? Welt? Robin? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was pain, in his bones, on his skin, and shattering his skull like glass. Something was dripping down his chin. He raked his hands down his face to grip the melting flesh and keep it together because he wanted just one part of himself to be salvageable. Another voice joined, just as loud and excited as the first, and then laughing hands were reaching out for him, grabbing his arms, and he clawed and jerked away like a wild animal and begged for someone to wake him up, or kill him, or at least quiet that horrible wailing noise, anything if it would all just stop—

And then it did. Sunday sunk into a bottomless black void alone and at last, it was silent.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

He was floating. Some sort of warm, embryonic solution cradled him in a snug cocoon. It was dark. It was peaceful. 

It was ripping apart, and Sunday jerked awake with a shudder. 

He scrunched his eyes against the harsh white of the environment. It took a long moment for his eyes to adjust and for him to understand where he was. He had only ever seen these white walls or the gurney he was currently lying on once, when he was first given a tour of the Express by Welt, but he recognized his surroundings all the same. 

The medical car. 

Across from him, Himeko rested in an armchair, brow furrowed. Her red hair was askew, dark circles stained her under-eyes, and she frantically scanned the screen of a tablet. 

“Him—” His voice scraped its way through his windpipe, burning the whole way through. He winced and cleared his throat. “Himeko.”

Her head shot up. “You’re awake,” She gasped. 

He felt too light, like a balloon untethered. The world spun around him. He tried to speak again, but all that came out was a nasty cough. In a flash, Himeko was by his side, closing his fingers around a glass of water. 

“Drink,” She commanded, holding the bottom of the cup steady. Normally, Sunday would have protested being treated like such a child, but even he couldn’t deny that his hands were too shaky to form a proper grip. He hadn’t realized how parched he was until the first sip passed his lips. He gulped down the rest of the water greedily, paying no mind to the liquid escaping at the corners of his mouth and running down his chin. With each swallow, he felt a bit more of the fog in his brain clear away.

“What… What happened?” He rasped once he had drained the glass. 

Himeko sat back down in the armchair and rubbed at her temples. “That’s what we’re still trying to put together. Do you remember anything?”

Flashbacks surfaced against his will; two, then three sets of voices screaming, white-hot pokers searing his body, hands curling around his forearms. Hot shame curdled within him, and he forced himself to bury the memories. “Bits and pieces.”

If Himeko saw through his lie, she didn’t say anything. “You’ve been out for three days now.”

He balked. Three entire days?

“We are extremely fortunate that Natasha was visiting the Express at the time of your collapse. She’s a doctor we worked closely with in Belobog. Given your… state, she had to sedate you.” Himeko swallowed. “Once we moved you here and she had stabilized you, she ran some tests to try and identify what had caused such a reaction. She found traces of energies that she couldn’t identify in your body, and told us she would return to her lab and investigate them further there. I was just reading the report she sent us.”

Himeko leaned back in the armchair. Her knuckles went white from her grip on the tablet. “Her lab found two distinct signatures of Aeonic activity in your brain.”

Sunday kept his face impassive and stared somewhere around her shoulder. 

She inhaled. “Sunday,” She murmured, trying and failing to hide the shakiness in her voice. “Your skull could have imploded.”

He said nothing. Himeko sighed, and when Sunday glanced back, her eyes were squeezed shut. When she opened them again, she gave him a tired smile. 

“I’m really, really glad to see you awake again.”

Sunday refused to meet her gaze this time. He knew if he did, the lump in his throat would swell even faster. She stood up and collected a long, thermometer-looking instrument with a huge screen attached from the bedside table. 

“Natasha lent us this device to scan your brain readings. Stay still for a second.” The machine turned on with a hum and she hovered it right over his head. It beeped twice. Himeko frowned and reran the test, then ran it again. 

“That’s strange,” She said, squinting at the screen. “You’re showing zero foreign activity right now.”

His stomach dropped in horror. “Zero?”

She nodded. “The only thing it’s picking up on is your own energy signature. Nothing else. Natasha said this might happen, but she thought it would take longer for levels to completely drop.”

His heart rate quickened. Cold, sickly dread pooled in every crevice of his body. With an animalistic desperation Sunday had never felt before, he prodded through his mind, searching through the area that had always been heavy with Ena’s presence for as long as he could remember.

There was nothing. Empty as the glass at the table. 

No. No, no, no, no.

“This is great news. It looks like you managed to sever the link between yourself and whatever was occupying your body.” Himeko smiled, brighter this time, and set aside the tablet. When she looked at Sunday, though, her expression turned to alarm. “Sunday? What’s wrong?”

Ena was gone. 

“Sunday? Sunday! Snap out of it! Oh, Aeons above—”

There was nothing.

Himeko’s voice sounded like she was underwater. Sunday, too, felt himself slipping further and further underneath, fast as a stone thrown in an ocean.

The last thing he registered was one thought bubbling to the top before everything fizzled out completely. 

What have I done?

Chapter Text

The playground was utterly massive.

All of the equipment was painted in lively pastels, standing out against the brown mulch. The playhouse in the center had two long pink slides attached to either side as well as a tiny look-out area for a small body to wiggle into and a jungle gym. To get up to the playhouse, one had the option of either a climbing wall with fake rocks shaped like pastries or a staircase with alternating blue-and-white steps. The top right corner of the playground contained a swing set with a single swing, and off to the left was a huge sandbox filled with toys. On the other end was a carousel with exactly one seat shaped like a smiling brown bear with a top hat, and across from that, a big, yellow splash fountain shaped like a bird bath pumped warm water constantly. 

With so many distractions, it was easy for the faint stench of sickness in the air to fade into the background. 

The lord of the playground stood confident and determined on the ladder to the monkey bars, not hesitating for even a second before jumping off of the platform.

Hello there, Sunday.

“Hello!” The boy chirped back as he grabbed the first rung of the monkey bars. No one else had ever been let inside his playground before, so perhaps he should have been wary of this strange voice that had managed to sneak its way in. Somehow, though, he wasn’t afraid. “Wanna see what I can do?”

Of course.

Sunday swung his legs back and used the momentum to catch the next rung with his shoes. In one fluid motion, he hooked the back of his knees over the bar and let his upper body hang upside down, waving his hands up at the sky. “Look!”

Wow! Now, that is impressive. 

He let himself dangle freely, arms flopping towards the ground. He wondered for a moment how bats were able to sleep like this without getting a head rush like Sunday always did. “It’s not that hard. I can show you if you want!”

 I am quite certain that I would twist myself into a pretzel and break something important if I tried to do that. You sure make it look easy, though.

He pulled himself up until he was sitting on top of the monkey bars and could kick his legs freely in the air. “That’s because I’m an expert at the monkey bars, but it just takes practice.”

You must have had a lot of time to master them. This may be a strange thing to ask, but do you like it here?

He beamed as he dropped to the mulchy ground, landing light on his feet. “I love it here!” He gestured with wide arms to the open area. “I get this whole place all to myself, it has everything I want, and I never have to share my toys!” He twirled around as he toured his playground. “I have a splash fountain, a trampoline, a sandbox…” He ticked off each item on his fingers. He would have listed the tire swing as well, but the tree it was tied to had begun to smell weird and it wasn’t safe to play on anymore, so it didn’t count. Sunday tried not to look at that area of the playground at all. 

How about a see-saw?

Sunday faltered, midway through untangling his hair from his halo. “No, there’s no see-saw, but that’s okay, because I have a—”

Or a basketball court? Or another swing on that swingset? 

He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t need those things. What would I even do with an extra swing?” 

…Yeah. Of course. My bad. Let me ask you something else instead. I’m curious: why does this place have such high walls?

Sunday sighed. “Because it’s my playground,” He explained patiently, “And only I can play here.” That was the rule, and rules were meant to be obeyed.

The walls of his playground, despite their towering height and size, often faded into the background for Sunday. He never paid much attention to them unless he was in an artistic mood. The solid concrete made for a good canvas, after all. Struck by a sudden urge, he fished out his box of chalk from the toy bin by the sandbox. 

What are you going to draw?

“I dunno,” He replied as his fingers closed around a stubby pink piece. The voice went quiet while Sunday doodled on the walls, humming a merry tune to himself. 

That’s a nice song. 

He smiled. “It’s my sister’s! She’s a superstar singer.”

Under Sunday’s fingers, the image bloomed to life. A grinning girl drawn in pink held hands with a straight-faced green boy holding a spear. Next to him, a gray girl peeked out of a trash can, mouth wide in an excited cry. A red woman with closed eyes and a gentle smile joined the trio, side-by-side with a boxy man holding a cane in one hand and waving with the other. 

Satisfied, he put his chalky hands on his waist and stepped back to survey his masterpiece. 

That’s a beautiful picture! 

Sunday beamed. “Thanks!” 

I feel like something’s missing, though.

A lightbulb went off in Sunday’s head. “You’re right!” He exclaimed. He picked up a light blue piece of chalk and set to work completing the picture. 

However, when he made the first stroke, a sense of wrongness crawled over his skin. He added more; a body, some hair, but just as he tried to add a pair of wings to the head, the sick feeling got stronger. He scrubbed at the drawing with his hand and tried again. Still wrong. He tried again, and again, then tossed the chalk aside in frustration.

What’d you do that for? It looked great.

“It doesn’t fit,” He said. "Plus, it ruined the picture." Next to the pink girl was a large ugly smudge, the only traces left of the sixth addition.

A memory pierced through his mind, and something heavy pressed its foot down on his chest. Suddenly he couldn’t bear to look at the drawing anymore. He kicked away the chalk and plopped down at the sandbox nearby. 

Hey, now. What’s wrong?

“I wish my friends were here,” He mumbled, sticking a shovel aimlessly into the sand. 

The ones you drew?

Sunday nodded. “They’re not coming, though,” He muttered. He filled a bucket with sand and dumped it out again, feeling hollow as he watched the grains pour out.

Why is that?

He bit his lip. “Because I’m a bully.” 

… I see. Can you elaborate?

Sunday twisted the fabric of his blue button-up between his hands. “I hurt myself a while ago. March saw and she came over to ask if I was okay.” Guilt swarmed like a hive of bees in his belly. “The pain was really bad, and I didn’t want her to see me cry and think I was a baby, but she wouldn’t go away, even when I told her I was fine. So I told her to leave me alone and I called her a…”

You called her a…?

Sunday’s voice became very small. “... A stupid idiot.”

Whew. I can’t lie; those are some harsh words. How did she take it?

Sunday sank his teeth harder into his lip to keep it from trembling. “She ran away c—crying.” He could still see her teary face perfectly, like his eyes had taken a photo. He dug the tip of his boot into the dirt. “I don’t think she wants to be my friend anymore. Neither does Dan Heng or Stelle.” He scrubbed harshly at his face. “Because I’m a bully.”

Hmm, I understand. Can I share my thoughts on the matter?

He sniffed. “Okay.”

You’re pretty bad at this whole “bully” thing.

Sunday’s brain grinded to a halt. His head shot up in disbelief. “Huh?”

You need to step it up if you’re going to go around calling yourself a bully. A REAL bully doesn’t feel upset when he hurts someone’s feelings. In fact, he feels happy. Did it make you happy to see March cry?

He rubbed the backs of his hands over his eyes and shook his head. 

That’s one thing. A REAL bully would also want to call March a stupid idiot over and over, and even say it to Dan Heng and Stelle. Is that what you’re aiming for?

“N—no.” Sunday never wanted to say those words in his life again. He had felt terrible as soon as they left his mouth. 

See what I mean? You’re not a very good bully. Sounds more like you hurt yourself, got scared, and accidentally took it out on another person. 

“Doesn’t that make me a bad friend?”

Just like a bully, a bad friend wouldn’t be sad that he made March upset. It wasn’t a very nice thing to say, but you didn’t mean it and you regret it. 

“But what if I hurt her again? Or someone else?” The pressure built behind his eyes again.

You’d hurt your friends more by hiding yourself away from them. They care about you. They wouldn’t keep playing with you and taking you on adventures if they didn’t enjoy your presence, and they probably miss you, too. You’re learning, and you’re trying to be good to them. That’s what matters. Honestly, you could be doing a lot worse.

Sunday thought of the picture he drew and the smeary remains of the sixth addition. “Then… how do I get her to be my friend like before?” 

I highly doubt March is the type to stop being friends with you over something like this. Same with the other two. A sincere apology is a good place to start. 

Sunday’s chest felt a lot lighter. He sat up straight, eyes going wide. “And then we’ll be friends again? All of us?”

I guarantee it. 

A wide smile split his face. 

Wanna take another crack at that picture?

He nodded, scrubbing away the last of the moisture from his eyes. He picked up the blue chalk once more and returned to the drawing. 

Sunday wiped the last of the smudge clean and set to work again. 

When he stepped back, the entire picture seemed to click into place like a set of puzzle pieces.

Next to the pink girl, whose grin seemed bigger than the one Sunday had given her, was a light blue boy. The boy’s smile was small, but hopeful. On his head, nestled right under his halo, was a little pigeon nesting in his hair. 

The corners of the green boy’s mouth were turned up. The red woman and the man with the cane looked relaxed, like they had just heard good news. The girl in the trashcan beamed up at him from under the lid. Just like that, the picture came together. Sunday beamed in satisfaction.

Then, the picture began to decay. 

He stumbled back in horror as the wall rippled and shriveled in on itself. The smiles melted off the figures’ faces, sliding and drooping into unnatural shapes. Pink and green and gray and red and blue all seeped into one another until all that was left of the image was a slimy film stinking of rot. The filthy goo ran down the concrete in long drips, staining the sand at his feet black.

Sunday?

The voice sounded alarmed, but Sunday barely heard it over the pounding of his heart. He sprinted for the splash fountain without looking back. He shoved his trembling hands into the stream of water and scrubbed and scrubbed for what felt like hours until he was sure no trace of the sludge remained on his body.

No amount of cleaning got rid of the putrid smell, though.

Hey, that’s enough. It’s okay. You—

“I’m going to swing,” Sunday declared, stepping back and wiping his hands on his shorts. His voice was louder and shakier than he meant for it to sound. He tried to make up for it by pulling his lips back in a wide smile, and repeated himself. “I’m going to swing. I can go really high. Wanna see?”

Listen to me, Sunday. Your playground—

That feeling from earlier, when the picture first began to go bad, crept back up his throat. His hands squeezed into fists by his side. “I said I’m going to go swing!” He shouted. 

For a moment, there was silence in the playground, other than his own rapid breathing.

… Okay. Show me how high you can go.  

The knot in Sunday’s chest loosened, and he was allowed to breathe again. He led the way to his swing set, making sure to always keep his back to the moldy blotch on the concrete.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Ahoy there, Captain Sunday. 

“Ahoy!” He called. Today, he was tucked into the little lookout area at the top of his playhouse, surveying the grounds with a keen eye. 

How goes the hunt for treasure?

Sunday grinned, adjusting his eyepatch. “I spotted land over yonder!” He pretended to study a scroll and pointed into the distance. “My map says the treasure will be buried right over—” He faltered when he realized where he had accidentally pointed to and spun in the opposite direction, away from the decayed wall, “There!”

But Captain, those waters are looking quite fearsome. If you go any further towards that island, surely your ship will be dashed to pieces!

He put his hands on his hips and puffed up his chest. “Did you forget already? I’m Captain Sunday! A few little waves are no match for me!”

Of course, Captain. 

“Batten down the hatches! We’re going full speed ahead!” Sunday grabbed the steering wheel and yanked it all the way to one side. 

Whoa, Captain, I’m not so sure about this! I don’t think we’re gonna make it —

“Hold on tight!” Sunday shouted, clinging to one of the poles holding up the playhouse. He swayed back and forth, struggling to keep his grip as the waves raged against his ship.

Captain!

Sunday let go of the pole and flopped onto the floor of the playhouse, rolling off of the structure and pretending to collapse to the mulchy ground. 

Captain! Can you hear me? Answer me! 

Sunday tried his best to keep still, but the voice sounded so earnest that he couldn’t hold back a snort. 

Oh no… Have we really lost him this time? So accomplished, and yet so young… The pirating world will never see a legend like Captain Sunday ever again!

He burst into giggles before he could stop himself, but played them off as coughs. He slowly sat up and gathered his bearings. “Where… am I?” He groaned as he clutched his head. 

Captain? You’re alive! Thank the stars above! Look: we made it to the island!

Sunday jumped to his feet. “I told you I could do it!” He bragged, putting his hands on his hips. 

I’m sorry for ever doubting you, Captain.

“Enough of that. There’s no time to waste! We have to beat the other pirates to the treasure!” He ran over to the area that he had pointed to. “The map says it’s buried right here.”

Well, what are we waiting for?

“Let’s get to digging!” He agreed, and pulled his shovel out of his pocket. He dug around in the grass and dirt until he hit something solid, and gasped. “There it is!”

Reaching deeper into the dirt, he closed his fingers around the object and tugged it out of the earth, holding it up to the sky to examine. 

It’s… It’s beautiful, Captain. I can hardly believe my eyes. 

After dusting off the debris, the toy truck Sunday had buried earlier shone in the light. 

What an adventure. My heart is racing out of its chest. 

Sunday laughed in delight. “Playing pirates is way more fun with someone else,” He declared without thinking twice. 

I couldn’t agree more. After all, every captain needs a crew, especially a quartermaster.

Sunday opened his mouth to say that no, pirates can run their own ships all by themselves, when he stopped.  “I used to have a quartermaster, but now the ship is all mine,” He explained instead. He realized too late that he probably shouldn’t have said that, and bit his lip hard.

Isn’t it difficult to take care of an entire ship on your own?

He shook his head. “It’s better this way.” That was the rule: No one but Sunday could play here. That’s what made it fun; all the toys he wanted with no sharing and no fighting. This was his playground, for him and him alone. Sunday only ever thought about how big the space was and how small he felt if he didn’t distract himself fast enough with a new toy or game.

Where is your quartermaster now?

A nasty feeling swirled in his stomach, like he ate something he wasn’t supposed to. He took off the eyepatch. Suddenly, he didn’t want to play pirates anymore. “She’s not allowed in my playground.” That was the rule. Rules were meant to be obeyed.

Why is that?

“I don’t want her here,” He mumbled. The lie tasted like acid in his mouth.

Did you have a fight?

“No.” The words he was trying to say took their time leaving his throat. “If she comes here, something bad will happen.”

Are you worried she’ll get hurt?

His lower lip wobbled. He nodded.

Are you worried she’ll get hurt because of you?

His eyes burned and he squeezed his hands together in his lap. He nodded again. 

You love your sister very much, don’t you, Sunday?

Sunday wished for the millionth time in his life that he was better at holding back his tears. He sniffled, and nodded again.

She must love you a lot, too. I bet she wants to see you. 

Tears fell from his eyes, dotting the mulch underneath him. When Sunday cried, the feeling always ballooned into something massive, like it was too big for his body to hold. He ripped the eyepatch off and flung it somewhere in the distance. His entire body shuddered as he crouched on the ground, burying his face in his arms. 

“I miss her,” He admitted, muffled behind his hands. “It’s no fun playing without her.”

What else?

Sunday swallowed, voice thick and low. “I… wish she was here. Why can’t she be here? I can protect her!”

Keep going. 

“I won’t hurt her again, I swear, I promise, I promise I’ll make sure I never hurt her again, I just want to show her my toys and my friends and play pirates with her and—”

A thunderous crash startled him out of his teary rant. Sunday spun around and his stomach dropped.

The tree carrying the tire swing lay splintered into pieces on the ground, only a decomposed stump left of the original trunk. Black sludge gushed from putrid, rotting wood like an open wound, flowing over the ground and liquifying the healthy green vegetation in its path. Within seconds, it surged across the playground, leaving a trail of decay in its wake, and reached the trampoline.

The slime crawled over the railing of the pink trampoline and across the net. The metal bars creaked and groaned as they collapsed in on themselves. It didn’t take long for the sludge to claim the entire trampoline, reducing it to nothing more than a bubbling black muck on the ground. Not a sliver of its original pink remained. 

Sunday pressed his hands to his mouth. Fresh tears poured over his cheeks, this time born out of the bone-chilling fear that kept him rooted where he stood.

Sunday, please listen to me.  

What was he thinking? She wasn’t coming. She never would. Sunday would never let her. He had to protect her from this… whatever this was.

He had to keep her away from the rot that was coming after him. 

Finally, his legs remembered how to move instead of trembling in place and he ran away from the awful, stinking slime and the voice calling after him and the truck which lay abandoned on the ground. He ran up his playhouse, taking the multicolored steps two at a time, and squeezed back inside the lookout area, curled away from the corroded trampoline and the decayed tree. He pressed his hands against his ears and waited for his racing heart to slow and the ringing to stop and for the voice to go away and for everything to go quiet like it was before.

When he didn’t feel like he was dying anymore, he dared to sit up and peek over the edge of the lookout spot. 

The black muck had stopped spreading. It paused at the edge of where Sunday had dug up his truck. The toy itself had long succumbed to the decay. The colorful plastic had warped and melted into the ground and bore no resemblance to a toy anymore. 

Sunday whipped his head in the other direction and decided he wanted to play at the daisy field. 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Sunday? You there? 

He said nothing, only hunched in on himself tighter like a millipede. 

The rot was everywhere. Sunday could smell it. He could even feel it, the heavy weight in the air of mold and decay and filth settling in a putrid grime on his skin. 

He had barely a moment to hop around at the splash fountain before the pipes screeched in protest and black sludge poured from the faucets instead of water. It didn’t stop there; after the slime had consumed and destroyed the splash fountain, it crept over to the carousel and destroyed that, too. The brown bear on the carousel was now molten and withered, turning into a monstrous, terrifying creature. Its mouth hung open in a grotesque, too-wide grin, as though poised to bite. Even its little top hat had melted into its head. The rot kept going and going until it had decayed the entire perimeter of the playground, turning any mulch or grass or toy it came across into muck. Now, it was slowly creeping its way inside. Only a small, pristine circle free of rot remained around his playhouse under which he was currently hiding.

His throat was hoarse from screaming.

There was no more Order to protect him.

I know you’re there. You can’t exactly hide from me. What I really mean is, what’s going on? Why are you under the slide?

His entire body shook, even though he wasn’t cold. “I… I did something really, really bad,” He whispered, so quiet he could hardly hear himself. He hugged his legs to his chest and hid his face in his knees. 

Are you sure it was a bad thing?

Sunday wondered why he wasn’t crying. Perhaps he was all out of tears. That would be a first for him.

…Or, was it a scary thing?

“Isn’t that the same?”

Not at all. In fact, a lot of things that are good for you feel scary at first.

Sunday’s head shot up. Fury raced through his body. “Look at my playground!” He howled. “There’s nothing left here! How could this be a good thing?”

A different, all-too-familiar voice echoed around him, not in his mind, but in his memory:

Wretched boy. Look at what you have done. You will never be forgiven for this.

“I’m sorry,” He whimpered, tucking his head back between his legs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, make it stop, please, make it stop, tell me how to—”

Hey. Snap out of it. THEY’re gone, and THEY’re not coming back. It’s just me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but can you come out from under there? There’s something I want to show you. 

The thought of leaving this dark, safe corner, tucked away from the rot, made his belly squirm. “No.”

Please? I think you’ll—

“I said no!” He screamed, gripping his hair as tight as he could. Everything was dead silent for a moment. For once, the voice hesitated. 

Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll give you some space. 

And then Sunday was alone in the dark again.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

It was a long, long time until he could unlock his limbs. Even the simple motions of uncurling his body and sitting up made his heart race, as though if he moved too much, a monster would sense him and attack.

“Hello?” He called into the air. For a moment, a sickening dread pooled in his veins that maybe no one would reply and that this time, he was truly all alone. To his immense relief, the voice soon answered back.

Hi.

Sunday didn’t know what to say. All of the words tumbled around in his head like scattered leaves. He wrung his hands together, wings folding over his face in shame. “I—I’m sorry. For yelling.”

Do not apologize, my friend. I’d scream, too, if I were in your shoes. It’s me who should apologize to you, actually. 

Sunday fidgeted from foot to foot. He felt like he missed his line in a play and lost his place in the script. “W-what?”

I pushed you way too hard earlier. I should have been gentler. I mean, you’re just a kid and look at what you’re going through. I’m sorry. 

 Once again, Sunday had no idea what to say. He was dumbstruck. Why would THEY apologize to him?

The reason I wanted you to come out from there is because there’s something you need to see. Do you feel like you’re ready? 

Sunday bit his lip. “But the playground…”

You don’t have to go far, I promise. Just stand up and poke your head out.

Sunday nodded, and did as the voice said.

Look over there.

The voice had no hands to point with, but somehow Sunday knew where to look regardless. He peeked around the pink slide and gasped when he saw it. 

The rot from where Sunday drew his picture had spread like mold, until the entire wall was slimy with decay. That wasn’t what caught his attention. 

Standing out starkly against the blackened sludge was a white door that Sunday had never seen before. It seemed to glow with a faint light, and the slime dripped around it, like the door was repelling the rot.

“When did that get there?” He wondered out loud. 

When you decided you were ready for it. 

Ice raced down his spine and he turned away, unable to bear the sight of the door any longer. “I’m not supposed to leave.”

Are you saying you want to stay?

Sunday didn’t know what would make the voice understand that what he wanted had nothing to do with this. He had to stay. Rules were meant to be—

“Broken!” Stelle cheered from his memory. Sunday’s breath left him in a rush. 

“No,” He said, soft and nervous, like the word would trigger a booby trap and the slime would swallow him whole. 

What do you want to do?

He wanted…

He wanted to play with his friends. He wanted to see his sister. 

“I want to leave,” He admitted. 

He covered his mouth with a shaky hand. He turned back to the door, half-expecting it to vanish as punishment for his confession, but it was still there, simple and shiny and terrifying. 

What will you choose now?

Choose? Sunday had to choose?

He swept his gaze over his playground. Sunday had been the ruler of this kingdom of toys for as long as he could remember. Everything he thought he wanted was in here.

Everything, which really was nothing at all.

“I’m scared,” He whispered, hugging his own torso. 

Remember how I said sometimes scary things are good things in disguise? 

“What if this is a bad thing?”

There is always that risk, but you won’t know for sure until you try. 

Sunday curled his arms around himself tighter. “What’s on the other side?”

Everything else. 

He inhaled, sharp and quick. The foot pressing down on his ribcage eased up the slightest bit.

Still scared?

“Yes, but…” But there was something else there alongside the fear, something strange that made his heart pound the same way but felt like the opposite.

Hope, he realized. 

Sunday stood, and raised his hand out. “Will you come with me?”

Of course. 

A shimmery, translucent hand manifested out of thin air. Maybe the sight of the disembodied hand reaching out for him should have spooked Sunday even more, but it didn’t. Instead, he clasped it. It felt human and warm between his fingers.

Are you ready?

He turned around to take a long look at his playground, at the destruction and the filth that had taken over and eaten any of the cheerful color it once possessed. He took a deep breath and forced his gaze forward. “I’m ready.”

Sunday’s first step out of the safe, clean circle protecting him from the rot had his stomach rolling. He waited for his foot to land on soft, squishy mold, braced himself for the sludge to wrap around him and lick his bones clean of any flesh, but neither happened. 

Instead, he felt a familiar mulch underfoot. He looked down and his lips parted in awe. 

Around his shoe, the black slime receded completely, the same way it had parted around the door in the wall. He took another step and the same thing happened when his left foot hit the ground, as though he was repelling the rot. 

“Do you see that?” He gasped, pointing at the ground. The hand tightened its grip around his. 

Well done, Sunday.

The walk to the door somehow took both forever and no time at all. Before he knew it, the golden doorknob was right in front of him, waiting patiently. Sunday pressed his ear against the door.

A symphony of noises sang in unison from the other side. Sobs of laughter and anguish. Waves lapping at a shoreline. Swords clashing against each other, glasses clinking together, hundreds of overlapping conversations, a chorus of birdsongs, and so many more chaotic notes came together to form a cacophonous, beautiful piece of music.

Everything else. 

A deafening crash rang out from behind him, followed by the groans and squelches of metal sinking into muck. Terror overwhelmed him once more. Sweat beaded at his temple, and his breath came short.  

Don’t look back. You’ve come so far. 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” He whispered. The hand he was holding squeezed. 

Being scared means you’re about to do something very brave and one thing I have learned about you, Sunday, is that you are among the bravest people I have ever known. 

Sunday squeezed back. “This is… brave?”

It is, and you are, too. The scariest and therefore the bravest Trailblaze is not to any planet or civilization, but rather to a new course of life.

Another frightening thought suddenly occurred to him. “Will you be on the other side?”

Silly. Did you think I was just going to vanish? I’ve been there since the beginning. 

Sunday screwed his eyes shut. Deep breath in. Images danced in his mind: March tugging him along on another adventure, Stelle brandishing her spoils from a trashcan expedition, Dan Heng hiding a smile behind a hand of cards, and turtles and crystals and little glass pigeons. 

“Promise?” He murmured.

I will be by your side no matter where you go, Trailblazer. I promise. 

Deep breath out. He let the hand fall away from his grip. With quivering fingers, he grasped the cool doorknob tightly, as if to keep it from running away.

There are a lot of people expecting you over there, Sunday. Better not keep them waiting.

He turned the knob. The door opened, enveloping Sunday in a pure white light. 

It was weird, thought the boy as he closed his eyes, how it felt like coming home.

Chapter Text

The first thing Sunday saw when he woke up again in the med car was a bright blue balloon. He wondered for a delirious moment if he was still dreaming, until he registered the Get Well Soon! message written on the balloon in swirly font.

The only other notable addition to the med car besides the balloon was the figure slumped in the armchair next to the bed. 

Dan Heng’s eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell at a slow, steady rhythm. A book lay open in his lap, balanced precariously on his legs. Sunday tilted his head and just barely managed to catch a glimpse of the cover.

A glimpse was all he needed. Sunday could recognize that cover anywhere: Volume I of the King of the Library series. March must have finally swayed him.

A rush of euphoria suddenly burst within him like a firework. 

His mind couldn’t grasp for a moment that he was looking at someone who would fall asleep in such an uncomfortable position just so that Sunday wouldn’t have to wake up alone. Yet, there was Dan Heng, real and right in front of him, reading Sunday’s favorite book series and dozing by his side. Sunday was so grateful he couldn’t breathe: grateful to be alive, grateful for the Astral Express, grateful to be in this stupid, stuffy med car with Dan Heng and watch as he jostled the book in his lap and sent it crashing to the floor with a loud thud.

Dan Heng gasped and jerked awake at the noise. He scanned the room, likely for a threat, before realizing the book was the culprit. With a sigh, he rubbed his face before kneeling to pick it up. It was then that Sunday spotted the dark circles staining his under-eyes. 

Embarrassment tugged at his heart. Sunday had caused quite a bit of trouble for the Express, hadn’t he?

Dan Heng, still not noticing that two beings were lucid in the room instead of one, settled back into the armchair with a yawn and flipped through the book to find his page again. Sunday debated keeping quiet and letting the man try and rest like he clearly so needed, but decided against it. Better to treat the root of the problem rather than a symptom.

“Good morning,” He croaked, voice raspy from disuse. Dan Heng’s head shot up.

“You’re awake!” In a flash he was at his bedside. “How do you feel?”

Sunday opened his mouth, then closed it again. Dan Heng’s eyes were bright with relief, like he was happy to see Sunday again. Like he had worried about Sunday’s wellbeing.

Like Sunday had been missed.

His entire body ached. His head throbbed with a dull sort of pain, his mouth was so dry it burned, and he was lightheaded, as though he was on the verge of slipping right back into unconsciousness. Despite the many maladies plaguing him, he felt incredible, like the rope that had been winding tighter and tighter around his throat since he joined the Express was finally cut.

“Better,” he decided. His voice gave out before he could continue and he coughed into his elbow helplessly.

Dan Heng passed him a glass of water before he could ask. Sunday couldn’t bring himself to care about the disgraceful way he gulped it down. He did, however, feel a sense of deja-vu from the way Dan Heng wordlessly cupped the bottom of the glass when Sunday’s weak, unsteady hands were unable to hold it. For some reason, the gesture caused a lump to form in his throat that he had to swallow down as he recalled the similar kindness Himeko had extended to him before. 

Voice restored at last, he cleared his throat. “How long have I been out?” 

Dan Heng set the empty glass down on the table next to the gurney. “Eight days.” 

Sunday’s universe tilted on its axis. “Eight days?” he gasped. 

“After you passed out the second time with Himeko, you wouldn’t wake up at all. We called Natasha back to the Express, and she managed to stabilize you, but she told us that you needed to be monitored at all times since your condition was liable to suddenly change. We’ve been taking shifts staying with you.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll let everyone know you’re awake. They’re out right now running errands, but they’ll be very excited to see you.”

Another lump formed in his throat.

“Thank you for watching over me,” he said. Dan Heng shrugged, tossing his phone on the table. 

“I know you don’t think so, and it’s alright, but as far as the rest of us are concerned, you are part of the Astral Express. We take care of our own.” 

Sunday bit his lip, then mustered his courage and strength together. “And if I wanted to be a part of it?”

Dan Heng blinked in surprise, then rolled his eyes. “About time,” he sighed, but there was a rare sort of satisfaction curling the edge of his smile. Sunday knew because a similar feeling was filling up his body. 

He gestured to the book. “What made you finally start King of the Library ?”

Dan Heng drummed his long fingers on the cover. “I picked it up after March told me you were a fan as well.”

Being hit by the train would have hit Sunday more gently than that confession. He cleared his throat before he did something ridiculous like burst into tears right in front of Dan Heng. He had never felt so fragile in his life. “And? What did you think?”

“I see the appeal. I’ve hardly been able to put it down.” 

“What part are you at?”

“I just got to the scene where the scribe proves that the architect is innocent and was actually framed for the queen’s murder.”

“Has he revealed who the real killer is yet?”

Dan Heng shook his head. Sunday hid a smile. “I won’t spoil it, but when I read through that part for the first time, I had to close the book and sit in silence for a while.” 

“I will be sure to seek you out when I get there.”

“I look forward to hearing your thoughts,” said Sunday, surprised by how much he meant it. His dream was rapidly fading from his memory, but bits and pieces still remained. All of a sudden, he was desperate to confirm one specific piece of knowledge. “Dan Heng?”

“Yes?”

“Are we… Are we friends?” There was no way to ask such a thing without sounding pathetic but Sunday didn’t have a choice. He had to hear the answer for himself.

Dan Heng shot him an unimpressed look, as if to say, You’re just asking that now? Sunday’s desperation must have shone on his face, though, because his expression turned serious. He went silent for a few moments as he thought the question over. 

“Friendship is a two-way street,” he said, tipping his head back in thought. “Therefore, I can’t answer your question specifically, since I would be speaking on your behalf as well as mine and I don’t know where you stand on the matter. I believe a more appropriate question to ask would be if I consider you a friend, to which I would answer that I have done so since the first time you helped me add to the data bank.”

Sunday took a shaky breath. They’d been waiting here the whole time for him.

Sunday grinned so hard his face hurt. He couldn’t help it; he had been such a fool. “You are my friend as well, Dan Heng. You’ll have to forgive me for being unclear in the past. I am afraid I have little experience in relationships of this nature.”

Dan Heng seemed bewildered by his honesty, but he returned the smile. “I could tell,” He teased. Sunday laughed. 

“Was it really that obvious?” 

“To me it was, but that’s because I could empathize.” Dan Heng looked away. “I believe,” he continued, “that the person you were when we met you on Penacony, the person you were when you first boarded, and the person you are now are three distinct stages, not unlike the lifecycle of an insect species. Joining the Express tends to create such growth in people with a past.”

He glanced back at Sunday, and winced. “Was that too far? I apologize.”

“No, not at all. I can’t disagree. Who better to understand an ex-fugitive than an ex-fugitive?”

Dan Heng snorted and looked like he was about to say something else, but he was interrupted by the door banging open.

“Sunday’s up?” Stelle demanded as she stalked into the room. Sunday gave her a little wave. She gasped. “Sunday’s up!”

One by one, the rest of the Nameless filed into the tiny med car, all crowded around his bed. 

“How do you feel?” Welt asked. 

“Better, but still on the weak side,” he replied. Understatement of the era; the longer he was awake, the more he felt like death warmed over. 

“Well, you’ve been hooked up to an IV drip during an eight-day coma,” said Himeko. “A recovery period is to be expected.”

March crossed her arms and glared at him from the foot of his gurney. His chest tightened as flashbacks of their last encounter raced through his mind. 

“You really scared us! Don’t ever keep something like this from us again!” she ordered. 

Shame welled up inside Sunday. He curled his hands in the crisp blanket. “I… would like to apologize to all of you. I know I have caused a great deal of inconvenience and I am incredibly grateful for the care you have provided me—”

Stelle held up a hand. “Please. Just stop.”

Welt stepped in upon seeing the bemusement on Sunday’s face. “What Stelle is trying to say is that there is nothing to apologize for. You will be protected by the Express so long as you continue to travel with us. We are far more concerned with your recovery than seeing you act as though you have wronged us. We will choose to look after you of our own volition time and time again, just as we would any other member of the Express.”

There are a lot of people expecting you over there, Sunday. Better not keep them waiting.

Any “other” member of the Express. The words echoed between the walls of Sunday’s mind.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The Nameless caught him up on what he had missed, retelling stories of missions and assignments they had completed during his absence. Eventually, though, Welt stood up and motioned for everyone to leave.

“It’s getting late. We’d better get some rest and avoid exhausting our patient.” With a few grumbles, the crew filed out of the med car, all except one. 

Himeko lingered after the other four made their departure, and turned to him with a complicated expression. 

“Feeling up for a chat?” she asked. Sunday gestured to the armchair. 

“Please.”

She took a seat and studied his face. “You seem different. Obviously you’re still you, despite everything, but it's like you’re… Brighter, somehow. Like a weight’s been taken off of your shoulders.” 

Sunday nodded. He hadn’t realized it was so visible. He wondered just how miserable he had presented before for such a change to be so recognizable.

Hey eyes flashed knowingly. “I’m not entirely certain, but you look like you just came back from a long journey. You don’t have to tell me the details, but I’d wager that’s what happened to you, am I correct?”

His astonishment thankfully distracted from the faint burning in his eyes. “How did you know?”

Himeko chuckled, then turned her gaze to the tiny window at the top of the left wall. “When we scour the universe for the things we seek, most of the time it's less of a ‘Eureka’ moment and more of a ‘Is this it? What if I’m wrong?’” She drummed her fingers on the seat. “When I first tried to restore the Astral Express after I discovered its ruins on my planet, I actually gave up on it multiple times. It needed so many repairs and so many materials. Everyone I knew told me working on that hunk of junk was a waste of my time and talents and that I should focus on more fruitful pursuits. Every day I woke up and told myself that they were right and that today would be the day I cut my losses and let go of that train. Despite that, though, I kept coming back, week after week, with nothing but my tools and a dream.” She smiled at him. “However, there was one time I gave up for real, and walked away from the Express for good.” 

Sunday couldn’t believe his ears. It was impossible to imagine brave, determined Himeko surrendering so easily.  His bewilderment must have shown on his face, because she laughed again.

“In my defense, it was a pretty low moment for me. I remember I had finally, finally gotten that stupid train to work. I was so ecstatic I literally jumped for joy. At last, all my hard work had paid off. I boarded the train, set course for the planet next to us, and then… it crashed again, barely a few hundred meters from where we started. That’s when I really threw in the towel. I went home and cried myself to sleep, and swore I would never so much as look at that damned train again. Then, that same night, I had the strangest dream.”

Sunday could feel his heart pounding through every limb. Could it be…?

“In my dream, the Express asked me if I would do it the honor of traveling together. I asked back, ‘And just what kind of journey would that be?’ and do you know what it said? ‘A journey to the beginning.’ The next day, I packed up my tools again and went right back to that train. There was no ‘Eureka’ moment, just sheer determination.” She leaned forward and took Sunday’s right hand in both of hers. “I used to think that was the exact moment I ‘became’ a Trailblazer, but I’ve come to realize that’s not quite the truth. Trailblazers aren’t created, they’re awakened. You and I have followed this path our entire lives whether we knew it or not. Akivili simply put a name to it.”

Sunday inhaled, sharp and shaky. His hand trembled between Himeko’s, but her grip didn’t falter, only tightened. “Well done completing the journey to your beginning. Welcome to the Astral Express, Sunday.”

 ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Finally, on his third day of bedrest, Sunday was deemed well enough to be freed from the med car. He was under strict orders from Natasha not to overexert himself and to absolutely not leave the Express for any adventures until he was fully recovered, but he could at least enjoy the freedom to wander around the train and sleep in his own bed. 

The first thing Sunday did when he was back in his bedroom was greet his little glass pigeon. He had sorely missed his roommate and was delighted to see it staring back at him from the shelf. 

He spun around in a slow circle, taking in the myriad of trinkets and souvenirs that Sunday had accumulated. Now that he thought about it, this place had been “his bedroom” long before he was ready to acknowledge it as such.

Sadly, despite the familiar surroundings, Sunday’s nightmares refused to diminish in frequency. One night, he gasped awake from yet another bad dream, clutching his bedsheets with a white-knuckled grip and cursing as he waited for his heart to stop racing. A small mercy he had been granted was that the nightmares were harder and harder to remember. As he blinked himself to full wakefulness, the details were already slipping from his mind like water through a sieve. Vague memories of running, and falling, and the sound of someone sobbing—

Sobbing that he could still hear. 

He held his breath, straining his ears to catch more of the noise. There it was again, the unmistakable sound of crying somewhere down the hallway. The sound slowly faded, like the culprit was moving away, then there was the faint click of the door to the parlor car opening and Sunday couldn’t hear anything anymore. 

March. There was no doubt about it. 

Sunday stared down at his hands, still fisted in the bedsheets. Would it help or harm more if he followed her? What would he even say? He was never good at this sort of thing. Providing an audience for the confessions of sinners was one thing; consoling someone in distress was another. He never had the chance to truly practice such a skill; Robin’s own therapists were more than sufficient for the singer, and who else would have trusted him enough to be so vulnerable? 

There was also the issue of the awkwardness between him and March, the echo of his harsh words haunting every interaction between them like a ghost. He had yet to deliver the apology he owed to her. He had been telling himself that it was never the right time, that she was always about to leave or just returning from somewhere, that it was hard to catch her alone, but here, under the cover of the night, he could admit that the only reason he couldn’t apologize was because he was scared.

If Sunday stayed in his room, at least there was no risk of him saying the wrong thing and inadvertently hurting March even more. Decision made, he laid back down on the mattress and closed his eyes. 

Immediately he opened them again.

His mind conjured the image of the girl crying alone with no one but the stars at witnesses. He imagined passing by her the next morning, unable to keep from noticing the slight puffiness in her face. He pictured her beaming and waving at the group, laughing off her dark circles and reddened eyes as simply a side effect of staying up too late reading light novels. 

Sunday blinked, and he was outside of his bedroom. He blinked again, and his hand was resting on the door to the parlor car, left ajar by the current occupant. He could hear her through the small crack in the doorway, the shuddery, unbridled whimpers of someone who thought that no one was listening.

What was he doing? Why wasn’t he returning to bed? Why couldn’t he? 

Instead of relaxing and letting go, his hand tightened on the door handle. He thought about the countless nights he spent wandering from motel to motel on Penacony and from car to car on the Express. He thought about the hours he had spent staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, unable to escape into sleep. He thought about how no pain could compare to the crushing ache of loneliness on a long night.

Perhaps some company was better than none, even though he was likely the last person March would want comfort from. Maybe just the presence of another being who was willing to listen would be enough.

Before he could regret it, he slowly pushed the door open. 

On one of the wide, red couches sat March 7th. Her head was in her hands, trembling body folded over her knees. Beside her lay her camera and a book that Sunday recognized as one of her photo albums.

No turning back now. “March?” He called, doing his best to soften his tone.

His efforts made no difference. She yelped and her head jerked up, eyes wide with alarm. Her arm spasmed and knocked her album to the floor with a loud thud. Photos burst out from the pages like confetti. 

“H-how long have you been standing there?” She asked, her voice thick and scratchy.

“I just arrived. My apologies. I didn’t intend to startle you.” He joined her at the couch and crouched to the floor, beginning the task of collecting the photos. She did the same, and together they worked in silence. Sunday decided to wait and let her steer the conversation. 

“Thank you,” She mumbled when he handed her the last of the photos. Instead of organizing them in the album again, she clutched them in her hands, as though they would fly away if she didn’t. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Don’t be. I was awake already.” He took a seat next to her on the couch, the photo album open-faced between them. 

She looked up at him, exhaustion written all over her face. “You don’t have to stay up with me. It’s really late. You can go if you want.”

“Would you like me to go?” he asked.

March went quiet for a long time. Sunday had to strain his ears to hear her when she spoke again. “No,” shewhispered, “but you can if you want to.”

“Understood.” He settled into the couch cushions, letting his shoulders lean back on the headrest. When it was clear that he didn’t intend to move further than that, March’s hold loosened slightly on her pictures. 

“You’re gonna find it really stupid,” she warned. 

A knife of hurt jabbed into his chest, though given his past behavior, her response was warranted. He swallowed. 

“I could not, if it is this significant to you,” he murmured, hoping that she could hear the sincerity in his voice. She glanced up, and she must have seen something that assured her because she inhaled and closed her eyes, as though bracing herself for what she was about to relive.

“I… had a nightmare. I dreamt that I lost all of my memories again, and that my pictures, my clothes, everything I have, burned to ashes.” Her next breath carried a tell-tale tremble. “I d-dreamt that a bunch of strangers found me eras later and that—” Her voice cracked. “—That I lost all my friends and my family here, and I couldn’t even grieve because I didn’t remember them —” She cut herself off and pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. 

After a moment, she cleared her throat and continued. “When I woke up, it was all dark, and for a second I thought that it actually happened, and that I was back in that ice block again, but even when I realized I wasn’t dreaming and I still remembered, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What if it happens again? What if it’s happened before? How many people have I lost that I don’t even know about? How long until I lose the people I have now?” The photos crumpled from the force of her grip, and fresh tears poured down her face. “I’m always afraid. Some days it's better than others, but the fact is I am terrified all the time that it will happen again, and everything and everyone I love will be gone in the blink of an eye.”

At that moment, Sunday realized what a terrible person he was.

He had read about March’s origin story in the data bank, and she sometimes brought it up casually in conversation, but he hadn’t realized the severity of the toll it took on her psyche. He tried to envision a timeline where every day, in the back of his head he carried a constant dread that he would completely forget about Robin and his past and wake up in a world without anything, not even his name. Just the thought made him sick. 

A horrible sense of guilt sunk its teeth into his flesh at the understanding of how deeply his words must have cut March. However, this was not about him, he reminded himself. 

Sunday sat with his thoughts for some time, trying to make sure he could organize what he wanted to say in the best possible manner. An idea popped into his head, but he hesitated. Was it appropriate to try and recreate the dynamic they’d had before? Would opting for a more lighthearted tone help or hinder his efforts to offer solace? It might be better to take a detached, clinical approach. 

Then, he took another look at March. Her pink hair was tangled in a rat’s nest, her eyes and nose had gone bright red, and tear tracks shone on her cheeks.

This wasn’t a confession, he realized. She wasn’t a distressed visitor of the Dreamscape or a disgruntled dignitary. She was his friend. Sunday had to speak to her as such. 

 He cleared his throat, and March looked up at him through wet lashes. 

“Well, for starters,” he began, “It may be helpful to revisit the rudimentary but applicable analogy of a bad guy pushing you into the pool. In order for your bad guy to succeed and wipe you of your memories once again, they would first have to get through some extremely powerful people who would lay their lives down for you. Do you think Stelle and Dan Heng, for example, would make it easy for someone with villainous intentions to even come close to you?”

March blew out a breath. “No, they wouldn’t. But…” She smoothed out her photos with her thumbs. “What if I manage to fall into the pool anyways, and I sink to the bottom?”

It was Sunday’s turn to roll his eyes. “You can swim, can you not?”

March’s mouth fell open. Sunday faltered. He had gone and said the wrong thing, hadn’t he? He should be in bed, not here pretending that he knew anything about offering comfort to a troubled soul—

She burst into laughter. Relief flooded through his body. At least she wasn’t crying anymore. 

“My last point,” he continued, emboldened by her response. “is that in order to prevent the current members of the Astral Express from ripping apart the galaxy to find you, they would have to forget you as well. Nothing else would ever stop them. Thankfully you, March 7th, are quite hard to forget.”

March giggled, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. “Well, duh! It’s not every day the universe comes across a girl like me!” She straightened her shoulders in pride. 

“Indeed,” he agreed with mock solemnity. She beamed back at him. 

“I can’t believe your ridiculous pool analogy helped,” she said, scrubbing the last of her tears away with her sleeve. 

“Credit where credit is due. I believe that is your ridiculous pool analogy, March.” 

“Speaking of which, don’t think I’ve forgotten about teaching you to swim, too. I’m serious about that.” She scooped up the photo album into her lap and began reorganizing the pictures into their slots as she spoke. 

“I didn’t doubt that you were for a second.” The pair lapsed into a brief silence. 

Here was his chance. Sunday knew he couldn’t let this opportunity slip away. 

“March,” he began after steeling himself. She hummed without looking away from her album. He cleared his throat. 

“I… wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for what I said to you before— before all of this happened. Forgive me for not saying it sooner.” She turned her gaze up at him this time. He forced himself to meet her eyes. “I was in a miserable state, and you noticed and tried to help, and I took my frustrations out on you.” His nails dug into the meat of his palm. He sounded like a fool. This wasn’t going to change anything. March wasn’t going to accept his apology, and why should she? He had been mean and cruel and a terrible excuse of a friend—

A bad friend wouldn’t be sad that he made March upset.

No. He had to try. He had to consider the possibility that this was salvageable. He took a deep breath and gathered all of his strength.

“The most important thing that I need to communicate to you is that I meant none of it. Not a word. Your past has made you brave and resilient, and your determination to live in the present is nothing short of an inspiration.” His hands squeezed tighter around themselves, the pain keeping him grounded. “You have one of the kindest hearts I have ever known and I… I threw that kindness back into your face when you extended it to me. I’m sorry, March.”

He waited, bracing himself for the cold dismissal, for March to get up and leave without looking back, for her to decide befriending him again was more trouble than he was worth. 

Instead, she reached over and poked him in the cheek. An undignified squawk of surprise left his mouth before he could stop it.

“Alright already, wipe that look off of your face,” She complained, jabbing at his face again. “You look like you’re on trial for kicking a thousand puppies.” 

“I fear that is not an exaggeration for the guilt that I feel.” It was the truth, but he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his mouth again. It hit him then just how much he had missed her bubbly nature.

She rolled her eyes and leaned back. “Yeah, I was hurt by what you said, but you apologized, plus you didn’t mean it, plus now I feel sorry just looking at you. I’m over it.” She squinted at him. “Next time an Aeon is throwing a party in your head or whatever, though, you gotta tell me. Don’t shut yourself away somewhere to try and tough it out on your own. You saw how well that worked out last time.”

“I promise I will let you know,” He agreed. At last, he could take a breath that filled his entire lungs. Still, he had to make sure. “So, am I forgiven?”

“Sure, I forgive you…”

His shoulders sagged with relief.

“...Under one condition.”

He froze. “...Yes?”

She crossed her arms and straightened her features into a mask of stoicism. “You have to model for me.”

He blinked. 

“I have barely any photos of you!” She whined. “It’s all candids, which, yeah, they’re nice, but we can do better. I want a bunch of you posing with your scythe, a few next to the Express, ooh, and a selfie with me and Yanqing at Aurum Alley!” Her eyes lit up with inspiration. “We could get one with Pom-Pom, maybe a few action shots of you sparring with Dan Heng…”

Unbeknownst to her, Sunday had agreed as soon as she made the request, but he pretended to be disgruntled by the idea. “Do I really have to do this to be your friend again?” He made a show of complaining.

March stopped speaking mid-sentence and looked at him as though he grew a second halo. “Of course not. You’re my friend regardless. I’m only kidding; I’ve already forgiven you. You don’t have to do anything for that.”

Caught off-guard by her sincerity, his mouth opened and closed like a fish, but no sound came out. She snickered. 

“You should see the look on your face. Be grateful that I’m not trying to take a photo of you right now.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. Sunday chuckled under his breath. 

“I’m more than grateful, March. I was joking as well. I’d be happy to pose for you. I’d like to take more pictures together, too.”

“Yay!” She cheered, opening up her photo album. “I can’t wait to fill all these empty spaces!” As she flipped through the pages, one image in particular caught his eye, and he did a double take.

“Is that…” She followed his finger to the picture he was pointing at.

“The Radiant Feldspar? Yeah, it is. Or at least, it used to be. Stelle keeps changing the name, but last I heard, she was going with ‘The Trailblaze’s Stern.’”

He stared in disbelief at the image, depicting Stelle balancing proudly on the tip of the airship and waving a flag emblazoned with a muscled trash can. “I cannot believe Oti Alfalfa let you rename his ship.”

“Well, yeah. He gave it to us.”

Sunday’s jaw dropped. “He… gave you his ship.”

“Yep, as thanks. If that was enough to blow your mind, wait till you see the other changes Stelle made.” She beckoned him closer and Sunday scooted over until he and March were side-by-side, one half of the open album in each of their laps.

He had no idea how much time went by as March walked him through picture after picture, elaborating on each of the stories they carried. Endless tales of the adventures and misadventures flowed from her like a fountain, until suddenly she trailed off in the middle of recounting their battle against Aventurine in his full Stoneheart form. He nudged her gently. 

“Well? What happened next?” Instead of responding, March’s head lolled against his shoulder, fast asleep. 

Sunday stared down at her in bewilderment. He carefully closed the album, placed it on the floor away from any stray hands or feet, and weighed his options. He could wake her and help guide her back to her bedroom. He could try and gently maneuver her so that she was lying down on the couch and he could return to his own bed. However, her weight was comforting and her body was warm and all at once Sunday realized just how utterly spent he was. His head tipped against hers, cheek resting on strawberry-scented hair, and his eyes slipped shut faster than he could think.

A shame, he thought right before his mind drifted away. The story had left off on a cliffhanger. He would need to pester March to finish it tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Sunday had always thought of himself as a man of his word. He had a reputation back home, among many others, as someone who delivered on his promises, whether it be to bring retribution to an evildoer or repay a debt.

That being said, as he stared at the rippling surface of the deep end of the pool, he suddenly understood why a soldier would risk such dishonor to desert a war. 

It wasn’t that intimidating. At least, it shouldn’t be. The pool water was smooth, its surface unbroken save for a few slow ripples. Even though Sunday had never been near a pool, somehow the chemical aroma perfectly matched the color of the water; the scent of the chlorine smelled like the blue-green tinge of the artificial tides. 

It wasn’t like the water would grow arms and drag Sunday into its depths against his will. Nothing to fear.

Then again, Sunday figured, if fears could be so easily rationalized and disposed of, the entire industry of therapy would be defunct.  

“Quit staring at the deep end like that! You won’t be heading in there on your own for a while, don’t worry” March singsonged beside him, jerking him out of his thoughts. She reached out and tapped on the tip of his left lower wing, her fingernails making a satisfying click sound against the plastic. “How do the sleeves fit? The company that made them is Halovian-owned, so they’re supposed to be comforta–”

A loud whoop interrupted her as a gray blur shot between the two of them. Sunday watched in awe as Stelle leapt into the air and curled into the ball, jumping into the pool with an impressive splash. 

“Don’t run on the poolside!” Dan Heng chided from behind. He was dressed the same as Sunday, only his trunks were a soothing sea-green color and had a red maple leaf embroidered on the left thigh. 

Their swimsuits had been gifts from the conductor, to “celebrate Sunday’s rehabilitation.” Stelle’s was patterned with gold and gray diamonds and March’s one-piece had swirls of periwinkle and pink complete with a four-leafed flower design over the chest. Sunday’s own trunks were deep blue with golden stripes running down the sides. 

Stelle emerged from the depths just in time to hear Dan Heng’s scolding. “Sorry, forgot. Lemme do it over. Help me up?” She paddled over to the edge and stuck her hand out to Dan Heng. He knelt down and sighed. 

“Even if your Stellaron makes you virtually indestructible, rules still must be–” and that was all he managed to get out before Stelle yanked on his hand, swift and harsh. March yelped and Sunday took a step back as they watched the unsuspecting Dan Heng tumble head over heels into the pool. 

Stelle snickered when Dan Heng’s head broke the surface of the water, annoyance rolling off of him in waves. Her laughter was cut short, though, into when the pool itself began to tremble. Dan Heng lifted a single hand and a geyser of water arced through the air, shooting Stelle high enough to brush the ceiling. Water cascaded from Dan Heng’s geyser, flooding the poolside, and Sunday just managed to dodge the waterfall in time to not get soaked. 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” She screeched, and he let her fall back to the pool with a splat . 

“Did you forget,” Dan Heng said calmly, “That my species belongs to the sea just as much as the land? That my cellular makeup is largely that of an aquatic being?” 

It wasn’t that Sunday had forgotten; he merely hadn’t been confronted with it so directly. If Sunday was a tadpole, then Dan Heng was an eel in the water, slipping through the waves with the kind of ease and grace only nature could bestow. Sunday squinted and could make out the faint shimmer of the power the man kept locked away behind his eyes. 

“Whatever,” she grumbled, shaking droplets out of her bangs. “Stupid water dragon. Can your cloudhymn compete with this?” Stelle let out a battle cry and used her sheer strength to lift her arms and crash them down, sending an enormous wave in Dan Heng’s direction. 

“Keep that in the deep end! You’ll drown us!” March cried as she ushered Sunday to the shallows. “Anyways, how are the sleeves?” She repeated once they were out of the danger zone. 

Sunday gave his head wings and his body wings a test flap each. The protective black swimming sleeves sealed tight over all four appendages did indeed feel natural. It was everything else about his situation that was highly unnatural.

This was the first time he had been shirtless in front of anyone that wasn’t the Dreammaster or his doctor. His pale arms and legs looked out of place on his body, and his own limbs startled him every time they crossed his line of vision. It had taken a lot of effort for him to work up the courage to shirk his shirt, and he had only been able to do so because the swimming sleeves were completely opaque. One small blessing lied in how the black coverings hid his misshapen lower wings and in fact filled in the gaps where he was missing feathers and made them appear normal and whole. 

Still, a lingering anxiety made his hands a touch shakier than usual. Taking off his shirt always preceded one of two unfavorable scenarios. The first was the snip of the Dreammaster’s scissors. The second was an uncomfortable doctor’s visit. Sunday’s doctor had been paid handsomely by the Dreammaster to look the other way when assessing the obvious damage to Sunday’s wings and only ever commented on his poor self-care habits. Get more sleep. Take short breaks now and then. See the counselor I referred you to. As though any of those recommendations would make his feathers grow back again.

He startled when a bare shoulder nudged his arm. “Hey,” said March. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” he muttered. March frowned. 

“You seemed a little lost in your own head there.” She sat down at the edge of the pool, submerging her legs in the water and motioning for him to do the same. “Wanna talk about it?”

I told you, I’m alright. The reply was on the tip of his tongue, but it died when he saw that sincere concern on his friend’s face. 

Friend. Sunday’s friend. 

What if he hurt her again?

You’d hurt your friends more by hiding yourself away from them.

The last time Sunday had kept the truth from his friend, he’d lost control. March’s teary eyes flashed in his memory. What was the point of such a lesson if he kept making the same mistake?

He took a deep breath. March said no more, leaning back and swirling her feet in the water below. 

“It’s… difficult to explain,” he began. “I feel like I must undergo some sort of punishment, or that some kind of bad thing must happen now.” Hearing his own words out loud, Sunday cringed at how ridiculous he sounded. “I mean, I’m not used to this sort of thing. I’ve never gone swimming, after all, or been so… bare before other people.” 

“Do you want to try some other day?”

Sunday shook his head. “No. I think I need to face this.” He smiled ruefully. “What a ridiculous anxiety to conquer.”

“No way. You’re definitely one of the bravest guys I know, Sunday.” March squeezed his shoulder. “Not a lot of people have the guts to face their fears head-on like you, and that’s what makes you so strong. You think the version of you we met in Penacony would go anywhere near a pool?” March grinned at him. Sunday scoffed, but found he couldn’t disagree. 

“Give it some time,” she continued, “and you’ll be down there with those two holding your own no problem. Until then, I can swim enough for the both of us, plus we’re a team. Our job is to make sure bad guys can’t shove either of us into the pool to begin with. I know I’ve been pushy about the whole swimming thing, but if you really don’t want to, that’s okay.” 

Sunday’s body relaxed around his next breath. 

“No, that’s alright.” He smiled back, sincere this time, and his next words slipped out before he could think. “I trust you.” 

March’s eyes widened. The phrase hung in the air, heavy in its honesty. Sunday cleared his throat against a sudden wave of embarrassment. “And,” he added hurriedly, “it would be a shame to lose the gym reservation.”

She gawked at him, then beamed. “Well, let’s get started!” Sunday leaned against the railing to the stairs leading into the water while March slipped from the edge straight into the shallows of the pool.

“Want me to hold your hand on the way in?” she teased as she floated on her back. He rolled his eyes, even though for a moment, the offer was tempting.

“I can walk down five stairs by myself.” With each step, the cold water rose against his body. After the first step, the water lapped at his feet. Another step, and it came up to his knees. When he reached the last step, he was submerged hip-deep, enough for the bottom half of his lower wings to dip below the surface. 

A part of Sunday had imagined that being in a pool would be just like taking a shower, only the water didn’t move. He wasn’t wrong; the problem was simply how strange it was. The water had gone from cold to cool, much lower in temperature than a shower. He flexed his hands and watched as they flickered and distorted beneath the rippling surface.  

He stood rigidly as he adjusted to the feeling of the water. 

“Still okay?” March asked, maneuvering to a standing position. 

“This is the most submerged that I have ever been in a body of water,” Sunday admitted. 

She beamed again. “You ready to submerge even more?” March grabbed his elbow and tugged him deeper into the pool, until the water came up to just below his chest. By now, the entirety of his lower wings were underwater. 

Sunday gripped onto the wall as March let go of him. She tilted her head in a silent question. “I’m still fine,” he muttered. “When are we beginning the lesson?”

She snorted. “This is the lesson. Step one is to get you used to the water.”

“I am used to it.”

“Sunday, I can see your white knuckles from here. Relax; your feet are on the floor. Try to walk over to me.” March swam backwards until she was a few paces away and stretched out her hands for Sunday. 

He took one last longing look at the wall, then let go. One step forward. Then another. Immediately, some sort of primal urge begged him to return to dry land. 

“That’s it! Don’t turn around now!” March cheered. He steeled himself and took another step, then another, until he found himself face to face with a grinning March. 

“Nice job!” she praised. A while ago, he would have found himself sneering at the patronization. Now, he let out a sigh of relief and returned her smile. March clapped her hands in excitement. “You’ve got it! See, you’re a natural-born swimmer! You’ll be doing laps around Dan Heng in no time.”

Sunday glanced over to where Dan Heng was currently spinning Stelle in a whirlpool, lazily swirling cloudhymn magic with his hand as she shrieked with indignation. “I’m not sure about that,” he muttered.

March put him through a few more exercises; walking from one end of the pool to the other with her by his side, then without, as well as fully submerging himself, a scene that had her cackling.

“Sorry,” she giggled when Sunday playfully flicked water in her direction. “You look like a drowned rat. Bird. Bird-rat?”

“I believe they call those ‘pigeons.’” March laughed harder. 

“Hey, calendar cadets! Get over here!’” Stelle beckoned the two of them to the far end of the pool while they were taking a break on the ledge. 

Calendar cadets? Sunday mouthed at March. She shrugged in response. 

He turned his attention back to Stelle. “I only just learned how to walk through water. You cannot expect me to be able to keep up.”

“I have an idea,” Dan Heng piped up. “Here.” All of a sudden, water swirled from the surface of the pool and rose, surrounding Dan Heng in a tornado. Flashes of blue, green, and white flickered across the pool’s surface, and when the water settled, before them stood the Imbibator Lunae, horns and all. The only difference from his usual Vidyadhara form was the presence of his swim trunks rather than the ornate clothing he usually changed into. With a two-fingered swipe, he called forth his dragon summon. The long blue beast curled around him, eyeing Sunday with curious eyes. 

“As a gift for the new swimmer, I propose an allyship between yourself and my dragon. Grab on.” Sunday eyed the creature warily and made no move to get off the ledge. 

“It’s an extension of me, and I wouldn’t let you fall,” Dan Heng promised. “Go ahead.” 

The dragon swam up to Sunday, in the perfect position for him to hold its horns.

Dan Heng will not let me fall. 

Its keen blue eyes followed his movements as Sunday slid into the water and gripped on the smooth horns of the dragon. The creature gave a low, pleased rumble.

“Tug on its horns to steer it where you want to go,” Dan Heng instructed.

Sunday gently pushed forward on the horns. The dragon obeyed and cut through the water slowly, silent and smooth. It barely made a ripple across the water’s surface. He pressed harder. The dragon accelerated, crossing the length of the pool in seconds.

“No fair! You’ve never let me ride on the world-cleansing dragon!” Stelle whined. Sunday steered the dragon in circles around her. As if sensing his intentions, the dragon flicked its tail and splashed her in the face. She sputtered, and lunged towards Sunday to retaliate. She was no match for the water spirit, however, and Sunday effortlessly kept out of her reach. He snickered as he watched Stelle try and fail to grab for the dragon’s fin, only for the beast to move out of the way at the last moment.

“Well done.” He patted the neck of the dragon. “It seems we make a good team.”

By the time they crawled out of the pool, the sun was beginning to set on the city of Belobog and Sunday had never in his life felt so weary to the bone. 

“You did great today!” March insisted when he emerged from the changing room, dressed in his usual attire. 

Sunday wrung the excess water from his hair. “I’m not sure if walking from one end of the pool to the other is quite the standard I have for ‘great,’” he said wryly.  

“I told you, tadpole first, then we slowly graduate to barracuda. Plus, you were steering Dan Heng’s dragon like a pro! How did your wings hold up?”

He flapped his head wings. “Dry as a bone. The sleeves worked perfectly.” 

“Yay! You know what this means: more lessons!”

“Joyous.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. You had at least a little bit of fun, didn’t you, getting to ride around on the coolest pool float ever?”

“... Perhaps I did.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Sunday was exhausted after swimming, but apparently not exhausted enough, because when he bid goodnight to the rest of the crew, he laid awake staring at the gray ceiling of his hotel room. A strange sort of restlessness had crept into his body, and he wished he could go burn off the excess energy he had somehow picked up. 

Oh, right. He could. 

Within minutes, Sunday was dressed and the door to Goethe Hotel closed behind him. It wasn’t even midnight yet in Belobog, so while many of the shops and tourist destinations were closed, a fair bit of people were still strolling about to and from bars and evening dinners. The ambience in the town square was calm, lively enough to carry a certain warmth yet peaceful enough to not be stimulating. Sunday sat down by the fountain and trailed his hand through the water, entranced by the little ripples his fingers made across the surface. 

“Hello, fine stranger,” a voice said. A smiling man stood above him, hands folded politely behind his back. 

Upon closer inspection, it was clear this man was no ordinary civilian. His blue hair, flashy clothing, and worst of all, his cunning grin instantly set Sunday on edge. 

“Hello,” Sunday replied, schooling his features into indifference.

“Come from afar?” The man helped himself to a seat beside Sunday on the fountain’s ledge. He resisted the urge to shift away. 

“Something like that. Are you from the area?”

“Yep. Belobog, born and raised. What brings a fella like you to our humble little planet?” The man leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, the picture of nonchalant interest. 

Better watch what he said in front of this person. “Just a traveler curious to see how Jarilo-IV has changed since the disaster.”

“Ah, I understand. You know, I can tell you’re different from the usual tourists we get here. I gotta warn you, though, a keen guy like you tends to bring out the… nastier sort of people, if you catch my drift.” The man leaned in as though to tell him a secret, the picture of earnest concern. “If you’ve got the time, I’d be more than happy to have you take a look at my armorwares. They’re the real deal; supplied straight from the factories that process the arms for our very own Silvermane Guards.”

Something tugged at the back of Sunday’s mind. A blue-haired salesman. A too-wide smile. An overheard conversation between a distraught woman and an exhausted Guard, something about a large sum of money for a “Parallel Universe Printer” that failed to work as advertised. 

“I know that look. You’re wary of me.” He was more observant than Sunday thought. That didn’t help the alarm bells going off in his head. “You have every right to be; a stranger approaching you, a tourist, alone at night? Haha, I’d feel the same in your shoes.” The man spread his hands in a convincing show of honesty. “I don’t wanna lure you to some back-alley, pal. Quite the opposite.” He pointed to a small tent visible a few blocks away, in front of a large, official-looking building with the Silvermane crest on the archway. “My little shop is right next to the office of none other than Captain Gepard of the Silvermane Guards. You must have heard of him, right? He’s a… close friend of mine, and he kindly lets me operate right outside his window so I can give my customers peace of mind while they browse my stuff. No shady secondary locations, no hidden fees, and no B.S.” The man let out a sigh. “A shame, the lengths you have to go to these days to keep your buyers safe. There’s this one particular scammer that's become quite infamous in these parts of Belobog. Awful stuff; I mean, this guy sells nonsense like ‘Parallel Universe Printers’ to unsuspecting little old ladies! It's crooks like that who make business terrible for guys like me just trying to make an honest living.”

Sunday squinted at the man. “What’s your name?”

He gasped and smacked his hand against his forehead. “Where are my manners? Forgive me, friend. Let me introduce myself.” He stood up and did a goofy-looking bow. “I’m Sampo Koski, just a fella that tries to look out for the little guy.”

The final piece of the puzzle fell into place, and suddenly everything clicked. 

Sampo Koski, notorious scammer, criminal, and Masked Fool. Disgust curled in Sunday’s stomach, and he almost stood and left without another word, but then, an idea struck him. 

Perhaps a bit of karmic retribution was in order.

Sunday knew Sampo, but Sampo didn’t know Sunday. He pasted his friendliest smile onto his face.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sampo.” He scrambled to think of a pseudonym; being a major player in the political landscape of the Land of Dreams meant his own name might ring a few too many bells. Something like “Tuesday” was so obvious it wasn’t worth considering, but perhaps…

“My name is… February. Please forgive my rudeness; I come from Penacony, where every other shopkeeper peddles snake oil in fake gold vials.”

Sampo’s eyes widened. “Penacony, you say? I went just recently for business! What did you do over there?”

Sunday shrugged. “Nothing important, really. I was part of the Family’s Diplomatic Assembly.”

“Ah, international relations. That explains your refined manner of speech.” Sampo’s brow furrowed. “Hey, wasn’t there a guy in charge over there named something like you? You wouldn’t happen to–”

“You must be thinking of Sunday. Former Head of the Oak Family?”

“Oh, right, of course, Sunday. My bad.”

“Not to worry. This confusion happens frequently.”

“Is it some sort of Halovian custom to look in calendars for baby name inspo?”

“No. Just an interesting coincidence.”

“You don’t say. Yeah, now that I think about it, you aren’t anything like him at all. I mean, that guy had a stick so far up his rear I swear I could see it poking out of his head right next to his halo whenever he gave a speech! Yeesh, some people, you just look at ‘em, and you can tell they’ve got a few screws loose even from a mile away.” He winced, like the thought filled him with pity.

Sunday smiled, serene as an angel, and imagined holding Sampo’s head under the fountain water until he never moved again. “That’s funny.”

“Heh, I try. Anyways, like I said, I was just there earlier this year. No wonder you seem so familiar. You and I must have crossed paths. Must mean our reunion is fated! Destiny sure works her hand in funny ways, eh, February?”

He should probably return to his hotel room, but now he was set on a mission: make Sampo pay for his crimes. “Perhaps. You mentioned something about armor? I do find myself lacking in proper protective clothing.”

“Of course!” Sampo clapped his hand and jumped to his feet, motioning for Sunday to follow his lead. “Right this way! I will warn you that some of my latest pieces might not perfectly fit a Halovian t, but anything you like, I can get adjusted to protect those magical wings of yours! For a small fee, of course,” he continued to babble as Sunday trailed alongside him. 

“All right, my friend, here we are!” Sampo gestured grandly to a modest yet sizable stand, displaying a small variety of weapons such as daggers, swords, and guns, as well as shields, steel-toed boots, chestplates, and other protective gear. It was an impressive, authentic-looking collection, and Sunday would have little reason to doubt its quality if the seller was anyone but the blue-haired man beside him.

As though sensing Sunday’s hesitation, Sampo leaped into action. “I know it must seem overwhelming, but don’t worry, we’ll find something for you together, how’s that sound? Hmm…” He leaned back and looked Sunday up and down with a thoughtful frown, tapping his fingers against his chin. “I think you’ll be one of the larger sizes in armor, judging from your musculature. We’ll have to go with something on the bigger and heavier end to accommodate the size of your body.”

Well, if Sunday couldn’t tell Sampo was talking utter nonsense before, he could now. Sunday wasn’t particularly insecure about his lean physique. However, he wasn’t deluded enough to think he was some sort of bodybuilder. It was a clever sales tactic: Sampo would likely pull an average-sized piece of armor from somewhere and call it a “large” to inflate Sunday’s ego, getting him that much closer to making a purchase. Still, he indulged the man, allowing him to rummage through his storage bins. He emerged soon with a shiny mechanical suit with all sorts of cogs and machinery embedded into it.

“Ta-daa! This one I just had shipped last week; she’s fresh off the factory lines. This stuff’s strong, but it moves with your body so it hardly feels like you have anything on! State-of-the-art armor tech, right here. However,” Sampo warned, “Just to keep things crystal clear, when I say brand new, I mean brand new. The suit might get a little… quirky from time to time, but nothing a little elbow grease can’t fix. What do you think?” Sampo beamed.

It was a handsome piece. A shame it was completely useless. Sunday was no expert in weaponry but even he could tell that the shoddy machinery Sampo boasted would hardly withstand a pebble in its gears, let alone a hit from a monster. This thing was a death trap.

Sunday pretended to study the armor set. “It is quite attractive, and it looks to be high quality. This is a fine suit. I simply don’t know if it will fit properly on me.”

“Oh, no problem. I have a curtained changing room right over here where you can–”

“I would, but I have a personal rule against trying on clothes at a store. I’m very particular about contamination, I’m afraid.” He lowered his eyes in mock apology. “Not that I’m implying your things are unclean, just that I have a… severe problem when it comes to germs.” It wasn’t as though he was lying. He took a step back and inspected Sampo’s body. “We look to be of the same body type. Would it be too much to ask you to model the armor? I’m sorry for the trouble, but I can’t buy this until I’m sure I like the way it sits.”

He had to hand it to Sampo; his poker face was impeccable. His build couldn’t be more different in size and shape from Sunday’s, yet he kept a straight face the entire time. “Well, ah, I don’t usually model my own wares for my customers…”

Sunday made his shoulders slump in faux disappointment. “What a shame,” He sighed, beginning to turn away. “And it was such a nice suit of armor, too. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Sampo–”

“Now, February, hang on just a second!” Sampo ran ahead of Sunday to stop him in his tracks. “I said I don’t usually model my wares, but I can tell you’re something special, so I’ll make my first and only exception just for you!”

Got you, Sunday sneered in secret. “No, please, I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” he insisted aloud. “I really should be getting home now. Have a good night, Mr. Sampo–”

“Not at all! I insist! You’ve been such good company; won’t you indulge me a little longer?” Sampo begged, all but tugging at his sleeve to keep his mark from slipping out of his grasp.

What a sly man. Sunday almost believed him. “Alright, then.” The scammer beamed and disappeared into the changing room. 

Getting into the suit was no easy feat, from the sounds of it. From the changing room, Sunday heard an awful clanging and muttered curses from Sampo as he tried to squeeze his large body into a rigid, terribly constructed piece of metal. 

“Ah, okay, I think I’ve got it. I’m not the most dexterous fella, but I’m sure you’ll put it on with no problem.”

Another lie. Sampo was ambidextrous; Sunday could see his dual blades tucked away under the cashier desk.

When Sampo shuffled out of the changing room, Sunday had to call upon his years of arranging his features into a mask to keep from snorting. 

“Oh, look at that! A masterpiece of its kind!” Sunday praised, ignoring Sampo’s visible discomfort at the tightness of each piece. With a suit so poorly fitted, mobility was a challenge, and Sampo hobbled over to Sunday so he could take a closer look. 

The fly was caught in the web, wound up in spider silk. Now, all that was left was to devour it. 

“Incredible!” Sunday cried. “We must have a spar, to determine the integrity!”

“Wait, what–”

“Please, go easy on me. I’m not the most capable fighter, but seeing that armor is filling me with the strangest fighting spirit.”

“Now, hang on–” Sampo gasped when Sunday called his scythe to hand. He smirked; he never tired of the looks of awe his weapon earned from friend and foe alike. “You can’t just–”

“Ready? Begin!”

Sampo at full strength would be quite difficult to take down. Dual blades plus a crafty and observant nature meant Sunday certainly wouldn’t walk away from the fight unharmed. With the handicap of being trapped in his own suit, though…

Clang! Clang! Bang! He let blow after blow collide with Sampo’s armored body. Sampo’s arms pinwheeled fruitlessly against the attack and he stumbled backwards, falling onto his rear with a cacophonous clatter of metal on stone. He howled and tried to scramble away, but Sunday smacked the backs of his knees with the butt of his scythe and sent the man sprawling to the ground.

When Sunday felt fulfilled, he stared at the crumpled heap on the ground, currently moaning in pain. All that indicated it was once a man was the tuft of blue hair sticking out of the headpiece. 

“The suit…” Sampo groaned. “I can’t… unlatch…”

“Oh, dear. It seems you’ve been springlocked into your own suit. The last person I saw that happen to died quite the grisly death. I’d get help quickly if I were you.”

“Who… Who are you?” he gasped, hunching over himself. Sunday leaned down so his ear was right next to the headpiece. 

“The Astral Express sends its regards to you, Sampo Koski,” he murmured into his ear. With that, he stood, making sure to step on Sampo’s fingers on his way out of the tent.

“What in the name of Preservation is going on?” An angry voice bellowed from the window. Upon glancing back, Sunday spotted a blond man in Silvermane guard gear sticking his head out of the window. 

“Captain Gepard! Thank goodness!” Sampo cried, muffled by the armored headpiece he was trapped in. “It’s me, your…. old pal Sampo! An armed thug just… tried to rob–”

“Do you have any idea what time it is, Sampo? Or how many wanted posters are up on Belobog’s walls as we speak with your likeness? You aren’t even authorized to be on Silvermane grounds! Wake the guards!”

“Wait–”

Sunday tilted his head up to marvel at the bright yellow moon as he walked back to the hotel, the sight made all the more beautiful by the background music of a scammed scammer’s lamentations.