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"...he's coming to," a familiar voice wafted in Sunday's ears - deep, comforting, but cautious.
He stirred, for a moment feeling the chains against his form again. Jade had taken his physical form prisoner previously for trial - the IPC knew that being deep within the Penaconian dream had overarching consequences on his body and many others, and they had taken advantage of it. His senses were dulled, taking in the sterile light of the hidden hotel room and the bubbling dream bed he used to freely exit and enter the place he had once been caretaker of, but now seemed content to release him from its clutches.
"Ggh..." Sunday managed, his wing-ears flapping ineffectually to turn down the lights, "W...what..."
"We thought you'd be here," came a second voice - this one feminine and kind, "Welt told us about the arrangement that he made with you. We're here to pick you up to the Express. Can you walk? Do you need us to help you?"
"I can stand," came Sunday's reflexive lie, kicking his feet against the smooth surface of the dream bed to free himself, "Don't worry about me-"
He felt a firm, strong grip against his arm before he once again slipped back into the dream, and finally took in the stern-looking, bespectacled man with brown hair for the first time. "Don't force yourself if you can't - we can talk more on the Express for the time being," commented Welt, giving him a nod as he allowed Sunday to use his body as a crutch, "We should probably leave before any of the Families find out you're here."
Sunday's sluggish senses kicked into high gear, cantering like a terrified fawn. Robin - was Robin safe?
The sudden adrenaline spike seemed to overtake all reason as he strained to support his own weight, almost trying to will his feet forward to the room he knew Robin was and discarding all else. Even then, Welt's grip held firm, and Sunday's thrashing finally seemed to calm.
"He's delirious," sighed the feminine voice, and Sunday felt his other arm slouched over the shoulders of the redheaded woman, "Maybe that fractured psyche situation you mentioned was worse than we expected...let's just bring him onto the Express first and see if someone can help us."
A comforting silence fell over them - and Sunday did not fight their efforts in bringing him outside, into the sun, and then the far beyond.
They'd given him a guest room for the time being, allowing him to slowly recover while getting acquainted with the Express.
He didn't sleep at all the first few system days - it was strange to not wake up back in Penacony, pursued by people, and the last time he'd woken up in the real world, he'd been chained up and taken to one of the IPC's holding rooms. It seemed that what should've been comfort was now torment for him, and he'd instead found himself lingering more and more often in the Party Car, reading to pass the time or doing just about anything to put off slumber.
It'd been one such night (one of his first nights) that he'd noticed the purple-clad soothsayer seemingly manifest from one of the walls, mixing herself a drink and watching him with half-lidded eyes of amusement. "Hello there," she called, not at all fettered by his lack of response, "I see that you too are up late. Fancy a reading from me? If we're travelling together, I like offering people the option of having a reading so I can sample their memories as well. Call it a personal interest, something worth collecting."
Sunday's gaze lifted from the text he was reading off his datapad ("dream-eating beasts that could soothe nightmares", how fascinating). "Sorry, I'm not particularly keen," he rasped - it was still difficult to speak in the real world, his throat often feeling parched and dry whenever he did so, "You were the Memokeeper that the others mentioned. Do you not have other places to visit?"
"Not for now," Black Swan floated sideways as she sat cross-legged in the air, ignoring the gravitational pull that the Express exerted on its passengers, "You and I are very similar, just looking for places to go. Unlike you, however, I go wherever the most...interesting memories lead me. After all, what good is a Memokeeper who doesn't collect the crystallisation of people's lives?"
"Very fanciful," Sunday returned to his readings, "I'm afraid I don't have much to provide you, but I won't mind just chatting if you are."
Swan's smile did not waver, almost seeming like she had a secret she couldn't tell. "For sure," she confirmed breezily, bringing him two cups of warm Puffergoat Milk, "How is your body holding up? I understand that the Express would certainly be an unusual development considering you've never left Penacony."
"It's better than Pier Point," Sunday abruptly let slip, before his eyes widened and he quickly shut off the datapad, "Was that a test from you to confirm what happened with me? I thought we were having a pleasant conversation."
"We are, are we not?" Swan's eyes wandered towards his, almost amused at the slow spinning of the halo behind his head, "Your sister lost a mirror not too long ago, back at Penacony. Quite interestingly, I'd met the person who found it - he asked me for a reading, and in that reading, I found quite a few answers. If anything, I should thank you and your sister...what a wonderful, moving performance that I will keep away in my personal archives."
"Oh - yes, that mirror was very precious to her. I bought it for her, with my first paycheck when I first started working for the Oak Family," Sunday managed a smile despite himself, lost in his own thoughts as his halo took on a soft glow of happiness, "She was just starting out then in performances in the Golden Hour. I know that she'd been eying that one at Otis Mall for a while, so I got it for her as a surprise. It's so old now - I'm secretly hoping she retires it."
Swan chuckled, her eyes drifting to the cane next to Sunday before returning her stare back to him. "How far did that rabbithole go?" she asked, raising a brow in curiosity, "Maybe just indulge my curiosity for a little while. I still think of that beautiful Enamator from time to time - her memories were so very dangerous, tainted with so much Nihility - but that dance...the way she looked at me...it's rare to see someone else so similar and not quite."
"I'd rather not talk about it," Sunday scowled now, warming his hands with the milk, "Your 'beautiful Enamator' cost us millions of Clockie Credits in damages...and so did that gambler of an IPC representative. Loathe as I am to concede my losses, the chaos they caused in the Charmony Festival had me considering to ban them both from returning for good."
"Now, now. We all achieved our aims there, didn't we?" cooed Swan, unruffled as she casually lifted the glass of milk like one would hold a wineglass, "No need to pull such faces around me...you're not the head of the Oak Family anymore, after all. Getting worked up while you're still unwell would be to your detriment. Unlike me, who has no physical form, you need to take care of yourself more."
Sunday sighed, figuring he wasn't getting any more reading done that night. "Walking is still difficult. My joints feel like they've been filled with cement. Perhaps this is just one of the crosses I'm forced to bear as punishment for my hubris," he chuckled derisively to himself, "And no, you're mistaken. I harbor no more anger towards them both - frustration, initially, yes, but ultimately, everyone came together to do what they needed to do."
"As far as I've heard, your physical body has all but returned to normal. It could be a result of your currently-conflicting Paths," suggested Swan, tipping the drink into her mouth before she spoke again, "I wouldn't force you if you don't want to, but you could consider speaking to me for a reading if you feel that your psyche is still under similar stress. Have you considered joining the young ones in their combat drills? They are so terribly noisy, and I'm certain Mr. Danheng would be happy to give you some pointers."
"I would prefer to avoid conflict as much as possible," Sunday grimaced, looking quietly alarmed now, "Is the Astral Express prone to attack? It does seem that they have these drills rather often."
Swan shrugged, neither confirming or denying the matter. "It's always best to be careful," she chuckled, bringing her glass away as she floated away with it, "I hope you also have a wonderful night, Mister Sunday. Eventually, your dreams will become lighter, and your body too would return to yourself again. I hope that day arrives soon."
Gaining strength day by day allowed Sunday some more finesse with his body, and he'd volunteered to help with some chores aboard the express despite the tiny conductor's objections.
"You needn't work yourself so hard," commented the dark-haired boy after his fifth trip into the archives, "While I appreciate the work you've been doing with deciphering the Dream Bubbles into useable data, it's really not that urgent to require you to keep cataloguing them. After all, we're both fellow passengers. I'd start feeling really bad if you keep pushing yourself."
Sunday had chuckled at this, slotting in the datapads with brutal efficiency into their respective sections while balancing on his cane. "This is but a fraction of the work I handled as the Oak Family's head. If anything, I'm happy to be useful," he commented back to Danheng with a smile, his halo glowing slightly, "I'm not particularly good with the menial chores, but intellectual pursuits and musical theory, I daresay I know a little bit of here and there. If anything, your processes are so crisp and easy to follow that to me this is no effort at all."
Danheng reddened, before giving a nod. "As long as it isn't any trouble for you," he managed softly, returning to his work on one of the databanks, "There's...quite a lot to work through for our Penacony section with recent discoveries. Miss Swan did give us quite a few bubbles of the full experience, and she said she might gather some more, if you're up for it."
"I want to tell you how much I love working with Dream Bubbles, but really, I think I might just sound like some sort of insane workaholic," quipped Sunday, his wing-ears flapping in amusement, "They are however immensely malleable. If you resonated with the Harmony more, I could try to teach you to manipulate the bubbles into easy to parse data for the banks."
"Ah...I'm not sure if that would be helpful," Danheng admitted sheepishly, though his gaze didn't lift once from his work, "The data still requires transferring and cataloguing, which I don't think I can extract from the bubbles the way you do. I did see you entertaining March by juggling a couple of the bubbles from Otis Mall the other day - she's really easy to please."
Sunday coughed lightly, covering his face with his wing-ears. "She, uh, insisted when she saw me working on them. Most of them were the Trailblazer's memories, as well as the stow-- you said her name was Firefly? They had some joint memories that were particularly pleasant, and after some twists and turns, they returned to us," he quickly corrected, waving his free hand stiffly in front of himself, "They do have some density to them, so they aren't quite true bubbles, but the physics seemed to fascinate Miss March, and so...I would admit I didn't think anyone else saw it."
"Don't worry about not noticing me. I'm used to being quiet," Danheng shrugged, before pushing himself away from the terminal, "Let's check with Pom-pom about what they might need help with for lunch. If we both don't show up, they'd insist I'm overworking you or being a bad influence."
"I sincerely doubt Mx. Pompom thinks of any of you that way," Sunday remained polite, casually floating a dream bubble up to the ceiling for future retrieval - it stuck to the top, wobbling slightly before resting there, "They do seem very fond of everyone on board as far as I can tell. All the misgivings seem to stem from...some sort of trash-collecting addiction?"
Danheng shook his head. "...take it from me and just don't ask," he sighed, before pushing the door open to let Sunday out, "Let's head out."
"Sunday! Sunday! Can I call you 'Sunny'? I have a serious, burning question that I have to know!" The pink-haired girl sat cross-legged on the floor, staring up at Sunday with earnest eyes, "Ok, ok, so Danheng told me that you all Halovians have like this telepathy thing, right? Can you like, telepathically connect to Robin no matter how far she is? That'll be super cool! Like you two are always connected through time and space!"
Sunday's gaze grew sad, his wing-ears drooping slightly from his perch on one of March's beanbags. He understood March's sincerity, but... "Only if we are within line of sight of each other, really. I could transmit some basic emotions, but that's the extent of that power," he corrected gently, though his halo dimmed slightly, "I also think that it would be an invasion of her privacy if I could always be connected with her, and she would be exposed to secrets that would put her in peril if vice versa applied. It's...a nice sentiment though, Miss March."
"Ohh," March seemed almost disappointed, "I was gonna say that if you have telepathy, you could just totally tell her you're safe travelling with us, and she can go for her intergalactic tour without seeking you out! Won't that be nice? I'm sure she's super duper worried right now!"
For a moment, Sunday worried that he might've been too harsh. He still wasn't used to speaking freely with the other younger members of the Express, but before he could open his mouth to speak words of comfort, he watched March perk back up. "That's totally fine! You should do it the old-fashioned way, like what Mr. Yang always said he used to do back home - write a letter to her, package it up nice and good, and then we can drop it off at our next pit stop as fanmail!"
"Fanmail?" Sunday considered this, the glow of his halo returning quickly, "...I was hoping to deliver a gift to her, but combining both would make a lot of sense. We could drop it off, as you said, and it can just be labelled as from a long time fan of hers."
March giggled, punching Sunday on the shoulder. "You're soooo cheesy, you know? You could just sign it under an alias she'd know about! Like...'Sunny', or 'Workday', or iunno, 'big brother'...surely she'd figure it out no matter what!" she scoffed, "This isn't a Xianzhou soap opera scenario where you all are going to be separated forever. Don't act all melancholic about a gift - gifts are supposed to put a smile on the person's face!"
"Gifts are meant to put a smile on the person's face," Sunday repeated to himself, almost in a melodious hum before his lips turned upwards slightly as if confirming what he needed to do next, "I think I understand now, Miss March. Speaking with you is always so enlightening."
"Aww, shucks," March turned away before she began squeaking out her retorts, "I've never gotten compliments from Danheng or the Trailblazer before, and here you are spoiling me rotten! Don't flirt with me! I'll get flustered! You're way too nice for someone who tried to kill us and destroy your planet, shut up."
"I'm not...flirting?" Sunday's wing-ears tilted in confusion, "I'm paying you a sincere compliment, but...if you're uncomfortable, I'll be sure to note it down."
"Aeons, you're such a block of wood. You and Danheng hang out way too much," March had by then marched over to her desk, pulling out some beautiful blue-and-pink envelopes and a roll of colorful washi tape, "Here, now you can't say I'm not a good and supportive friend. You can use the washi tape to seal the envelope, and write as long a message as you want. They're gifts I got from Taikiyan last we stopped by, I couldn't bear to use them but this is for a good cause!"
Sunday fidgeted with the tape in his hands, his halo beginning to turn counterclockwise in bafflement. "I...I see. Of course I'll put it to good use," he managed, staring at the cutesy flower-and-rabbit designs on it (it...did seem like something Robin would enjoy, in truth), "Thank you again, Miss March."
"You should eat more," sighed Welt after Sunday excused himself from the dinner table, "Is the food on the Express not to your tastes? I'm sure you could talk to Pom-pom if you're feeling homesick."
"Oh, no, not in the least bit," Sunday waved his hands in front of himself, "Really, the sustenance in dreams often is more filling for the soul than physical body. I've gotten used to eating the bare minimum these days, just due to not really feeling hungry or thirsty anymore."
"I've seen you helping out Danheng at the archives. Loathe of me to nag you on what to do, but I'd hope you at least clear your plate in the future," Welt commented, gesturing towards the others jostling each other to toss the dishes into the automatic dishwasher, "Food is hard to come by. We could just adjust your servings down the line if you still feel this is enough for you, I'd just prefer not to waste it as much as possible."
Sunday reddened. How could he sympathise with the common folk if he was already committing the sin of wasting perfectly good food? "I could eat them as leftovers," he quickly suggested, feeling the need to correct his (self-perceived) mistake, "The bar has a few facilities that would allow me to heat the food up as necessary. Surely I could spread it out over a few meals."
"That's not quite what I meant," Welt scratched his head, baffled, "You needn't punish yourself with leftovers. I just brought it up because we were worried that you might not be used to what we usually eat on the road - there's only so much we can get from the IPC shopping ships that pass us by, though we did stock up on some of the Xianzhou's specialties if you'd prefer that."
"No, it's alright, I didn't think it was causing others this much trouble," Sunday seemed to feel himself growing ever tenser at this, "If there's leftovers, surely I can settle that and spread them out. You're very right - waste not, want not."
"Sunday," Welt's voice had taken a softer, more fatherly tone seeing the younger man grow so abruptly defensive, "Nobody is going to admonish you over this, and I don't think any of us are judging you. Maybe we can start by figuring out what type of foods you enjoy most, and tailor your meals from there? That way, you don't feel like you're forcing your food down, and we don't get this situation cropping back up again."
"I'm sorry," Sunday sagged at Welt calling his name that way, covering his face with his hand and wing-ears in mortification, "It's...reflexive. Years and years of having to act and be a certain way publicly - I'd been certain I was committing some sort of social faux pas in the Express when you spoke to me. Either way, I have to adjust to this new life now. Whether I like it or not, this is the best I'm likely getting. I'd hate to impose."
"When March first thawed out, she wasn't able to tolerate most foods. Pom-pom drew up a very specific nutrition plan for her to get into shape with all kinds of sweet shakes, and now you see the March you see now," Welt continued with a small smile, "You needn't apologise. You're one of us now, even if temporarily, and we want the best of you. Just let them know if you have any particular craving, and I'm sure they can figure something out next time a IPC ship comes our way."
"...I want a pudding tart. I haven't had them since I left Penacony," Sunday felt abruptly small and petulant, like the child who'd tried to fly with his wing-ears and nearly broken his halo in the fall, "Is there...might there be a chance that that can be delivered?"
"I do love a good pudding tart. I was just browsing some of the dessert menus Asta sent me earlier - there were a few coupons for cakes and tarts," piped up a second voice, and Himeko had stopped by with datapad in hand, "Good enough an excuse as any to have some treats. I'm sure the others will be thrilled to receive an actually fun delivery that isn't the same old provisions."
Sunday's shoulders hunched, staring down at his shoes while trying to shield his face with his wing-ears. This is so embarrassing, now everyone in the Express knows I have wants and needs. If there was an airlock on the Express, he suspected he would've immediately tried to defenestrate himself, but instead he was here, trapped in this awkward situation with these two respected Trailblazers.
"Speaking of tarts...there was something I wanted to show you, Sunday," Himeko nodded to Welt, before gently resting a hand on Sunday's side, "It came in earlier today, and after everyone claimed their packages, there happened to be this one left behind. I think I now know who it's probably for."
"That's impossible. Nobody would be sending a fugitive packages," Sunday blubbered, losing his composure at this, "You needn't comfort me, Miss Himeko. I did see everyone else receiving their packages. Even Miss Swan received one, though she didn't seem particularly happy about hers. You don't have to pretend there was a parcel left over solely for me."
Himeko chuckled, leading Sunday to the next carriage. "I don't know about you, but nobody on the Express would order giantmoa pudding tarts. Those are not only obscenely expensive, but also not on the delivery list for the IPC shipping routes, so I doubt that despite March's foodie tendencies, she would be able to manifest that type of miracle," she corrected, showing Sunday the cake box that sat on one of the tables, "Go on. Open it."
He sat dutifully, his shaking hands unwrapping the small box of tarts that came out of it. By then, tears had began blurring his vision as he held the box to himself, unable to contain himself any further.
She knew. She definitely knew.