#avaere: sunday

[immobiliter]

@avaere sent a meme: " there's such a thing as right and wrong. anyone can figure out the difference if they're willing to think for themselves. " oh this from sunday to topaz though, that could be quite interesting

       She'd developed quite the fondness for their talks over recent weeks. Their respective positions and schedules meant that meeting in person often took slightly more effort on their parts to arrange, but in reality all that did was make those times that they could converse in person all the more valued. Texting was no substitute for company, as Topaz was rapidly discovering: so much could be lost in translation through the printed word, and it definitely made a difference to hear Sunday's thoughts, always considered and kind and non-judgemental, with her own ears.

       Whether they were talking about the merits of kindness, or Numby's favourite trotter snacks, or she was listening with such keen interest as he spoke more generally of the halovian race, they never seemed to tire of things to talk about.

       Today was no different; Topaz could not recall how exactly they had landed on the current topic of conversation, but something in Sunday's words had once again given her plenty to mull over, brows slowly drawing together, chin resting on the back of her hand. “ If they're willing to. ” That seemed to be the deciding factor in the conscious choices that people made. It was one thing to understand right from wrong, and quite another to choose to do that right thing. Though Topaz swiftly realised how her response must have sounded. “ I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound so cynical. ”

       Had the IPC really made such a cynic of her? Of course, she still believed that the right thing was an important thing to pursue, and she firmly believed that the reputation the IPC had garnered over many, many Amber Eras didn't paint a picture of the full truth. There was a lot of good that the corporation still did, a lot of value in pursuing Qlipoth's vision for preservation. But, she still came up against the worst of natures more often than she'd like. She still had to justify herself to her own people, and bear the consequences of wanting to make a difference.

       There was a long pause as she let his words sit. One question repeatedly rose above any others, to the point where she could no longer deny her curiosity.

       “ How much importance do you place on the concept of freedom, Mr. Sunday? ”

       It might have been a silly question. But, as a halovian who had all but reached for his own freedom, away from the consequences of Penacony or the IPC's own leash, who better to answer a question that, in many ways, had plagued Topaz for months now?

       “ It's always felt a little abstract to me, but — and I probably shouldn't be telling you this, ” She sternly reminded herself that she probably shouldn't have been continuing her association with him in general, so, really, this didn't matter. Her hands gently, almost nervously, grasped each other on the table. “ but I recently conducted business on a planet called Jarilo-VI. It's a world that was frozen solid for centuries and, thanks to the crew of the Astral Express, was only recently reintroduced to the wider galactic community. The planet owed longstanding debts to the IPC and I was tasked with recovering them. But, rather than seem like a heartless debt-collector, I proposed instead that the IPC take control of the planet and begin ecological reconstruction in order to reverse its ill fortune. ”

       She exhaled gently, knowing that this was quite the story to share. “ I've personally overseen this same process transform other worlds into habitable paradises during my time in the corporation, and I thought that the people of Belobog, the planet's last remaining city, would leap at this opportunity to restore their home for future generations. ” The ghost of a smile quirked at the corner of her lips, though it was strained. “ Instead, they fought me at every turn. Convinced me that their freedom to forge their own path was more valuable than any resources and caveats that the IPC would offer in turn. ” Her brow still furrowed even as she explained it, and even as their resistance to her made perfect sense. “ I knew it was the right thing to do, but... I guess it took me by surprise and I'm still not completely sure why. ”

[deadn30n]

❛ this room... there's something wrong with it. i think we should leave. ❜ yeah and it's lbh that's probably the Wrong but anyway have one from Sunday

                  “  oh?  ”   Luo  Binghe,  who'd  been  just  about  to  take  another  step  forward,  found  himself  stopping.  his  attention  now  drawn  in  by  Sunday's  statement,  he  cants  his  head  to  one  side  and  alights  his  crimson  gaze  upon  him.   “  really?  what  makes  you  say  that?  ”   to  Luo  Binghe,  there's  nothing  remarkable  about  the  place  they're  in  right  now   –   if  there  was,  he  undoubtedly  would've  sensed  it  either  through  his  spiritual  qi,  or  his  demonic  qi,  whichever  one  picked  up  on  it  first.  but  after  loitering  in  the  room  for  an  extended  period  of  time,  nothing  really  stuck  out  to  him,  so  he'd  instead  deigned  to  focus  on  the  task  at  hand.  the  two  of  them  were  supposed  to  be  investigating  a  lead  into  a  potential  stellaron  lurking  on  this  particular  planet,  but  had  thus  far  come  up  almost  completely  empty  handed.  normally,  Luo  Binghe  might  turn  up  a  little  frustrated  at  this,  but  he  was  in  an  exceptionally  good  mood  because  it  was  Sunday  he  was  assigned  this  task  with.  and  he  didn't  make  it  a  habit  to  hide  how  much  he  enjoyed  being  around  the  halovian.  if  anything,  he  was  almost  somewhat  obnoxious  about  it  to  some  degree.

                  he  rounds  completely  on  Sunday  and  draws  nearer  to  him.  things  might  appear  ordinary  to  Luo  Binghe,  but  there's  also  a  number  of  outside  factors  he  has  to  consider  might  make  Sunday  feel  otherwise.  it  being  night  time  for  one   –   the  eerie  silence,  for  another.  the  silence  was  something  they  endured  even  in  the  day  time  though,  as  this  planet  was  completely  dead,  it's  inhabitants  having  long  since  become  nothing  more  than  a  memory  of  the  past.  what  Sunday  might  not  have  been  informed  of  was  the  culprit  of  that  fate  was  standing  right  there  in  front  of  him,  looming  like  an  overgrown  beast  and  veiled  in  a  half-shadow  cast  by  the  moonlight.  this  world  was  dead  because  Luo  Binghe  had  been  the  one  to  kill  it  naught  more  than  three  years  ago  in  a  fit  of  mania.  it's  where  he'd  originally  turned  up  when  he  was  forcibly  transmigrated.  thanks  a  mixture  of  shock  and  disbelief,  Xin  Mo  was  able  to  capture  his  mind  just  long  enough  to  have  him  exterminate  all  the  living  beings  here  before  he'd  dragged  himself  back  into  reality.  and  this  room  in  particular  had  witnessed  the  deaths  of  this  world's  ruling  family.  so  what  Sunday  might  be  feeling  is  the  residual  madness  left  behind  by  Luo  Binghe's  assault.

                  “  i  don't  feel  anything  strange,  but  if  you  think  we  should  leave,  we  can  go  to  the  next  one.  there  might  be  clues  in  it.  ”     that  he  could  speak  so  casually  in  the  wake  of  his  own  violent  impulses  would  send  a  shiver  down  any  ordinary  person's  spine.  Luo  Binghe  finds  himself  wondering  how  Sunday  would  react  if  he  knew  the  truth  about  this  place.  would  he  be  terrified  of  him?  or  would  he  continue  treating  him  the  same  way  he'd  always  been.  he's  almost  half-tempted  to  divulge  the  information  for  the  sake  of  curiosity,  but  holds  back  and  instead  simply  places  a  hand  on  Sunday's  shoulder.   “  don't  worry.  ”   his  voice  drips  in  a  bone-chilling  concoction  of  sugary-sweet  and  poisonous  as  he  smiles.   “  if  you're  afraid,  i  won't  let  anything  hurt  you.  you're  safe  with  me.  ”   what  irony  there  is  to  be  seen  in  that  statement.   “  you  could  even  hold  my  hand,  if  that'll  make  you  feel  better,  little  bird?  ”   said  hand  rises  from  shoulder  to  palm  a  cheek  as  fingertips  briefly  brush  over  the  silken  feathers  of  one  tiny  wing.  a  glint  of  something  almost  maliciously  possessive  flashes  briefly  across  his  eyes,  but  becomes  overshadowed  by  the  warmth  he  forcibly  pushes  into  his  expression.   “  do  you  trust  me,  Sunday?  ”

[intcritus]

it's not rare for sunday to indulge in march's company, but to find himself seated next to her in a reading session is something he'll have to admit he finds quite... enjoyable. there's something about seeing her look through her magazines that has him smiling, a shared set of earbuds between the two carrying hymns of songs she had been quite insisting on showing to him. some remind him of robin's music. the typical popular brand that so many artists seek out for an odd chance of fame, yet so many fail at grasping the same way as robin does.

of course, sunday might be a little biased in that department, almost as equally biased there he book before him soon remains neglected, a wandering hand reaching over to the company next to him so fingers can direct pink locks behind march's ear. it's a gentle touching, nothing too sudden. a simple adjustment of that soft hair he has grown so fond of. not too long, not too short. just the sight length to capture march's brilliance, the very same that slowly lures the halovian over in midst of a slower song. he closes the distance between them, perhaps a little clumsily there they sit in one of the many couches throughout the express, with cold lips pressing ever so gently against soft, warm cheek.

hesitant at best, it takes sunday a small moment to lean properly into a kiss of said cheek. he doesn't wish to disturb her for too long, settling for one quick graze of this warm surface before returning to his book. hand follows, falling gently from her hair to the edge of the book he's been attempting read.

"it's a," he attempts in a small hitch of his throat, clearing his throat gently. "nice song. the one you wanted me to listen to." was this even the right time to have offered her a kiss? maybe, maybe not. "does the artist have more songs like this, or ... is it the only one?"

When Sunday caves to March’s whims, the princess can admit she feels a sense of victory. Not because he’s indulging her, but because she’s able to break him out of his shell a little. But it’s more than that. Every little moment she gets with him is like a layer of the tasty cake being assembled. She gets to see the layers of who he is. How sweet he can be, how caring and most of all, the little, genuine smiles he reserves just for her. When she can lay in his arms when the night is too quiet, when she can drag him along while shopping and tease him. She adores the way he calls her name when scandalized but also when he gains that softness to his voice when hesitating to approach her.

All of it is an accumulation of who Sunday is becoming to her, but the princess will admit, she’s a little selfish, wanting to keep these moments to herself, to immortalize it in pictures and memories that she’s experienced and can replay later with squealing into her pillows.

   Humming along with the melody coming out of the headphone, she flips through her magazine, ear marking all the things she will possibly purchase in the future, but also the latest gossip. March will admit, juicy gossip is her bread and butter and oh, she is ravenous to see what’s been going on since she last checked in. It’s even better with Sunday by her side, doing his own reading as they share music. He has a penchant for not telling her no when she asks, so if he didn’t like the music choice, he didn’t speak but she knows she would’ve caught it on his face. Maybe. He’s been pretty expressive lately.

Foot taps against floor, the shifting of her hair behind her hair hasMarch casting a quick look at the halovian with an amused quirk of her brow but otherwise she gets back to her reading. Truly, the simplest things he did made her want to squeeze him. He was simply so freaking cute. 

It's there, when she’s in the miss of something eye-catching that he’s suddenly in her space, cool lips brushing against her cheek. It’s clumsy, and sudden, the feeling of his lips lingering even after he’s pulled away, going back to the book he’d yet to pay attention to. For a moment, she’s frozen, pink scouring across her cheeks. Did he just give her a kiss? On her cheek ?

Ah.

Internally, March was screaming because how cute could he be ? LAshes dipped over her gaze, heart in her throat as lips twitched into a grin. ❝ ━ Is another song gonna make you kiss me again ? ❞ She teases, turning to look at him, eyes sparkling. But she’ll let him off the hook this time, reaching her hand over to cover his, thumb brushing over his knuckles, ❝ ━ They have so many good songs, I started us off slow because I knew you’d like a few. The more upbeat ones are super good too.❞ 

A simple affection he’s gifted her impulsively but March is going to quietly cherish it. And yet, it simply emboldens her to scoot closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder, ❝ ━ Can you read to me ? Don’t know what you’re reading but I’m sure it’s just as interesting as my magazine.❞ Okay fine, she wasn’t done teasing him. But he deserved it a little because he’d yet to move on from the front cover, so it’s only right. ❝ ━ Bet you were so focused on me that you didn’t even start your book, huh ? I’ll read it to you if ya want, I’m a good storyteller.❞

when her precious halovian is bold. | @avaere

[astrxlfinale]

Be strong, Sunday.

The path may be currently laid with uncertainties, yet, a Trailblazing hand will allow you to see the prominence of each and every feather.

Every drop of festive wonder through good drink will be a new form of Trailblaze. Slowly!

"I know the perfect type of armament to wield for such a task. Behold!"

"Luxury will be in your hands!"

@avaere

[resolutepath]

“ i’m not here to talk about me. what the is going on with you? ” oh this called to me from sunday to elio for some reason

There is a hiss between teeth as sound filters into the space it occupies, vessel uncomfortable as the one known as Elio attempts to sit up straight, managing a reclined slouch that likes neither as refined nor composed as his usual posture. Fingers curl into the rich fabric of the couch, pressing deeply until it crinkles beneath digits, knuckles whitening with the efforts. It is a concentrated effort to peel them away once the most upright position is obtained, and Elio swipes one through loose locks, attempting to bring the disarray into some form of order, ignoring the thump behind the eyes, the sharp agony that is only hindered by shaded lenses. Upon his tongue is a query as to Sunday's intentions and yet before he can make it amusingly, the other has charted the course of the conversation in an adept and succinct manner, cutting off any chance of distraction being an option.

"A minor inconvenience... it will pass soon enough..." It hardly covers the extent of the affliction, merely the fact that it will pass, but it is one of the more closely guarded facets of the abilities he holds. Yet, still he is so keenly aware of the halovian seeking place within the Stellaron Hunters, in finding purpose and meaning in the operation that is run and to dismiss the concerns now might destabilise what has already been forged.

So Elio raises a trembling hand and offers Sunday the seat at his side, waiting until he makes himself comfortable, before fingers curl atop the blanket that shrouds his frame in piles of fleece and comfort, leaving a more vulnerable image of the figure that has been otherwise untouchable in the way he has presented until now. For a moment there is silence, this one born of an agitated calm, permeated by the unanswered questions about his state, the change within his demeanour.

"We all have our trials we must face... I am not an exemption... though this information is that which I do not distribute so readily..." A pause, given the emphasis the stretch of trust held out in this space, the welcoming into a smaller group within their team, the gifting of a knowledge not easily shared. It is less abrasive than dismissing Sunday entirely, but the tone used is one that emplores for pity to be left at the door, to accept that this is but a fact of existence. It is not something that Elio wishes to be coddled over but rather supported through, for it is the penance of knowledge, another part of the curse of knowing too much. When one is gifted the abilities of an aeon but still contains the fragility of a man, there are consequences that cannot be ignored.

"When a muscle is overused... it aches and must be rested, Destiny's gaze... is no different. It has great advantages... but they come with consequence..." There is a pause as Elio's head throbs and the room spins, and he raises his palm to press against his the centre of his forehead as though it might ease the ache. It won't. The only relief he finds is in laying down and allowing time to pass while he remains prone, hoping there is not too much time lost. "And I am afraid that... I have overtaxed myself once again..."

A shuddered breath passes over lips and for once Elio seems the closes to human that he has been, vessel shuddering, lips pressed in a thin line, fingers curling. He wants to move, to rise, to fight but he has not the capacity for it. Sitting upright is battle enough and one he will not win long term. "You know as well as I do the weight of consequence, Sunday. In time this will pass... until then I must... endure." He pauses, giving in to the need to sink, head turning so he might keep his gaze affixed upon the other and though he is wrought with pain he still smiles, allows lips to curl upwards. He is glad for the company, though he may not be of much use for some time.

"You need not linger... I have born this far longer than you know. But if you wish to stay, I will be grateful for your company..." In this there will be no direction offered, only choice as a shaky breath passes lips, and Elio lets lids shut for a moment, mentally preparing himself for the day ahead. It will pass, and though it will be a struggle to endure, it will be worth it for those he considers his own, for the universe he desires to save.

@avaere

[inominati]

@avaere sent: “Shame about your sister,” Gallagher comments, allowing himself to pause near the family head in what seems to be another hectic day within Penacony’s everlasting night. Hands shuffle inside pockets, gaze following the shifting skies (?) above them. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think hope’s worth letting go of just yet. ” 

It’s a little too cryptic, certainly, but a smile follows either way as the hound shrugs to himself. “What you should let go of is the fuzz of Penacony, even if just for one evening. Can’t imagine it being anything but bothersome having to play the part of the family head all the time,” and while it’s not his place to utter such opinions or thoughts, Gallagher doesn’t quite see the harm in it. If overheard, or asked, he’d play it off as simple concern. Who wouldn’t hold some in them? Everyone knew of the family, their role in keeping Penacony … busy, just as well as most knew the power they held. Such responsibilities, in the ears of someone like him, could only mean bothersome. Tiring. 

Maybe even a little … overwhelming. 

“There’s a new club on the corner of the golden hour, Mister Sunday,” Gallagher chimes in, turning on his heel to face the other better. A friendly smile is offered alongside gentle orange. “So new that, in fact, there’d hardly be anyone there if you need a moment and a drink. I could escort you, if you’d like to. That way you wouldn’t have to fret about bothersome fans or stans, whatever people call’em these days.” 

I set this in a setting prior to the showdown of the festival as well as Gallagher’s “impaling” of Sunday! Hope it works!

Every single word coming from the Bloodhound officer is like a verbal slap in Sunday's face. He's not usually riled up this easily but Gallagher has caught him in a bad moment, a bad day - a bad week, perhaps. He may as well have offered more sincere condolences for Robin's.. absence and Sunday would have found it just as unwelcome. It's not Gallagher either. It's time, running through Sunday's fingers like sand, the road ahead, that looked so clear a few months ago, now littered with obstacles and onlookers and unwanted guests. It's his failure to find and vanquish this harbinger of death that haunts THEIR beautiful dream, his failure to protect Robin, his failure to stay on top of things. Every word Gallagher says, whether it's offered with sincerity or mockery, is a mirror for his shortcomings.

"There is always hope," Sunday agrees regardless, his speech a little clipped despite his trying to come across as unfazed. His fingers dig into the palm of his hand before he forces them open again. "But it shouldn't be one's only foundation." His eyes find Gallagher's unreadable smile. Just why is he offering this glimmer of light, this optimistic view, while everyone else seems to cower in fear? Is it simply in his nature - an aspect Sunday knows next to nothing about, and even that which he knows is little more than hearsay - a lack of care, or does he know something that Sunday isn't privy to?

The suggestion that follows Gallagher's words of comfort, however, actually catches Sunday off guard (if only for a moment). His expression gains a hint of surprise, replacing some of the sternness it held a moment ago. Not only is it bold of Gallagher to voice his assumption about the Family Head's business so openly, it's also the first time anyone other than Robin has ever told Sunday so directly to take a break. For a moment it makes him worry that somehow his slipping grasp on things is showing, that his weaknesses are visible on his skin like stigmas for the world to see. But no; his appearance is impeccable, his plan is in order, his adversaries will be dealt with. This is simply a detour.

"It is an honor to lead the Family and ensure Penacony's functionality and prosperity," Sunday responds as he ought to, as he would even to his sister. "Surely you can relate to the pride it brings putting all necessary time and effort into one's duties, Mr. Gallagher?" It's laughable how much he wants to admit that Gallagher is right in this moment, that some days the pressure and size of the tasks he still needs to complete threaten to crush him. A single day off is a loss of hours he cannot truly afford when every force in Penacony - native or otherwise - is working against him, knowingly or unknowingly. He won't, of course, least of all to a man as enigmatic as Gallagher, who seems to lure him in with a strange familiarity and repel him with a sense of wrongness that he cannot decipher at the same time whenever their paths cross.

And yet, as absurd as it is, he finds himself nodding yes.

"I should head back soon, but.." Sunday starts, his eyes briefly dropping to the magenta atrocity around the barkeeper's neck. While otherwise a beautiful item of clothing, it is unshapely and mismatched in its current state; uneven, loose and tucked into his shirt in a way that Sunday hopes has a functional meaning for one with a job such as his. The urge to, at the very least, address this deficiency must be written all over his face when he looks back up. "I will take you up on this offer. I haven't seen the new establishment for myself. This is a good opportunity to see if it will be an enrichment for our guests." At the mention of fans, Sunday's lips spread in a small smile. "I'm not the famous one in my family - but the privacy is not unwelcome."

He isn't in the mood to drink or idle away his evening, but something about this encounter seems foolish to pass up on. Most of the Bloodhound guards are no concern to Sunday, but Gallagher is a unknown variable on various levels. This could be a change to find out more about him, for once not filtered through other people's impressions - to find out whether there even is more to know about him in the first place. At the very least he might also find out something about their current predicament through him; a controversial perspective is always interesting, even if all it does is sharpen your faith in your own approach and confirms what you've established by your own views.

"Lead the way, Mr. Gallagher."

[daybreakrising]

@avaere: For someone whose name and reputation held endless names to what some deemed great tragedy (yet some saw as a potential sanctuary for broken hearts and fragmented minds), one would find the halovian's features torn and pale at the sound and sight of having witnessed him in battle. With himself remaining on the distance, Sunday had taken in the way Blade would swing his weapon, square off with the foes that had come to stand against him in the path of inevitable wrongs ; they would find themselves unscathed in this encounter , and yet there had been no specifics. Vague enough to leave Sunday with questions , he had tagged along with the other , following closely until the ambush ...

... and the fall of bodies that find themselves dissipating.

Unwell to his core he'd attempt to swallow the disbelief upon releasing the confiscated weapons he had grabbed a hold of, thorns unraveling and returning to their summoner's grasp there he'd make way to the other. There'd be no direct approach from Sunday, a hand half-raised as if planning to reach out yet retracting itself hesitantly. He had no idea what to do with wounds, not with the heavy gaze that so often was found coating the swordman's eyes. Yellow would simply settle for a mere minute, traveling up and down, attempting to scale what the possibly injuries were ... as if he had any knowledge of such. He knew if something bled or if something was cut, he could tell torn clothes from whole and ... that was as useful as he'd be, a single sheet of paper attempting to wipe up a river.

"You ... " he'd eventually speak, hand falling down to his side with a trembling exhale ( there might have been a faint , false laugh concealed beneath it ); " ... have quite the approach to combat, Blade. I cannot say I have seen anyone fight quite like that before, if at all ... "

But more than that, there seemed to be an eerie connection found in the halovian's own bones, a feeling deep enough for the following words to fall so naturally; " ... you aren't scared of death, I presume?"

This newest members amongst their ranks stirs no strong feelings within the swordsman, beyond that, perhaps, of some idle curiosity. Already, he extends a little of the camaraderie he shares with the other Hunters, if only because the Halovian is as much one of them as he is, regardless of time spent beneath Elio's guiding hand. He does not question, does not challenge: if Elio has chosen him, then he is one of them.

He approaches their task without concern - he does not question, but he does observe, and he knows this man to be of competent skill and keen mind. Even if Sunday does not directly help him, he certainly won't hinder him, either. It is a bold move, he thinks, for Elio to throw the Halovian into fighting alongside him for the first time without Kafka there as insurance, but he supposes the risks are low enough, even if never zero. If anything, today will serve as a lesson to be learned about the people he has allied himself with.

And a lesson it is.

He rolls his neck with a barely audible groan, feels bones crack and crunch. The ripe stench of blood hangs in the air, the metallic tang upon his tongue a familiar taste. The oozing pools scattered about him paint a picture of death - some of it is his own, but most of it is not. The intimidating blade in his hand is swung, twirled, tucked up at his back in a habitual stance, as he turns to lay that heavy gaze upon his companion.

Perhaps it is the adrenaline of combat, perhaps it is the absurdity of the question posed to him, but the words summon a near-feral grin to the swordsman's lips and something akin to amusement alights in crimson eyes. Of course, Sunday does not know him, certainly not well enough to understand why such an innocent question would prompt such humour, why it is so absurd to pose it to him in the first place. To laugh would be cruel, and unfair - and he has never been either of those things without reason to be.

"No," he steps away from the carnage, noticing how the Halovian's eyes skim quickly over his form. He is used to this studious kind of gaze, even when it comes from behind metal plates - checking his injuries, calculating if he needs immediate aid. "I welcome it."

He stands before him - torn and bloodied, yes, but already the more minor injuries are starting to heal, his flesh knitting itself back together little by little. He can feel the itch as the curse that shackles him to this earth works its way through his body, chasing from him that which he desires most.

A superficial cut upon his cheek is already fading. The rest will take longer to fully heal, but he will walk away from this conflict as though nothing at all had happened. The Hunters share at least one commonality amongst them: they are all here for a reason, some purpose that they seek, an ending that Elio has promised them. He may not know what reason the Halovian has for joining them, but Sunday now knows his.

"And what of you, Sunday?" His head tilts, eyes now studying him with interest. "Is death something you fear, or something you welcome?"

[immobiliter]

For while the incident with the gluttonous trotter should have left an eerie impression on the halovian, he could honestly admit that if anything he found himself intrigued. Throughout his time as family head, bronze melodia and student, he couldn't quite remember the last time a creature of any kind had decided that his attire would be fitting as a toy, snack or resting place for teeth. If any creature, the closest thing he'd come to a somewhat conclusion would've been his sister as a child, but instead of teeth it had been fingers tugging at him in rather serious debates (arguments in who was first). So where most would've shied away, Sunday simply remained.

"Tell me," he'd notion across the shared table, the offer of a meal taken up on, a hand resting against the surface as he'd point shortly in Numby's direction. There'd be a gentle smile on the halovian's features, gaze raising to meet with Topaz's. "He is quite the curious trotter; how did you two meet, by chance ? I was always under the impression that trotters were wild and rather tricky creatures, hard to tame and harder to capture. At least the ones who appeared in the dreamscape as well as the hotel, to many people's frustrations, were. Numby seems... different."

It would be bad manners to not inquire about the odd little creature who had gotten the two of them into this situation. The least Sunday could do (other than attempt to pay the bill later), was to try to get to know Numby and of course...

"Is it simply one of the many talents of the ever so cunning and kind Topaz of the IPC?" he'd chime in with a smile, slightly wider than the one at first. "I do say cunning as a compliment, you do seem to have a rather... different nature than some of your coworkers that I had to deal with in Penacony, which again, is an honest compliment. Surely, someone of bad nature wouldn't be capable of befriending a trotter. They are, after all, quite skittish."

       Topaz would certainly have some explaining to do if anyone at the IPC were to discover that she was sat in a café with a known Stellaron Hunter — but a debt was a debt, and she owed Mr Sunday for the inconvenience that her beloved trotter had caused him. So here they were, left to pass the time amongst themselves until their ordered food arrived. She'd briefly wondered if this would prove quite the awkward conversation: after all, what did an IPC executive and a fugitive on their wanted list really have to talk about? But, not for the first time, Topaz met those inexplicably kind eyes of his, and listened to him ask about Numby with genuine interest and curiosity, and wondered just how someone so congenial had ended up being cast as the villain of Penacony.

       “ Numby was skittish when we first met, believe it or not. ” Topaz chuckled a little under her breath, knowing full well that few would believe that now. Hearing their name, her trotter jumped up from the floor into her lap, squeezing themselves between her and the table. “ I don't know if it's necessarily a talent of mine, but they were afraid and malnourished, and I managed to get close enough to offer them food. But now they eat like a big, fat piggy who can't share, don't you? ” She stroked their chin with a warm, fond smile on her face, before letting Numby jump back down to the floor and the food they were also waiting on. “ I think trusting me has helped them become less... wary of other people. ”

       Sunday was not the first to question the unusually close bond between human and warp trotter, and he definitely wouldn't be the last. But, for Topaz, a life not travelling the cosmos alongside her trotter companion was a life entirely inconceivable to her. Many at the IPC had questioned it, but their combined strengths had quickly proven any naysayers wrong. “ A different nature to Aventurine. It's OK. You can say it. ” Her smile was knowing, wry, intended to dispel any hesitation he might have had in critiquing her partner on the Penacony project. Upon returning from the Dreamscape, Aventurine had given her his own account of his meeting with the Oak Family head, but Topaz knew how her colleague operated. For all that Sunday might have made things difficult for him, for all that Penacony might have nearly cost him everything, Aventurine had no doubt been infuriating and obstinate in return. But to not be tarred with that same brush on account of being a member of the Stonehearts was... definitely flattering, if unexpected. “ I take pride in the work that I do, Mr. Sunday. A big part of that is being able to look back on it and know that I've adhered to my set of principles. ”

       A pause, before Topaz continued. “ I will say, though, that my coworker and others did... mislead me as to your own nature. ” Villain of Penacony. She had so many questions — though surely it would be impertinent of her to ask them all now, even if this would end up being her only opportunity. Chance meetings in the cosmos were exactly that: entirely up to chance. “ You're... surprisingly easy to talk to. ”

[lunaetis]

@avaere asked :

" i am not here for the festivities , " there'd be a faint smile placed upon the halovian's lips , hands on his back as presence had been requested in relevance to a small event hosted in the family's name. music , food , soulglad - a few words of encouragement from he who held the title of family head. leave it to sunday to attempt to fall back from the festivities as soon as words had been delivered , questions regarding robin avoided with distractions such as free samples of something akin to soulglad. an attempt that , despite all odds , seemed to ( sadly ) have gained the attention of another guest. smile and nod , remain in role. " as the family head i have other matters to tend to , the song and dance are reserved for those that have sought the pleasures of their dream , is there something you wish to ask me , guest ? " for yinyue , as requested !

inbox call. || always accepting

─「银月」─  from the very first time she had laid her eyes on the other, there was something that tugged at her mind. a kind of wave that the rover, despite various worlds she had visited prior to finding himself here purely by CHANCE, had never heard nor felt before. like an alarm blaring yet muted at the end of her mind. a sort of vibration you felt when you got close to a being whose able to exert control beyond eyes could see. and yinyue remembered uttering the words out loud, for the other to hear.

                how his presence alerted an instinct to be cautious and careful around. ( that she did not trust him, the same way he did not trust her. both having good reasons not to. )

                she had been observing him from the sideline, not close enough to garner attention but enough for her to hear bits and pieces of his words. the FIRST TIME they met, he regarded her no different than how he would to any other guests, and that polite demeanor was still in full effect even within the DREAM. how peculiar. she noted. his pattern of speech was consistent, flawless. practiced, perhaps ? yet ...

                while the first time they met, he referred to his dear sister to show her around so willingly, she noted the way he smoothly deflected any inquiries regarding her this time around. what happened, she wondered, for him to purposely avoided the topic when he once mentioned her so proudly before.

                even so, his WAVE and aura barely changed when he did. it wasn't ... a lie. was he someone who had such precise control of himself ( his presence, his wave, his power, everything ) that even the vessel of sound could not detect it ? or ... was there SOMETHING of higher power that prevented such a thing. the very same thing she felt the moment she got close enough to him. and a chilling frequency echoing at the back of her mind. dangerous, dangerous, do not get close. so when she approached him, it was only as he was about to leave.

                " my apologies, mister sunday. i do not wish to keep you from your duties. " family head. during her time within the dreamscape, she heard the word the family more than enough times to understand their significance. the seemingly MERRY dream, the laughter and celebration as people went about their ways enjoying themselves. then why was it that she felt unnerved by everything ? it was a dream, it wasn't real. fabrication, pleasures, an escape ...

                " i simply wish to express my gratitude to your sister. miss robin helped me find my way around the dreamscape. " her LIGHT illuminated the room, casting a contrast to how her brother was in his own wave. her absence from his side felt almost jarring, now more than ever. yinyue had her aureate orbs locked to the family head, though her words held no ill-will nor an ounce of lie. carefully, she produced a hairpin, the silver accessory was crafted in the shape of a star prism. she held it towards him, though half expecting him to reject it.

                " i understand that she must be extremely busy with the charmony festival around the corner. would you kindly pass this to her when you see her next ? "

[deadn30n]

starter call ➜ @avaere ( sunday ) 🌿

                  approaching  Sunday  was  easier  than  Luo  Binghe  anticipated:  hands  clasped  behind  his  back   &&   an  easy-going  smile  that  veiled  the  dark  intentions  beneath  his  pretty  exterior.  this  demon-lord-made-stellaron  hunter  couldn't  resist  coming  closer,  not  especially  when  he,  at  first,  had  mistaken  Sunday  for  a  demon  from  afar.  yet  as  he  better  registered  his  surroundings,  he  realized  that  no  demons  in  the  demon  realm  he'd  previously  lorded  over  looked  anything  like  Sunday.  it  left  him  wondering  then  what  the  other  might  be   –   and  these  thoughts  coalesced  into  the  effort  he  dredged  up  to  make  his  presence  known.  whether  Sunday  was  aware  Luo  Binghe  was  a  stellaron  hunter  or  not  was  still  left  up  to  debate,  but  he'd  get  his  answer  soon  enough  as  he  let  the  words  drawl  from  his  throat,  sickly  sweet  and  feigned  innocence.   “  excuse  me,  you  wouldn't  happen  to  be  busy  right  now..  would  you?  ”

[intcritus]

"i am fundamentally incapable of showing off." if this isn't sunday to march

   March truly believed him when he said it so earnestly like that. But there’s something about the moving way he could conjure music, to have it at his fingertips to show her, and oh, how it moved her. She’d never thought that a harmonica could be so beautiful. Had no idea that his expertise in playing would move her to tears. It feels like being surrounded by clouds, not free falling, but settled among the fluff, the music weaving around her entirety and ascending her into another plane entirely. It is absolutely gorgeous.

She could never hope to be as talented and March wonders if he could give her tips so that she may return the favor one day. Perhaps not in the form of the harmonica, but something a little less complicated. PErhaps he could play and she would dance for him ! She was so good at dancing, though, if she were to be honest, March would rather he dance along with her, if only to have him close and see the quiet joy on his face. ❝ ━ Never accused you of that, I think you’re simply good at this particular talent. Did you learn more than one ? ❞ She drops down beside him, hand settling atop his own, thumb stroking over his palm. ❝ ━ Next time you play, I’ll dance for you ! I feel like you’re always spoiling me, I have to return the favor somehow. ❞

Her cheek settles on his bicep, bright, warm eyes gazing at him. How could he say no to her, right ? ❝ ━ Thank you for indulging me, it really was beautiful. I think I teared up a little… ❞ Many things move her to tears but having this precious halovian play music just for her? Yeah, there was no denying that it was super special ! ❝ ━ Hey Sunday ? Can you teach me sometime ? I know our journey won’t be long and we’ll probably have crazy adventures but would you put aside some time for me?  ❞

when she wants to steal all his time. | @avaere

[astrxlfinale]

[txt - sunday] : Caelus , I require your insight on an exchange I happened to have in the presence of ... the female that holds a strong preference for digital games, for in the passing conversation she spoke of having 'BDE' ? [txt - sunday] : That does sound awfully serious, and while I have grown up with a younger sister who experienced all the typical cases of child related illnesses, I cannot say that BDE was ever something that she went through. The digital game woman did indicate that I, according her, did not have 'BDE' but I do not think she is a doctor. [txt - sunday] : Am I wrong to assume that this might be Your field? What, my all means, does BDE stand for and how would you know that you have it? [txt - sunday] : BTW , I learned that abbreviation today. 0:) It stands for 'by the way'. Robin never explained it to me, but I discovered the meaning all on my own. [txt - sunday] : I do believe I am getting good at this LINGO. 0:)

"Caelus..?" The voice of a trotting, responsible figure managed to capture quite the odd sight. One of the newest and promising Nameless practically slumping out of their seat!

Their voice sounds no better than some whining hyena, between the various breaths, wheezing and spontaneous cackles that caused the Conductor to quickly chalk this up to a Caelus thing.

For the said Trailblazer was losing his fucking mind at what he just heard. All forms of strength escaped from his limbs as he practically noodles upon the ground, clawing at the seat as means to retain some brand of sanity. "H.. HAHAAA.. No.. Noooooo goddamn way did he get into things that quick.."

Oh he knows the exact lady he's referring to. The mere thought of such a combination felt like an immediate leap into hard mode territory. This was the exciting kind of concern that Caelus had from the beginning with Sunday's journey! The world in many ways was relentless, and nonetheless, those proud wings were still ready to challenge themselves against any turbulence.

"Oh.. it's.. Heheheh.. Not a thing Pom-Pom! Just a pal of mine going balls deep with life here!"

Pom-Pom's face immediately scrunches up in abrupt distaste.

"Can you kindly NOT talking BALLS around the Conductor's presence! I've heard that the rails are under the scrutiny of enough metaphors. We don't need you making that worse!"

If only he was paying apt attention. Power sung through his veins as the urge to type to his friend overrode any other thought or conversation!

Txt: Pal. Let me tell you. Your rate of catching up in the phone sphere is pretty badass. Do you know there's still some old people who can't even catch up on that? Most just being too bullheaded though!

Txt: Which means I need to make a lil homework for ya too! Find more of those 'Shorthands' like you've done with BTW. Texting sometimes can eat up more time then you'd imagine, so gain that edge while the iron is hot.

Txt: Now for that main topic.. Good ol' BDE. Let's not get this confused with concepts like CBT! Rather than an action? BDE is a state of mind.

Txt: Have you ever seen the WORLD in all it's glories and malice? Have you ever burned a path so unchangeable in terms of yourself? That no form of power, person or location could go and change your gallant charge? This is only a taste of what BDE is composed of, gotta say, you sure as hell know the right end to hop too about this!

Txt: So it wouldn't be a sickness. In fact, you could say Robin has long since carried a LOT of BDE! Bravery is also a very to the core concept involving that.

Txt: And as it stands? Don't go n' let ol' Wolfy's words try digging too deep. With that kinda gaming lingo, you can consider it a challenge, and how you sure as hell have the makings.

Txt: Life isn't exciting without some Big Dick Energy after all!

@avaere

[zorkaya-moved]

❛ missed my touch that much, did you? ❜ from kaveh :')

@avaere

No one would believe that the infamous Zarina Sokolova can be rendered to such state. Needy, pouting, wanting, affectionate and loving. And it's impossible to deny the architect. It's impossible to deny how much she missed him and how much she loved when he touched her. Kaveh has her wrapped around his finger and it's something she'll never let anyone else have over her, but with the man whose eyes shine with lustful affection and undeniable love in this very moment? She'll be anything and everything he'd ever want her to be: herself. Her heart swells at the sound of her name leaving his lips, especially after they've been apart for so, so long.

Zarina feels shivers running across her skin, ones so pleasant where he touches her. She cannot deny just how nice it feels when he hugs her from behind, his lips tracing kisses from her neck to her ear and then using his hand to angle her face so they can kiss normally. It feels wonderful when she can once again experience his warmth in real time, not imagining the way his chest would be pressed against her back and his tongue would explore her mouth.

As one hand still gently holds her face so she won't turn away, the other is led by her palm laying on top of his. She leads him to travel below her shirt, his calloused fingers tracing the kin of her toned stomach. Such warm hands, such a safe touch. Zarina moans sweetly into their kiss, her fingers find themselves in his golden hair, playing and lightly tugging.

It feels wonderful. He feels wonderful. His soft lips and the smell of his cologne. They envelope her and she wants to have him all to herself. For as long as she can. This love, this affection, this desire, this wish. Everything mixes together and when they break their kiss, looking into Kaveh's eyes is a moment of inner peace and delight. Oh, he's so right about what he said: she missed his touch.

"You have no idea," she purrs, wishing to whisper exactly how much she missed him. The evenings at her house where she'll wear his shirt he left behind while her hand would travel between her legs, imagining Kaveh being the one to please her. His name always leaves her in such a breathless melody that even now she wants to say it over and over again. He's here, he's home, he's back. Her elated happiness cannot be contained as her heart dances in her chest, cheeks flush from delight on her pale skin. "You have no idea how much I missed you."

[resolutepath]

" i had to admit , the wavering presence of a stowaway did not strike me as ... normal," he'd utter, halovian gaze cold in its approach to the guest he had taken in within his own dreamscape.

a little corner of the in between no one could touch, tamper with or claim to themselves. a little piece of sunday, untouched in its grandiose walls and hollow halls, an innermost sanctuary reserved for those that caught his interest and those he'd, potentially, find himself in need to sela off; " ... but of course , when presented with the mastermind behind the story spun around the stowaway and that ... charming mechanic of hers , i can see why it would be difficult for even my prying eyes to latch onto traces of ..."

smile grew subtly, crescent lips parting warmly; " destiny."

he had heard whispers of it all. stellaron hunters, those that sought power and acted in ways that would, more often than never, leave people and others scratching their heads. odd means of victory, sometimes even loss - all as if scripted by a master author, someone who held all the answers yet no clue how to put it all together.

" you are elio," sunday chimed in, almost excited, " not even i can replicate you in a dream ... how come i have the honor of facing you?"

Entering the dreamscape is a crude affair, though not one that is done without purpose, for to do so encourages the return to a life since gone to slither in past those uncomfortable barriers for one's vessel cannot enter in the same way a human might finally enter the dream. And no one wants the dreams of his sleeping self to permeate the scape, it would be terrible for any and all involved. To be within the halovian's personal dreamscape is perhaps something that borders on the verge of reckless, were it not for the script that gave the steps of what is to come.

He does not speak as the other raises voice and fills the space as though echoing a great soliloquy to the audience of one, but he does listen, head tipping with interest, lips a fine line. It is perhaps unsettling how stoic one can be, yet without any sense of disinterest or malice, instead perhaps fascination. Much akin to a watcher of a play, seeing the most intimate of performance, caught in rapture and yet not belonging to the scene.

"I am indeed." There is no need to deny the identity that has been spoken, and the form before the halovian wavers to replace bland eyes with those bearing small, circular lenses, just large enough and dark enough to cover the ever-present swirl of Destiny's gaze. A smile lingers at the corner of the mouth, head canting in interest at the idea of replication, wondering what poor soul might desire to see his curse born twice. The shackles already rattled so loudly without accompaniment.

"Fortune perhaps, a little circumstance..." Hands clasp behind back, and Elio wanders in the space, gaze shifting from the other to instead inspect it, looking upon the dreamscape itself as though insight into the individual before him, more telling than words and gesture alone. There's a certain confidence in the ease he moves, the bearing of one's back to another no gesture made without purpose, though whether it arrogance or surity is a matter left to interpretation.

"A place where paradise and pretence mingle so intimately is a place where the best path hinges on a dice roll... or perhaps the fall of a feather..." He has foreseen many futures, ones that do not give hope, others that try, and others yet still that offer possibility for change, and perhaps even those that might guarantee and altering of the balance of the scales should the landscape be traversed ever so carefully.

"Where else might one bear witness but here?" Elio's head tips back then, and settles that disquieting gaze upon Sunday directly, the lingering nature of it saying something more than he allows to fall from his lips, the omittance one that only time would give birth to. "I am but a viewer of Destiny in action, the witness of events that will be, a figure in the crowd standing by." Yet one who holds the script in hand, committing trust in the actors on stage to see events occur as they must of the best destiny, hoping quietly for the winds of change to favour society's lunatic with hope.

@avaere

[nvrcmplt]

Perhaps he had come to lose it fully now, the fragments of his mind that still grounded him to reality, the parts of him that still allowed him to take enjoyment in the silliest of flavors in the shape of funny cakes and fruits or perhaps the skeletons in his closet had made it out and found themselves walking freely within the hotel, within the endless sea of dreams.

Perhaps, Sunday, was simply mad.

Madness or false belief, he had come to search through one of many shelves of his room, rummaging through old documents and keepsakes brought to him over the years until he stumbled upon the silly little coin. One of many trinkets, but a unique one, a little sign for either to catch onto in their younger days and they'd find themselves incapable of meeting one another. Letters of silly details, stories and slander, written out in hasty cursive on Sunday's end, always ended with a little phrase and a small drawing of what was meant to imitate a silk moth. It wasn't the best of drawings, but it didn't matter. The contents had always been the best, and when they would see that coin vanish they'd know.

They would know.

So what could possibly have driven Sunday to revisit such childish shenanigans. Fear? Guilt? Longing? A mixture of both that would have him rewrite the little note ten, if not twenty, times. Folded pretty and kept in a small envelop as he had sought to reality, seeking out hallways and paths they had ran through in their younger days, hiding from prying eyes that would question their moves.

Was it so, had it truly been him? Only time could tell, and with a little bit of luck... maybe he'd find answer to his lunacy, the torn mind of a halovian whose hearts had reconciled with lost love in the sight of the back that had faded.

In a small corner where only their eyes would look, or had looked, there'd be a small envelop waiting by a silver coin. Within, beautiful cursive. Honed, practiced, refined by the hand of someone whose signature had become far more powerful over the years; I might have fallen into my madness by now, writing this note. But my eyes swore they saw you among the endless faces of others, swore that there was something familiar in how you walked away. This note does me no good, but... I wanted to see... If I have become as mad as I claim myself to be.

And there, at the end, a silk moth.

Headaches and nosebleeds were a common risk factor, it wasn't so much from his making or adjustments in his time of wanting to be useful for The Family - but when he dreamt those dreams. In the dancing golden streams through soft curtains, the haunting warm laughter of three children, the twirling of dress, cape and head dresses. The soft touches of hands linking at fingers and then the sudden plummeting of a cold, dark room. A throb behind his eyes as he widens them with regret - his companion cube, blinking its blinding light to reveal on one of its sides the messages pushed through.

Unknown Number? No… His Orders were given. As he felt the coldness of his training kicking in, he was up and out of his room after showering fast in cold water and dressing in his personalized uniform. Strapping his weapons to thighs and adjusting his jackets long fabric over each hilt, he took off. Patrolling the Hotel's floors, 5 - 15. A gruelling set of levels, but it was his domain when summoned. He didn't need to be debriefed, they never liked him there since they sent him everything they needed to say in the texts and emails prior to his resting hours. Food could wait, his boots heavy as he took to the long corridors and then - here. Bustling faces of families, friends and loved ones. Features feeling like nothing but blurs in the sea of many colours and wealth worn on their bodies.

It was always something here - be it a reputation he was meant to bow too. A smile to share with a flirtatious Shareholder, a person that had more money and wives they could count on their fingers. Cyan could never understand them really. Reputation was nothing but a disease to the skin, a vile expectation for nothing but strangulation. He was sure, that was what he's heard of Sunday's growth. Through whispers and awe of the Head of the Oak Family… Penacony thrived through Sunday, for Sunday --- and Cyan was no longer apart from that. He didn't know this Sunday - he only knew of the small child, the awkward teen, the panicked young adult.

Ventures in these halls bought back memories, of potted plants moved from one place to the next, he remembers more of them lining the walls rather than the balcony seating. The elevators once had candy machines for children nearby - the long halls used to have a jukebox for classic dancing for two… Ashtrays, balloons, data boards - everything and anything to be more interactive, to welcome their guests into the wonderful home of The Hotel and yet now, as he walked the length of level seven - his gait slowed. Staring upon a small opening, a thin corridor that used to house trolleys for suitcases and even storage for pictures to hang on the walls.

Now it was just a small space, a simple table and a singular plant atop. . . That was all it was. No longer a den for children to hide from parents or expectations, run away from curfew and eat cake slices conveniently left out for them to devour with no manners at a table. Innocence and freedom - a well known hideout for their parents but soon to be forgotten as ages grew. Youth took a lot from them but one thing that kept them going was that. Cyan didn't know what he felt any more these days but that… That - made his features shift with nothing holding it back. A lurch of his body pushed his frame into the tight fit. Just wide enough for his damn shoulders - just enough to allow him to bend, reaching out with gloved digits to snatch up the silver coin… A glistening rarity as the golden coins swarmed the planets' currency. A rare piece - pre-cartoon character, an etching long rubbed from years of wear.

The very lost trinket that made his heart bleed its last touch of hope.

And that letter, reached for with trembling digits now to swipe from the floor as if it was contraband and not something that made his lashes wet. This couldn't be, could it? As he inhaled, he moved back on numb limbs, pulling backwards more and more until he was free. Almost falling over himself really but -- "Battle Angel… Report." Duty… a rare sight of another on his floors but he couldn't let them take this. Not today. So, he held the letter tight, thanking his clothing to allow him to tuck the items away - the burning of the coin in his palm, the itch to return it to his icy neck, to press it close to his chest under his clothing where it should belong. Inhaling the desires, swallowing the hope - he returned to the present, turning with steel gaze and a lowered head.

"No disturbances. Continuing patrol." Of course, they weren't going to question it, they didn't have the balls even though they were happy to stare him down with no trust at all, but in his wake, Cyan heard them scoff and mutter curses at his shadow as he moved on with stronger strides. His heart beating faster - a messaging system he thought would no longer be possible. He bet it smelt faintly like ink, he bet it wasn't the first draft, he bets it was in that perfect ink pen and signed in the way that decorated his wall once. A traced etching of that silk moth. Something he was beaten out of in his bunk.

As time went, his impatience reverted to duty bound intensity. Every level was checked, moving with ease to look for older hiding spaces, expecting more, hunting more but finding nothing else. He held the sadness at bay and gave his report in time with his cube's alert system. Granted access to speak through his earpiece, to report his findings of two hidden boxes but of little significance, lost property bagged and written up on already as he stood in wait for his Boss' order. Being dismissed after three hours of standing around, the travel back to his room was never registered. His rifles were placed onto the table, his coat slung up onto the wall hook and his cube placed upon its charging port and offline… Silence and privacy.

The letter was ripped from his coat, the coin too returned to his palm as he sat upon his bed in its furthest corner - under a head lamp and holding the two items in his lap. Staring in some disbelief because what does this mean… His coin, he thought lost years ago, his last connection to Him. The man he fell for all that time ago and ignored since. He saw him once, only once, since being assigned here and now? Now this came to be? His heart hurt, remembering all the tales of Sunday's madness, greed and more for this place. Robin was nothing more than a scapegoat, a pawn of his plans. Cyan too, a test of his abilities and manipulations and lies.

The coin was placed to his forehead, a fear in his gut churning him dizzy. The cold metal was only so much, but the thinned etching from his thumb rubbing the exact same spot for years proved it even more that this was his coin and his coin alone. Now the letter was here. Off-white, a grey one would say. As if it was too speaking the differences from those two. He never did need their faces to be seen properly - he knew from their clothing, their voices, their actions…

The writing was the same… His index moved with ache in his heart, following each practised loop, the dotted i's, the topped T's. He felt like he was looking into the past with each line. He wanted to laugh and cry, to weep and cheer, to feel and not feel the giddiness in his blood, but his head began to hurt. A stinging jab that made him release the letter and coin to instead hold his cranium in agony. He knew he couldn't talk to them any more, it was solidified many times. Punishments and spat truths about Sunday's manipulations returned to his mind and he knew it to be true. Sunday was just insane… this was how the was meant to be, wasn't it? Was Sunday teasing him now he was on this floor? In the Hotel and not stuck in the dreams?

Was it Sunday's doing that he was signed here? Sunday was the top man now, of course that man had his files, his records, his life in those palms, much like Robin. Pawns. Toys. Things to play with when times are slow. . . Wasn't that right? His pain subsided, his heart cold and his fingers no longer trembling, but he stared upon the items with clear intent. His thumb gentle in stroking over the moth etching, refined and better than times of young, but it was still something he could not reply too.

Yet, he couldn't stop his own pen etching his reply - a note of torn notepad, a truth to his haste, but unlike practised ink-cursive, the reply was thick small capital letters. He had no fountain pen nor charcoal pencil, only a black-out marker. A truth to him as a being. Preparations for old messaging manners were not so sought for in his room thus letter writing was indeed just happening at this moment. . .

A question of his own.

One he knew he would need to come back to read its reply… or maybe something he will run away from forever.

[ Why is it now, in your madness that you look for me? ] [ Your eyes never lie. ] [ I was always here. ]

Hurt - as coin was placed back into the envelope… His footfalls heavy as if pushing through mud and waters instead of crossing carpeted corridors… To return the letter and coin, to reply - but his gaze troubled and mind fizzing. He stared upon his hand where thumb smudged in black ink made him think back upon his signature;

--- a falling meteor and two stars.

[inominati]

@avaere sent:

But upon the moment he would once more see light, perhaps in a life where they are no longer together, where would be a letter finding its way to Sunday - he who inhabits such deep, forgotten corners of the charmony dove's heart, the very ones reserved for no other than him... her dearest brother.

"Dear Sunday, I can only pray that this letter with will reach your hands, and pray harder that your eyes will set come to rest on these words I, so desperately, wish I could share with you in person once again; I am proud of you. You may look to my phrase again and wonder 'has my baby sister lost her mind?' and perhaps she has. Perhaps, in reaching for the falling hand of her brother, her heart, she found herself parting with sense of a self she could no longer picture in a world without you, or perhaps in the madness of everything, she saw what you wished to achieve and saw the desperation beneath it all. I am, once again, proud of you, brother... for few can look to the light, full of regret, and confess their sins. Surely, you of all would know the burdens of a heart, the internal conflict of it all and how most would rather swallow their tongue than to acknowledge the fall for their sins... How I wish I could say this to you in person, hold you once again and welcome you in the life we deserved. Alas, I can only hope that my letter finds you. Fear not, Sunday, for there will be no need for apologies between us nor could I ever find the reason to look to you with anger; I believe in you, for you are my thing with feathers, my hope and most beloved brother... If our paths are to never cross again... I will accept such fate, and I will forever keep you safe and warm within my memory, my heart and look to the skies we once dreamed under. Perhaps now, as we have both regained our wings, we could truly reunite under the sky we once reached for. Live, beloved brother... Live as we both dreamed to. Your one and only babysister"

She's back in Penacony, technically within reach (though his reality is marked by an inability to return any time soon), not gone for good. It won't be the last time he reads her words or hears her speak; that he has to believe in. And yet it takes a while for him to open the letter, first sitting in silence in a corner by himself, holding the envelope between his fingers and feeling the crispness of the paper. Perhaps it's the knowledge that it'll be brief to read through and then her fleeting presence will be gone again that makes him hesitate, or the anticipation of what he'll find inside.

Eventually the letter is unfolded and he recognizes her writing before his eyes focus on a single word; and but a paragraph in he has to pause. I am proud of you. How can she be when his life's trajectory has led him down such a path, his greatest attempt at achieving something bigger than himself a devastating failure that left him broken in pieces of so strange a shape he doesn't know what to rebuild from them. He's neither lived their shared dream nor succeeded in building one for her, so pride is perhaps the feeling he's most removed from at present.

Perhaps she is proud of him for standing back up and not succumbing to his failure, for facing the unknown path ahead that leads to the stars he once admired from a distance but never truly expected to see up close. Sunday takes a breath. When he reads on the letters swim before his eyes - but only briefly.

Of all the people who might paint him a villain of this story - and in some ways perhaps rightfully so; after all he understood that there was a price to be paid and deemed it appropriate on their behalf - Robin is the one he prayed would understand. Even in disagreeing with him she can see the glimpse of the dream he tried to show her and accept it for what it was - no matter how distorted it became in the end. Through their eyes it was nothing but a cage built from delusion and oblivion but she can see the harmony within it, the existence devoid of hardship and misery that it represents. Or so her words make him believe.

If our paths are to never cross again - how ironic that Sunday believed himself capable of living without her, accepted it as a price to be paid for the Order's dream; that he tested himself time and again to see if it's a price he's indeed able to pay, only to have failed and lost her nonetheless. He's falling without a chance to control the direction, with no voice to guide him, and every step takes him further away from Robin. But he has a thing with feathers too - he's always had it but lost sight of it, falsely believed it worth giving up for something Greater - and it sits in his heart like a glowing star, one that's real and familiar unlike the ones all around him now. He will hold on to the hope that some day his wings might take flight again because if anything would give him the strength it would be the promise of seeing his sister again.

If he's to live the dream they shared without her then in her stead the hope of reuniting with her will accompany him.

He reads the letter and reads it again, until the paper feels softer between his fingers. It sparks a desire to respond in kind - but where would he send his answer to? The time to utter his goodbye and his wishes for the future has somehow both passed and not yet come. He has nothing to show for, nothing to be proud of beyond the promise of an attempt, of honoring the deal she (must have) made in his absence, the chance he was given to grow from his mistakes. Beyond 'I'm alive and think of you often' he has little to say for he fears if he began to confess his sins to her in any comprehensive manner he wouldn't know how to stop again. He's disappointed her enough times in their life - he won't frustrate her by making her watch him try to get up and fly on broken wings, stir her hope just to crash before her eyes. He will spare her that disappointment and return only when he's learned to fly - or fall right, whichever turns out to suit him in the end - when he has learned how to live so she can see her hope fulfilled and not just the promise of it.

Neatly folding her letter back up Sunday puts it in his pocket, feeling its presence like a warm touch at his chest. One day they will meet again, when he is able to give her a response to it in which all the things that plague him now will be nothing but fears of the past, dimmed by the bright light of their future.