Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Triplet suns shining overhead on a crisp autumn morning, half-bare trees line empty streets that should be packed in the rush of early morning commute.

The expanding radius of IPC-mandated evacuation means the Hunters have about half a quadrant of endlessly sprawling city to themselves, which is absolutely stellar for travel– there's no traffic and what lights do still function have become a mere suggestion without the threat of being flattened by an oncoming vehicle.

The Hunters, save for Firefly, who continues to rest after her script's prior scenes, are on the move to get a better idea of the Stellaron's exact state as of present. Having abandoned their stolen car earlier in the day, the group makes the remainder of their trek on foot.

The owner of The Devils' Den occupies space in their former ride's trunk with no memory of the Hunters' involvement in his survival, waiting to be retrieved by IPC agents.

"How long are you going to be angry with me?" Sunday pleads, trying to keep pace with his ponytailed companion.

Silver Wolf, still upset after walking in on he and Blade together two days prior, pointedly continues to refuse looking at the man. "Haven't decided yet."

Some distance behind them, Kafka watches their junior member continue his attempt at smoothing things over with her to no avail. She'd scolded them after listening to the Silver Wolf's exaggerated retelling alongside Firefly's much more realistic one, warning both men to have a little more professional decorum about intimate dealings in the future.

Interpersonal conflict spawned by foolishness is their own problem to solve, however.

Forewings flutter with almost urgency– he's getting desperate. "Wolf, please, what can I do to make it up to you?"

"Have you tried not fucking in an occupied room?"

Sunday stammers, forewings coming closer to his face with a dusting of apologetic embarrassment. "It hadn't come to that yet–"

"Yet–" she snaps, finally turning to meet him albeit only to shoot him an angry glare, "is doing a lot of heavy lifting here, Sunny."

Silver Wolf rolls her eyes when Sunday winces at the name and picks up her pace to stay ahead of him. He attempts a reply but is ruthlessly spoken over, unable to get a word in otherwise.

"Had Firefly waited like five extra minutes to wake me up you would've been and don't you even try to deny it either! Oh but let's be real, it wouldn'tve even taken that long, would it?!"

Kafka chuckles to herself, thoroughly entertained. Good luck, Birdie, you're gonna need it, hell hath no fury like a teenager scorned. She glances at the remaining third of that sore equation walking quietly beside her. Expression more vacant than usual, Blade's gaze drifts occasionally to their left, catching in her peripheral every time.

"Well you seem distracted today," she teases, hint of a deeper question lingering at the edge of her words.

Blade says nothing for a long moment, thoughts otherwise occupied. He remains distant when he eventually answers. "...It's warm."

Kafka's eyebrows raise. He can't be referring to the nippy temperature. "The bracer?"

He nods once, looking at her briefly before turning again to the teal horizon peeking from behind office buildings and distant skyrises.

A widow's smile ticks across Kafka's lips. Dan Heng of the Astral Express, here on this planet, right before the next phase of their script… Safe to assume that if he's here the others are likely to be as well. Of all the people to bump into.

Tapping a finger against her chin, Kafka contemplates the Hunters' next potential courses of action with a hum. "I've got the feeling things are about to get real interesting, wouldn't you agree, Bladie?"

Blade only makes a dull sound of acknowledgement, his mind elsewhere at present. The jade pendant adorning his belt burns through the fabric of his pants, searing itself into skin where it rests against his hip. Driven by an easy breeze, golden leaves scatter across cold pavement– an omen of what's to come, perhaps.

Eventually Sunday gives up trying to win Silver Wolf over, falling dejectedly behind with the adults. "Kafka," he starts, chewing his lower lip, "what should I do?"

She hums contemplatively. "Just give her time, Birdie. She'll come back around."

Anxiety simmering on low heat, delicate knots tie themselves within his stomach with Silver Wolf's continued rejection. Dealing with irritable strangers is one thing, Sunday's time spent in various managerial positions before his promotion to Dreammaster forged a sturdy resolve in the face of customers' wrath, but never before has he made someone he holds dear so actively, outwardly upset with him. Sunday finds himself at a total loss.

"How've you been sleeping? No more impromptu flying lessons, I hope," Kafka teases, peering over the top of her sunglasses at him.

Sunday huffs a dry sound, appreciative of her attempt to keep him occupied. "If only I were so lucky to get more than an hour or so at a time.

Ahead, Silver Wolf disappears from view behind the corner of some convenience store. Almost immediately after, their phones all vibrate with a notification from this mission's designated group chat.

- - -

On the bleeding edge of Plei-Bertigh's AE-2 South quadrant, the IPC has set up an encampment to serve as a base of operations for the containment of a newly ruptured Stellaron. Somewhere within, between a veritable hive of soldiers and unmanned drones, March, Stelle, and Dan Heng are escorted towards a large covered tent.

Inside, a small group of IPC officials stand around a table bearing a holographic map of the city, its surface cluttered with bright tokens. Two men discuss the state of affairs between them while another adjusts graphs and data on their holopad, monitoring the Stelleron's live readings.

A soldier pushes inside, saluting before announcing Stoneheart Topaz's guests have arrived. With permission, they open the way for the Express' crew to enter.

"Of course that woman would send a bunch of Aeons-damned toddlers when the request for a containment crew cleared," a grizzled veteran grumbles to himself when they enter, scowl setting deeper. Just what he needed .

The grunt exits, tent flap falling loosely closed behind him. Crossing his arms, the battle hardened soldier eyes his new charges with an air of dissatisfied seniority.

"I assume you're the commanding officer," Dan Heng queries, defusing the silence. "The Astral Express has been requested to offer its aid in sealing the Stellaron on behalf of the Stoneheart, Topaz."

"I'm aware." Commander Vaughn waves dismissively. "That brat's blessing or no, I'm supposed to believe you welps can do something about that thing we can't do ourselves?"

The official working their datapad receives a call on their earpiece and turns away, speaking in a hushed tone.

"Well yeah," Stelle snarks, hand on their hip, "wouldn't be the first time we show the IPC up, probably won't be the last, either."

Never has Dan Heng wished more his friend wouldn't carelessly spout the first response to any given situation that comes to them– you can all but see the Commander's opinion of the Express going further down the drain with every word uttered by his big-mouthed companion. Thankfully, his attention is drawn away by an attendant whispering into his ear before it can sink too much lower.

Straightening, Vaughn dismisses his "guests" to attend more immediately important matters.

"Well, that could've gone better. What now?" March asks while they wander, having been ushered out. Dan Heng says nothing, mildly irritated but deep in thought. Patting their stomach, Stelle suggests they try and find something to eat.

So the three head off in search of less militarized civilization. Not even halfway down the block an excitable, low-ranking grunt almost hiding between metal shipping crates accosts them. Even through the faceless helmet, their companion visibly rolls their eyes.

"Oh! You're Trailblazers, right? With the Astral Express?"

Stelle raises a brow at the enthusiasm. "Who wants to know?"

The soldier takes a step back, waving their hands nonthreateningly. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not trying to pick a fight or anything! I think what you guys do is really cool and I wanted to maybe help– ouch!"

Her companion lands a few solid kicks to her shin. "Would you shut it? Some of us don't want another demotion because we can't keep our big mouth shut."

"But–"

"No buts, Cleo."

"But Alliieeee, it's the Expreeeeess~" The soldier turns to her companion, assumedly making the biggest, wettest puppy eyes under her, again, completely faceless (and quite reflective) helmet. March, Stelle, and Dan Heng look at eachother then back to the scene unfolding.

It only takes a few moments for Allie to crumple with a deeply bone-weary sigh. "Alright, fine, but hurry it up. If somebody catches us, I don't know you, have never known you, Cleo isn't a name I've ever even heard before in my life." Shaking her head, she moves to stand guard.

Cleo rubs the back of her neck. "Sorry about her, haha, she's a bit of a sourpuss, but she means well!"

Stelle does their best to hold a laugh. March pinches them. "Before your friend cut you off– you said you wanted to help us?"

"Oh yeah!" Cleo leans in, lowering her voice. "Now you didn't hear this from me, but we've lost three different patrol squads in entirely different quadrants in a little shy of thirty-six hours. And the kicker? The whole area around each attack was completely scorched for blocks in every direction."

Now that gets the Crew's attention. Dan Heng brings a hand to his chin, brows furrowing. "That sounds suspicious," March says, a brow quirked.

"Don't it? Higher ups are trying to keep it hush-hush. The official cause was declared 'major equipment failure', but I know what I saw. Poor bastards got torched ."

"Alright, break time's up," Allie calls and Cleo deflates with an awwww.

"Be careful out there," Cleo calls as the pair return to their duties, "things are getting real weird."

Continuing on their way, March, Dan Heng, and Stelle pass an official donning a neatly tailored suit discussing something over the phone, and March's ears perk at the mention of a garden liaison en route for memoria stabilization .

Once they've passed she turns to her companions. "Please tell me I'm not the only one who heard that."

Stelle crosses their arms. "Sure weren't."

Dan Heng abruptly sidesteps, pulling the other two each by an arm into an alley. "We have a problem," he announces in a low tone.

Stelle sarcastically whispers back. "Y'think so? I'dve never guessed."

Dan Heng ignores their sass. Playful or not there's a more pressing matter– ever since they'd landed, his bracer has burned too warm for comfort, calling out to its nearby twin. He'd hoped it was a fluke, but its stubborn persistence has become unignorable.

Mindful of some few IPC bots milling about in the street he leans in even closer, voice dropping further. "Blade's nearby."

March's mouth gapes in surprised alarm. Standing a little straighter she peeks around the corner, scanning passers-by for any sign of the inflicted swordsman.

"Not right here, March," Dan Heng hisses. "Close, though."

Stelle makes a face. "There's never only just one Hunter– those 'malfunctions' were definitely SAM's doing."

"I agree." Dan Heng exhales through his nose, this is the absolute last thing he was hoping for when Topaz asked the Express for a favor. "But we don't know for sure and I would really rather not find out unless we have no other choice."

"Aww, are you and hubby fighting again?" March coos, earning herself a sideways glare from Dan Heng.

Stelle snickers, "What about this time?"

"I'd rather not get into it," Dan Heng sharply defends, and Stelle raises their hands in surrender, knowing not to push too many buttons.

A lightbulb all but visibly goes off above March's head. "Oh! I could try texting Sunday to ask what they're up to," she exclaims a bit too loudly, earning the physical shushing of her friends. Removing Stelle's hand from her mouth, she whispers an apology before continuing. "It's been a while so there's no guarantee he has the same number as last time, but it's worth a shot."

Dan Heng nods and March sets to scrolling through her contacts. "In the meantime we need to let Himeko and Welt know what's going on. If the Hunters are involved we should be prepared for them to complicate matters."

After further deliberations with Commander Vaughn, aided by the newly arrived Welt's expertise, the Express' crew have been granted permission to observe the Stellaron's condition from a distance. The Commander has thus far taken a staunch stance regarding the Express' overall involvement in his unit's operations, so approval to the request came as a surprise. Maybe firmer insistence came down from up the ranks, or perhaps he simply wanted them out of his hair for a few hours. Who knows. The Express' crew know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth when presented with it, especially when said horse bears the IPC's brand.

Comparing charts and statistics regarding Stellaron development, Welt and Dan Heng discuss the noticeable lack of corrosion. For the amount of time passed since detonation, the nearly absent Fragmentum should be much more visibly affecting things.

Dan Heng brings a hand to his chin quizzically. "It's possible the ruptured memoria well may be hampering the Stellaron's progress."

Humming, Welt makes a face. His glasses glint with the holo display's reflection. "I don't believe that's the case. Well, not the whole of it, anyway."

Some distance away, Stelle attempts to sneak up on and capture a feral pigeon.

March looks out over the devastation, heart heavy with the weight of the loss. Distant movement down below catches her attention, its origin raising an alarm. "Look! There's a kid down there!" she shouts, leaning forward over the barrier to point.

The others join her to see what's drawn her attention and sure enough– a rather young child can be seen scampering into the debris field.

"Are you certain it's not an Echo?" Dan Heng asks, coming up beside her.

"I mean– Well…maybe," she trails off, brows turning up lightly. "But they looked right at me and waved."

"That doesn't make it any more likely to be real," Welt says. "This area has been abandoned for days– why would any child be here, let alone one who would walk away from someone who could help if they were lost or injured?"

The logic is sound, but unease settles in her gut all the same. Something tells March she's seen that dark, fluffy hair somewhere before. And as if on queue, the child's scream rings out from below. They can be seen running back the way they came before, chased now by mutated Fragmentum monsters.

"Kid's real," Stelle deadpans, already leaping over the barrier. March and Dan Heng follow behind them, carefully descending to give chase and leaving Welt behind.

Even without the echoing screams to follow in this mess of ruins, it's not hard to track the monsters– they've left a convenient trail of memoria-colored goop to follow.

When they catch up, March nocks an arrow, launching ice rabbits above the melting things in hopes to freeze them. Enough of a distraction, the monsters slushily spin their attention to Stelle and Dan Heng. While they hold the line, March continues after the child who's surprisingly fast in spite of their much shorter legs. Despite her assurances she's here to help, they lead her through a veritable maze, losing her somewhere along the way.

A deadly widow waiting in darkness to strike, Kafka lies in wait at the center of the construction complex. Leaned against a partially collapsed concrete wall, she tracks all parties involved in this game of chase via an interconnected web of nearly-invisible Spirit Whispers. The child rounds a corner right into her lair, taking time to catch his breath now that he has a moment to do so. The glint of tinted sunglasses from the dark draws his eye.

"Stellar job selling the threat of those things, Birdie, I didn't know you could squeal like that." Putting the most minimal effort into hiding a smile behind a gloved hand, Kafka rather poorly suppresses an amused chortle at her teammate's antics.

"Oh, shut up–!" Doubled over and wheezing, the disguised Sunday shoots her a toothless glare, "Let's see you run an obstacle course while avoiding the Express' crew disguised as a child."

"Maybe next time," she teases, unable to restrain a rogue laugh. Lifting her head to listen for their rapidly approaching company, Kafka's mask slips back into its proper place as another Whisper is tripped. "They're here."

And that's his cue to leave. Climbing up and over a hunk of wall that's fallen, Kafka gives Sunday a wink as he slips out of sight. Once on the other side, he stays long enough to determine if all four followed him as they should have. Unfortunately, Welt's voice is absent so Sunday keeps his disguise up when he takes off, hoping he doesn't cross paths with his (former, he feels the need to remind himself) mentor aboard the Express.

Slowly he makes his way back. It's mildly unsettling, traversing the silent, empty construction zone and not knowing Mr. Yang's location. The game of cat and mouse has been flipped and Sunday can't help but feel like he's being watched the whole time. He even startles once at his own shadow, mentally shaking himself after for the unfounded paranoia.

Just when he's certain he's finally in the clear, gravity shifts. Halted, Sunday's locked into place by the foreign force.

He lets out a heavy breath– were he currently capable of anything but minute movement, his shoulders would sag with it. "This is the second time you've seen through my disguise with little effort, Mr. Yang. I'm beginning to think I'm not all that great at them," Sunday laughs lightly.

Welt steps carefully down from a stack of abandoned construction material, regarding the disguised Halovian with a mixture of emotion Sunday won't name out of guilt. He regrets the distance that's grown between them, between he and the Express' crew at large– but what can be done about it now? He's made peace with his choice to depart and would do it all again in a hummingbird's heartbeat.

"I won't run, Mr. Yang, I surrender."

Brows pinched together, Welt makes a face, upset flickering amidst his features. Exhaling sharply through the nose, the force holding Sunday in place dissipates. "I know."

Sunday smiles faintly, his disguise fading, revealing a predominantly black outfit bearing blue and white accents with scattered gold trimmings. A far cry from what was once worn while aboard the Express.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Indeed it has," Welt agrees. He looks Sunday over, crease in his brow deepening. With the purpling bags under reddened eyes, he appears terribly unwell. "Pardon my saying so, but you seem a little under the weather."

Sunday's forewings twitch before hanging closer. "Ah– I haven't been sleeping well of late is all. You know how it is, adjusting to several different solar cycles within a short timeframe. I assure you, I'm quite alright otherwise."

Attempting to assure all is well, he waves off Welt's concern with a tired smile. "If it would put your mind at ease, if I were ill the others wouldn't allow me to participate in a script unless explicitly necessary. They take good care of me."

A fair enough claim to make, but Welt doesn't buy it. Still, Sunday seems to be in high enough spirits despite his physical condition, and his fondness for the other Hunters comes through his words plainly. "I assume you're not out here alone, then?" he asks, plucking a strand of Kafka's Whispers.

"Correct," Sunday nods. "Kafka is meeting with the others now, if you would like to rejoin them."

Welt nods, adjusting the grip on his cane. "I would."

Sunday leads him back towards his partner in crime and the orchestrator of this game with little fanfare. "Kafka," his voice calls from behind the Express' crew, brushing aside a tattered tarp dangling from above, "I've brought Mr. Yang."

Kafka looks up from the three younger members, nodding once in acknowledgement of he and Welt. "So you were found out after all. Told you you're a terrible actor."

Upon seeing Sunday, March lights up brighter than the overhead suns. Foregoing their current state of opposition she practically tackles the poor man, nearly toppling them both jumping at Sunday for a hug. "I missed you too," he wheezes, crushed by her bear's grip.

Big eyes sparkle up at him, their brightness rivalled only by the light of her grin. "Did you not get my text?"

Sunday pats her on the head and they part. "My apologies, I haven't had the ability to check my messages. The memoria field disrupts most electronics once ventured too close."

"I take it you guys're the cause of all this, then?" Stelle questions with a hand on their hip, the same inquiry written across Dan Heng's face as well.

There's no ill intent in their gaze, but Sunday feels the cold edge of it besides. Guilt crawls up his spine like a spider, webbing a sticky home for itself in his chest. "Unfortunately–" he meets them as steadily as he can, but Kafka interjects.

"Unfortunately, this one was already ticking down long before we arrived." To her, nothing felt off about the interaction, but Sunday's distress continues to climb in the presence of his former allies nevertheless.

Welt notes the protective bite in her tone, filing it away for later. There is definitely more wrong than Sunday's let on. "You're here to collect it after it's been stabilized, then."

Kafka smiles, sunglasses glinting.

 - - -

Folded arms acting as a cushion, Sunday leans over the dining table resting. He skipped dinner, claiming not to be hungry but still sat with the others to socialize and decompress, eventually beginning to drift off. Silver Wolf has begrudgingly begun acknowledging his presence once again, much to his tired delight.

"You look like shit," she says bluntly, carrying her plate to the sink.

He doesn't even lift his head. "You're not the first person to tell me that today."

"Cause it's true." Silver Wolf's brows furrow as she stares, concern gnawing at her while he dozes. "Hey Kaf… Come take a look at Birdie, would you? Something ain't right with him."

"When is it ever?" Kafka jokes from the other room.

She first feels his cheek with the back of her palm. He grumbles grievances the whole time, but complies when nudged to grant better access to his forehead. "I'm not a child to be fussed over."

Silver Wolf snorts. "Says the guy who looks like patient zero in a zombie flick."

Kafka takes Sunday's head in her hands, turning his clammy, pallid face this and that way studying for irregularities, drawn particularly the the decline of his eyes. In addition to a new, red puffiness, both his irises and pupils themselves have dulled a sickly hue. Holding them open for her best he can manage, he resists the yawn building in his chest.

"Well, you're not feverish, do you feel alright otherwise? Any irritation in the eyes?" Kafka questions, holding an open palm out to Silver Wolf, who blinks at it confused a short moment before realizing she's asking for the girl's phone. Taking it, Kafka flicks on the flashlight, waving it in and out of Sunday's field of view.

"It's as I told Mr. Yang earlier, I'm just in need of some sleep."

Examination over, Kafka backs away and Sunday allows his eyelids to droop all but closed once again, forewings following suit. Folding her arms she hums, disbelieving. "Mhm, sure. If you're really so tired why don't you go to bed? You're a big boy who can fall asleep by himself for a single night."

He considers for a moment, whatever internal dialogue convening amidst himself dismissing very quickly in full favor of the prospect. Acquiescing, Sunday rises from his seat to shamble towards the second bedroom without so much as a goodnight.

Silver Wolf looks at Kafka expectantly, who does nothing, returning to the living room.

"If he's not better by morning he'll sit tomorrow out," she says to the girl glaring a hole in her back. "Not much else we can do at the moment."

Silver Wolf huffs, disappointed. Grabbing her backpack from the chair it'd been carelessly tossed on earlier, she follows Sunday to the bedroom. Someone needs to keep an eye on him, and if Kafka won't, she will. Opening the door, she discovers Sunday's already passed out on the bed, coat still half worn off one shoulder.

Dude really was tired. Damn.

Upon her approach, she fails to notice Sunday's halo wobbling with a faint glint to it, and all at once every sense is assaulted by a thick, colorful haze. Backpack sliding off her shoulder, Silver Wolf slumps to the ground in exhaustion, her whole body feeling like icy lead.

She's asleep before her head hits the floor.

- - -

Alone and traversing an erratically twisting corridor, a small device in Silver Wolf's hands beeps as it scans, aiding her progression through the distorted building. At the end of the hallway stands the door to a subway car. Heavenly light shines from the window and through the slit between them– Silver Wolf adjusts her visor to dim its effect. The closer she gets, the more incessant the beeping.

Well that was fast.

Opening the door reveals the Express' parlor car's interior. An odd place to find this deep in a memory zone, given its irrelevance to the planet's collective subconscious. Pacing aggressively at the other end is Sunday, deep in conversation with himself.

Something skitters across the floor behind her and Silver Wolf whirls on her heel only to discover the way she came is no more– replaced by a train's cabin car. With the transition, her device has vanished from her hands. That's not super weird, not at all.

You're dealing with corrupted memoria, things're gonna be fucked, she reminds herself and presses inside, door sliding closed with a quiet hiss. Perplexed, she yells for Sunday's attention. Having lived in a dream for so long, surely he'd have a better idea why things would take this shape over something more familiar to the peoples who reside here.

Upon hearing her he startles, all but tripping over his own feet. Confirming it was, infact, a foreign voice and not his imagination, a bewildered Sunday hurries across the long car to meet her, checking her over like there's something drastically wrong.

Annoyed at the intrusion to her personal space, Silver Wolf swats him away and takes a step back. "Dude, what gives??"

Definitely real. Sunday massages his forehead before pinching the bridge of his nose with a sharp exhale. Mind racing a hundred kilometers a minute, he mutters incomprehensibly– something about synchronization and shouldn't be possible .

"Have you seen anyone else," he asks, "anyone at all?"

Silver Wolf gives him a quirk of her brow. "Nope. S'just been me. Why?"

Obviously anxious, Sunday shifts weight from one foot to the other. He puts his hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eyes. "I need you to stay here while I go check something. Please don't go anywhere else regardless of anything you see or hear."

He doesn't give any further explanation, just hurries away past the first set of cabins, leaving her in the middle of an otherwise unoccupied space. "Okay, sure. Whatever I guess." Her agitation level rises at his quickly shrinking form. "You're not giving me a reason to not be mad at you!"

A beep from her lost device echoes from somewhere nearby. Ahead, at the other end of the car, the door to the party car opens by a sliver, golden light breaking free from behind.

Silver Wolf looks around. Weighing her options, she makes the call to investigate on her own. If Sunday wants to be dodgy and abandon her in a memory zone it's gonna be his problem when something inevitably goes wrong.

Another, louder now.

Ascending the stairs, she doesn't even check what's on the other side this time– simply pushes ahead. Exactly like before, the scenery is completely new. Also like before, the way back vanishes once crossed over.

She finds herself in some kind of meeting room– or maybe a personal library? There are certainly enough books held by the massive bookshelves lining the walls for it to be a private collection. Regardless, the atmosphere here is a hell of a lot heavier than the Express, that's for sure. Standing ominously in the back is a bronze sculpture of what looks like some kind of anchor, decorative marble tiling set into the wall behind.

On a raised platform in the center of the room stands a round table, baby blue runner adorning its middle. Despite the table's large size, there are only two chairs, positioned directly across from each other. Atop it is the device, though it's been deactivated and remains unresponsive.

"Oh, c'mon," she frustratedly groans, smacking the powerless thing.

"Why hello there," a familiar voice calls from the entrance, "you're a new face around here."

Standing in the doorway is none other than Sunday himself. Except… something's strange about him. Well– stranger than usual, anyway. He seems just as surprised to see her here as she is to see him. His appearance has changed as well, once again wearing that ornate Family priest's garb. His hair's longer too, closer in length to what it was when he first joined the Hunters. And the most obvious red flag in a whole sky's worth of waving fabric? His halo's now missing. Sunday will hide or disguise it when needed but as a rule of thumb, he's never without for long.

"Silver Wolf, correct? How did you get in? One would think we'd have been made aware of guests in the event he invited you here," he muses on approach, hand trailing across the table's surface as he rounds it towards her. "Unless, of course, you weren't?"

The hair on the back of Silver Wolf's neck prickles, instinct standing on edge. "You're not Sunday, are you?"

The alternate pauses, smiling and chuckling quietly to himself like he's in on some kind of joke. "We're more of him than you think."

An eyeless raven crows from its perch atop the entryway's overhang, singular, golden eye motif lit up across its chest. This other Sunday glares up at it with a scowl. "And how in the hells are you here? We had you quarantined–" His ire accusatorially redirects to Silver Wolf. " You . You let it out with your nosing around where you don't belong–"

The raven takes flight with a gurgling cry, circling once before diving right into his chest, incorporeal. The alternate gasps and spasms momentarily with its invasion, strange expression crossing his face. Eyes roll back in their sockets and his body goes slack. Silver Wolf reaches for her pistol but freezes when this imitator speaks once more, acidic color threatening to blot out her vision.

"I wouldn't, if I were you."

Releasing the holster but leaving her thumb on the belt securing the weapon, Silver Wolf tenses.

Azure pupils blown impossibly wide, the alternate's previously brilliant eyes now more closely resemble those of a dead fish– glassy and hollow. It flashes a toothy smile at her obedience and Silver Wolf swears it's one of the most sinister expressions she's ever seen Sunday's face make. "Smart girl."

Think, goddammit, think! If this really is Sunday in any form whatsoever, the best way to distract him is to get him talking– and if it's not…… If this is how she dies, Silver Wolf vows to haunt Sunday until Terminus blows up the whole damn universe.

"You're not very good at this whole 'evil dream sequence' thing," Silver Wolf complains, waving her hands dismissively in unimpressed gesture, "I've seen B-rated shit that's better written. Real amateur hour work."

The imitation's forewings flap in indignation. "That would be because that brat is the Dreammaster, not I."

Good, good. Keeeep talking– just a second more and the latch will be undone. "Whaddya mean?"

"By the time that title was ever a distant possibility on the horizon, Master had already sank his talons in too deeply, twisting a neurotic husk of what should have b–"

Belt finally undone, Silver Wolf whips her pistol and a single shot rings out.

Stunned into silence, this alternate Sunday brings a hand to his chest. He drops to a knee as pastel colors bleed into his hand and the pristine garments of the Oak Family head, pooling wide around him when he collapses. The colors in Silver Wolf's eyes fade.

A trail of Quantum-infused energy rises from the barrel of her pistol while she carefully treads around the table to confirm the thing's death. "Aeons. And here I thought the real Birdie liked the sound of his own voice too much," Silver Wolf gripes, annoyed more and more with each passing moment. "Goddamned memes."

The body starts to melt and bubble, losing its shape and color. Silver Wolf nudges the pile of goo with the toe of her boot and grimaces at its grossness. It's got the awful consistency of a half-melted tub of ice cream– liquid and sticky on the outside, soft but vaguely solid on the inside. Blech .

Stepping wide over the body and turning for the entrance, she checks her device for a signal again, hoping that meme was the cause of the disturbance. Still nothing, unfortunately.

"How rude!!" crows Sunday's voice. "Of all the things for that no-good, foolish bastard to invite in!! We swear!"

Readying her pistol again, Silver Wolf spins on her heel. What greets her is something straight out of a horror immersia.

Sunday rushes through the hallowed halls of Dewlight Pavilion, headed directly for the conference room in the back. After failing to find his lesser half and returning to the parlor car to find Silver Wolf missing, he knew exactly where he needed to go: one of few places with value to them both.

"Wonweek!" he shouts as he bursts through the double doors, Echoes flying ahead of him. "This is between you and I– Wolf has nothing to do with…this…"

Oh. This is new. A bunch of dead yous , the primary of which holds one of your dearest friends hostage, is certainly an only mildly disturbing thing to walk in on. Memoria splatter across the floor and walls indicates having missed a very messy scuffle. At least a dozen corpses bearing his and Sunday's shared face lie lifeless around the room in various states of solidity– the freshest of them at Wonweek's feet.

Stolen pistol in hand, Wonweek holds Silver Wolf suspended just off the gound by golden vines. With a roll of his eyes she's dropped without argument, falling to the floor with a thudding oof . Sunday's Echoes flit about her worriedly before taking up defensive positions between she and the imitation, holding their little arms out wide.

Looking over his shoulder, Wonweek's otherwise placid expression splits into a cheshire grin at the intruder. "Well, well, well, would you look at that? Mr. Stick in the Mud himself came all this way for little old me," he snarks, thick with sarcasm. Though he doesnt turn to face Sunday for it, Wonweek gives the man a short bow. "Consider it my honor."

"We both know you don't mean that," Sunday scoffs.

" Wonweek?? The hell kind of name is that?!" Silver Wolf's gaze flicks between the two, "Wait, you know this thing?? Actually, don't answer that, I have a better question: why are there two of them trying to kill eachother?!??"

Sunday blinks. "…Two?"

Wonweek looks down at Silver Wolf before turning to face Sunday fully, disbelief worn clearly in his posture. "Sunny–" he gasps, scandalized, and Silver Wolf now understands Sunday's aversion to the name. If she had to listen to some fucked up alter ego call her 'Sylvie', she'd be quite incentivised to brutal violence against that other self. Sunday has much stronger restraint than she, that much is certain.

Wounded, Wonweek brings a hand to his chest in faux heartbreak, vicious authenticity in his voice betrayed by entirely overdramatic acting. "You never told them about me? About us? "

Ravens gather overhead, occasionally dive bombing Sunday with razor-sharp beaks and talons while the scattered corpses bubble and morph into beast-like memes. Protectively, Sunday's Echoes form a tight, defensive unit around Silver Wolf.

Voice dropping drastically in pitch, Wonweek takes a step forward, arms and clipped hindwings spread wide. "A lesson you could stand to learn as well, dear boy."

Rearing up on hind legs, the beasts twist into shadowed mockeries of the people Sunday holds dear. Wielding gilted thorns to defend himself, Sunday does his best to shut out vile venom spat using imitation voices and stolen laughter, fighting his way past illusions of his friends and comrades.

Glasses glinting, a phantom of Kafka slashes at him relentlessly, forcing Sunday backwards until he trips over a low-hanging thread of its Whispers. His descent to the floor reveals a shadow of Blade above leaping to strike, Shattered Sword gleaming like the neon magenta and cerulean of its eyes. Sunday throws an arm out and golden, thorny vines erupt from the floor, impaling the phantom midair. From wounds torn open a tar-like substance showers both Sunday and the ground below. Shattered Sword clatters to the floor, dissipating into smoke on impact.

Kafka's phantom doesn't allow Sunday any time to recover, however. Sweeping in for the kill, her razor-sharp blade slices though fabric and flesh alike like a hot knife does butter. From the illusion of Sunday's body erupts a tangle of vines that grow and extend up the phantom's arm in an attempt to trap it.

Surrendering the weapon, the snared limb is physically ripped from its socket, a submachine gun drawn from thin air with the other– the real Sunday takes off in a sprint as bullets pelt the wall and bookshelf around him, sending pages flying. With a wave of his arm the phantom Blade's bleeding, angrily writhing body is flung at her and more vines sprout from the ground to contain them both, tightening like anacondas suffocating their prey.

Breathless and fueled entirely by spiking adrenaline, Sunday feels like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest. He pants, catching his breath from the intensity of unexpected combat– while it has been some time since he's needed to use his Thorns in a destructive manner, it's taxing him far more than it should.

A solitary, lilac feather drifts by and Sunday stops, breath caught in his throat– the room, the Thorns, everything else falls away. Before him stands a visage of Robin, bright and shining like so many stars. Eyes closed, she raises an arm and opens her mouth to sing a silent melody. Above, stained glass windows crack with each octave the girl climbs, springing myriad leaks of black, salty water.

"Robin– wait, don't–" Sunday reaches for her and fragile glass gives way, unleashing a deluge that drowns the room in pitch.

Robin is swept out to sea with the tide, her reflection rippling in the water like the moon's brilliant mirror. Desperately giving chase, Sunday trudges further and further out, sinking deeper with each step. Overtaken by a wave, he stumbles and goes under, the lunar body slipping from his reach into a weathered palm, only to be immediately crushed into dust in its grip.

Reality rights itself.

"You've a nasty habit of pushing people away, Sunday– of rejecting them when it gets to be too overwhelming for you." Enormous halo glinting darkly, paternal disapproval breaks over the man speaking's face. "But that's alright, what you're doing now is nothing new. I expected this. We all expected this of you."

Pipe organs droning menacingly, divine light shines upon Penacony Grand Theatre's center stage.

Yet more mockeries manifesting behind him, the man's arms and forewings spread out to reveal gnarled scarring across half his face, neck, and adjacent wing. A pair of glasses adorn the sharp jut of his nose while dark hair hangs just past broad shoulders, slicked back and away from his face. A raven perches upon his right briefly before taking wing to join the rest of its rotten flock.

Disoriented from the abrupt transition, Sunday's heart drops at terminal velocity into the pit of his stomach at the mere sight of the man now standing in Wonweek's place. Shallow breath struggling to pass the bile cementing itself in his throat, Sunday straightens.

His fists clench with a shakily defiant step. "We're no longer in Penacony, you have no power anymore."

"Always the obvious liar," Gopher Wood states fondly, with a low and throaty chuckle.

He's not incorrect and Sunday hates it. Hates that he's not stronger, more able to stand his own ground. Never will he be anything more than that weak, pathetic fledgeling of his youth. No wonder you've been thrust from the nest time and time again.

Gopher tuts. "Just look at you. Trembling like a sparrow in a hurricane. If your words bear even a single half-truth, prove it."

Rallying the strength to rise, the corpse at Gopher's feet wheezes, coughing memoria. "We told you… hahh – to get the fuck out of our head. But no, you had to go and take his face because of course you did ," it spits angrily at Gopher, forewings flared. "We will not tell you aga–"

A shot from Silver Wolf's pistol rings out and with a bright and neon splatter all falls still. Silver Wolf jolts forward, shouting, and with naught but a wave of a hand, oppressive Harmonic force silences the very voice in her throat and disperses Sunday's Echoes in the same motion.

Rooted to the spot, Sunday blanches, sweat beading his brow. Watching the body bearing his face fall to the ground with a hole in its skull his father and master put there, he's suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

"Now, now," Gopher chides, tossing the weapon aside, "it is quite rude to interrupt while others are speaking." His attention falls again on Sunday, disappointed once more in the boy meant to be his heir. "The company one keeps speaks volumes of their character. I had thought you learned this already, but it appears I was mistaken."

In complete dissociative shock, Sunday can only stare at Wonweek, all but vacating his skin when he realizes Gopher approaches. The man's countenance darkens and Sunday reflexively reaches for the Chords in a panic, but they refuse his call. As do the Thorns and Echoes.

It's as if the Aeons Themselves have simply abandoned him to his fate.

"This brings me no pleasure, Sunday, but you simply must learn." He takes a step forward, halo decoupling into segments and expanding outward, ominous glow shadowing his face further.

Fourteen years old again and trembling on the cusp of a full blown panic attack, Sunday backs away until reaches the abyss at platform's edge. Thorny vines and the uncanny imitations of people he's supposed to trust reach out to grasp, to hold, to secure him in place for due punishment.

"I-I'll do better, I promise!"

"I know you will." Gopher's voice is so calm, so tender, so lovingly understanding . He looms over his heir now, and Sunday flinches when a large, weathered hand clasps his shoulder.

Movement behind his master catches Sunday's terrified eye and he realizes it's Silver Wolf poised to strike with her holoblade, white-hot fury painted clearly across her face. Please don't , he pleads with her in his mind, you'll only make it worse. Please, please, please stop– I can take it, I'll be strong just please don't make it worse–

Deaf to his desperate pleas, she lunges at Gopher's turned back. With reflexes faster than should be humanly possible he catches her mid swing, bringing her down hard with an audible crack somewhere along her spine.

"Don't hurt her! She didn't mean it, I swear!" Sunday shrieks, struggling against his restraints, fat tears falling from his eyes. "I shouldn't have brought her here– the fault is mine, punish me instead! Master, please!!"

Gopher breathes in, letting go a deep exhale before pushing half rimmed glasses back into place and smoothing his hair. Lifting Silver Wolf off the ground in a single-handed chokehold, his halo expands once again. Commanded by his father's Tuning, Sunday's body goes painfully rigid, weeping eyes unable to look away from the color draining from his dear friend's face.

"I am sorry for this, Sunday, but some lessons are better learnt the hard way."

Silver Wolf paws feebly at the grasp killing her. Through vision going dark at the edges, the reflection in Gopher Wood's halo reflects the entire scene back clearly and her eyes widen with realization.

There are no beasts parading as friends, no haunting spectres risen from the past like a vengeful grudge. The only other person at all in this tiny bedroom is Sunday, his hands curled tight around her throat, those golden, dead-fish eyes boring mercilessly into those of the girl they strangle.

Silver Wolf fights to remove her attacker even for just long enough for a single breath of air. Impossibly, pupils dilate further with her struggling and even more weight is pressed into her throat. Unable to otherwise garner a response, she yanks hard on spread forewings as a last resort and Sunday gasps awake with the pain.

Confused and alarmed to find himself on top of Silver Wolf, his hands fly from her as if burnt and he's promptly shoved off her smaller body, tumbling against the wall. Reunited with oxygen, she hacks and sputters.

Staring at his hands, Sunday shakes violently.

What the hell was that?

Chapter Text

Tucked deep in the shadowed corner of a crooked alley, a small colony of cats have taken shelter. Comprised mainly of adults, only three of the last litter have survived the city's harsh conditions. A blonde longhair tabby lounges atop a dumpster, dutifully keeping watch over his charges while the others sleep. For the first time in his young life, the streets are quiet. Empty. Chatter draws his attention at the alley's entrance– a pair of humans, the first he's seen in days. The smaller of them notices him and makes a detour, dragging their companion behind. Crouching some distance away, it coos to entice his attention.

Wary, he maintains aloof composure. The kittens, on the other hand, swarm the human, mewling. This act prompts their guardian into action. He leaps from his throne and trots over, scolding the three playful balls of fur before thoroughly inspecting the offered hand. Finding he's not totally averse to affection, the human showers him in pets and scritches and he likewise rubs against them, purring loud as a diesel engine. From nowhere a second cat of white fur scampers over, not one to miss out. The tabby hisses warning, but allows the newcomer to rub affectionately over both he and the nice human.

The taller human steps closer and joins the shorter, crouching to offer his hand for the animals to sniff. The white cat immediately takes offense to the presence, swatting at it with a spitting hiss.

Misunderstanding intent, the tabby smacks him several times in retaliation and the two turn on eachother. The kittens dive under the dumpster to escape their wrath when a siamese jumps between them with a screeching yowl to break them up and keep the peace. From the looks of its eyes, the poor thing's blind or nearly there. A scraggly, one-eyed tomcat lifts his head from the fur pile he's snuggled in to glare briefly at the ones causing commotion and disturbing his nap. Sulking, the tabby and white cat go their separate ways with admonishment.

Firefly giggles behind her hands at Blade's disbelief. Rejected, he withdraws and rises.

"Speaking of claws," she starts, skipping after him, "I hope Wolfie hasn't been too harsh on you and Sunday. She's really not as angry as she seems."

"...I wouldn't care if she were."

"You might not, but Sunday does."

They make it to their destination without any more strays begging their attention. Waiting for them on the front steps is Kafka, sleepwear worn under her coat hanging open. Blade does not miss how her cigarette actively threatens to singe her fingers, burnt almost down to the nub. A rarity, and an ill omen besides.

"You're late," she admonishes flatly, head propped up in one hand.

"Sorry about that," Firefly apologizes. "There were some cats on the way and they were the cutest things I've ever seen! I got pictures if you want to see?"

Silently serious, Blade stares the woman down and she gestures towards the door with a lazy wave of smoke, staring ahead at nothing in particular. He heads inside without a word while Firefly lingers behind, offering concerned company. He finds the other two in the side bedroom, Silver Wolf on the edge of the twin-sized bed with her knees pulled to her chest. Trying to connect the dots, Blade's eyes flick between the fresh marks around her neck and a heavily dissociated Sunday.

Perking at his appearance Silver Wolf launches into a pleading ramble, her words tumbling out without pause. "I don't know what happened! Kafka tried to calm him down from a nightmare with Whispers but that only made things worse and then he rejected them somehow and it hurt her and–"

Blade raises a hand signaling for her to slow down and kneels to be at her level. "Start at the beginning."

Silver Wolf takes a breath to center herself, exhaling deeply. Seeking comfort, her hands anxiously find his. "Okay, so you know how ever since the Stellaron detonated he's been having nightmares, sleepwalking, and just generally doing awful? It was really rough tonight."

He can tell. Blade nods along as she explains.

"He was gonna wait for you to go to sleep but Kaf sent him to bed cuz he was so exhausted, and when I came to check on him something weird happened?"

It's unusual to see her so rattled. He waits patiently for the girl to get through it all, occasionally following her gaze when it drifts to their absent friend. "Define weird."

Her face scrunches while she searches for the best way to describe the sequence of increasingly strange events. "I think I was in his dream? Not like he was dreaming about me or whatever, it felt like I was actually there, like it was real. Some crazy shit happened and I woke up to…" The girl trails off, absently touching one of the blooming bruises encircling her neck.

Blade's brows pinch together. "He strangled you?"

"Yyyyes and no." Despite the attempt on her life, Silver Wolf is so quick to jump to Sunday's defense like she hasn't spent the last few days giving him a shoulder icy enough to rival Jarilo-VI in frigidity. "More like how you get sometimes. The lights are on, sure, but nobody's home, y'know?"

He does. Blade knows all too well what it's like to regain lucidity in Mara's wake. After nearly plunging to his death, Sunday had reluctantly confided concerns regarding the ordeal and subsequent emotional whiplash to Blade. That his condition continues to devolve is troubling, to say the very least. Things are spiraling out of control far too fast.

As if reading his thoughts, Silver Wolf grabs Blade's arm with force. "As soon as he woke up he let go!"

Candlewick gaze coming back to her, Blade places a hand on her comparatively tiny shoulder. Moving closer to Sunday he sits crosslegged in front of him, existing in his dear lover's space without touching. Darkened hindwings shield the man curled as compactly as he can physically make himself. "Tell me more about the dream," Blade says over his shoulder.

"I'm pretty sure it was all happening at different places in Penacony, and there were two other Sundays at one point for some reason?" Hands fretting in her lap with the loss of something to hold, Silver Wolf leaves the cushiony bed to stand beside Blade. "He seemed to expect one of them to be there? Both maybe?? I don't know. They fought and one of them protected me and that's when the real Birdie showed up, but there was this crow thing that turned the other one into an old guy and…" Silver Wolf recalls the way Sunday shrank away in absolute terror of the man. He may be anxiously neurotic by nature, but that level of fear was unlike anything she's ever seen from him. Hands clenching into fists, that fury rears its head a second time. "I'd gut that old bastard if I could."

Blade huffs a low chuckle, amused by the burning sentiment and Silver Wolf looks down at the top of his head with a frown. "I don't think the favor would earn you any thanks, but he'd appreciate the intent behind it."

There's incredibly little Blade knows of Sunday's past prior to his joining the express, but from the amount of time spent in intimate proximity he's gleaned enough to piece together it wasn't exactly a healthy or happy one. Much of Sunday's damages can be attributed to a singular figure, though any attempts to broach the subject are very quickly and aggressively shut down. Silver Wolf's retelling of the nightmare's events only proves to confirm a handful of sneaking suspicions about Sunday's former mentor Blade's held for a while now.

Exhaling through his nose, Blade sighs.

"You'll get lost if you stay out of sight much longer, Dove," he murmurs quietly, taking a single feather between his thumb and finger. Life flickers faintly through Sunday in recognition of his voice and Blade directs Silver Wolf to leave. If she is a majority of Sunday's current anguish, having her here when he comes to is likely to cause more problems than necessary at present. Agreeing, Silver Wolf does as she's told and shuffles to the entryway, watching in awe as Blade works with the practiced patience of someone who's done this exact song and dance before. Which, knowing Birdbrain, he most definitely has.

Blade calls Sunday's name softly once, twice– carefully brushing the ends of his hindwings' primaries. The man hidden behind them shudders at the sensation. Though it bothers him greatly, for the first time in almost a decade Sunday's managed to leave them untrimmed since their last moult some weeks ago, and has yet to adjust to the extra length. Lured ever so gently into the realm of reality, Sunday sinks back into his body excruciatingly slowly. Both pairs of wings shift and fall aside, and Blade lets them slip away from him, leaning in just a little bit closer. Delicately, he takes the man's much smaller hands in his own. "That's it, nice and slow."

Deep undersea, Blade's voice is so very far away. Sunday blinks, trying desperately to focus on the familiar face wobbling at water's surface. From rigid lungs escapes a shaky exhale, wet lashes glittering before widening with a sudden gasp. Like a newborn fawn staring down a hungry dog, numb limbs scramble to detangle from the body they've been asked to move with urgency. "Where's Wolf?! Is she hurt? She's–"

"More worried for you than herself." Blade glances sideways where Silver Wolf yet hovers in the doorway. Thoroughly scolded, she leaves as instructed earlier.

Tension in his body relieved at the news, Sunday all but collapses in on himself. Forewings folding close he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, shoulders silently shaking. With the gentlest encouragement he allows himself to be pulled into Blade's warm embrace with a sob.

Out in the living room, Silver Wolf is pulled aggressively into a hug by Firefly. The panic finally having eased, exhaustion is very, very quickly catching up. M'fine, Sparkie, she assures and the girls part. And even with her own closed, Kafka can still feel Silver Wolf's eyes on her.

"Not the first time I've felt a rebound, Wolfie, imagine it won't be the last. Worst I'll suffer is a migraine," she says, sprawled across the sofa with a cold, wet washcloth draped over her upper face. Conflicted, Silver Wolf hesitates, and Kafka answers before she has a chance to even formulate the question. "You won't find anything online besides sanitized propaganda, if even that much. Better to ask Sunday who he was yourself."

What a mess.

- - -

The planet's first sun tinges the sky, foretelling the long day ahead. Sunday preens in front of the washroom mirror, micro-adjusting his attire until it's as close to perfect as he can manage. Truth be told, he's stalling. Leaning in the doorway waiting for her turn with the tiny space, Kafka knows this.

"Feeling better, I hope?" he asks, polite and strained, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

"Marginally." She matches his tone perfectly and it feels so much sharper coming back at him.

Sunday struggles to keep his upset from gnawing its way free from the cage he's shoved it in. If anyone here has a right to be so, it certainly isn't him. Should Wolf and Kafka choose to take their hurt out on him as the one guilty of causing it then that's just as well, he rightfully deserves every pound of flesh drawn and quartered. "My apologies."

A manicured hand comes down upon the countertop with force and Kafka leans in. Her weight shifts to one side, crowding further into his personal space. "Just where do you think you're going, little bird? You're in no condition to be out there right now."

Once upon a time, such a maneuver would have terrified Sunday. Knowing Kafka as he does now, however? He feels nothing, seeing the empty threat for what it is: concern. "I have to," he counters with a sharp exhale, staring pensively into the sink. Gloved hands ball into fists, frustrated by it all. "My script demands I 'fall' three times and logically, the only instance I've done so thus far has been the incident with the balcony. I cannot abandon the mission and risk fouling things for the rest of you further than I already have."

Like it or not, it's difficult to argue against that.

"Don't take all morning, you're not the only one who needs in here." Pushing off the counter and out of the washroom Kafka sighs, deep and irritated, and Sunday is left alone.

Even if he were able to idle on the sidelines from here on out, he doesn't currently trust himself to be left unattended for any extended period of time, to be honest. All it would take is nodding off exactly once and it may as well be game over without someone nearby to ensure he doesn't harm himself or anyone else while asleep. There is the option of binding his hands and feet, but that would leave him relatively defenseless should he be discovered. He meets his own gaze in the mirror and turns away.

- - -

The two groups meet up at the ruined construction zone they encountered each other previously. Silver Wolf is off to one side conversing with Dan Heng and Welt, the three of them making notes of some kind in her holo display. She sports a blue-grey scarf bunched high around her neck– to hide angry bruises no doubt. A new wave of guilt washes over Sunday with last night's memory and his palms burn inside the fabric of his gloves with it.

All but literally sparkling like a certain Knight of Beauty, Stelle poses for SAM, both flexing in some sort of competition. Spectating their silly game, March notices the rest of the Hunters' arrival and waves for Sunday to join them. He hesitates, almost looking to Kafka for a sign that he may. Disappointed in himself for defaulting to long-broken habits, he pushes the urge to beg permission back down wherever it came. He is a grown man who is not pulling on a leash for simply wanting to visit with a friend he hasn't seen in ages while they have scant few moments to do so. He can speak to whomever he wants, whenever he wants and no one can stop him nor would they want to, Sunday reminds himself.

March beams as he approaches. Without warning she pulls him into hug and her hands are up in his hair, mussing up perfectly styled locks. "I didn't get the chance to tell you yesterday, but your hair's super cute all short like this! Sooo soft and fluffy~"

Infected by her boundless energy, Sunday leans into it with a fond sound, troubles already feeling smaller by the minute. "I'm glad you think so. I wasn't sure of it at first, but it's grown on me quite a bit."

"It really suits you." Leaving his hair more askew than it was previously she stands beside him, resting against his shoulder with a smile. He rests his head against hers in turn, tucking that wing out of the way.

"Are you doing alright? Welt's been concerned since yesterday but you seem okay to me right now," she asks, curious.

Sunday quiets, considering his response carefully. To be truthful or not– that is indeed the question. Can he yet trouble her with his burdens, having been distant for so long? Even if he could, should he? As if March wouldn't see right through him if he lied, anyway. Always has he been like an open book to her.

"You've been thinking about it too long, who do I gotta fight?" She puffs up, shadowboxing the air. "Is it Kafka? SAM? I'll fight all the Hunters, I don't care! Line 'em up 'n they can all have a taste of these fists of righteous fury!"

"It's not the others, I promise you, March." Sunday chuckles bemusedly before sobering. "I'm… unwell at the moment, is all. You can't see how so at present because I've hidden my true appearance under a disguise for peace of mind. I wish I could share more with you but I genuinely don't know what's wrong."

Taking one of his gloved hands in hers with a small smile, March huffs a short laugh. "Don't be sorry, silly! And I know you'll be alright, you're a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for. You'll figure it out!" She nods her head resolutely, sure of her arguably misplaced conviction.

Of all the people to be so immediately understanding of his feelings, who else would it be but her? Never once has he deserved March's friendship, and he certainly doesn't now, but Aeons is Sunday glad she exists in his life to share that endless care with him on the occasions they cross paths. Measuring his breath, forewings hang closer and Sunday swallows. Ohhh he can't start crying, hold it together man! If he loses it now he won't be able to stop, wound so tightly he's been.

"Okay but for real, do you have some kind of beef with Blade? He keeps looking over here with a menacing aura," she deadpans behind a hand, glancing between he and Sunday.

Sunday's forewings flap a few times and he reigns himself back in, heart a mote lighter than it was. "I assure you we don't. Far from it, actually. I promise Blade's not so frightening once you've gotten to know him."

The image of a Mara-crazed Blade pursuing Dan Heng relentlessly launches to the forefront of March's memory. "…You sure?"

"Twenty times so," Sunday reiterates, smiling easier now. "Just watch." He looks over at Blade and smiles at him with a gentle wave, halo shining dully. Blade doesn't give him any kind of response before looking away, but his intensity has, infact, visibly diminished. Pink brow raised, a picture begins to take shape in March's mind, dots slowly connecting with loose string and pushpins. She squints at Sunday, scrutinizing his too-fond-to-be-platonic gaze.

A shrill whistle pierces the air, drawing the group's scattered attentions to gather round.

"You–" Silver Wolf demands, pointing directly at Blade, "gimme a boost." Blade grunts in annoyance but does as asked, easily hoisting her up onto his shoulders. Now at a more advantageous height she settles, flicking her holo display up higher and enlarging it for easier demonstration.

Something indecipherable flickers across Dan Heng's features for but the briefest moment. In his mind a little girl with lilac hair and happily wagging tail rides atop her father's broad shoulders, paraded with a giggling squeal. He gently returns the thought to its little box, placing the worn thing upon a high shelf with reverence. Not the time nor the place.

"Nice to see you taking lead for a change," Kafka praises and Silver Wolf rolls her eyes at the sarcasm.

"Don't get used to it, you don't get think about retiring yet."

Kafka's smirk widens at her sass. "Retirement" can only mean one thing in their line of work. Each Hunter can only hope their scripted deaths are swift and kind in the future Elio weaves. Well, Kafka might want hers prolonged actually, depending on the method employed but. Y'know. To each their own.

Returning to the display, Silver Wolf opens a series of hastily illustrated plans, adjusting the size a little more. Ferried as necessary from one end of the display to the other explaining the steps of her plan, she and Welt lay it all out step by step. With the Stellaron having fallen into an expansive memoria reservoir, both the Hunters and the Express' crew will split into small groups to cover more ground while she and Welt remain topside to monitor. Each group will be given one of four IPC devices capable of reducing the effects raw memoria has on the mind and body. These devices have been modified to allow brief instances of communication between them, as anything else electronic becomes inoperable once within range of the Stellaron's energetic field.

The explanation finished and any questions answered, teams are decided.

"Blade's with me," Dan Heng asserts before anyone else has the chance to make a claim otherwise. He looks to the taller man, calm and collected as always. "Any objections?"

Indifferent, the swordsman only shrugs, nearly upending Silver Wolf with the motion. Annoyed, she bops the top of his head with a closed fist and he lowers her to the ground.

"Take Sunday with you, then. You can use him to calm Blade's Mara if it becomes problematic," Kafka chimes in, not looking up from the device in her hands while it calibrates. "A failed command while under the effect of his Tuning will also forcefully solve the problem if you can't manage otherwise."

"It's not the most… productive method overall, and I try to avoid resorting to such measures if I'm able," Sunday helpfully adds, "but it works in a pinch if there are no other options."

Dan Heng nods in understanding. He's been forced to put his estranged former husband down in self defense on a number of occasions– he'll be ready to do it again if need be. He looks to Sunday, who nods politely in acknowledgement, then back to Kafka. "Understood."

"Looks like it's me and you two, then," Kafka gestures to Stelle and March before handing her device to SAM. "You alright being on your own? I know you've been itching for a playdate."

"Less risk to any of you if I encounter hostile memes." Accepting the device, SAM nods once, early morning's light glinting off their armored suit. "There's always time to catch up later."

Plan settled, the groups make their way to the crater, avoiding the increasing number of bubbles rising from the ground. At its bottom pools a sparkling, pastel body of water. The thing looks like something unnaturally placed in a sandbox game because the player paid premium currency for a cosmetic skin they ended up not really liking but are determined to make work anyway, nuking a section of their build to make way. Leaning over the pool's edge, Stelle whistles at the sheer dropoff hidden just below translucent blue. Dan Heng preemptively grabs one of the straps dangling from their coat, knowing they're likely to try testing the surface by walking out over it. Still, they reach out with the toe of their boot and press down. The memoria bends under the weight but holds steady, surface tension resistant.

March makes a face, picking up a rock and tossing it far as she can. Instead of sinking with a splash as physics dictates it probably should, it bounces several times before finally settling. SAM's jets flare to life and they take off, rocketing into the center of the pool. Surface shattered, thick waves roll outward. With a silent prayer and held breath Sunday is the first to follow, setting off a chain reaction as the others join. Diving in is like sinking underwater– slow and heavy. Bubbles of air cling for dear life to sluggish bodies as they descend, drifting up towards the once again still, mirrorlike surface. Deep below are a multitude of tiny lights, twinkling like hundreds of stars.

Blinking in a shimmering wave along a dark, serpentine body, multitudes of neon-ringed eyes watch the group disappear into the inky blackness. Silent as death itself, the creature follows.

- - -

Five dots occasionally blink on a screen depicting an underground cave system. On another right beside it, wave graphs denote fluctuations in the Stellaron and memoria field. Both remain virtually unmoving. A good sign, all things considered.

With her feet propped up on expensive equipment, Silver Wolf occupies the time spent bored on lookout duty as always– with her internet connection. Welt, on the other hand, browses the few old and out of date magazines kept within a built-in bookshelf.

The unlikely duo have taken occupation of an abandoned sentry tower left by Plei-Bertigh's law enforcement, both for the security of being above street level and for better signal piggybacking off planted IPC sensors monitoring the memoria field and Stellaron's conditions.

To be quite honest, Welt's astounded at just how extensive Silver Wolf's protective measures are. From hidden sentries posted in both the elevators and stairwell leading up to their perch, and out at random points within the empty streets, to total control of both governmental security cameras and those belonging to local businesses. Even digitally she leaves virtually no footprint, masking her connections to each network at least fifteen times.

Should the IPC (or anyone at all, really) make a move within her endless web of eyes, she'll know and have them promptly dealt with.

Curious as to what she's doing, Welt peers at the hacker's busy holo display, noting a few tabs and search queries have been pushed off to the side under containers labelled "maybe?" and "probably not", with most belonging to the latter. So engrossed in her excavation through deep web searches and the Express' archives, Silver Wolf fails to notice his hovering so closely behind her.

"Memoria research? I would think you and yours would've done so beforehand," he questions, accidentally startling her. Had she been at a computer proper, she likely would have tossed the mouse for how sharply she reacted.

Apologetic, he steps away. "Apologies, Miss Silver Wolf. I didn't mean to frighten."

"Ugh, you sound like a grandpa. Just Wolf is fine." She waves him off, adjusting her headphones back into place and continuing her organization. "We didn't know there was even gonna be any memoria until we saw it for ourselves. Even when it sucks, scripts are nondescript for a reason. Anyway, I'm not digging around for the mission."

Welt tilts his head, curiousity building. "Oh?"

Another tab discarded, onto the next. A pink bubblegum bubble blows and pops. "I gotta figure out what's eating Birdbrain's…well, brain– before it kills him or someone else. So here I am working overtime for his sorry ass."

Recalling how awful sunday looked, Welt presses for information. "It's fairly obvious he's unwell, what exactly's wrong with him?"

The girl makes a face, contemplating how much he, and by extension the rest of the Express, need to know. Saying anything at all would betray Sunday's trust, but they're a little too far past the ability to keep his condition contained much longer. Hell, for all she knows he's causing problems as they speak. Her only consolation is that Blade and Dan Heng are more capable of handling him should the need arise.

"What isn't wrong with him, honestly," Silver Wolf repeats Kafka's joke, worrying the outer hem of her bandanna. "But to be real, it's like he's been possessed or something."

"And you're assuming it's related to his memoria sensitivity," Welt ponders.

"What else could it be?" Silver Wolf adjusts in her seat, gesturing with a hand. "We got a guy who's more allergic to memoria than the IPC is to charity, and an overabundance of Stellaron-mutated memoria. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to put two and two together."

Fair enough.

Chapter Text

"Strangely aquatic for a place such as this," Sunday puzzles, examining one of the many colorful coral formations growing at odd angles. Overhead, a large creature drifts lazily, its exact shape and size difficult to make out in the dark.

It's almost like being in a deep sea aquarium tunnel, except there's no glass preventing their drowning, and the dimly glowing corals guiding their path are real, not light fixtures. While it's not unheard of for memoria to behave in odd ways without being shaped by one versed in its manipulation, such extreme cases are incredibly few and far between.

"How does the water do that? Thickened surface tension, perhaps?"

"Feels like Cloudhymn magic," Dan Heng answers.

Sunday looks to him inquisitively. "Like that practiced on Xianzhou ships?"

Blade makes no comment as they traverse the narrow pathway, but Mara's agitation subtly grows. Dan Heng has a sinking feeling he knows where they're going. "Yeah. Don't know why it would leave such a strong imprint here, though."

Water's incessant drip, drip, drip, echoes off dark, slick steps worn into ancient stone, the incline eventually opening up into a bamboo forest. Unseen birds sing happily above the foiliage. Sunday is the first to proceed, unhindered by shackles of a shared past.

Something dark settles over Blade and Dan Heng notes the shift in his presence immediately.

Eyes closed against the roots twining round his mind to force their way into its stem like a parasite, Blade says nothing, descending into that memory-laden forest. Dan Heng can only hope there are no surprises lurking within or beyond.

Knowing the pathways like the back of his hand, Dan Heng leads their party quickly through the lush and sprawling zone until green gives way to open air and serene gardens. Adjacent to a very obviously Xianzhou-style palace, the overall aesthetic sense pushes an opulent influence.

"How stunning," Sunday remarks, awestruck by how immaculately maintained even the most ornate displays are.

"It is. Well, was, at least. I wouldn't know how it's changed since I was here last," Dan Heng muses. All things considered, it's likely the exact same as he remembers.

His people have long remained stagnant, one of many problems he tried to solve in his past incarnation with little lasting result. This ever-unchanging garden is but a perfect reflection of those failures. Dan Heng wonders absently how often Bailu is able to pay it visit to ease her spirit. These grounds have always been calming, even to the most turbulent of moods. He would know.

"You know this place?" Sunday tilts his head, attention coming to Dan Heng. There is something unusual going on here, the only real question being why the memoria reacts so strongly to he and Blade's memories. The stellaron's corruption could be partially to blame, but that alone doesn't account for everything.

With each step taken, remnants of bygone days nip at heels like a pack of starved dogs. Pulled from his brooding before it could settle, Dan Heng's head and shoulders roll in reluctant agreeance. "Could say that."

An understatement at best, Blade bites under his breath and Dan Heng must hear him, because he immediately shoots the man a cold glare.

Barbed words land where otherwise they would not, and in a rare display of outward frustration, Dan Heng snaps. He stands at his full height, posture straightening more than it already was. "Why don't you explain where we are to him then, since you clearly remember so much for once."

Blade's pupils narrow, intensifying. If looks could kill, Dan Heng would currently be crumpled into a compact ball like a discarded scrap of paper. "Need I remind you which of us is responsible for that to begin with?"

Brows raised, Sunday looks between the two surprised and a little unsure of the unexpected interaction. He knows well enough what Blade can be like when Mara has him riled, and Dan Heng shares a likewise stubborn streak under all those collected layers of calm. They don't have the time for this though, and quite frankly, Sunday would rather not be involved in whatever this is right now.

Exactly as intended, the provocation only serves to spur Blade's former lover on. He wants to play this game? Cool. That's fine. "You want to know what I think?"

"Here we go– you always did know best, didn't you?" Blade scoffs with a dismissively annoyed gesture, urging Dan Heng to continue, "Lecture me with your infinite font of wisdom."

Blazing full steam ahead, Dan Heng speaks over him. "I think you're afraid of the fact he's not as dead as you say he is and it terrifies you. Because what was all this for if he isn't? What was the point?"

Horns locked together like a pair of dueling stags, long-smoldering cinders catch on dry timber, threatening an insatiable inferno. So rarely does the flame have opportunities to feed, when it does it gorges, indeed.

"You've become nothing more than a hypocrite, Yingxing– berating me for running from the truth when you haven't stopped once! "

Lopsided grin splitting his face, a razor sharp cackle crawls its way from deep in Blade's chest to die on the ground between them, "So these are your true feelings, Imbititor Lunae. Go on then, let it all out, save us both the trouble of pretending–"

"Enough, " Sunday demands, colors pulsing in Blade and Dan Heng's vision halting both where they stand, "I ask that you calm yourselves and set aside whatever grievances you bear until after the Stellaron has been properly contained. After that, you may do as you so wish."

As if doused with cold water, the trance is broken and Dan Heng stands down immediately with a heavy exhale. Blade remains visibly furious but holds his tongue as asked. Taking a breath, Sunday then suggests they take time to cool tempers before pressing on.

"Not a bad idea," Dan Heng agrees, attempting a recovery from the outburst. "The ambient memoria is significantly thicker up ahead, I'll see if we can take a side path to circle around it."

Once he's taken no more than five steps he turns around, something sharp behind his eyes aimed directly at Blade. "Stay with Sunday," he orders before continuing on his way.

Blade scowls at the Vidyadhara's retreating back. As if he has anywhere else to be at present! He knows that's not what Dan Heng means, but damn if he has any say over when and how Mara manifests. It's not his fault the memory zone has taken on this appearance, anyway!

Successfully circumventing a wholly unnecessary conflict, Sunday plants himself on a decorative boulder. Slouching with a deep sigh, he's appreciative of the chance to give aching joints a rest. His left knee has been particularly sharp in its pain of late.

Just one more thing wrong in the already overstacked pile, he thinks, unfastening his coat to allow hind wings room to breathe. So long has it been, he's forgotten how horribly uncomfortable it is to keep fully-plumed wingspan under the constriction of clothing for any length of time.

After stretching out cramped muscles and preening rumpled flight feathers back into some semblance of order, he watches Blade pace tense circles back and forth like a pent up predator in an enclosure far too small for something of its size.

Frown wrinkling his brows, Sunday approaches cautiously, waiting for permission to come any closer. "Do we need to take a moment?" he asks, forewings spread wider with the tilt of his head.

The Marastruck regards the shorter man. Despite the phrasing, he gets the feeling it wasn't a question able to be dismissed. Candlewick eyes flicker fiercely, illuminating overgrown grass and reeds now standing waist high in his vision.

Sunday takes a step forward through the windswept overgrowth, voice softening. "If you're concerned, don't be. I can still do this much."

Branches full of swollen fruits toss in dark winds overhead, their ripeness fit to burst. Relenting, Blade accepts his advance and leans down for Sunday to bring their foreheads together.

"Focus on my voice, on the shape of each sound. Allow all else to slip away until only you and I remain."

Sunday hums a soothing melody from his childhood, easy Harmonic waves lingering even when Blade's eyes slip shut. His own closed in concentration, Sunday cards through his hair, unable to catch how it dyes in response to his touch only to fade in its absence.

Golden leaves withering, the forest in Blade's mind thins into an open meadow and his breathing slows in relief.

Returned from scouting, Dan Heng quietly observes the pair. Sunday doesn't particularly need to be so intimate when using his Tuning to calm another, nor was he ever inclined to be so during his time spent aboard the Express. And Blade… Dan Heng can't remember the last time he looked so at peace.

The song ends, Sunday's voice quieting with it. He holds Blade's face carefully in his hands, thumbs padding over rough skin while his hindwings, akin to a second pair of hands, reach for Blade's hips. "Better?"

"Enough." One of his hands comes to rest atop a possessive wing, thumbing the bony joint. "You look better like this."

"I could wear the most garishly tacky garb known to all mankind and you'd still say I was beautiful. Your opinion is horribly biased, I'm afraid."

"I wouldn't be wrong."

Exhaling through his nose, Sunday huffs a small sound with a fond roll of his eyes. "If nothing else, I'm finding it to be more comfortable to leave them out."

Blade hums. Aware of their spectator's presence, he straightens, and Sunday's hands drift down to his paramour's chest. "How long do you intend to gawk?"

Sunday jolts as if stung with the realization of their companion's return, unnecessarily dusting himself off in attempt to ease his awkwardness and pretend he was doing literally anything besides openly flirting with Dan Heng's former (possibly still??) lover he shares an overly complicated relationship with.

"Not exactly eavesdropping if you're not trying to hide."

If Sunday didn't know better he'd say there was more than a hint of offence and… something else to his voice. Jealousy, perhaps? An odd emotion to come from Dan Heng, but stranger things have happened and are currently happening.

Blade gives Dan Heng nothing but a dry smirk. 

Break over, Sunday continues taking in the sight of the garden as they continue deeper into the memory zone.

It really is beautiful beyond description, clear pools and bubbling streams full of colorful fish and vibrant plants and corals. But despite the serene peace, a growing sense of being followed gnaws at Sunday's ease. It doesn't help that previously lively birdsong has fallen eerily still to the point Dan Heng's noticed it as well, he and Blade both more on guard than when they first entered.

The very air's charged, humidity rising as clouds gather thickly overhead with the threat of rain. Still, Dan Heng tries to keep the mood from dampening too much, making light conversation in apology for his behavior earlier.

"Blade, huh," he questions, hesitant, once the aforementioned is a certain distance ahead of them. 

Sunday blinks, unsure what to say. He doesn't get the chance to defend himself or otherwise respond, anyway– croaking loudly, a large, abnormally elongated bird launches from a pond at Dan Heng. It flutters aggressively near his head for a moment, tossing water everywhere before taking flight, zooming past Blade.

Looking back at the commotion from where he's gone ahead of them, Blade's rigid as stone, hackles as visibly raised as a cat's arched back. A modicum of confusion crosses Dan Heng's face.

"Trespassing these grounds is a gravely punishable offence," an authoritive voice calls from behind and Dan Heng's blood runs cold. He knows that voice, and there's absolutely no logical way for him to be present, even as a meme. There's also no logical way for the memory zone to look the way it does, but here they are and here he is.

Floating just off the ground is none other than the previous Imbibitor Lunae, Dan Feng, glinting tail scales casting water's reflection on the ground around him. Long, silken hair drifts in darkly rolling waves, a stark contrast to the pale coloration of his garb.

Cloud Piercer manifesting, Dan Heng's arm shoots out in front of Sunday defensively. He levels his predecessor with a fierce gaze and Dan Feng remains unflapped by the welp's tenacity.

The physical similarities between this stranger and Dan Heng are striking, Sunday realizes. Cold, jade eyes meet his for but a moment and he suppresses a shudder, hair on the nape of his neck standing on end. Sunday gets the same feeling from this man as when Kafka's gaze lingers a touch too long– that hair-trigger nervousness of a lamb being considered for slaughter.

Blade's vision tunnels, immortal ribs far too constraining for the ginkgo-leaved mass rapidly outgrowing its cage of bone and sinew.

"How curious," Dan Feng contemplates, icy as the gaze that drifts between the trespassers. Pointed ears tick up and his own Cloud Piercer manifests just fast enough to prevent him being sliced in twain. Something ripples minutely in Dan Feng's flat expression, sparks flying in the space between he and the silver haired swordsman.

Eyes and grin wide, Blade laughs, wild and untamed. Dan Feng remains an immovable mountain in the face of a raging typhoon. His expression shifts again and a water spout pushes the Marastruck away.

Dan Heng's posture shifts in alarm at the change in Blade's hair. He can't spare time to question the implications further– with Dan Feng occupied, he and Sunday need to take the opportunity and make a run for it.

After sending his attacker crashing into a wall, Dan Feng sets his sights on the perceived weakest link but is intercepted by a flaming shield. Holding him back, Dan Heng grits his teeth, strengthening the shield's integrity against the High Elder's might as best he can. "Sunday–! Run, now! "

There is an urgency to his voice the Halovian has only heard maybe twice total from him in all his time spent travelling alongside the Express. Sunday's torn, but defers to Dan Heng's judgement nonetheless. With Blade so lost in his mind and this stranger having even the unshakable Dan Heng rattled, it's far safer to retreat temporarily than wind up collateral under friendly fire– a lesson he'd learnt the hard way in a mission gone sideways shortly after he'd joined the Hunters.

Granting Dan Heng a Harmonic blessing in the shape of a halo, Sunday blinks away golden ichor and takes off, not looking back. A watery draconic summon rises to pursue him but Dan Heng's own flaming dragon blocks its path. Sparks flying overhead as the summons tussle, Sunday tumbles through the circular stone gateway ahead and emerges into an indoor corridor, the exit firmly sealed behind him.

Clouds above darkening, the first sprinklings of rain fall in thin spatterings.

Dan Feng frowns at the fiery imitation of his summoned spirit. "I know not what Cloudhymn magicks you wield, but I grow weary of this charade."

In perfect synchronization, he and Dan Heng twirl their Cloud Piercers with a flourish before lunging at eachother fast as lightning. The dragons clash overhead, dispersing with a crack in a downpour of steaming water. Dan Feng draws a circular shape and jets of water erupt around him, forming into missiles that launch at Dan Heng.

Merely seeing his enemy has doubled, Blade swings Shattered Sword skyward in the Dans' direction, bright, scarlet energy cleaving all in its path. It's all Dan Heng can do to throw out a shield moments before impact, cursing under his breath. Dan Feng seizes his opportunity, sending Dan Heng crashing to the ground with a powerful kick. Draconic pupils narrow slits, he follows up immediately, hurling Cloud Piercer with deadly force straight at Dan Heng's chest. Flames flickering out, he braces, shield weak and splintering but the impact never comes. Something warm and wet does, though. Opening his eyes, Dan Heng gasps at the man standing over him.

Blade sputters, red droplets falling to the ground. Ornate hair sticks slip from their place to clatter against cold stone with a deafening sound and Blade shakily reaches for Dan Heng before his body buckles, Cloud Piercer still embedded in his chest.

A familiar scene comes rushing back to Dan Heng in a flood of bloody memory– of fighting alongside Yingxing in an ambush one moment only to be shoved from the path of a volley of crossbow bolts the next. Of the all consuming rage and hatred for those who plucked his beloved star from the night sky. Dan Feng, mirroring that ages old frozen shock, slowly drifts to the ground while the storm stills around him, the very raindrops themselves hanging suspended midair. When the reality of what he's done finally sinks in, Dan Feng rushes to Blade's side, dropping to his knees in horror.

Watching history repeat in third person is such a strange phenomenon. Like a dissociative episode, almost. Dan Heng already knows what comes next, but understanding the phantom's pain as his own, does he have the strength to put the poor thing down?

All at once the sky lets loose a torrential downpour. Vicious winds whip around the High Elder, grieving wails deepening into dragon's roars as a waterspout grows around he and Blade, forcing Dan Heng back. Upon bursting, Dan Feng's halfway transformed into something draconic, cradling his deceased lover to his chest. Verdant scales have rusted irreversibly, and gleaming rubies weep mourning rivers in their agony. The memory warps to reflect the Scalegorge Waterscape and Dan Heng readies himself, fire again sparkling to life in a clawed palm.

- - -

Sunday wanders through what seems like endless halls and encounters nary a soul, memetic or otherwise. After having passed by a particularly inelegant sculpture for the fourth time, he's certain he's somehow stepped into a circular dream. Lacking in familiarity with both the location depicted and the memoria hosting it, it's proving difficult to figure out exactly what perpetuates the loop and what might be necessary to end it. So far the pattern has been: hallway, corner, hallway, door, garden, door, creepy hallway, corner, repeat. With every cycle the corridors get longer, the sun sinking farther to edge distant mountains now, painting the sky a lovely shade of dusk.

Hallways? Always vacant.

Garden? More and more overgrown.

Doors? Unlocked and unbarred, each and every time.

This is, what? The thirty-fifth round? Thirty-sixth maybe? Opening the door to leave the garden again, a pair of voices sound faintly from the other end of a no longer empty and unsettling corridor. To the left about halfway down the hall is a new corner to turn, perhaps Sunday could use it to avoid whatever memes come his way. Ducking behind a decorative screen standing in said connective corridor, he listens for their approach. One of the voices sounds remarkably similar to Dan Heng, but the other… Sunday swears he's heard it somewhere but can't place exactly where. They draw nearer and Sunday's halo shines briefly, rendering himself nigh invisible.

"I will not tolerate a repeat of last time, Yingxing," Not Dan Heng scolds.

"Yes, yes, of course, my moon. I promise not to keep you waiting overlong, I know my stubborn prince gets so terribly impatient when there's something he wants."

The owner of the familiar voice, "Yingxing" comes into view– a middle aged man of muscular build, thick salt and pepper hair pulled into a bun with decorative hair sticks. He brings the gloved hand of his companion to his lips in chaste kiss to the knuckles. Face slipping into an arrogant grin against soft leather, he purrs, low and husky, "Though I do so love your punishments."

The hand held smacks the one holding it. Stepping into view his companion scoffs in feigned annoyance, though their face is nothing short of enamoured. "Obviously. Why else would you test the limits of my patience so readily?"

The hairs on Sunday's neck stand on end. Before him is the same man from earlier, with someone who looks uncannily similar to Blade. ...Actually, now that he thinks about it, isn't "Yingxing" the name Dan Heng called him earlier?

Wait.

If this is Blade… Just who is this other person?? And why do they look like Dan Heng???

Arm slipping around his waist, Yingxing pulls Possibly Dan Heng closer with a cockeyed smirk. "Are you insinuating I would cause problems on purpose? Awful bold claim to make, Your Highness. I do hope you've the proof to back it."

Fond but playing along, Possibly Dan Heng closes the gap between them, close enough their breath intermingles now. "I daresay you're intentionally provoking me this very moment."

The whole scenario feels invasive, like one should not be witness to such intimacy. Sunday takes a slow, careful step backwards, planting his foot directly onto the creakiest board to ever exist.

Jade eyes fall over him immediately and Sunday's heart all but stops. Yingxing follows Possibly Dan Heng's gaze down the visually empty hall, then back to him quizzically. Not one to be ignored, he gives the man a gentle pull and they move on, arms linked. "You and your dragon senses. I swear you're worse than Sesame sometimes, staring at things that aren't there."

"Ex-cuse me? Did you just compare that fat, lazy furball to–"

The door leading to the garden slides closed and Sunday lets the breath he's holding go. Dear Ena, he mutters, and continues down the loop's new branch, away from whoever those reflections were. At the end of the hall is a door, one made of fine wood. Opening it reveals the bamboo grove he and the others first came through and Sunday steps out into the dappled midday sunlight. Following a well beaten path, he eventually comes to the shores of a mist shrouded lake. Close to its center stands the shadow of a lone island, solitary scarlet pavilion visible from the shore even in these conditions. Looking at it makes Sunday's head ache.

Sparring matches, bureaucratic work, drinks shared between friends, the cruelties of war– images and voices he doesn't know flash within his mind in rapid succession, nauseating in their speed until the delicate tinkling of a windchime brings it all to a screeching halt.

Nestled within a veritable nest of cushions, a lone figure enjoys nature's serene quiet. Plumb blossoms drift on gentle breeze, stray petal landing on the dozing man's head. Silently, an old starskiff repurposed as a boat drifts up to the rickety wooden dock. Its passenger departs, heading up the hill towards the pavilion. The silver-haired man leans in the entryway for an indeterminate amount of time, enjoying the sight of his beloved moon napping peacefully. He creeps silently closer, mindful of Dan Feng's coiling tail.

Dan Feng cracks an eye, wary of the approach and Yingxing visibly deflates, his opportunity for mischief evaporated before his very eyes. "That can't can't be a pleasant place to sleep," he says, brow raised.

Still sleepy, Dan Feng smiles up at him, all but physically glowing with joy at seeing his husband. "Maybe to you. I think it's just fine."

"So long as you're comfortable," he disagrees with a chuckle, settling down beside the man carrying his child. "It's your body doing the doing the work, not mine. But I don't want to hear you complaining later."

Dan Feng taps his chin contemplatively, considering the image of his husband swollen with child. Hmm, not bad. They'll have to try it that way next time. The rituals would need heavy amendments of course, but that's a concern for later. "It could be yours," he suggests looking over, coy smile playing across his lips.

Yingxing snorts. "I think not. I prefer my work uninterrupted by morning sickness, thank you very much."

Dan Feng laughs. In their closeness, he studies his guiding star's features. Oh, how his age wears deeper by the day, it seems. How much longer they have to spend together is uncertain as ever. For the first time in an age, Dan Feng finds himself dreading time's inexorable march, counting every second and dreading each's departure. He reaches to cup his beloved's face. "My darling star."

Taking Dan Feng's hand, Yingxing brings it to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to his palm. "Awful clingy, aren't we? I'm not on my deathbed yet, stop worrying so much." Adjusting to lay on his side, he snuggles more closely, arm coming to rest over Dan Feng's very pregnant stomach. "Have you given any thought to a name yet?"

Dan Feng hums contentedly, patting Yingxing's hair. The stubborn tuft at the peak of his fringe's parting defies efforts to be tamed, springing defiantly back up with each stroke. "How about █████?"

The memory zone glitches severely at the word's mention– idle hours whiled away in peaceful accompaniment twisting into spilt blood and rising flames. 

New life's first cries are the wailings of malformed offspring birthed from a rotten womb. Infantile tantrum wreaks only destruction, killing several and injuring many more, including its sire. Too late to put an end to the madness before it can begin, Jingliu can only watch as what became of her beloved's desecrated corpse thrashes in unfathomable pain.

"I don't understand…" Dan Feng mutters, despairing and in shock. Adorned in blood both his and not, afterbirth yet crowns its host. "We followed everything exactly, why did it fail?! I… I don't–"

"Have you no shame?!" Jingliu bellows, her fury colder than ice. A squadron of Cloud Knights follow closely in her thunderous wake. "Did Baiheng mean nothing to either of you?!"

Alarmed by her presence, Dan Feng whirls. How were they discovered? She shouldn't be here, especially not primed for war. "It wasn't meant to be like this– you must understand, Jingliu!"

"Imbibitor Lunae," she bites, the title a warning as much it is a call. Her image is clear as cloudless sky while all else begins to blur, silver hair flowing like a veil behind her. "Its weakness, now."

"Wait, I beg you reconsider–" Dan Feng pleads desperately to save his child, "if we can just calm her I know I can revert–"

Scarlet eyes flash. "If I must ask a second time, the only thing left of you to present before the Ten-Lords for judgement will be a frozen corpse."

Utterly rejected, Dan Feng turns from her, staring long and pained at his firstborn. A coughing fit to his left is the only thing to pull his gaze away. Battered and bloody, Yingxing clutches the shrapnel piercing his side, keeping it in place as best he can to slow the bleeding.

Expression hardening before fading to an empty, blank slate, Dan Feng turns to his former friend with grave resolution. "If she is anything like myself it will be her forehead, between the eyes."

Temperature dropping drastically, a thick layer of frost quickly appears upon surfaces. The swordsmaster launches her assault and everything blurs beyond recognition.

Sharp pain rips through Sunday's skull like daggers and he all but doubles over because of it. Breathless and sweating, he clutches his head, writhing in overstimulated pain. "Enough! I've seen enough–!!" he screams in unending agony, nose bleeding profusely. 

Sweet whispers call his name and he jolts, staring out over the placid lake. They call again like honey, and all pain recedes with the tide. An irrefusable siren's call, Sunday rises and walks into the rippling water. The surface becomes choppier the farther out he goes, until a rogue wave knocks him off balance and sends him under.

For as close to the surface as he'd just been, Sunday finds himself farther below than he should be. Little light comes through at this depth, wibbling weakly across his form. Slowly rising from inky blackness, a dark shape drifts towards him. All at once a rippling row of neon cotton candy ringed eyes open and Sunday gasps, forgetting where he is and inhaling the brackish water. Short, webbed arms reach out to grasp at his shoes, bony fingers equipped with long, thin claws. Sunday struggles, kicking at the thing, but his movements are hindered by his being underwater, far too sluggish to dissuade the creature.

Climbing its way up, the thing rears back to reveal a singular, rapidly pivoting eye embedded into its bony chest. The eye abruptly zeroes in on Sunday's face and he finds it impossible to look away. A pair of spindly wings lined with countless more spread wide while gaping maw unhinges to reveal rows upon rows of needlelike teeth. Sunday panics, attempting to push away at the beast. The all encompassing eye strengthens in intensity and azure pupils dilate to eclipse flaxen irises, the faintest rings forming around them. Sunday stops resisting.

The creature strikes with intent to kill.

From singular spark springs a dragon that catches the beast in its fiery maw, dragging it back down to the depths. Spell broken, Sunday gasps a breath, only ankle deep in the icy cold water. Around him the forest burns in recreation of the memory witnessed.

Under the crushing gravity of a thousand unblinking eyes, Sunday bolts blindly into the woods. Until battle cries and weeping dragon's wails fall silent, until the flames' heat no longer bears down his back, until rolling fog consumes all in grey void.

His foot catches upon a gnarled tree root and he trips, coming down hard onto mowed lawn. Panting, Sunday pauses to catch his breath and survey his surroundings. It's hard to make anything out clearly, so dense has the fog become. There appears to be some kind of building ahead, but its purpose remains indistinguishable at this distance. Drawing closer, lips part as he realizes exactly where the memory brought him. And who, of all people, should he find lying in freshly trimmed grass without a care in the world?

Wonweek. Sprawled lazily like an over-pampered housecat.

Several conflicts play out within Sunday's mind in rapid succession. Oh, this is terrible. He needs to find a way to wake himself and fast before something happens again–

"Sweet Ena, overthink any louder and you're likely to draw that imitation right to us," Wonweek complains, squinting to glower at Sunday. "Relax, you're fine and perfectly awake. For as awful as you look I wish you were dreaming, though. Yeesh."

Sunday's brows furrow. "But you–"

The doppelganger shifts to one side, propping his head in a hand. "Yeah we're not quite sure of the how either. Likely something to do with those whispers you've been ignoring since we came down here. We know you've heard them as well so don't lie to us."

"I've had no reason to believe they were anything more than hallucinations brought on by overexposure to memoria," Sunday objects, crossing his arms. "As I've already been experiencing, I'll have you know."

Wonweek mocks buffing gloved fingernails on his vest with an incredulously disinterested look, indifferent to his counterpart's attitude. "Uh-huh, and that parasite in our brain is just sitting there on its thumbs doing absolutely nothing, too– certainly not devouring us from the inside out trying to find the source of those whispers in vain. Preposterous notion, really. Who could ever think of such a thing?"

Oh.

Huh?????  That leaves Sunday really confused. If this is some kind of joke the execution needs major work. "What nonsense are you dreaming up now? The only parasite in my life is you."

Wonweek's mouth opens only to close. Sunday continues staring at him like he's grown a second head. "Right. You don't remember, only we do," he sighs, long and hard. Damnable woman. "So! The short of it is you've been literally losing your mind to a meme ever since you got roofied the other night."

Sunday's head throbs with his attempts to recover the events Wonweek speaks of, the faintest memory of pulsing lights and too loud music floating frustratingly just out of reach. The deep sense of go no farther permeates his mind every time he comes close to remembering.

"Don't pop a vein trying to remember; Kafka buried it in Whispers. Shallowly, mind, but bury it she did."

Sunday looks at him, disbelieving and hurt in equal parts. Having his memory tampered with would certainly explain the inability to recall anything within a certain time frame, but why would he not be made aware of the tampering after the fact?

Wonweek seems to read his mind or maybe his thoughts are just that visible. Likely the latter. "Some twats got handsy after spiking your drink, and in your altered state you couldn't recognize she and Blade. It was necessary as much for their sake as it was yours in that moment," he recalls calmly, lacking the usual teasing bite of his mannerisms. "The only reason we remember is because you never told her about us. Rather difficult to alter something you don't know exists, though we've the feeling she might have an inkling now."

Veil lifting from memory like a funeral shroud, suddenly grasping hands are all over Sunday– holding wrists, pulling at clothes, rough and uncaring in singleminded endeavors. Riding in amongst the influx of swirling recollection, drumming bass quiets and leather gloves morph to familiarly scarred palms, the shadow looming over bearing down with greater weight.

"As to why they didn't inform you, I haven't the slightest clue," Wonweek continues, oblivious to the raging tempest consuming dear Sunny. Eyes flicking over the man, he rights himself. "Most likely, Kafka didn't want you to swan dive off the deep end in the middle of the mission like you're about to now."

Visibly shaking, Sunday speeds through every stage of grief at a hundred kilometers an hour, stopping just short of bargaining on the outer fringes of anger and denial. "You're lying." Fists clench and unclench repeatedly and hindwings itch, begging for relief. "You're lying to me right now."

Wonweek drags a hand down his face. They don't have time to bury heads in the dirt and play pretend. Gesturing with an arm, his voice raises in frustration. "That thing used you to attempt murdering Wolf, but yes, you're totally fine! Just peachy keen!" he shouts, unrelenting in the slightest. Wonweek's brows curl downward, wrinkling the soft skin of his forehead. And then it hits him. A delay in shared sensation, memory, experience– of mangled feathers spread wide above and warmth in places it should not have been below.

A distance grows between the two. Sunday stares through the ground, into some far away place, an ache burning between legs.

"Sunday," Wonweek says softly after a time, "Father knew better–"

Sunday's face darkens and he lunges to throttle Wonweek, toppling them both over and they tussle. "Don't you dare refer to him like that–"

Stilling himself to bear it, Wonweek doesn't fight back. How could he? He knows the depths of that pain, the anger, the loathing. It belongs to him as much as it does Sunday. Neither are sure when the first punch is thrown but Sunday's got Wonweek pinned underneath him, arm drawn back for another when he just…stops, the fight having left him.

Hot and angry tears soak the dark fabric of Wonweek's vest and a gloved hand rises to cradle Sunday's head, bringing it slowly to Wonweek's steady chest, keeping it there until shaking breath eventually evens out.

Sunday sits up with a wet exhale, roughly wiping away snot and tears on a sleeve. His eyes are like painted glass, dull and hollow. "Kafka saw," he states after a beat, flat and plain. "Hard not to, I suppose."

"She doesn't think anything less of you."

An exhale. "I know."

"Nor would Wolf, had she witnessed any more than she did in that nightmare." Wonweek huffs a subdued sound. "She cares for you quite a bit, that one. They all do."

Sunday doesn't respond for a long time. Slowly he rises to stand over his alter. Knowing he's going to be left behind once again, Wonweek hums, resigned. "Don't worry about the others, I'll clean up your mess like always. Go do what needs to be done, I'll be right behind you."

Something in Sunday's expression shifts and Wonweek smiles up at him. Despite being so close, Sunday's still so, so far off in the distance, silhouetted by the light of dawn. Perhaps someday thery can share in that light side by side, no longer needing to play catch up, but today is not that day.

- - -

When Blade wakes, he's cold and soaked to the bone with rain and briney saltwater but pressed close to an achingly familiar heartbeat. Half lucid, he gazes at the indistinct blur above him, recognizing it distantly as his beloved moon's draconic form. Turning into that faint warmth his body rewards him with screaming pain in his chest that drags him kicking into full consciousness.

Right. He died. The circumstances for his current state make more sense now.

Avoiding being caught by thrashing talons, Dan Heng notices Blade's finally awoken and wriggling. Good, he could use that spear right about now. Craning his neck at his name being called, Blade catches Dan Heng's eye and wordlessly knows exactly what needs done. On the mental count of three, Dan Heng bashes into Dan Feng's face with the whole of his spiky, armored body, swiping at the dragon's eyes with flaming claws and sparks. While the maneuver doesn't do much to damage the rampaging High Elder, it's enough for Dan Feng to loosen his grip on Blade while trying desperately to rid himself of his enemy.

Blade then uses the distraction to rip Dan Feng's Cloud Piercer violently from its place among his ribs, thrusting it into the dragon's throat. Dan Feng jerks and screeches in pain, only causing more damage to himself in the process as Blade's weight tears a jagged wound open in a waterfall of blood. Now in freefall, he tosses the spear roughly in Dan Heng's direction before he hits the ground. Dan Heng catches it, redirecting the momentum with deadly precision between weeping, crimson discs.

After the storm's settled and the memory put to rest, Dan Heng finds Blade bleeding out against a broken Vidyadharan egg. How many times has he found his past lover in this exact state, and how many more has he been the one to leave him like that?

Wordlessly, he sits beside Blade to offer company while the immortal waits for death's ever temporary claim. It's not the first time Dan Heng's extended such a kindness– both then and every instance after spent hoping for both their sakes it's the last time he'll ever need to.

Blade's voice is uncharacteristically small and quiet when he finally speaks. "I'm afraid," he admits.

Dan Heng hesitates. "What still scares you of all people?"

"A few things, yet." The man beside him huffs a coughing wheeze, his gaze falling into the distant sunset. Every increasingly shallow breath rattles in his chest like die across a board. "Despite efforts to the contrary I've become… attached. To the others, to you…"

"To Sunday," Dan Heng finishes for him.

Blade exhales, deep and sharp. Blood-matted silver hair falls to curtain his face. "To Sunday."

Long, heavy moments pass, draped in finest Xianzhou silks. Dan Heng leans into Blade's shoulder and the man's head lolls to rest against his former husband's. "We'll outlive him, you know," Dan Heng murmurs, "our vows will outlive him."

Against the cold creeping through slowing pulse, Blade struggles to keep consciousness long enough to grasp Dang Heng's words. "…I don't understand."

Dan Heng gestures with an arm, "How many years did you spend waiting for me to come around the first time? You then waited even longer when I was figuring myself out in this lifetime."

"What else could I have done..? You always were one to move at your own pace," Blade muses, a bittersweet thing concealed behind warmed jade.

"For better or worse," Dan Heng laughs with a small, pained smile. Blade's trying so hard to keep himself tethered to this realm but he's fading fast. "The least I can do is repay the favor."

Blade considers the words, tucks them between third and fourth rib for safekeeping. Finally allowing tired eyes to fall closed, he slips away silently into the beyond.

Dan Heng sighs in the stillness. Nothing is ever easy between them, but especially not death. Never death. Always hurts like the first time all those hundreds of years ago. Coreflame's power fading, Dan Heng's garb returns to its normal state. Weight in his coat's inner pocket urgently reminds that Sunday has been exposed to the memory zone unprotected for far too long.

Chapter Text

Gilted thorns light the way down long abandoned manor halls and decaying garden. Past every dilapidated memory made, Dan Heng and Blade follow dimly glowing vines until dark passages open into the blazing skeleton of what was once a sanctuary full of light and love. The moon bears full and heavy overhead, its silver light dancing with fire's reflection in crystalline ripples. Scattered amid the destruction are corpses of unarmed disciples and Cloud Knights alike. The two quicken their pace.

Movement in the right of his peripheral vision draws Blade's attention and noticing he's no longer following, Dan Heng slows to a stop, moving to see what's caught his eye. Battered and grieving, Dan Feng and Yingxing limp away from the mess they've made. Despite his own bleeding, the High Elder bears most of his beloved's weight.

"We can't change what happened, or what came next," Dan Heng says softly, gaze shifting from the echoes to Blade. "Let them go."

Still physically and mentally recovering from his earlier deaths, Blade shakes with strained tremors at the sight of them. Too close for comfort, a portion of roof collapses, crushing a lifeless, crystalline body underneath and sending embers dancing into the air. Neither man flinches.

Dan Heng understands implicitly when Blade reaches blindly in his direction, taking the Marastruck's hand and dragging him along. "Close your eyes," he instructs and Blade obeys, shutting out the scene. "Do you remember what Sunday was humming earlier?"

A grunt is his only affirmation.

"Okay, good. That's good," Dan Heng repeats, assuring himself more than he is Blade. He doesn't have the Chords to pair with it like their missing companion had done earlier, but it's something at least. "I want you to repeat it until we're clear."

Off in both key and timing, Blade does as asked. In every instance of Sunday soothing his Mara he's been tasked with focusing on one or two specific sensations, so he chooses the tightness of Dan Heng's grip and the vibrations in his own throat. Blade does his best to block out crackling heat of burning timber, to ignore distant wails and dragons' roars he can't be certain are real or Mara's echoes.

Withered branches tangle the path forward in his mind, reaching out to pull, to grasp, to ensnare him within this moment. He tears through but there are just so, so many. Feet eventually falter and Blade slows, breathing labored with the force of his will to refuse Mara's entanglement. He's trying so hard to keep the pieces of a fracturing psyche together, gripping the shattered edges hard enough to draw blood. He refuses to lose himself.

Breath visible in the cool outside air, Blade shudders with a warning. "She's here."

Dan Heng looks up to see who else but Jingliu, bloodspattered glacial sword at her side with murderous intent. Matching her glare, flaming dragon coils protectively around he and Blade– undeterred or perhaps evens spurred on by the familiar's presence, she takes a step forward.

The snapping of fingers rings out and her physical form wobbles like old film before abruptly locking in place.

"My, what a terrifying woman," Sunday's voice echoes from further ahead and Blade's eyes fly open. The missing Halovian rounds the still image, glancing between it and the pair, his expression softening at the sight of them.

Having finally reunited, Dan Heng breathes a sigh of relief, only for concern to pinch his brows. Sunday looks much worse for wear than when he'd left them– bruises bloom, angry, upon the right side of his face, that eye swollen half closed. "Are you alright?"

Hackles raised, Blade steps between Sunday and Dan Heng and the Vidyadhara's eyes flick up at him then back to their companion. Aside from the black eye, there doesn't seem to be anything otherwise off about him to warrant suspicion? His garb's normal, hind wings unclipped, hair the correct length if more disheveled than it was earlier– Oh.

The halo's gone. That would explain it.

Blade looms over the shorter man, dark and foreboding. "Where is the one whose face you've stolen, meme." Right arm folded behind his back, the polite smile "Sunday" wears grows to crinkle his eyes in apparent approval of the distrust.

Ruse seen through, the doppleganger's posture relaxes. Of course Blade and Dan Heng both know Sunny well enough to call his bluffs, rendering deception moot from the start.

"With just a glance… You know him well, indeed," Wonweek coos, forewings flitting with adoration. "Unfortunately, we have no means to ascertain Sunny's exact whereabouts, nor can we prove we're not just some bargain bin knockoff like everything else in this Aeons-forsaken place."

"How can we be sure of your sincerity?" Dan Heng then says, and the dragon spirit hovers menacingly closer overhead.

"Without a halo we lack Tuning. Which means we're at the mercy of Sunday's capabilities –of which you both have the obvious advantage– but if that isn't enough to assuage you…" The Halovian's catlike smile returns, some glint darting across his eye like a fallen star.

The thinning threads of Blade's patience snap. Grabbing fistfuls of the imitator's coat, he pulls the smaller man up to meet him. "Where is he," he threatens, with a low growl.

"What part of we don't know do you not understand? He could be anywhere, quite frankly. But if you want to catch up to him before his tiny little mind turns to mush, we are the only thing that can navigate the path ahead with any degree of certainty." Wonweek remains defiant, easily matching that ignited glare with his own smirk.

Every bit a missing part of Sunday, such blatant displays of dominance only encourage more unabashed behavior, and Wonweek does not share the same inhibitions to behave himself outside more private settings.

Looking up at Blade with a wink, arms rise between their warm bodies, crossing at the wrists. "You know the drill, Loverboy."

"That won't be necessary," Dan Heng cuts in and Wonweek looks at him, arms falling disappointedly limp after a moment.

"Killjoy," he pouts.

Long help him, Dan Heng can already feel a headache coming on. "You say you're not a meme," he questions, tapping Blade on the arm to release the imitation. "what exactly are you, then?"

Leveling the imposter with a warning sharp enough to rival his sword's edge, Blade drops him and Wonweek smooths the rumples from his garb. He answers Dan Heng without diverting his gaze from Mister Tall Dark and Handsome for even a second, too busy savoring their all too brief closeness. "Do you recall the incident just before departing Penacony, wherein Sunday assisted Miss Tingyun with the help of a certain Pepeshi?"

Thinking back, Dan Heng digs through neatly indexed memory for the reports filed by the others. The Halovian waits patiently, knowing smile settled on his face. "The Try Not to Laugh Challenge, correct?"

The words no more than leave his mouth then does the realization dawn on Dan Heng. There's only one reason this thing, whatever it may or may not be, has to bring that up. ".....Sunday also tried it."

"And lost miserably," Wonweek laughs, finally giving Dan Heng a smidgen of due attention, "thus 'Wonweek' was born among a myriad of other fragments. Had things ended even just a little differently, the Sunday you came to know would be very different."

Dan Heng brings a hand to his chin with a hum, puzzling out Wonweek's nature. "That much I understand, but if you truly are a shard of Sunday, how are you able to exist outside his mind now?"

"We honestly don't know, though we imagine it has something to do with the Stellaron's influence on the memory zone. The memetic virus he's been carrying manifests much the same, hunting him ever since he stepped foot into this Aeons-forsaken nightmare." Wonweek tosses the hair from his eyes, hand resting irritatedly on a hip. "Damn thing's persistent, we'll give it that."

Yet wary of their new companion, Blade's remained silent thus far, but that's one thing he can't disregard out of hand as prattle meant to lower one's guard. "Virus?"

"Thought that would catch your ear," the Halovian's smile shifts, not quite reaching his eyes. Wonweek shoots a scathingly polite look directly at Blade and Dan Heng notes the subtle guilty shift in his countenance, "But to answer your question: it was hidden in whatever he was drugged with. Thanks to your approval of Kafka's meddling, the poor thing never even knew the reason for his suffering until just a short time ago."

Painted in fuller context, Sunday's deteriorating condition makes infinitely more sense– and as if anticipating the next words uttered, the doppleganger answers the question on Blade's tongue before it even has a chance to form words.

"No, we don't have the means to do anything about it," he says bluntly. Brows pinch to a near scowl levelled directly at Blade. "Sunday should never have been allowed to continue but not one of you did anything to stop him, knowing damn well his sense of duty outweighs self preservation!"

"If you two don't mind, we suggest getting a move on." And just like that, the conversation dies on the tail of a bitterly acidic sigh. Hindwings flicking agitatedly, Wonweek starts down the worn trail forward without waiting to ensure they follow. He knows they will.

Attempting to piece together what exactly's been dropped at his feet with little context, Dan Heng glances between his companions. Blade's brooding does not offer any hints he could not have already surmised, and any attempt to broach the subject again would likely only agitate "Wonweek" further.

The path tread twists unnaturally, burning forest leading them deep into the graffitied bowels of Dreamflux Reef, all chain linked fences and littered, abandoned streets. A short distance from where they started, memoria shifts like ripples on water's surface. No longer are there two sets of footsteps behind but one, singular, paper-thin presence.

Faulty neon blinking overhead, the all too familiar sound of an aged lighter flicking on echoes from the shadows– metaphoric drawing back of a revolver's hammer, muzzle pressed to the head from behind.

Wonweek has to fight the urge to roll his eyes at the dramatic entrance, as if his own wasn't just as much. "I thought I smelt wet dog," he scoffs at the foreign grip settled upon his hips. "Remove your hands before you lose them, Hound."

"That really the worst you've got?" Gallagher backs away with his hands casually raised, lit lighter held in his right. "Don't tell me my little Birdy went soft after dear old daddy got him kicked out?"

"As I recall, the only one who ever went soft was you," Wonweek bites through derogatory smirk, unwilling to give the man an inch. Out of sight, golden vines snake silently along cracked pavement.

Gallagher shrugs nonchalantly. "What can I say? Not my fault you got boring."

Forewings fanning as arrogantly wide as his smile, Wonweek's head tilts to one side. "Oh? I must say, I remember things quite differently."

With a flick of the wrist the world upends itself and Gallagher finds himself constricted in thorny coils. He doesn't fight or struggle against the bindings, simply allows himself to gently sway from where he hangs upside down.

"Now this brings back some memories, don't it? You always did like playing with ropes." Aeons know he's not just playing with fire, but openly daring it to bite. Though he always did pick the lighter back up whenever it singed him, so what's one more scorchmark among the rest?

Wonweek makes a face. "Ones I'd like to forget, quite frankly."

Lighter's flame burns a bright magenta, intensifying, and Gallagher's scars light up alongside it. "You don't have to keep up the act, you know. You aren't him, why pretend to be?"

Glaring at the captive meme, Wonweek remains unwaveringly steady under the threat of immolation. "Go on then, get it over with if you truly mean to do so. Just know we cannot die so long as he yet lives."

Gallagher only stares into those resolute pools of liquid gold. This iteration of Sunday stands taller, prouder than its counterpart, almost angrily taking up whatever space in the world Sunday won't.

"Y'know, I almost think I like you better! Least you're honest."

"Sunny was plenty honest with you," Wonweek huffs offendedly on his other half's behalf, crossing his arms, "you just didn't want to listen to what he had to say."

"Mhm, sure. He wants to convince himself of that, go right on ahead. I know a liar when I see one, and you're just as bad as he is." The lighter clicks shut and their unwitting audience is allowed to catch up.

Dan Heng's eyes focus in alarm, brows furrowing. The sight before him is very different from how it was a literal blink ago. "What's the meaning of this?"

Wonweek looks up from his leashed mutt. "An unfortunate memory of someone not worth remembering in the first place."

"Clearly left enough of an impression that thing thought it could use me against Sunday," Gallagher corrects.

And almost as if responding to the name, every light on the block fizzles out all at once. Something unfathomably huge passing overhead, shadows that reach long and far cast the replica city in near pitch. Ringed eyes blink open in the blackness above, pivoting erratically.

"Speak of the devil. Birdy, kill the lights," Gallagher instructs, calm of his voice betraying nothing of the severity of their situation. Instantly the vines vanish, dimming the area and dropping their captive to the ground with a heavy thud. Rising to his feet with a groan, he casually dusts himself off. "I know a place nearby, how about a drink?"

Blade and Dan Heng share similarly confused glances at both the suggestion and increasingly bizarre scenario as a whole. Wonweek, however, doesn't hesitate to answer, growling in hushed and urgent whisper. "Yes, now please hurry before it spots us–!"

He gestures for them to follow Gallagher, and with few other options available, they hesitantly do. In no more than ten steps do they reach the Dreamjolt Hostelry, despite the impossible distance between it and the Reef. Wonweek shudders with the vertigo induced by the movement and Blade likewise sways uneasily a few moments, looking a little green around the edges. Used to such motions as a long term passenger aboard the Express, Dan Heng remains unaffected.

Looking around, one of the first things to draw his eye are the comically large roses erupting from their flowerbed amid low lying broadleaved plants. Ferns and other greeneries are scattered throughout the room, with the bulk of them clustered in a lounging area to their left. The hostelry itself harbors few patrons, most of them lonely fools or secretive lovers tucked into the odd corner as an escape from the Sweet Dream's prying eyes and ears.

At the back (or perhaps the front, Dan Heng isn't sure) of the venue, a dusty-blonde Halovian woman stands onstage serenading the mostly empty space with melancholy song. Dark forewings hang seductively low and wide, contrasting starkly against the pearls wound around her neck and the glittering velvet of her dress.

Each and every figmental person in this room besides himself and the others appear faceted, as if carved from cloudy gemstone. Seems these people weren't important enough to warrant more realistic imitations, relegated as props for the setting and naught much else.

Hand held to his head, Wonweek makes for the bar, slumping into one of the seats and loudly complaining the entire time. "Ugh, can't you be gentler? You know how terribly that trick of yours affects us."

"You're the one who wanted me to get a move on. Maybe you should learn from past experience and don't rush me next time," Gallagher retorts as he makes his way behind the bar. Rummaging underneath, a few select bottles and mixing tools are fished out and set atop the counter.

This is… too convenient. Dan Heng nudges Blade and the man glances down at him. Meeting his eye, his gaze then shifts to their two unknown companions and Blade's follows, lingering, taking in the image of the man bearing Sunday's face conversing so easily with this stranger as if he'd been with them from the start.

He blinks and looks back to Dan Heng, who subtly urges Blade to join them while he pulls the memoria shield from its pocket and makes to inform the others of current developments.

Wonweek adjusts in his seat upon Blade's approach, tossing one knee over the other as the man seats himself beside the smirking Halovian. In the dim light, he's the spitting image of Sunday from another time, another place– Blade doesn't remember where exactly, just that he couldn't keep his eyes off him.

He must recognize the recollection, because Wonweek's head tilts in the same inviting way Sunday's did then. "Finally decide to join us?" he lilts, easy smile playing across his lips.

Pulling his gaze away, Blade leans forward on the countertop, hands resting loosely together. "For now."

Wonweek shrugs lightly and continues his chastising. This "Gallagher" doesn't take it too seriously, nodding and humming along while he prepares a drink for him.

Someone dear enough to Sunday the virus could use them as a weapon, huh? Blade sifts through muted memory for anyone like that Sunday's ever mentioned. Given this fragment's casual friendliness with him, Sunday's adoptive father is out of the question, and it's also clearly not his sister, so who..?

Digging deeper, a lingering remnant of intimate musings clicks into place. "I know of you," Blade finally realizes, interrupting whatever Wonweek was saying. "He loved you."

Staring a moment into the glass he cleans, a strange look travels across Gallagher's features. Somber, he acknowledges. "Even without all that Family bull, we'dve never worked."

"Being caged won't stop a bird's dreaming of flight, Puppy. You of all people would know that," Wonweek coos, swirling the amber liquid in his glass around a large ice cube.

"Those bird metaphors, I swear." Something fond grows across Gallagher's features and he smugly gestures to Wonweek, weight shifting with the motion, "See? Told you. Memorable enough the current boytoy knows who I am."

With a toothlessly fond roll of his eyes Wonweek's head falls to rest in his hand, elbow propped up on the counter. "Don't let it go to your head," he says into his glass before taking a drink.

Quite pleased, Gallagher hums and his attention turns back to Blade, eyeing him up and down. Younger end of middle aged, well built, hair more salt than pepper curtaining his face to cascade around his shoulders and back. Hmmmm. Yeah, checks out. "Let me guess, sweet talked you after a one night mistake?"

Blade frowns at the insinuation Sunday would ever try to take advantage of him. Even if he had and Blade didn't recognize it for some unknowable reason, Kafka would have stepped in before things between them had a chance to go anywhere. The enabling of certain behaviours in Sunday only came later, once he was already long past the point of in too deep.

"The first was unintended, yes. I don't regret it, or any that came after." Candlewick irises flicker, resolute in the surety of their truth, "Of the countless regrets scarring my body and soul– he is not among them."

The expression Wonweek wears so comfortably with the depth of Blade's devotion can only be described as one of complete and utter adoration. He'll dutifully carry these words back to Sunday, hold each syllable close to their heart as a reminder whenever he may need it.

"He's got you wrapped tight around his little finger, don't he?" The older man huffs an amused laugh and Blade hums in agreement.

"Perhaps."

Dan Heng finally rejoins the group, minute expression on his face for but a solitary moment before it schools into something restrained.

Gallagher sighs, melancholy. "Y'know, I think the real me woulda liked to meet you. He'd get a kick out of just how far Birdy fell off that high horse of his."

Blade blinks. Right. This is all just a reflection of Sunday's memory– a snapshot in time given false life. Before he can respond, double doors on the stage's left burst open and are promptly slammed back closed. Tense and ready attention falls on the culprit leaning back against them.

Said culprit is a Halovian child wearing a lilac dress, no more than ten at most, panting and wheezing like they'd just run a marathon. Looking up at their surroundings and spotting Wonweek, the silver haired child runs at him but is stopped by Dan Heng warily blocking their way.

"You have to help my sister!" the young boy urges, distraught tears welling in his eyes. "Mister Wonweek said you'd help us, you have to, please!"

Wonweek rises to his feet and pushes past their protector. Kneeling to be at the child's level, his voice softens with intent to calm him. "Who said we could help?"

"Mister Wonweek!" the boy reiterates. "We were playing princesses together when Mr. Wood found us and got really scary, and Mister Wonweek told us to run but Robin stayed with him–" the boy's distress just keeps climbing and Wonweek puts a hand on his little shoulder to ground him. "You have to help her, Sunny!"

Blade and Dan Heng share a look. "Is this..?"

Wonweek doesn't feel the need to answer. It's fairly obvious who this boy is. "Sunday, I need you to calm down and be strong for her, okay?"

Sniffling, the child wipes his snotty face on the sleeve of his sparkly dress, humming affirmation.

Ever the voice of reason, Dan Heng remains cautious. "Are you sure this isn't a trap?"

The boy perks, forewings flapping, "Mister Dan Heng is very careful, but Mister Wonweek gave me something to prove I'm not lying. I can show you!" Reaching out to touch Wonweek's face he closes his eyes, disproportionately large halo glowing a moment before reappearing behind Wonweek's head in a flash of light.

Halo he should not be bearing heavy behind him, Wonweek looks over his shoulder at the group. Sunday is weakened without it, and Wonweek is very aware of the danger he may be in for such drastic action. "Enough for you?"

Leaning on the bar, Gallagher addresses the boy. "Where they at, kid?"

Sunday's child self looks up at the man. "Mr. Wood's manor. But there are monsters all over, though."

"Figured as much," Gallagher mutters under his breath.

Wonweek clasps the boy's shoulders, serious. "We'll go find Robin and Wonweek, but you can't come with us," he says and the child protests. "Now, now, we might not be able to protect you and I know she wouldn't want to see you hurt, so I need you to promise to stay where it's safe, okay?"

"Okayyy. I promise, Sunny," he sulks, and Wonweek holds out his pinky finger. The boy smiles, eyes brightening as he accepts, twining his own around it.

Having rounded the bar, Gallagher gestures for them to move out. "I know a shortcut."

The group hurries down the stairs leading to the ballroom directly beneath the Hostelry and sure enough, strange, tarlike creatures roam about. Wonweek doesn't wait. With a wave of an arm, three Echoes morph into puppets and pirouette into the center of the room. The creatures attack immediately and are promptly torn to goopy shreds.

Impressed with the viciousness, Gallagher whistles and Blade doesn't try hiding his smirk.

The things don't stay down for long, however, scattered pieces reforming while yet more thunder in from connecting hallways. Group's movement now hastened, Wonweek tries to corral the creatures but they slip through the vines as fluidly as water.

The creatures coalesce into something larger, sweeping unhindered across the room. The group barrels through the door on the north side of the room and quickly shifting memoria, Wonweek seals the door. It won't hold for long, but it's enough for the moment.

On the other side, they've found themselves back in the Reef mere meters from the elevator to the city's second level. Stepping aboard, the gate slides automatically closed behind their mismatched gang.

Standing on the other side, Gallagher's scars begin to glow, pink sparks falling from them.

"Wait–" Wonweek lunges forward, "Gallagher!"

Looking over his shoulder as the mass bursts through the doors, Gallagher's attention falls fully on Blade. "Be good to him or I'll haunt you."

Sparing one final glance at Sunday's shard, his lighter clicks shut and the hall is consumed in marvelous flame. Wonweek backs away from the gate as the elevator begins its heavy ascent. Wordlessly, Blade brushes his knuckles against Wonweek's in gentle support.

At the top is the inside of a grand manor, and Wonweek is the first to step out. Small, faceted memory crystal hovers ahead and touching it brings to life a short recollection of events. Standing opposed are a haloless Sunday and none other than Gopher Wood himself.

Gopher's crystalline image scoffs offendedly. "Answer me this, Sunday– is the life Robin chose for you truly in your best interest? How many lives have you ended by your own hand? How many more ruined by the cancer that so called prophet chases?"

"You speak as if you weren't abusing a Stellaron for your own ends," Sunday snaps, his voice acid.

"A fair point to be made. The difference, dear boy, is intent." Gopher slowly nods once in acknowledgement of the truth. "Can you tell me honestly what Destiny's Slave truly seeks? He promises paradise but can you, with absolute certainty, believe he speaks honestly?"

The memory ends and the group presses on.

The next is found in the manor's parlor. Seated among a younger iteration of himself and Robin, Sunday yet bears his halo so this must be an interaction from earlier. The child Sunday did say they were playing together, after all.

Another in the library shows Gopher walking Sunday through. The children follow closely behind him. A vaguely canid beast dripping with inky ichor descends from overhead and Sunday urges the children to run. The memory ends.

Leading Dan Heng and Blade through his childhood home, Wonweek's agitation only grows with each memory viewed. Wonweek grits his teeth, a white-hot incandescent rage not quite his own bleeding in from elsewhere. "We're close."

Around a corner, two faceted figures stand without memory's activation.

Sunday, once again haloless, visibly seethes, fists clenched into tight fists. "How could I ever meet your impossible expectations of purity when all you touch tarnishes by your very own hands? Or am I simply so far beneath your lofty ambition you can't be bothered to remember the atrocities you commit in THEIR name?!"

Pinching his nose, Gopher shakes his head with a frustrated exhale. "Are you done behaving like an overly spoilt child? I raised you to behave better than this," he asks flatly with distinct parental disdain. "Actions have consequences, Sunday. Every sin demands punishment."

Dan heng lifts his head, wrinkling his nose at the acrid scent of smoke leaking in. "Do you smell that?"

Used to the smell of flames, Blade turns around and Wonweek is nowhere to be found.

- - -

"So you're telling me," Silver Wolf leans forward in her chair, unbelieving, "Sunday was drugged with a meme?"

Welt nods, understanding her skepticism. "The strain used isn't particularly common as of yet due to difficulty in manufacturing and relatively short shelf life, but yes."

"What the hell." The girl brings her palms together in front of her face, processing. "Wait can you kill it?"

"Treatment is the same as any other memetic infection. Though typically the meme itself is designed to burn out shortly after initial infection to avoid shattering the victim's psyche."

"I guess that makes sense. Can't exploit the poor fools if they're braindead," Silver Wolf says, leaning back.

Welt's brows knit loosely together, mildly put off by her candid demeanor. "Regardless, there shouldn't be many lasting side effects, but this is Sunday we're talking about. When was it you said these symptoms started?"

Silver Wolf counts the days. Oh. It's been the better part a week already– how Sunday even still functions at all is a miracle that probably warrants studying. "How long is it supposed to last?"

Flashing screens and screeching alarms is her answer as their perch begins to shake, rattling magazines and trinkets from shelves. Silver Wolf plants her feet on the floor for stability, both she and Welt alarmed by the unforecast seismic event. Outside, spires of crystalized memoria sprout erratically before the earth itself cracks open in places, bright, golden light spilling forth. Welt jumps to his feet, flicking through screens assessing the situation.

All three dots depicting those inside blink out.