Chapter Text
Regardless of how flawless a plan may be, irrespective of how ornate a stage is upon which talented actors stand to deliver a performance that fools even the self, the human element introduces an uncertainty that seeps into those minuscule cracks and calls for improvisation.
He was not Elio. None of them—save that girl, Firefly—were beheld to a script to dictate their every move.
He thinks, if for a fleeting moment, that if destiny were to lead him beyond this Planet of Festivities, life as a Stellaron Hunter wouldn’t be so bad, if only for the certainty provided, however vague.
An image of Gallagher flashes through his mind. He perishes the thought. Sunday is strictly beholden to Their teachings, besides. He would not cast that away for such self-serving reasons.
Though it was imperative that Sunday trap Welt Yang and Robin within his mindscape, as he saw the feigned hurt on his sister’s face when he told her a truth she already beheld, he could not.
There was little margin for error, and yet, he, with the ropes in hand, let them slip.
They coiled tight around his sister, and members of the Oak Family dragged her back, rushed to the Grand Theatre.
Sunday now stands alone in the desolate theatre, pristine white gloves dipped in crimson. Feathers are scattered about, and dull eyes reflect a prone raven, breathing its last. But it was not over. Far from. While those… vultures held Robin in captivity, he could not lower his guard for even a moment.
“So,” Gopher Wood croaked, “It has come to this, then.”
“Indeed,” Sunday intones, his fury cold as ice. “It has. Master.”
“She will—”
Sunday steps on its wing. Bones crunch under his sole. He allows himself a moment of gratification. “No, father. She will not sing. Robin is not your puppet.”
Not in the way he has been. Sunday draws breath, clenching and unclenching his fists.
“Even with her brother’s life on the line?”
Sunday bares his teeth in a snarl. “How dare—” no. Remember your composure. Breathe. In, and out. In, and out. He smiles an unnerving smile that fails to reach his eyes. The Nameless are well on their way to seal the Stellaron; he simply needs to buy them time. Just a little longer. They will soon find their inheritance and put an end to this corrupt farce. “She trusts in me as I trust in her. You understand little of faith—especially that between siblings. Between family.”
“And what of her predicament, Sunday? As you have turned on humanity, will you turn on her, too?”
Sunday’s blood runs cold. Scenarios play out in his mind; were Gopher Wood’s agents in Robin’s room in reality as they had been in his, ready to strike? He thought of his sister, maimed as he was, bleeding out in the once-tranquil Dreampool.
He should—he should return to reality, a voice whispers. Return now, and undo it all.
But—
“I have never… turned my back on humanity. The Order must not—and will not—descend so long as I stand guard! Humanity will attain paradise through a shared will, not a false dream upheld by sheltered children who know nothing of the world. A forced paradise wrought not through entelechy but imposed by the unknowing is no different from a gilded cage!”
—Aided by those who believe in him, he has made his choice.
The bird’s eyes—cold, lifeless pearls—peer into the very depths of his soul with an emotion he’s never seen on Gopher Wood’s face before.
Disappointment. Complete and utter disappointment. Disdain packed in such a small body, hurtled full force at his once so obedient ‘son’. “You were so malleable,” Gopher Wood laments, cold, detached. As though he views Sunday like nothing more than… than…
Sunday sets his jaw.
“Despite my best efforts, you’ve turned out to be such a—”
No.
Don’t say it.
Please.
“—Failure.”
Sunday’s agony bursts forth in a wail. A deluge of psionic energy erupts and claims any unfortunate enough to be in its vicinity—including his erstwhile master, and Sunday himself.
Ragged breaths fight their way through his tightened throat.
The thing lies lifeless beneath his feet. Trampled, but without suffering. There’s a peace to it that lights the fuse of an anger Sunday fears the depths of, billowing into a raging inferno.
He stomps his foot.
“I am not—”
Down again.
“I have never been—”
Again.
“A FAILURE!”
No matter how the concept takes hold. No matter how his inside voice sneers and repeats it at him, over and over again.
The fault lies not with Sunday. Not with the child whose hand was held from a young age, subtly dragged away from choices unbefitting of the Order. Stolen.
Gopher Wood’s avatar is unrecognizable. Reduced to a pile of gore by Sunday’s hand. He recoils, stumbles back, and loses his balance. He hisses in pain as his coccyx hits the ground, cold and unforgiving.
As the silence of the Grand Theatre coils around him, Sunday realizes that in this instant, he feels utterly alone. Abhorred by his own act of violence, of desecration and with Gopher Wood’s final verdict of his person repeating like a mantra in his head, he does as he would when scolded or hurt as a child. His shoes glide across a pool of blood while he pulls his knees to his chest. Pristine white clothes stain an ugly crimson, and the urge to clean joins the unbearable cacophony in his head, fast reaching a crescendo.
His jaw starts to hurt from how hard he’s been clenching it. Tears well up in his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. Muffled voices approach, slow, yet inexorable in their trek to his location.
Sunday inhales.
His chest tightens. He isn’t getting enough air.
Again.
He curls his fingers around his shins, gripping the fabric of his trousers.
Breathe, damnit!
Bre—
“...Mr. Sunday?”
A voice calls out for him. Gentle. Warm. Like a ray of sunshine seeping in through the cracks of Sunday’s self-imposed prison. He shamefully lifts his head, blinking wearily to banish the last of his tears from his visage.
Ah. He knows that man. The one he was supposed to imprison alongside Robin.
“You… are…” Sunday still struggles to breathe. The man offers his hand, accompanied by a smile, patient and kind. Sunday reaches out but hesitates, hand freezing in mid-air. His gloves may appear stainless, but the sin of parenticide dirties them.
He must appear as pathetic as he feels. Curled up amidst such carnage, his dignity gone with the wind.
Welt Yang remains steadfast. Even as his companions push forward—urged on by the elderly man himself—he stays, his hand lingering.
Sunday takes a deep, shuddering breath, overcome with a wave of relief when he realizes that the tightness in his chest has eased up somewhat. He quietly begs forgiveness as he takes Welt’s hand and allows the man to help him up.
“Can you stand?” Welt asks, looking over to where his companions are.
“I… I think so,” Sunday murmurs, clearing his throat. He tests his balance, affirming Welt’s question with a nod. “Yes,” he says, forcing a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Yang.”
The man chuckles, letting go of Sunday’s hand. That warmth he so generously shared disappears. Sunday feels slightly disappointed. “Ah… please, call me Welt.”
“Please. You are deserving of my respect. I insist,” Sunday responds, falling in step with the man. “Though, I must ask… why come find me? Your main objective is the Stellaron. The seconds are ticking away as we speak.”
And you are only accelerating the countdown. Useless.
Sunday’s lips twitch. He doesn’t drop his smile.
“Miss Robin worried for you. According to her, that wave of psychic energy that swept through the Theatre likely came from you. She pinpointed your location for us. As Nameless, we’d be remiss to ignore anyone in need of help,” Welt explains. His intonation is nice, Sunday thinks. Soothing. Despite lacking gruffness, it shares that kind, genuine cadence of Gallagher’s. Sunday’s smile turns a touch sincere as he thinks of the man.
…And then his pupils flex and widen and his hands are on Welt’s shoulders, because—
“Where is Robin? Is she safe? What did they do to her?”
Welt holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “She’s fine, Mr. Sunday. She’s quite the tough young woman—she fought off her captors and seized her freedom with her own two hands. I assume your psionic attack may have given her the upper hand.”
Sunday sighs, long and loud, and even permits a soft chuckle, pride welling up in his chest. “...Yes. My sister… is a very resilient and strong woman. Stronger than I.” He abruptly releases Welt, wings drooping down slightly as he realizes how intense he was in his worry. “Ah, I… I apologize. I did not mean to seize you as I did. Forgive me.”
Welt shakes his head. “I understand the worry for one’s family all too well.”
As they catch up with Welt’s companions, Sunday clasps his hands behind his back in a last-ditch effort to preserve even a sliver of his dignity. “I must apologize to you all as well, having to see me in such a state… it is entirely unbecoming of me.”
“What’re you talking about? Didn’t you just kick major bird-butt? Um, even if he was kinda, you know…” March 7th pipes up, interrupted by Dan Heng.
“...March,” he sighs, then turns to Sunday. “But… indeed. There is no need for apology, Mr. Sunday. You’ve paved the path for us.”
“To Trailblaze ahead, right?” Stelle adds, “Thanks, Sunny! You know, that speech you gave earlier, when you be pretending… seven Sundays don’t sound that bad. Can we at least keep that bit?”
Sunday chuckles softly, his heart strange as he hears the nickname Gallagher occasionally uses to tease him uttered from another’s mouth. “Part of me is still inclined to agree. But, from what I know of the Nameless, do you all not come and go as you please?”
“The silver rail guides us,” Welt says, “But, in essence… you could call us ‘free spirits’, in a sense.”
Himeko lightly pokes Welt, “Even at our age.”
“Miss Himeko, you left quite an impression on me,” Sunday admits, turning her gaze to him. “Your words… truly struck a chord. Even if I do not hold the beliefs my past self clung to… I wish to believe that even he would have found merit in your words and resolve.”
Himeko smiles. Behind her gentle demeanor lies a fierce spirit. Even so, she winks at him, and says, “Why not join us on the Express sometime, Mr. Sunday? An ally in the Family is a powerful one… and you absolutely must try my coffee!”
“Uhhh… you might wanna watch out for that,” March whispers to Sunday.
“I heard that, March. Perhaps you’d be willing to sample my next batch?”
“On second thought, good luck, Mr. Sunday!” March pats him on the shoulder and quickly rushes over to join Stelle and Dan Heng. Sunday, confused by this mix of reactions and the almost pitying look Welt gives him, along with the sparkle in Himeko’s eyes, just smiles.
“I’d be delighted to, Miss Himeko.”
Himeko’s smile seems to brighten a touch. “Wonderful! Nobody seems to appreciate them—I end up having to throw out a lot.”
Sunday frowns. That doesn’t bode well. “I see? That is a shame…”
“But enough about that. Let’s continue our little chat after we deal with the Stellaron.”
Everyone seems to be in agreement with that. There’s a palpable sense of relief in the group that Sunday doesn’t quite understand, but he doesn’t ask. As they arrive at their destination, Sunday says, “And here we are. This is the core of the Theatre. I presume the energy of the Stellaron is at its most intense here.”
Himeko and Welt share a look. March and Stelle marvel over the sheer size.
“Leave the next part to us, Mr. Sunday,” Welt says, putting a gentle hand on Sunday’s shoulder. “You have been through a great deal in the span of a day. Please, take a rest.”
“You can count on us!” March pipes up.
“Yeah!” Stelle agrees, adjusting her hat. She definitely didn’t have that before. She catches his stare and pushes out her chest, looking proud. “Feast your eyes on the Watchmaker’s legacy!”
There must be a deeper meaning to it. Sunday smiles and nods politely, permitting himself a soft sigh. As much as he wishes to see a certain Hound, he’s exhausted most of his energy. He clears his throat, bringing his fist up to his mouth as his cheeks take on a rosy hue. “Very well. I leave the Stellaron to you all… and, ah, if I am permitted a request… please relay to Gallagher that I will return after I rest, and that I… ah, that I wished to have told him that myself, but…”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Sunday! We’ll give your boyfriend the message,” March says, giving him a thumbs up. Sunday’s cheeks promptly turn a bright red and he looks away, coughing loudly. Dan Heng sighs, muttering an apology for March’s behavior.
Though his tumultuous mind is far from calm… the resolution has come at last. Their soothing hums sound in his mind and Sunday knows in that moment, as he drifts between sleep and wakefulness…
…He’s carried out his part with pride, and finally, he, too, can rest easy.