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mrpenguinpants · 3 months ago

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Memorabilia [ Commissioned ]

— Unable to sleep, Sunday seeks help from the Astral Express's most unusual crew member. With each anecdote, he wonders if, someday, he too will have pleasant memories of companions to reminisce.

Word Count: 13k

Request: [ A platonic first encounter/found-family fic between the Astral Express and a male reader. Due to an accident, the reader is corrupted and has a "glitchy" appearance with multiple voices in their head. ] Reader is based on an OC, so there are a few extra details/lore, but no OC names or physical details are mentioned. This is still an x reader fic. [Masterlist]

Thank you so much for commissioning me and trusting me with your OC although this fic doesn't feature him specifically. I hope I did his lore and character traits justice. Regardless, I hope you like it!

It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes... sometimes, the memories claw their way back into Sunday's mind, suffocating and unrelenting. They descend without warning, shadows of a past he can never escape. Images of a time when he had pinned his own wings down, seep into his consciousness like spilled ink creeping across the parchment, staining everything they touch. They are vivid, merciless, and inescapable, dragging him back to the place where ambition bled into ruin.

In these recollections, he is not a distant observer; he is the architect of every misstep, every wound, every betrayal. The walls of Penacony stretch endlessly before him, their grandeur gleaming like a lie. Marble floors echo with each step, cold and unyielding beneath his feet, while gilded walls glimmer with an opulence that now feels hollow. They form a labyrinth—beautiful, yes, but suffocating—a maze carved out of blind conviction and arrogance. He strides through them as he once did, head high and eyes forward, an Aeon in form, resplendent and untouchable. But that same pride, so intoxicating back then, now feels distant and alien, like a suit of armor he no longer fits into. The faces are always there, clearer than he’d like, sharper than he can bear. They loom in the shadows and step into the light, their expressions shifting with every memory that takes shape: admiration, fear, then quiet simmering resentment. Their eyes cut through him, piercing the illusion of grandeur he once wore like a shield. He feels their gazes heavy on his skin, weighing him down, their unspoken accusations louder than any words. He remembers the promises he made—the oaths spoken with all the fervor of someone who believed he was doing what was right. Words that once rang with purpose, gilded by his ideals, now echo hollowly in his mind, stripped of their luster. Their weight grows heavier with each repetition, each memory, pressing down like the cold hand of inevitability.

And then, the worst of it: the downfall. The moment his grand vision crumbled under the crushing weight of his own hubris. The cries of those he swore to protect tear through the air—their anger sharp as blades, their pain sharper still, like a wound that never heals. He sees their faces, once filled with hope, now twisted with betrayal. The very people he had sworn to uplift have become his accusers. The world he had built, piece by careful piece, unravels before his eyes. And he is powerless to stop it. His actions, meant to save, have instead been condemned. What he had thought was salvation—the future he had crafted with such fervor—has become nothing but ruin, a collapsing empire of promises broken. His good intentions, like poisoned arrows, strike true and deep, far deeper than he could have ever foreseen. Each one finds its mark, each one a reminder of his failure. The sting of it lingers long after the dream has faded, the weight of those choices pressing down on his chest as if the very air had thickened in the wake of his decisions. And in that moment, in the bitter silence that follows, he realizes that no matter how hard he tries, he can never escape the truth: he failed.

Sunday wakes with a start, his breath sharp and ragged, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms. The memories cling to him like a heavy fog, stubborn and suffocating, refusing to loosen their grip. His hands tremble as he sits up, the cold sweat on his skin a stark contrast to the warmth of the bed beneath him. His eyes dart around, disoriented, searching for something familiar in the dim light.

Right. He's not on Penacony anymore.

The walls are unfamiliar, not the cold, opulent marble of Penacony’s halls, but the soft, worn wood and steel of the Astral Express. His room—no, his temporary space—is simple, much like the rest of the train, but it's a world away from the grandeur he once commanded. Here, he's just a wanderer. Ordinary and even inconsequential. No longer an Aeon, no longer the ruler of a broken vision. The weight of the past, the crushing responsibility he once carried, no longer weighs on him in the same way. But the echoes of that past still haunt him, slipping into his dreams when he least expects it, reminding him of who he was. He closes his eyes briefly, willing the tremors in his hands to stop, before slowly rising from the bed. The room is quiet, save for the low hum of the train moving through the stars. No pitiful looks of betrayal, no echoes of failure—just the distant sound of a train journeying onward through the vast unknown.

These flashes of mistakes made, when Sunday dazes off unintentionally, March had dubbed it "dream paralysis." In her ever-cheerful logic, the term made perfect sense—it was like sleep paralysis, but trapped within the labyrinth of his own thoughts and dreams. A clever turn of phrase, at least in her eyes. But no matter how neatly she labeled it, the reality was far from simple. To him, it was a suffocating experience, a haunting that left behind an uncomfortable weight—a constant itch beneath his skin that couldn’t be ignored. The feeling was relentless, the sensation of being trapped in a nightmare where even waking didn’t offer escape. More often than not, it ended the same way: a desperate sprint to the bathroom in the dead of night, where he’d stand beneath scalding water, scrubbing his skin as if he could somehow scrub the discomfort away. His skin would burn, reddened, and raw, but the rashes that followed only mocked him. They were a cruel reminder of his futile attempts to cleanse himself of a discomfort that ran far deeper than his flesh. It wasn’t just his body that was being scratched at—it was something deeper, something he couldn’t reach. Despite Mr. Yang’s steady, measured advice and Miss Himeko’s gentle, empathetic suggestions, nothing seemed to ease the unease that gnawed at him. It remained stubborn and unshakable, no matter how much he wished otherwise. Yet, for all his frustration, there was no way around it... until Caelus made a suggestion. It was a well-meaning idea, of course. Caelus, always the problem-solver, had come up with something that seemed harmless enough, but to Sunday, it was nothing short of mortifying. The idea itself was simple, but the potential consequences left him flushed with embarrassment: Would it really help to let someone else know what he was going through?

Tonight, however, the remembrance come with a relentless hunger, pursuing him with unyielding force. Each time he closes his eyes, he sees her—his sister, her beautifully sad smile as they both fall from the sky, tumbling into the depths of the dreamscape. He has no wings to stop their fall and no way to save them. The weight of it drags him down, spiraling deeper into a nightmare that refuses to release its grip. Sunday is tired, truly, deeply exhausted. It’s a weariness that sinks into his bones, leaving him hollowed out, drained of energy and resolve. His eyes burn with the constant strain, the never-ending conflict between the waking world and the one that holds him captive in his sleep. His head pounds, the rhythm of two worlds pulling him in opposite directions, each tugging at him until he’s stretched too thin to bear. His gaze shifts toward the door across the room. It’s sealed tight, yet somehow, it calls to him, its pull irresistible, like a siren’s song echoing in the stillness of the night. Dangerous, but impossible to ignore. A choice looms before him, sharp and undeniable. A path he’s walked many times before, though each time feels like the first, fresh with the weight of uncertainty. With a sigh that carries the full weight of defeat, he pulls his coat over his shoulders. The fabric feels like a second skin, familiar yet stifling. His hands tremble slightly as he steps out of his temporary room, the quiet hum of the Express a constant background to his thoughts. He’s not supposed to feel like this—like he’s walking away from something important. There’s nothing shameful about leaving, about taking this moment for himself. But guilt clings to him, sticky and suffocating, like a secret he’s too tired to keep. It’s far too late to be doing this, but here he is again. Driven by something he can’t fully name, something that draws him away from the safety he’s built for himself on the ship.

Nothing has changed. Nothing ever does. And still, he keeps walking, each footfall a soft echo of a decision he’ll never be able to undo.

The warmth hits him as soon as he steps into the hallway, a sharp contrast to the chill of his temporary space. He’s always preferred the cold, finding comfort in the way it sharpens his thoughts and isolates him from the world. With each step, he tells himself it will be the last. That he will stop, turn around, and retreat back to where he started. He promises himself that this time, it will be different. He won’t dream of them—those people, those faces, those ghosts from his past that refuse to fade. But with every step he takes, the promise slips further from his grasp, a fleeting whisper drowned by the weight of his own exhaustion. Now, standing in front of an unassuming door, the warmth seems almost alien, its presence too gentle, too inviting. It’s comforting, yes—but also unsettling in its softness, as if it carries a weight of expectation he isn’t ready to face. The door itself is plain—just another identical threshold in the corridor—but it’s the small detail on the corner that catches his eye. A sticker, carelessly slapped there by March with her usual irreverence. A simple star, grinning back at him with its wide, beady eyes and too-cheerful smile. At first, it seems like nothing more than a trivial decoration, an innocent touch of whimsy. Yet, there’s something about it—something in the way those eyes seem to pierce through him, like they know more than he does, more than he’s willing to admit. The smile feels a little too knowing, a little too mocking, and for a brief moment, he wonders if it's laughing at him, at the way he feels so far removed from everything this small gesture represents. For a fleeting instant, the urge to retreat, to step back into the cool isolation of the archives, nearly overpowers him. The cold offers sanctuary, a place where he can hide from the world’s expectations and his own restless thoughts. But his feet remain rooted, unwilling to obey the instinct to flee. Instead, something inexplicable pulls him forward, toward the warmth, toward the comfort of the door. Something that feels like it’s asking him to stay, even as he longs to turn away.

He raises his arm and knocks three times, the sound sharp and purposeful in the quiet hallway. He waits, letting the silence stretch out in front of him. If you don’t respond, he’ll simply turn and return to his room—no harm done. But then, a sound breaks the stillness: a muffled voice, static, then followed by the shuffle of footsteps. The mechanical hum of the door's engine stirs to life, and with a soft whoosh, it slides open, revealing you. The Astral Express’s most enigmatic resident.

Though you’ve been traveling with the Express for months now, even before Sunday’s arrival, he doubts he’ll ever grow accustomed to your appearance. He suspects it would never feel “normal,” no matter how long he's stayed in your presence. He doesn’t know the full story—not that he feels compelled to pry—but whatever happened to you, it’s left a permanent mark. Your form glitches and flickers, a jarring patchwork of neon hues that pulse and shift like a broken screen. Bright flashes of color flare in and out of existence, twisting into shapes that defy any sense of order. If he didn’t know better, if he weren’t so attuned to the dangers of the corruption, he might be tempted to reach out—to touch the glowing lights. To see if they felt as unreal as they looked, or if they would dissolve at his touch like mist caught in a breeze. But he knows better than to test the unknown.

"Sunday?" Your voice is softer than usual, a touch deeper as if the hour has wrapped itself around your words. Do you even need to sleep anymore? In the corner of his eye, he can see your hands flicker into particles of shapes that form into gray crosses, "It’s late. What do you want?"

The words aren’t unkind, but they carry a weight that settles uneasily in Sunday’s chest. He’s caught off guard, his breath halting for a moment. There’s something about your tone, something subtle, that makes him hesitate—a pull he can’t quite name, but one he can’t ignore. Even though he knows this is the right thing to do, even though it was Caelus who suggested it, the moment feels different than he anticipated. He stands there for a beat longer than he should, battling the strange urge to turn around and leave.

"My apologies, I didn’t mean to disturb you at this hour," Sunday begins, his tone more clipped than he intends, the words leaving his mouth with a sharpness he doesn’t quite mean. He immediately regrets the faint edge in his voice, but the annoyance festering inside him makes it hard to suppress. Why is he even doing this? Of all people—of all things, it feels ridiculous. He shifts his weight impatiently, unwilling to let the awkwardness fully settle in.

"I—" He cuts himself off, irritated at how he sounds, even to his own ears. Caelus had insisted that he talk to you, someone who might understand the disorienting weight of mixed emotions, someone who’d probably dealt with more than enough confusion himself. But standing here now, the whole thing feels like a stupid idea.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” he says instead.

"That bad, huh?" you remark flippantly, leaning against the doorframe with an air of nonchalance. The words catch Sunday off guard, and for a moment, he freezes, blinking at you in surprise. He had expected the usual volatile reaction—some distorted image of yourself breaking down, maybe even spiraling into an incomprehensible mess of glitches and shadows. After all, he had heard the rumors of your unpredictable mood swings, the flashes of anger, the strange moments when you seemed to slip between states of reality sprinkled with black zigzags. But instead, you reach for him, hand faltering in the glitchy blur of your form before stabilizing, your fingers finally wrapping around the tassel of his coat with surprising precision. The motion is absurdly gentle, like a small tug on a leash, and Sunday, in spite of himself, allows you to guide him inside your room.

He hums in response, a non-committal noise. There’s an unspoken understanding aboard the Astral Express. No one presses too hard, not unless there’s harm meant. As long as your secrets won't bring any danger to any of the passengers intentionally, no one will pry. It’s an arrangement Sunday can appreciate, even if it can lead to many dangerous paths.

As you lead the way, stumbling slightly as your form blinks in and out of reality, Sunday instinctively reaches out, his hand resting gently on your shoulder to steady you. A soft curse escapes him, his fingers tips burning even through his gloves at the slightest brush of your shoulder, as he nudges you just in time to avoid crushing one of Himeko’s gadgets under your erratic foot. Your room is a curious thing, with a charm all its own. It’s not as fluffy as March’s, nor as bare as his own quarters, but it feels lived in, touched by every person who calls the Express home. The small items scattered about—the faint traces of everyone’s personalities—add warmth to the otherwise utilitarian space. He can almost sense the traces of each person’s energy here, something unique to the crew in every object. It’s not a place of perfection, but it feels like it belongs to someone. To you.

"Interested? Need a bedtime story to go to sleep?"

Sunday blinks, momentarily caught off guard, then looks up to find you smiling at him with that familiar, teasing grin. The static hum around you pulses gently, soft yellow stars twinkling across your face and words, distorting the edges of both as if the world itself was slipping between reality and dream. It’s a strange, almost hypnotic sight, something he only see in the dreamscape. He huffs softly, a small exhale of air that escapes almost involuntarily, before looking away. His gaze drifts to the side, lingering on nothing in particular as he settles on the edge of your bed. The cool, unfamiliar comfort of the moment leaves him uncertain, and he remains silent, unsure of how to respond. What could he say to something so... absurd? Something so blatantly casual that it felt almost out of place.

"Bedtime story? I haven't heard one since I was a child," he finally mutters, his voice a low murmur, clearly not sure whether you’re joking or serious. After all, this—whatever this is—isn’t normal for him.

“You know,” you begin, eyes cast downward, “the first time we saw the Astral Express… I thought we made a mistake, walking into it. Felt like we stepped into the wrong universe altogether.”

---

The moment you step into the archives, pixels, and particles following you, you know you’re not alone. The quiet hum of the Astral Express is ever-present, but there’s something sharper lingering in the air—an edge of awareness that prickles at the back of your neck. The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention, and your senses sharpen, alert to every small shift in the room. You don't need to turn around to know you're being watched. The weight of the gaze on your back is palpable, almost tangible, like a shadow that hangs too close. You pause, considering your options, but before you can make a move, something cold and unyielding presses against the side of your neck. The cold pressure against your neck tightens just slightly—enough to send a chill through your spine. Whoever is behind you is no amateur, you realize. This is someone who knows how to move in silence, how to strike without warning. Slowly, carefully, you let out a breath, knowing you need to react before the situation escalates further. The quiet hum of the ship feels distant now, swallowed by the tension building around you.

"Not here for trouble," you finally say, your voice low, but steady. "Just passing through."

The silence stretches on, thick and unyielding, as you wait for a response.

"State your intentions," the voice commands, low and steady, yet laced with a razor-sharp calm that cuts deeper than any shout ever could. The words hang in the air, each syllable calculated, each pause deliberate—an unspoken promise that any misstep would be met with swift retribution. You turn your head slightly—not enough to dislodge the weapon, but enough to catch a glimpse of its wielder. He’s tall, with piercing teal eyes that seem to see straight through you, and a faint energy radiates from the spear he’s holding against your throat. The voices in your head are thrown into a panic, mumbled words of different meanings that you can't decipher yet pound against your head. A flicker of annoyance, a burst of black zigzags, and that spear is now digging into the skin of your neck.

"You’re here to harm the Express," the man says in lieu of your response. It’s not a question. He’s sharp, this one. Smarter than he looks, and far more perceptive than you’d like. If you were a worse person, you'd bang your fist against the precious computers and send the man flying in a shower of electrical sparks. But you need him, and you need what the Express carries.

"Maybe," you admit, leaning just slightly into the cold pressure of the blade, testing him, watching for the smallest sign of hesitation. He doesn't flinch. "Or maybe we just needed a ride."

The man's teal eyes narrow, piercing into you with an intensity that feels like it could slice through steel. His grip tightens around the weapon, a subtle shift of muscle that speaks volumes about his readiness, "Then you’ll explain why we've been tracking an additional signal monitoring the train’s systems for weeks. Why your presence coincides with unusual disruptions in local Stellaron activity. And why my instincts are telling me not to trust you."

A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth, despite the palpable tension, despite the deadly situation. You can't help it—.

"Instincts, huh? You trust those over facts? Dangerous habit for someone like you," the edge in your voice is almost playful, but there's an undercurrent of challenge that hangs in the air, thickening the space between you like a storm cloud waiting to break. He doesn't respond immediately, but the subtle tension in his jaw speaks volumes. His mind is already working, piecing together fragments of information, weighing what little he knows against what he's yet to figure out.

"Listen, I have something you need. Those twins? Stelle and Caelus? We're the same," you say, your voice slipping into something quieter, a complete tonal shift that catches him off guard. "You're not wrong. We're not here entirely by coincidence. But harming the Express? That’s not our style. If we wanted to, we’d have done it already. But we will, if we need to."

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implication. For a moment, his gaze flickers—just a split-second hesitation, barely perceptible. It’s enough to make his grip loosen just a fraction, a slight shift in his stance. The crack in his armor to protect his own companions, however small, is enough for you to notice. You don’t let the opportunity slip by, "You can lower the spear, or we can stand here all day while your friends wonder why you haven’t come back yet."

The man studies you for a long, heavy moment, the tension crackling in the air between you. Finally, with deliberate slowness, he withdraws the spear, the sharp edge of the weapon no longer pressing against your skin. The atmosphere in the room doesn’t exactly lighten, but it does shift—enough to let you draw a breath without the sensation of impending danger gnawing at your chest.

"If you make one wrong move," he warns, his voice cold and unwavering, like steel on the verge of snapping, "I won’t hesitate next time."

You nod, casually brushing nonexistent dust from your jacket, the act dismissive but calculated. "Duly noted."

He takes a step back, his eyes never leaving you, still as sharp and calculating as ever. You feel the weight of his gaze, like a silent promise that he’s not done watching you. In the midst of it all, an unexpected thought crosses your mind: This man is going to be trouble for you. Smart, careful, stubborn to a fault—he’s exactly the kind of person who sees through people like you. What a bother.

---

"We were kind of a bastard back then," you admit, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Surprised Dan Heng even gave us a chance to tolerate us."

"Us?" Sunday asks, the word hanging in the air, his curiosity piqued. It’s been gnawing at him for a while now, this strange way you refer to yourself as if there’s more than one person within. You give him a half-hearted grin, it's grim, before tapping your head, then making a motion with your hand—a fluid up-and-down flick of your fingers, as if mimicking someone talking. Each finger meets its thumb in a rhythmic gesture. The understanding dawns on Sunday, a quiet realization creeping in. Some things, some details, are better left up for interpretation but never the truth.

"So," Sunday continues, shifting the conversation, "you arrived without warning, gave them every reason to be cautious, and still managed to walk away unharmed. That’s... fortunate."

It's quite frankly offensive that the same situation happened twice. If the Express keeps giving hand-outs, maybe the train will one day sputter out of fuel.

"Dan Heng could tell we weren’t there to cause trouble—at least, not immediately," You shrug nonchalantly, the motion effortless. The words are spoken with a hint of amusement, as though the whole situation had been a delicate dance, one you were somehow able to navigate without triggering the full force of suspicion.

Sunday tilts his head, his expression thoughtful, "Or perhaps he exercised more patience than most would in his position. A rare quality, considering the circumstances."

"Maybe," you admit with a faint smirk, though Sunday’s gaze remains steady, as if searching for something beneath your words.

He lets out a quiet hum, his voice softening as he speaks, "Trust isn’t something easily earned, especially with the Astral Express. It’s a privilege, not a guarantee."

Right now is his chance—his opportunity to rebuild trust that was shattered before it was ever truly given. The weight of it settles on him, heavy and undeniable. He’s not sure if he can ever fully erase the past, but this moment, this fragile opportunity is all he has left. It’s a test—a chance to prove that he can be trusted, even when everything before suggests otherwise. The quiet moment of self-reflection is broken by the jingle of keys. Sunday turns his head to see you holding up a keychain, its odd charm catching the light. It’s a trashcan, miniature, and oddly endearing. It has cartoony arms forming a thumbs up, the lid slightly opened to show the black trash bag inside. The absurdity of it makes him pause, a flicker of amusement pulling at the corners of his lips.

"Another story?" he asks, his tone light but laced with a hint of curiosity, as if he's not sure whether he wants to hear more or is merely indulging you.

---

"You two need something?"

You don’t need to turn around to know that Caelus and Stelle are lurking, their presence is as obvious as an elephant in a room. The twins are hidden behind a potted plant, doing their best to remain inconspicuous, but their attempt is about as subtle as a bull in a china shop. They peer out from either side of the skinny plant, wide-eyed and guilty, like two kids who’ve just been caught raiding the cookie jar. They don’t move, sharing some silent exchange between themselves—one of those unspoken conversations that only twins seem capable of, their eyes darting back and forth with a kind of synchronized rhythm. You don’t have to wait long before you decide to break the silence. Leaning casually against the wall, you snap your fingers with a sharp, deliberate sound. It’s a quick, attention-grabbing motion, and to anyone who might be watching, you might as well have been trying to corral a pair of raccoons. The twins, startled at first, perk up immediately. Like clockwork, they abandon their hiding spots and scurry toward you, grinning sheepishly as if they hadn’t been caught in the act at all.

"Well? You two are the most unsubtle pair of idiots we know," you say, your tone flat but with an edge of amusement. "So what were you two trying to do?"

You level them with a stare, eyes flickering with jagged, glitching teal squares that ripple beneath the surface of your corruption, catching the light like fractured glass. The momentary flashes make your gaze feel sharper, more unsettling, but the effect doesn’t seem to faze them. Stelle is the first to break the silence, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

"We were trying to scare you," she admits, her voice playful, but there’s a mischievous lilt that betrays her intent. She taps her chin thoughtfully with her thumb and index finger, adopting an exaggerated stance like some kind of inquisitive scholar. Her eyes gleam with an almost theatrical curiosity, her gaze flickering between you and Caelus. Caelus, ever the mirror to his twin, nods in agreement, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin of his own. He matches Stelle’s pose, almost to the letter, his subtle smile hinting at some shared joke. The synchrony between them is uncanny, and it’s clear they both find this moment far more amusing than it has any right to be. You raise an eyebrow, your patience thinning, waiting for them to elaborate. Stelle’s grin widens even further, and Caelus, picking up on whatever idea is dancing through her mind, mirrors her expression with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

"We’re bored," Stelle begins, her tone dripping with exaggerated seriousness as if she’s about to reveal some profound, existential truth.

"Really, really bored," Caelus chimes in, his voice practically bouncing with the energy that radiates off him. He shifts from foot to foot, practically vibrating with pent-up energy, as if he’s struggling to contain his excitement.

"We were gonna try to scare you," Stelle continues, leaning forward slightly as if sharing a great secret.

"But then you found us and spoiled it," Caelus finishes with a dramatic sigh, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. Their synchronized performance makes it hard not to smirk. The sheer childishness of their attempt, paired with their boundless energy, is somehow endearing, despite the fact that you feel like you’re dealing with two hyperactive children who think they're being clever.

You shake your head, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. Leaning forward in mock disappointment, you raise an eyebrow, "Yup, good job. We were totally scared."

Caelus huffs indignantly at your sarcasm, his pout deepening as he crosses his arms over his chest, making a show of being offended. Stelle, never one to miss an opportunity for drama, rolls her eyes so dramatically it’s almost impressive. Then, without warning, they share a look—a silent exchange so loaded with meaning that you can practically hear the unspoken conversation between them. It’s a look that says more than words ever could. And then, just as suddenly, they launch into a silent argument, their exaggerated gestures and comically furrowed brows making the entire scene seem more like a theatrical performance than a real disagreement. You watch them, amused, for a few moments, shaking your head at their antics. And then, as if an invisible cue has been given, they stop abruptly, turning to face you with matching, exaggerated expressions of innocence.

With sudden synchrony, the two of them pull something from behind their backs. It's a keychain—strange and, to say the least, unexpected. You stare at it as Caelus hands it over, his grin widening.

“It’s for you,” he says, his voice light, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. It’s a small trashcan keychain, with a tiny, empty can dangling next to it. It's...quite ugly if you're being honest. You look up at the two racoons, your eyes screaming "seriously?" but you still take it from him. Stelle beams with pride, crossing her arms and watching you intently as if waiting for your reaction.

"It’s a symbol," she declares, as though it’s some grand gesture of deep significance. "Of our collective boredom."

You blink at the keychain, shaking your head. It’s utterly silly, but in that weird, inexplicable way, it’s perfect. It’s the kind of quirky, offbeat gesture that somehow fits this strange little crew you’ve found yourself with. Hands too wide, arms too open, and eyes far too crescent. You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips is unmistakable as you slip the keychain into your pocket.

"Thanks, you two," you mutter dryly, the glitch in your hands weirdly stable enough to not drop your new gift, "We’ll treasure it."

---

Sunday watches, his expression a mixture of restrained bemusement and reluctant fondness as you finish retelling the tale. He hasn’t had the chance to experience the twins’ antics first-hand, but from Robin’s stories and the occasional interaction, it’s clear that Caelus and Stelle are the type to act first and think later. Silly, carefree, and utterly unburdened by the weight of anything that doesn't immediately concern them. It’s almost baffling how easily they offer their trust, without a second thought, to someone like you—a stranger, someone whose past is tangled with so much uncertainty. His gaze drifts to the keychain still resting in your hand, and he suppresses a quiet sigh. A small trashcan with a gusto of positivity might have been enough to irritate him in another context. But right now, in this odd, unexpected moment, it doesn’t do what he expects. Instead of irritation, he feels something else—a strange sense of warmth. It's silly, it truly is. It reminds him of the cartoons he's indulge when Robin would tug on his sleeve to please, just for 2 minutes, watch the newest episode with her. Despite the complexities of everything else weighing on his mind, it serves as a reminder of something he’s almost forgotten.

It’s fleeting, like a brief flicker of sunlight through a cloudy sky, but it settles in his chest with an unfamiliar comfort. A quiet smile, barely perceptible, tugs at his lips. You set the keychain down on your bedside table with deliberate care, moving on to the next object. A plushie of a white ball. There are slanted blue and purple eyes stitched on with a scar going across the left eye.

"It's called a Wubbaboo. They're mischievous Astral Spirits that possess individuals and commit pranks for fun. Although they are not deadly, they have the potential to cause trouble and should be kept from breaking loose. March found it funny to compare them to us," you say, an annoyed notch in your eyebrow as you squeeze the "wubbaboo" until it's face is smushed together so close you can't see the angry eyes staring right back.

---

The neon lights of the room pulse erratically, casting every-changing glows over the crowd. March 7th bounced from one foot to the other, her bright eyes locked on the brightly lit claw machine ahead. Inside, the prize—a pink plushie with a dopy grin and pink cheeks—sat just within reach, taunting her with its unyielding proximity. Her gaze was unwavering, her fingers twitching with anticipation.

"Come on, just one more try," she muttered under her breath, digging into her pocket for the last of her coins. The weight of them, small and cold in her palm, felt like a promise she couldn’t quite break. She'd come this far—surely the next try would be the one.

Behind her, the air hummed faintly—an odd, almost imperceptible static that seemed to vibrate with a quiet energy. It was the kind of noise that made the hairs on the back of March’s neck stand on end, a discomfort she couldn’t quite place. At first, she paid it no mind, her full attention fixed on the claw machine. She slipped the last coin into the slot, her gaze narrowing with steely determination as the machine beeped, signaling the start of her next attempt. But then, from the corner of her eye, she saw it. A figure. Someone watching her. She turned instinctively, expecting to see one of the crew members, perhaps Caelus or Dan Heng, idly observing her antics. But no. The figure she locked eyes with was unfamiliar, unsettling in a way she couldn’t immediately define. Your form flickered—barely a glitch, just a brief ripple in reality, too subtle for anyone else to notice. But to her, it felt like a silent warning, a quiet anomaly that sent a shiver racing down her spine. The space around you seemed to warp for an instant, as though reality itself was struggling to contain you. March blinked, but when she looked again, you were still there—just standing, waiting, like an enigma she hadn’t figured out yet. And that strange, unsettling feeling refused to leave her.

“Oh, hey!” March called out, her usual energy slicing through the lingering unease like a burst of sunlight. “You’re here to watch me win this plushie, right?”

You didn’t respond immediately, your attention unwavering from the claw machine. There was something about the way you stood, casually leaning against the wall, that felt... off. Not the way someone would watch a simple game play out, but with an unsettling precision—like you were studying the machine’s every move. Your eyes tracked the claw with such intent, it was as though you were dissecting its every twitch, every mechanical shift, as if the game were a puzzle to be solved. March tilted her head, momentarily curious about the strange intensity radiating off you. She didn’t mind the silence—after all, who needed words when you had her enthusiasm to fill the space? But something about the way you held yourself made her feel like she was performing on a stage where you were the only audience.

“What? No encouragement? I’m about to win this thing, I can feel it!” She threw a grin over her shoulder, half expecting the same playful teasing she’d received from the others, but you didn’t flinch. No laugh, no words of support. Just your eyes, fixed and unmoving, on the claw’s next movement. It made her pause, just for a moment. But only for a moment. Her confidence bounced right back, her smile widening as she adjusted her grip on the controls. “I’m telling you, it’s happening this time. Watch and learn!”

You finally looked at her, your expression unreadable for a moment, then a flicker of something—amusement, maybe?—passed through your gaze, "If you really believe you're about to win, there’s no need for encouragement."

March raised an eyebrow, her smile fading just a little as she tried to make sense of the shift in your tone. She knows that you're quite aloof, not prickly per say, but you definitely don't indulge in the express's whims. But that's okay! Dan Heng was just like that until she managed to whittle away those iron walls.

“Uh, okay... but I still need all the luck I can get,” she said, trying to shake off the eerie undertone in your voice. She turned back to the machine, her fingers hovering over the controls, the tension of the moment stretching out.

"Luck has little to do with it," you added softly, your eyes flickering to the claw again. There was something in your tone, something that made March pause, just for a second, as she processed the weight of your words. But before she could respond, the machine gave a soft beep—your prediction, it seemed, had been right. Along with the last of her coins.

“Gah! I ran out of time! I’ve been trying to win this plushie for hours!” March whined, her voice carrying a mix of light-hearted frustration and exasperation. “The claw just doesn’t grab it! I’ve tried every angle, but it always misses. It's like the machine’s rigged!”

You simply raised an eyebrow, because obviously all the arcade machines are rigged, and take a step closer. Your fingers twitched, the subtle erratic energy that often surrounded you almost palpable, as though the air itself hummed in response. A mischievous glint flickered in your eyes, the pink diamonds trailing after you beneath the neon lights of the arcade machine shimmering more vibrantly than usual. Without a word, you slid into position next to her, your hand reaching toward the controls with an almost practiced ease. March's frown deepened in confusion, her brow furrowing as she watched you. Before she could protest, the machine seemed to shudder with a strange, low hum—a sound so faint that it barely registered at first, but enough to make her pause.

“You—what did you just do?” she asked, her voice a strange mix of awe and disbelief, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or unnerved by what had just happened. Her words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with confusion and fascination. You didn’t offer an immediate response, just watching the machine as your fingers twitched again, a barely noticeable movement that seemed to set the air vibrating with some hidden force. For a split second, the claw hung motionless, as if frozen in time. The hum of the machine stilled, and everything around you seemed to hold its breath. Then, with an almost imperceptible shudder, the claw jerked downward, the movement sharp and precise as it latched onto the plushie’s corner. The machine groaned as it whirred to life again, the claw lifting with slow, deliberate force, its grip firm yet delicate, holding the plushie aloft as it dangled precariously by a single corner, swaying ever so slightly. March’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open in utter disbelief. Her jaw dropped, her voice barely a whisper as she stared at the plushie now hanging in midair, clearly suspended by some matter. You stood there, still as ever, a subtle glint of something in your eyes—a fleeting amusement, or perhaps something more calculating, like you had known exactly what would happen all along.

"Just a little glitch here and there," you said, your voice cool, though there was a faint static buzz beneath your words, as though your presence was subtly affecting the machine's circuits. "Machines like this are predictable if you know how to... persuade them."

March stared at the plushie as it was deposited into the prize chute. She scrambled forward, pulling it free from the machine with a loud, excited gasp. "I—I can’t believe it! I actually won it!"

“Looks like you’re finally getting lucky," You watched her, your arms crossed as you leaned back against the wall, your eyes still flickering with that odd energy.

March couldn’t help but laugh, clutching the plushie tightly to her chest, "I should’ve asked you to help from the beginning! I’ve spent hours trying to get this thing. I owe you big time!"

"You’re welcome," you said, though the words were laced with a strange, robotic quality. Your eyes flickered again, as if you were seeing the world in a way no one else could, "But next time, maybe try using your own hands instead of relying on glitches. It’s better that way."

"Nah, I think I’m gonna keep asking you for help," she teased, her energy back to its usual brightness. Her grin alone would power the arcade with how brightly it was shining, “You’ve got the magic touch.”

You raised an eyebrow, pink diamonds flickering once more, but this time, you hurriedly brush them away, "Whatever you say."

As March bounced away, clutching the plushie, she suddenly stopped, eyes wide with a new idea. Without warning, she turned and grabbed your arm, tugging you toward another claw machine nearby, "Alright, you helped me get mine, now it's my turn to get you one!" she declared, practically bouncing with excitement.

"You don’t have to do that," you protest, but March was already running to the coin dispenser to buy more arcade tokens, determined as ever.

"Nonsense! You made my night, so now it’s my turn to return the favor," she said with a grin. "Besides, this one has a super rare plushie. It even looks like you! You’ve gotta have it!"

---

"It took her another two hours to win once. We could feel the voices in our head getting louder. Any longer and who knows, maybe we would have started smashing machines and gotten us all kicked out of Penacony sooner," you say, your tone light but with an undercurrent of something darker, like you might be persuaded to actually go back and cause mass property damage just for the fun of it. Although Sunday is no longer apart of running Penacony, he hopes that you keep that little side adventure sealed in a box.

"Sounds like it was... fun," he murmurs, his voice as steady and measured as ever, but there's something else—something unspoken in the way he looks at you, a subtle acknowledgment of the weight behind your words. It reminds him of Robin's not-so-subtle attempts to drag him away from his office. The puppy-eyes unbefitting her image, how she's bemoan and cry like a spoiled child despite being the most generous person he's ever known. You lean back, letting the memory of the night with March linger in the air between you both, but it’s not the laughter that stands out now. It’s the strange, almost imperceptible warmth that comes with sharing something so unremarkable, yet so anchoring.

"Yeah. I guess it was. But, you know, I don’t need any more prizes. I can't find half my things under all this fluff. Though I’ll admit, it’s nice to be a part of something so... simple for once," your words trail off while your fingers absentmindedly trace the edges of a leather-bound notebook resting nearby. It's a habitual gesture that helps you center yourself, pulling away from the chaos of your thoughts, gray crosses make their reappearance with each stroke. It’s a small thing, yet it feels oddly comforting as if you're balancing yourself to something real amidst the constant shifting of your mind. You don’t look at it directly, but the weight of it under your touch is familiar, as though it’s tied to a version of you that’s been buried, one that doesn’t need the noise or the complications of the present to feel whole.

---

The corridors of the Astral Express were unusually still that afternoon, the kind of stillness that felt more like a pause—like the entire ship was holding its breath. Welt, ever perceptive and attuned to the nuances of his crew, couldn’t ignore the subtle shift in the atmosphere. There was a hum in the air, almost imperceptible, yet it was unmistakable to someone who knew the rhythms of the train as well as he did. Something was off, and it wasn’t just the absence of the usual banter.

He found you in one of the lounge areas by the window, sitting on a plush chair, your back rigid and unmoving. Your eyes were fixed on the stars outside, yet they seemed distant, unfocused, as though you were seeing something far beyond what was visible. A flicker of tension lingered in the air around you, something that made the quiet feel unnatural. Welt’s instincts tingled, the way they always did when something wasn’t quite right. He stepped closer, careful to keep his presence subtle, but as he neared, he saw the flicker of anxiety in your movements—the twitch of your fingers, the way your gaze darted restlessly around the room, as if you were trying to catch hold of something just out of reach. Your mouth pressed into a thin, controlled line, betraying the internal struggle playing out behind your eyes. It was like a storm was brewing just beneath the surface, one he couldn’t quite read. It also didn't help the black zigzags cascading down from your head like water. The suddenness of it struck him like a spark before the crackle of thunder—quick and sharp, but brimming with an undeniable intensity. Something had changed in you, something deeper than what words could reveal. And Welt, ever the observer, felt a weight settle in his chest. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

“You’re not okay,” Welt’s voice broke the stillness, soft yet firm, the kind of tone that held no room for argument but also offered a space for understanding. He knew you’d hear him, even if you weren’t ready to respond.

You didn’t answer immediately, but he could see the shift in your posture—the slight stiffening of your shoulders, the way your hands clenched and unclenched, restless, as if they were desperate for an outlet. Your eyes flickered to him, but they never fully met his. They danced around the room, unfocused, searching for something just beyond the edges of the present. And Welt knew, without needing to read further into the subtle tension in the air, that something was brewing beneath the surface. There was a storm in those eyes—wild, untamed, as if your emotions were battling each other in a silent war, and your mind was struggling to keep up. The turbulence inside you was palpable, though you made no effort to show it outwardly. But Welt, who had long learned to read the unspoken, could see it—the flicker of something, a fleeting moment of vulnerability, quickly masked by a wall of distance. He stayed quiet for a moment, letting the space between you linger, his gaze steady but patient, waiting for you to find your footing amid the chaos. He knew you didn’t need his answers or his help—not yet. What you needed was someone to acknowledge that what you were going through wasn’t something to hide, something to sweep under the rug.

“Talk to me,” he urged, his voice softening, an invitation more than a demand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Talk? Why does everyone want to talk? I'm sick of hearing other people's voices-" You spit, those same black zigzags spilling down from your mouth like tar. Your corruption flares up, lashing out towards Welt like hands if he hadn't raised his cane, the pressure of a blackhole swallowing them with one motion. Although your powers are strong, Welt has dealt with beings far more dangerous. Right now, you only look like a lost boy whose confused and anxious. You flinch away, the dark matter in Welt's cane temporarily mixing with your curse snaps you back to reality. "It’s happening again,” you murmured, the words barely a whisper, but they carried an undeniable weight that seemed to hang in the air, heavy with the force of a brewing storm. It's as close of an apology as you can say, the admission of your weakness. Your voice, strained and fragile, barely reached the space between you and Welt, but the tension it carried was palpable, suffocating the room. It was as if the words were not merely spoken, but dragged from you—born of some unseen pressure that twisted around your very being. Welt’s brow furrowed, a faint crease appearing between his eyes as the words sank in. His normally composed exterior slipped just slightly, concern flickering like a distant ember. He stepped closer, but the distance between you both felt miles apart like there was an invisible barrier keeping him from reaching you. His steady, calm demeanor remained in place, the calm before the storm, but there was no mistaking the quiet alarm in his eyes. It was the kind of concern that didn’t need to be spoken—it was in the way he watched you, the careful way he approached, as if unsure whether any sudden movement might cause the fragile equilibrium of your mind to snap. He wasn’t a stranger to the Antistar’s influence, the thing that had fused with your body somehow. Welt had witnessed it before—the way it sank its claws into people's mind, its voices echoing in their thoughts like a cacophony of distant whispers, each one dragging their host deeper into a void. He had watched the shift, the way their thoughts could become erratic, spiraling into madness. But this… this felt different. Your eyes, wide and unfocused, darted around the room like prey under a predator’s gaze. They never settled, as if your surroundings had become something foreign and threatening. There was an almost panicked quality to your movements, your hands fidgeting in agitation, fingers twitching involuntarily. Welt could see it—the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your muscles tensed, anticipating some unseen danger. Yet you kept everything constrained under a deteriorating cracking iron fist.

“Let it out,” he said, his voice soothing, though there was a firmness to it, like he was anchoring you to the present moment. “Tell me what’s going on in your head. If you lose control, I will be here.”

You clenched your hands tightly, the fingers trembling ever so slightly. The irritation, confusion, and pain on your face were unmistakable. You weren’t ready to speak, but Welt could see the frustration in your eyes as you fought to keep control, as if you didn’t want to burden him with it.

“The voices… they’re too loud,” you muttered again, the words barely coherent, slipping from your lips like the last tether to reality was breaking. You weren’t speaking to him now, he realized. You were speaking to something else—somewhere inside yourself. Your eyes flitted around, unfocused, the flicker of your gaze darting in every direction as if trying to escape the storm inside you. But no matter how hard you looked away, the shadows seemed to follow, pressing in on you, crowding your thoughts. The chaotic whispers, fragmented and incoherent, spun like a whirlpool in your mind, each thought louder than the last, pulling you under. Welt’s hand twitched, but he held himself back, unsure if any touch would push you further away. He could feel the shift in the atmosphere—something heavy, suffocating, that seemed to darken the space between you both. It wasn’t just the usual voices. This was something deeper, something suffocating that made the air feel thick, pressing against your lungs, forcing every breath to feel like it could be your last. Your fingers twitched at your sides, and for a moment, it looked like you might collapse under the weight of it all. Something about your posture—rigid, almost as if frozen—suggested that you were fighting an unseen force, and that fight was taking all the energy you had left.

“You don’t have to hold it all in,” Welt continued, his tone never harsh, just a calm, steady presence. “You’re not alone in this, you know. We’re all here for you.”

Welt moved a little closer, sitting down beside you, not crowding you, but close enough to let you know he was there. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t expect an answer. He simply waited, letting the quiet space between you become a bridge. Slowly, you exhaled, the tension beginning to ease.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” you admitted, finally, your voice trembling, “I can’t escape it… the memories, the voices, they keep mixing together. It’s too much. It feels like… it feels like I’m breaking apart sometimes.”

The words were barely there, barely above a whisper, but they carried the weight of everything you’d been carrying—everything you didn’t know how to deal with. Welt remained silent, letting you say what you needed to, the gentle hum of the train filling the space between your words. After a moment of silence, Welt reached into his coat and pulled out a small, simple notebook. It was nothing special, just a black hardcover with blank pages inside, but there was a certain gravity in the way he offered it to you.

“I know it’s hard to sort through everything in your mind,” he said, his voice steady, “But sometimes, putting it down on paper can help. Whether you write, draw, or just let your thoughts spill out, it’s a way to process what’s going on inside. It’s yours. Whenever you feel like you need it.”

His gaze is soft and steady as he handed you the notebook, the worn leather cover catching the dim light of the train’s quiet lounge. He didn’t need to say anything more; his gesture spoke louder than words ever could. It was an offer, an invitation to channel the chaos, to make sense of the dissonance swirling in your mind, even if just for a moment. You took the notebook from him with a quiet nod, fingers brushing against the cover. It felt like a small tether, a lifeline to something that might help you regain control. There was a subtle warmth in the action, like an invisible thread connecting you to him, a silent understanding between you both. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze just yet—your eyes still too full of that swirling storm, too fragile to hold his steady, unshakable presence for long. But even so, there was a shift inside you. A tiny, almost imperceptible lightness that you hadn’t felt in a long time. It was like a small weight had been lifted, just enough to let you breathe a little easier. The thought that there might be a way to bring some order to the chaos, even if just for a fleeting moment, was oddly comforting. It wasn’t a cure, and it wasn’t a solution to everything, but it was something. And that was more than enough for now.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying far more weight than the simplicity of their sound. They were more than just a polite acknowledgment—they were a recognition of the space he had given you, the quiet support that had anchored you in the midst of your turmoil. The storm inside you hadn’t fully passed, but the gentle pressure of the notebook in your hands and Welt's presence beside you made it feel like there was at least a small way forward. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

---

Sunday’s gaze lingered on the notebook, the silence between you both stretching out, comfortable yet laden with unspoken thoughts. His eyes, usually so guarded, softened as he watched you trace the edges of the book. It was a small thing, but there was a kind of quiet understanding in the way his attention remained fixed on it—on you. He was listening, more than just hearing, letting your words settle in the space between you, weighing them with care.

"A notebook?" he asked, his voice as calm and neutral as always, but you could feel the subtle shift beneath it, the way he was registering the importance of this new detail. You nodded, a small sigh escaping you as you let your fingers graze the leather cover, feeling its familiar texture beneath your touch. Something was grounding about it, something that allowed you to breathe a little easier, even if just for a moment.

"Mr. Yang said... writing, drawing, anything—just getting it out of our- my...my head could help." The words left your mouth more easily now, a little less guarded than before. You allowed the vulnerability to show, even if only for a brief moment, “It didn’t seem like much at first, but it kind of made sense. Maybe if I put things down on paper, I could start making sense of it all.”

You could feel the weight of his gaze still on you, a steady, almost intangible presence that let you know he was fully engaged with what you were saying. The way he didn’t rush to speak, didn’t offer unsolicited advice, allowed you the space to process your own thoughts aloud. It was rare, and it felt like a small gift. He didn’t respond right away, and you could tell that he wasn’t just hearing your words—he was truly absorbing them. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but instead it was thoughtful, almost as if he was searching for the right way to acknowledge what you’d shared without diminishing it. You briefly remember that Sunday used to act as a confessional when he was still in Penacony.

"I see," His voice was quiet, but the way he said it—like the weight of your words had a place in the quiet space between you—felt like an unspoken agreement. He understood, in his own way. There was no need for further explanation, no need to fix it, because he saw what you were trying to do. Finally, you leaned forward, placing the notebook gently into his hands. His eyes widened slightly in surprise at the gesture.

"Take it," you said, your voice steady now, "Welt’s right about one thing—getting it out, even if just on paper, can help. But sometimes, it’s hard to know where to start. Maybe you could use it. I know you’ve been carrying your own things, too, and...I think it might help. If you want."

Sunday's gaze lingered on the notebook in your hands, his fingers drifting over its surface as if weighing its significance without quite touching it. There was a slight furrow in his brow, a quiet contemplation that seemed to speak volumes about the thoughts running through his mind. The air between you was thick with the stillness, the kind that held space for unspoken words, for the things that were never said but felt deeply all the same. The silence stretched, comfortable yet heavy, before his eyes finally lifted to meet yours. His expression, as always, was carefully neutral—an unreadable mask that kept his thoughts hidden from view. Yet in the soft, steady look he gave you, there was something else, something that wasn’t contained in the lines of his face or the calmness of his voice. It was gratitude—subtle but unmistakable. It was a warmth that lingered in his eyes, a quiet acknowledgment that said more than any words could.

“I appreciate it,” he said, his voice low, carrying an uncharacteristic vulnerability. The words were simple, but they felt like a rare offering from him, a small crack in the armor he wore so effortlessly. Sunday, who usually kept his emotions tucked away in the recesses of his mind, was letting a piece of himself be seen. He took a slow breath, as though trying to ground himself in the newfound realization, considering the offer you'd made with a seriousness that reflected just how much it meant to him.

“I’ll think about it,” he added quietly, his voice softer than usual, but carrying an openness that had been absent before. It wasn’t a promise, not yet—but it was a crack in the door, a willingness to entertain something different, something new. And in that moment, you knew that it wasn’t just the notebook that he was considering. It was the space you had offered him, the chance to let something out that he hadn’t known he needed to. You nodded, your heart settling a little. The connection, small as it was, felt like a shared understanding. Neither of you had to carry the weight alone, even if you both still had a long way to go. You bat the sheets, flipping them over to make room as you clumsily slip under the covers. Sparkles of pink diamonds and yellow stars dust your cheeks. You scoot over a bit, patting the empty space beside you.

"So, Sunday, the night is still young. What other stories do you wish to hear?"

---

The soft hum of the Astral Express reverberated through the still morning air, a gentle reminder of the vastness of space surrounding the train. The faint glow of the sun barely peeked over the horizon, casting the world in muted hues of gold and lavender. Himeko, having long since grown accustomed to the quiet rhythms of the morning, made her way to the kitchen with a peacefulness that seemed to come only at this hour. She savored the calm that hung in the air, as though the world outside was still asleep, cocooned in the early hours before the day fully began. No noise, no urgency, just the steady pulse of the train and the promise of a new day. With each step, the familiar scent of brewed coffee and the faint warmth of the kitchen grew stronger, tugging her further into the solace of the moment. The corridors of the Astral Express, usually bustling with the energy of the crew, now felt like a world apart, as if time had slowed in reverence to the serenity of the morning. It was in moments like this, before the demands of the day began to pile up, that Himeko felt the weight of everything that had happened in the quietest way possible. It was as if the train itself whispered secrets to her in these brief, fleeting moments of solitude. She opens the kitchen door manually, not quite ready to disturb the peaceful atmosphere, only to stumble onto an unexpected sight. You were standing alone in the kitchen, a cup of tea cupped between your hands over the sink in case you accidentally spilled it's contents, staring out the window with an air of quiet contemplation. Himeko couldn't help but notice the way the soft light from the window caught your features, highlighting the tired lines under your eyes, and the subtle shift in your posture. Teal squares just on the ends of your heels, small and insignificant. It's probably the calmest your glitches have ever been since you joined the Express.

"Good morning, is it just us today?" Himeko greeted, her voice gentle but warm as she stepped inside. You startled slightly at the sound of her voice, blinking at her with a mix of surprise. You hadn’t noticed her approach, too wrapped up in your own thoughts.

"Morning," you mumbled, your voice soft yet not quite there, "The twins and March are probably going to sleep in since the Express hasn't reached its destination. Mr. Yang mentioned that he'd be cooped up in his room since he'd had a burst of information for his animation. Dan Heng arrived earlier but slinked off like the lizard he is."

Himeko laughs, your not-so-subtly rivalry with Dan Heng is always amusing. One day she hopes that you and him will get along since your personalities are similar, yet she doesn't think that day will arrive anytime soon.

"And Sunday?" she asked, a quiet concern slipping into her tone. Although it's obvious that she's prodding at the fact you've left their newest member out of your count, your expression remains the same. You didn’t immediately respond, your gaze dropping to your hands, fingers tightening around the warm ceramic of the cup you still held.

"Sunday visited us... last night. It was," you tap your fingers lightly against your cup, the words lingering a moment before you continue, "productive."

Himeko’s soft chuckle fills the space between you, her gaze sharp and knowing as she observes the subtle shift in your posture. The way your fingers tap nervously against your cup, the faint tension in your shoulders—every detail betrays the discomfort you're trying to hide. It’s clear that something has unsettled you, and she doesn’t miss a beat. It seems that Sunday had finally decided to take Caelus’s advice, something Himeko had been quietly anticipating. She’d often wondered how many nights she would hear his pacing echo through the quiet halls, his restless steps a soft but constant reminder of his inner turmoil. It wasn’t until now, after all this time, that he had worked up the courage to knock on your door. As she watches you, a quiet satisfaction lingers in her expression. For someone like Sunday—so reserved, so distant—it was a rare and significant step, and she can’t help but wonder what this moment means for both of you.

"I didn’t know you two had gotten so close," she remarks, her voice light with curiosity, "I always thought Sunday preferred his solitude. Guess you’ve managed to break through that shell of his."

"It’s not like that," you mutter, your words a bit awkward as you try to navigate the conversation. You rub the back of your neck, the heat rising to your face as you glance briefly at Sunday, still unsure how to explain the situation, "Just... paying it forward..."

---

The train was quiet in the dead of night, save for the soft hum of the engines that kept it steady through the stars. The glow of the emergency lights created a muted, warm atmosphere in the corridors, but the calm didn’t last long. A muffled cry cut through the silence, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor. Himeko, ever attuned to the sounds of the Astral Express, immediately snapped awake, sitting up from her chair in the lounge. Her instincts told her where to go. Without hesitation, she stood and moved swiftly down the narrow hallway, her footsteps quiet but determined.

When she reached your door, she paused for a moment. The sounds of distress were unmistakable—night terrors, or something close to them. She gently pushed the door open, finding you curled up in a tangle of blankets, breathing erratically, your body still twitching from the remnants of a nightmare. Himeko’s heart softened. She had seen this before, though not in the same form. Everyone aboard the Astral Express carried their own burdens, but sometimes those burdens took the shape of dreams that could tear through the night. Without a word, she stepped inside and softly sat at the edge of your bed. Her presence was calming, like a tether to reality, something solid in the wake of your fear.

"Hey," she said softly, her voice gentle but laced with a quiet concern, waiting for you to stir. The silence stretched between you both, heavy with the unspoken understanding. When your eyes finally fluttered open, still bleary and clouded with unease, she offered a small, reassuring smile—a quiet balm for the storm inside.

"Nightmares, huh?" she asked, her tone light, but there was no mistaking the empathy in her voice. You blinked up at her, listening intently, your pulse beginning to slow as her calming presence wrapped around you. You nodded slowly, the motion almost automatic as you tried to shake off the lingering remnants of the dream that clung to your mind like shadows. Your breath was still ragged, the echoes of the nightmare pulsing in the back of your skull. Himeko didn’t rush you, her gaze soft but unyielding, the kind that could see through the cracks in even the toughest exterior. She gave you a knowing look, one of those rare expressions that only someone who had seen the weight of the universe could wear—a quiet strength that could fill any silence.

"It’s funny," Himeko said, her voice softening as she leaned back slightly, her eyes distant for a moment, as though recalling something personal, "I found that sometimes, the best way to chase away the nightmares wasn’t by fighting them head-on."

She paused, letting the words linger before she continued, her tone quieter now, as if inviting you into a shared secret, "Instead, I focused on objects. Sounds strange, doesn’t it?"

She let out a light, almost melodic chuckle, the sound warm and comforting, before brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture was casual, but there was a quiet elegance in the way she carried herself, a kind of understanding that only someone who had seen the weight of the universe could possess, "But honestly, it works. You begin to connect memories to things—simple things. A chair that reminds you of a calm afternoon, a necklace that brings back the feeling of warmth from someone you care about, or even a map that shows the way to a place that feels safe. Objects like that—they become more than just things. They become anchors in the storm. They bring back something good, something peaceful when everything else feels chaotic."

"I have this feather. Although it doesn’t resemble a traditional bird's feather with its pointed tip and flared edges make it stand out, it is a feather nonetheless. The kind of thing you don't question at first glance, but once you hold it, it seems to carry a weight of its own. It used to belong to someone else, someone who, in the quiet moments, always had it with her. She would carry it everywhere, as if it were an extension of herself. Her constant companion and a token of something deeper. But when she was gone, all that remained was her feather. No explanations, no grand gestures—just this simple, delicate thing, left behind like a piece of her that couldn’t be taken away. It’s strange how something so small can carry such weight, but in its quiet presence, it holds memories, echoes of a time now past," she continued, her voice soft yet unwavering, as if the weight of her words could carry the silence between them. Though her conversation remained one-sided, she spoke as if the act of sharing brought a strange kind of comfort, "Whenever the weight of the past begins to creep up on me, I hold it in my hand. To an outsider, it's just a feather, nothing extraordinary—but when I grip it, it’s as if it anchors me, as if it has the power to guide me through the storm. Somehow, it helps me find the peace I need, even if only for a fleeting moment. There are a lot of ways to fight the darkness, you know. Sometimes, it’s about finding what makes you feel grounded. What pulls you back when it all starts spinning out of control."

You let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly as her words sank in, each one settling in the quiet spaces of your mind. Her presence was a balm, softening the tension that had coiled tight within you. The storm inside, once turbulent and overwhelming, seemed to lose its force in the calm of her company. The stillness of the night, which had felt suffocating moments ago, no longer held the same threat. With her there, her voice a steady and unwavering anchor, everything seemed a little less overwhelming, as if the weight of the world could be borne, even if only for a while.

"You’re not alone in this," Himeko added, her smile soft and kind, "We all carry something heavy with us, but we don’t have to carry it alone. And when the nightmares come, don’t be afraid to reach out. We’ll get through it together."

You nodded again, a quiet sigh escaping as a sense of peace began to unfurl in your chest. The nightmare didn’t vanish entirely, but its grip had loosened, its hold no longer suffocating. Himeko’s words, simple yet profound, were like a balm, soothing the lingering traces of your fear. The storm inside you settled, its chaos quieting in the warmth of her presence. Himeko rose to her feet, her movements fluid and graceful, as if she were part of the very calm she had helped create. The soft rustle of her clothes was the only sound as she stood, poised and serene, her quiet strength radiating through the room.

"Get some rest," she said gently, her voice quiet but full of warmth. "Tomorrow is a new day. And if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to find me, alright?"

With one final smile, Himeko turned and left your room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. The quiet comfort of her words lingered in the air, and the night didn’t feel so long anymore.

---

"I never properly thanked you for that night," you say, the words leaving your mouth with a quiet weight, as if they’ve been waiting to be said for far longer than you realized. The moment feels suspended, fragile—an acknowledgment that feels both overdue and somehow vital. Your voice falters slightly, but there’s a tenderness in it, an unspoken appreciation that lingers between the lines. Himeko turns toward you, her gaze softening as she takes in your words. You already know what she's trying to say without having to hear it, she's never needed to hear your thanks because that was never the intention.

"I’m proud of you," she says instead, her voice steady and warm, the sincerity in her tone making the space between you feel more intimate, more real. It makes your hand momentarily glitch, your cup spilling momentarily before your fingers phase back into reality to catch it, "It’s not easy to open up, but you’re doing it. That’s what matters."

The simplicity of her words settles into you like sunlight breaking through clouds. You smile faintly, a quiet flicker of gratitude stirring deep inside, the kind that doesn’t need to be said out loud to be understood. The tension that had been coiled tight in your chest begins to ease, like a storm passing on the horizon. Her words, so gentle yet unyielding in their kindness, carry with them a warmth that softens the sharp edges of your past. The heaviness that had once seemed insurmountable becomes a little less oppressive, as if, for just a moment, you’re allowed to let it all go. A burst of orange circles pop from your cheeks that you hurriedly wave off but those circles, shining brighter under the light, only move to dodge your hands.

"I’m going to leave you to your morning," she says, her tone light but you can hear the underlining of laughter in her words. Her smile is a quiet promise, one that lingers even as she begins to step away, "Just remember, if you ever need anything—anything at all—you don’t have to carry it alone."

Her words settle in the air, offering you an unexpected kind of strength, a quiet reminder that you aren’t as isolated as you sometimes believe. She moves toward the door, her movements fluid and graceful, like a gentle breeze passing through a still room. As the door clicks softly behind her, the sound feels like the closing of one chapter and the quiet beginning of another.

You remain where you are for a moment, your mind still. The warmth of her presence lingers in the room like the afterglow of a setting sun, soft and comforting. The steady hum of the train continues around you, its familiar rhythm filling the silence she left behind, a constant reminder of the world that moves on. It wasn’t much, this exchange—just a few quiet words and a gesture of kindness. But in this moment, it feels like the first true step toward something you hadn’t known you needed: a reminder that you’re not as alone as you sometimes think. The weight of your thoughts, once so suffocating, seems a little lighter, and for the first time in a long while, you allow yourself to simply breathe.

---

Hi, thank you for reading! I kind of went crazy and I hope the alternating switch between past and present made sense. I'll reblog this with further writer notes but I wanted to include the research bits in order of appearance. I can't guarantee the full accuracy but I hope I didn't get anything wrong.

Also: I couldn't explore the full lore of this reader, but if you're interested in knowing more, please reach out towards the original creator: @thezboss

Colours and Shapes

Gray: Neutrality and detachment | Crosses: Balance and reflection

Black: Sadness and Fear | Zigzags: Instability and disruption

Yellow: Happiness and optimism | Stars: Aspiration and guidance

Teal: Calm and clarity | Squares: Stability and straightforwardness

Pink: Compassion and playfulness | Diamonds: Confidence and value

Circles: Unity and Harmony | Orange: Warmth and impulsiveness

Trash Can Keychain

Not an actual trash can keychain, but if you bought a full set of HSR chibi figures, you were gifted an extra figure of a trash can.

Pink Plushie

The plushy that March wanted is the pink happy face that sits on her bed inside her room. It's beside the dog plushie.

Himeko's Feather

The feather Himeko is referring to is Fu Hua's feather. Shout out to my Honkai Impact fans (I've never played the game).

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