Chapter Text
“Mission complete, Sovereign.”
Welt doesn't look up from where he is crouched in the alleyway. The poor kid he'd just knocked out lays sprawled across the dirty cobblestone; he sits him up against a wall as carefully as he can before palpitating his ribs. No broken bones, at least, and no abnormal tension that would speak of internal bleeding. Thank God for small favors. “You got the Valkyrie's serum sample?”
“I did.” Einstein stands over him, as cool and disaffected as ever, as if she hadn't just drugged an entire arcade. She blows a bubble with her gum, lets it pop. “Should we take her away as well? It would deprive Schicksal of a valuable asset.”
The suggestion makes his guts twist. “No. He made a promise to that girl.” He hesitates. “They're just kids. We have no right to keep them apart or shatter their dreams.” Taking a deep breath, Welt gets to his feet. He briefly reaches out and ruffles the kid's hair, just once. “You're a good lad,” he murmurs to him. “Take care of yourself.”
Silence falls between them as they walk away, slightly uncomfortable. It would be smart to kidnap the Valkyrie, certainly. Anti-Entropy needs every advantage they can get in the long-running cold war between them and Schicksal, and as the Anti-Entropy Sovereign, it is his job to take advantage. To make the hard decisions, to keep the dream of a dead man alive because it is his duty and his punishment.
But they don't have to stoop that low in order to do it. There has to be a line drawn somewhere in the sand.
(His father's face the last time he saw him alive, all panic and desperation and begging, I've done what you wanted Otto please don't please just let my son go—)
Nauseous, heartsick, Welt crushes the fragmented memory back into the festering depths it came from.
“Do you resent me?” he asks after the silence stretches on too long. “For not pressing the advantage?”
Einstein hands him the keys to their getaway car. “I think it was a decision born from emotion and not reason,” she says, her face impassive under the mop of unruly blue hair as she climbs into the passenger seat. “That's unlike you, Sovereign.”
When he'd been but a child under her care, the slightest hint of reproach would have made him cry in shame. Now he just lets it sink in. She's right, after all. “We're not Schicksal. Kindness should always be our best option.” She tenses beside him, a flicker of defiance. Resentment drives his voice dark as he snaps, “I refuse to take hostages, Dr. Einstein. And you know good and goddamn well why.”
The silence falls, louder than before. Welt presses his lips into a thin line. Silences make the constant murmur of the souls in his Herrscher core that much louder, the indistinct whispers of three hundred thousand voices and three hundred thousand flavors of emotion threatening to drown his own. He has to breathe past the mirrored flood of terrorhurtfury, riding the waves until they calm to a low simmer.
Finally, when he can breathe normally again, he looks over at Einstein again. Overhead, the moon glows bright from behind a saltwater rain, casting shadows over his companion's face that make her look so very frail.
And it's his fault.
It always is.
“I'm sorry,” he finally says, his voice faint in the darkness. “I shouldn't have—”
“Joachim.”
His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Yeah?”
“Do you resent us?” Einstein keeps her gaze straight ahead on the road ahead, her fingers knotting together in her lap. “For making you fulfill his dreams?”
Welt forces himself to take a measured breath. “I chose to take the core, and the name.”
“You were eight years old.” She places a hand atop his wrist. Her hand is so much smaller than his now, her forever trapped as a teenager while he grows up and old beyond his years. “Did you even understand what he was asking of you back then?”
The backs of his eyes burn. No. He hadn't. Back then, he hadn't understood anything but this—that his father was an open-eyed corpse slowly growing cold, and his hero's lifeblood wouldn't stop sliding over his fingers no matter how his tiny hands tried to hold it in, and they would both die and so would Joachim Nokianvirtanen, the sacrificial lamb, his innocence and dreams hung from the name of the world like Jesus from the cross.
It's so bitterly unfair of her to ask him this now, when it's far too late.
But no tears fall. He forces the sudden choking grief back into the darkest reaches of his heart with the other memory, to sit and fester like an open wound. But it's hard—harder still, with the ghost of Welt Joyce sitting between them in the darkness. “I don't resent any of you,” he lies.
Einstein rests her head against the window, watching him out of his reflection. The moon above them begins to drip crackles of red-violet gravity from the sky, erasing the road where it splashes. Her hand—and it feels bigger now, rougher—tightens painfully, enough so that he can feel the bones of his wrist grate together. “You're lying,” she says, her voice warping midway through to something deeper, something smug and self-righteous and cruel.
And the car is not a car at all but the Overseer's lobby of Schicksal's Babylon labs in Siberia, and his passenger not his childhood mentor Lieserl Albert Einstein but the late Otto Apocalypse. The filigree window behind him glows with the evening sunlight, a framed depiction of Sunday crucified nude on the Oath of Judah, the chains piercing through his wrists as he sings out hosanna, hosanna in the highest. There's no one else there. No Einstein, no Siegfried. No barrier between him and his father's murderer. Welt tugs the hospital robes closer around his throat, trying not to shrink back into the couch as Otto looms high above him. Within one hand he holds a chalice, the Holy Grail, full to brimming with Welt Joyce's blood. “And here is the savior now,” Otto sneers, “O Lord Welt, second of his holy name.”
His voice fails as Sunday's golden eyes fall on him. Don't look at me, he wants to cry under the intensity of that stare, I never wanted this, but then Sunday's wings fold over his eyes (hosanna, hosanna, the little children sing). Otto reaches down, smiling, gripping Welt's chin as he forces the chalice to his lips.
The blood pools thick and bitter and heavy in his throat. He chokes, drowns on it, clawing and desperate for air, the chance to breathe, God, he can't—he can't—
“But that's not your real name, is it?”
Behind him, Sunday weeps bitter tears—hosanna, that the child has died.
“Now is it—”
“—Joachim? Joachim!”
Joachim startled awake. He gagged, coughed, drew in a great whooping breath; another breath, and he lunged for the bedside garbage can to vomit. Nothing came up but acid and strings of bile. “Fuck,” he strangled, back arching as he heaved again and again.
Cool, gentle hands began rubbing circles along his back. “You're okay, starlight,” Sunday's worried voice soothed over his shoulder. The light of his halo cast faded little prisms along the edge of the mattress. “It was just a nightmare. You're okay now, I'm right here.”
He nodded once as he tried to breathe the nausea away. The fog from the nightmare was slow to lift; his teary eyes could just make out the sage green sheets under him in the darkness, a trail of clothing scattered in a line across the faux hardwood flooring. The bed dipped beside him, then bounced back; Joachim watched Sunday walk nude to the bathroom and gagged again as the image hit him, Sunday crucified and singing hymns to a god that would never answer.
“Here.” A hand held out a plastic tumbler, half-filled with water. “Rinse your mouth out. It should help.”
Joachim did as told, rinsing and spitting into the wastebasket until the phantom taste of blood was mostly gone. “Sorry,” he rasped. “What... what time is it?”
“We still have a few hours before the alarm goes off.” Sunday put the water on the bedside table before sitting down beside him. His fingernails scratched gentle circles against Joachim's scalp. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He violently shook his head, shivering. Little threads of panic still writhed under his skin, his fight-or-flight instinct so torn between the two that it had settled on freeze instead. It had been ages since he'd last dreamed of that mission, his first time meeting a young Siegfried Kaslana. He could compartmentalize that night and the worst of the memories that came with it, to a point. The new and disgustingly vivid addition to the end of it, though—the nightmare-twisted memory of Otto at the Babylon laboratory—saliva pooled in his mouth as the nausea resurged. Terror wrapped around his throat like a noose and cut off the mere idea of saying a single word about it. “Can't.” His vision blurred with a rush of fresh tears. “Can't—”
“Shhh, it's okay!” Sunday reached out and cupped his face in his hands; the tears fell faster than he could wipe them away, dripping down his wrists. Little motes of Harmony danced about his halo, soothing and warm against his panicked mind. “It's okay, starlight. Don't force yourself. You don't have to talk about it. Just breathe for me.”
And—what was he doing, dragging Sunday out of a good night's sleep? For something as pathetic and childish as a bad dream? Joachim closed his eyes tight and just breathed. Counted them in heartbeats, in for four beats and out for six, anchored himself to the present with every caress of thumb against his cheek, until the sensation of drowning faded into the background and only guilt remained. “'m so sorry, little sun.”
Joachim felt more than heard Sunday's exhausted sigh as it ruffled his bangs. “I wish you wouldn't apologize,” he said, trying and failing to stifle a yawn. “Do you want to try laying back down? Or do you want to get up?”
Get up, he thought. “Lay down,” he murmured instead, cupping Sunday's hand to his face and kissing his palm. “Please.”
They had to shift around a bit to get comfortable again; they finally settled facing one another with blankets pulled high, their naked bodies tangled together and Sunday's icy feet pressed firmly between his calves. Joachim shivered and buried his face in the crook of his neck where the scent of briars and vanilla was strong on his skin. Above him, Sunday began to drowsily hum an old Halovian lullaby, his voice going softer and softer with each repetition until it evened out into slumber.
Alone with the shadows, Joachim closed his eyes and waited for morning to come.
“You look like shit, Mr. Yang,” Stelle commented through a mouthful of pancakes as he slid into his seat.
Welt just raised an eyebrow, too bleary-eyed to bother with such monumental tasks as speaking. Not that he had to; Sunday flicked her square on the forehead, a scowl on his pretty face as he sat down beside him. “Rude,” he sniped. If he weren't so exhausted, Welt would have agreed with him. “You're not exactly a fashion plate yourself.”
Dan Heng merely shrugged when Stelle turned to him for validation. “He has a point,” he said.
“Ugh, fine, I'm sorry I was rude.” She tapped her fork against her plate. “But you really don't look like you feel well.”
March came back to the table and placed a small bowl of plain congee in front of him, followed by a steaming mug of ginger tea. “Pom-Pom says you should have this if you're sick, Mr. Yang,” she said, a worried little frown on her face.
He couldn't help but smile a little, even as exhausted as he was. Trust his ragtag little family to care, even over something so minor as a restless night. “Thanks,” he rasped, and cradled the hot mug of tea in his hands. It was made just the way he liked it, with honey pooled thick in the bottom and a slice of lemon floating on top; he took a sip and let the warmth of it ease away some of the lingering nausea. “'s perfect.”
Satisfied, the kids went back to plowing through their respective breakfasts. “Where's Miss Himeko?” Sunday asked as he took a neat bite of his avocado toast. He gave Welt a pointed look, eyes darting from the congee and back in a silent instruction for him to eat. “It's not like her to be late.”
Welt obediently took a bite of his breakfast.
“We had a delivery come early,” March said. She picked up an extra-crispy slice of blood pudding and munched on it for a moment. The metallic scent of it was too reminiscent of the nightmare, Joyce's blood—he took a sip of his tea, the peppery ginger helping to mask the odor. ”She and Pom-Pom are taking care of the paperwork before coming for breakfast.”
Stelle burped into her fist. “From the Xianzhou Luofu, right? Aren't we visiting them in a few days? Kinda weird to get a delivery ahead of schedule for once.”
He tuned out the rest of the conversation, reaching instead for the newspaper. Or he would have, if Sunday hadn't stolen it. “You can have it back after you eat,” he said, an adorable little smirk on his face. “At least half the bowl. Tea won't be enough.”
“That's not fair.”
“Everything's fair in love, war, and feeding stubborn old men.”
Sighing, Welt took another bite.
They lingered long after the kids had finished, Sunday sitting patiently beside him as he struggled through the meal. “Still nauseous?” he asked when Welt pushed the half-full bowl away. “I can ask the conductor for some medicine.”
“Just not hungry,” he lied, rubbing at his eyes. A low, throbbing ache was starting to build in his temples, not helped by the harsh lighting overhead. Why was the Buffet Car always so bright? “Might go lay back down after this.”
Sunday took off his gloves and laid a hand against his forehead, his touch deliciously cool. “Hmm. You're not running a fever,” he murmured to himself. “Migraine?”
Migraines weren't horribly uncommon after he'd had a nightmare, though it had been a while since he'd had one that severe. Not since—oh. Since he started sharing a bed with Sunday. “I think so,” he said, then dug around in his pants pocket for his painkillers before dry-swallowing two of them. “I'll be fine.”
“You're going to irritate your throat doing that.” Sunday began rubbing little circles along the sides of his temples, fingers threaded with the slightest tinge of Harmony. Welt leaned into it with a quiet groan. “Go take a nap, Joachim. I can handle the clean-up on my own. I'll check in on you when I'm done.”
“You're sure? They left a mess,” he pointed out.
“Positive.” Sunday kissed him on the corner of his lips, brazenly sliding a hand along the outside of his groin. “Now go. I don't want a migraine ruining our date tonight. I have plans for you.”
“Mm, I am quite excited for those plans, too. I'm going.”
The darkness of their shared cabin was a relief to his aching head. Welt didn't even bother to kick off his shoes before crawling into bed; he was out before his head even hit the pillow.
This time, his sleep was dreamless.
He awoke a few hours later to a knock on the door.
Welt didn't even bother to open his eyes. Someone—most likely Sunday—had taken off his shoes and draped a now-melted ice pack over his forehead; most of the pain had thankfully receded, though the threat of it still lingered. Rolling over onto his side, he waved a hand to dismiss the gravitational lock on his door. “It's open,” he called.
“Sunday said you had a migraine.” Himeko's voice was whisper-soft; her footsteps came closer before he felt a weight settle on the corner of the bed. The ice pack was lifted from his head, only to be replaced with a fresh one. ”How's the pain?”
“Better. It'll be gone by this afternoon.” He cracked his eyes open with a hiss, his catlike pupils constricting paper-thin. It would be nice if the glow of his own eyes didn't trigger the sensitivity when he was like this. “For the most part, anyway.”
She chuckled and patted his hip. “Well, I'm just glad to see you resting for a change, old man.”
“I'm not that old,” he scoffed, unable to keep a grin off his face. “Maybe everyone else is too young. Ever think about that?”
Himeko rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “So,” Welt continued, “what brings you to my sickbed? Please don't tell me Stelle blew up the oven again. I'm not sure if we have the parts to fix it.”
“Oh, I was just bringing your tea order from the Luofu. Though Pom-Pom wants you to know that your room adjustments will be completed in a week or so.” She laughed. “I think they're just impatient to get their broom closet back.”
“Excellent. I'll ask them if they know a precise date. I know Sunday's getting impatient.” The cabins in the Passenger Car were decently sized for one person each; for two people, though, it was a tight fit. When Sunday had first decided to move in with Welt, Pom-Pom had proposed removing the sitting area behind their cabin and adding that space to the room. The construction kept running into issues, though, meaning that even after three months it wasn't quite complete. “My other order didn't come too, did it? The custom quilt?”
She shook her head. Even in the darkness, he could see the anxious frown curving her lips down. “No, and that's the weird thing. They sent a huge crate with just a few little items inside. As far as I know, everything else we ordered is still on the Luofu.”
“That's strange indeed.” He pushed himself up, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a throb of pain. “Have you inspected the crate? What about the items inside?”
“Our scans were clear, and Dan Heng didn't find anything either.”
“Hmm. Do you think someone could have stolen the rest of the cargo?”
Himeko groaned. “I didn't even think of that. The manifest says it's all there, but nothing says it couldn't have been altered en route.” She got to her feet, leaning over to kiss the side of his brow. “Your package is at the foot of your bed. Go on back to sleep, if you need to; Dan Heng and I can handle this.”
“Sure. Text if you need me.”
Welt picked the icepack back up and held it to his forehead. Sleep probably wouldn't be a good idea this late; napping past noon usually made his insomnia worse, and Sunday often insisted on staying up with him when that happened. It was about time for another dose of painkillers, too. “I don't remember ordering tea,” he murmured to himself as he picked up the package and unwrapped it. The pair of orthogonal boxes within weren't even the pricey lapsang souchong blend he preferred, but cheap bricks of generic black tea. “No, I definitely didn't order this. Hmm?”
A waxed envelope, edged in vermilion, fell out from between the boxes. He picked it up, examining the seal on it. A message with his order? His sleep-addled mind struggled to think of anyone who would communicate with him in such a covert manner. Siegfried would, he thought in amusement, in his fifteen year feud with Ryoma over who could get Welt in bed more often. But they were long-gone, a universe away.
He had no business missing them as much as he did. Sighing, he let himself sit with the bitter nostalgia for a moment before flipping the envelope over.
Across the front, in unfamiliar blocky print, it read: Joachim Nokianvirtanen.
Welt lunged for the bathroom just in time to vomit.
It wasn't possible. It just wasn't possible. Panic clutched at his throat, drove ice through his veins. There were only three people in this entire universe who knew his real name, and one of them was here on the Express. Robin had no idea how to spell his surname, and wouldn't have used it anyway. The third—
His migraine roared back to life, throbbing hot behind his right eye. The third was Void Archives. And he would never willingly address Welt by that name. Not when he could mock him by title instead.
Sunday's handwriting was too neat and orderly; Robin's was graceful. Void Archives's was an exact replica of Otto's loopy penmanship. This was none of these. Mind racing, he slumped against the cold porcelain tile and fought back another surge of nausea. If it wasn't Sunday or Robin, and it wasn't Void Archives... who could the letter be from? Had the Archives given out information about him? Surely not. That would put him in as much danger as it did Welt; what mad scientist would turn down the opportunity to dissect a sentient weapon like the Divine Key, much less something far more powerful like a Herrscher? And there would have been alerts from some of his contacts in the Genius Society and Intelligensia Guild if they were to find out about his origins. Screwllum and Dr. Ratio had ethics, at least—they would be courteous enough to give him a head's up. He hoped.
The room began to spin as he closed his eyes. The Stellaron Hunters, maybe? Could Elio see him in his scripts despite his extra-universal origins? It seemed possible, but from his understanding, Destiny's Slave probably wasn't seeing him so much as he was seeing how his influence affected others. It especially didn't make sense given how their focus was on Stelle and not the rest of the crew.
Or maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe—and his heart ached at the thought—could it be a message from home?
His fingers trembled as he slit the envelope open. A long, folded slip of paper fell out; he unfolded it and ran his fingers over the ink, scanned the words written there. Once, twice, the ice in his veins constricting around his heart until he could barely breathe past it.
It wasn't as bad as he'd feared.
It was worse.
And he had very little time left to make it right.
“Joachim? What in the galaxy are you doing?”
Joachim startled, staring owlishly at Sunday for a moment before huffing a little laugh. “Trying to make everything fit in here. Is is time for lunch?”
“That was two hours ago—are you okay?” Sunday reached up to slide a hand over his brow. He leaned into the gentle touch. “Why are you packing now? We're not due to visit the Luofu for another four days.”
The best lies, he knew, were concealed within a thick wrapper of truth. Something palatable, to help the one being lied to swallow it down without complaint. “An old friend has asked me to assist him with a problem on the Luofu. It's a bit time-sensitive, so I thought I'd leave a little early.” The migraine throbbed again, sharp and blinding; he ground the heel of his palm into his eye. “I'd normally delay a request like this. Problem is, he only asks for help when it's a serious emergency.”
“Oh.” Sunday sat on the bed, perturbed. “What kind of problem is it?”
“You know the consultant job I have with the IPC's robotics division? It's a bit like that.” He fit in another first aid kit, squishing it down more viciously than was called for, then zipped the bag closed. “I'd offer to let you come with, but I'm going to be so tied up fixing his mess that I won't have time to show you around.”
Sunday's wings drooped low, his halo flickering almost gray. “I suppose that means we're canceling our plans for tonight,” he said, trying for light and casual and failing miserably.
Joachim stopped dead in his tracks. Fuck, he'd completely forgotten about the date Sunday had set up for them that evening. “I'm so sorry, little sun,” he said, kneeling down and taking his hands in his own. “I know you worked very hard to set everything up. If this wasn't so critical, I'd make him wait, but....” Guilt, thick and bitter, drove his voice low. “I just can't. He needs my help.”
“I do understand, Joachim. It's okay. I know sometimes things just won't work out.” Sunday sighed, his halo brightening up again, and squeezed his hands. “It just means you'll have to make it up to me when you get back.”
“It was going to be a surprise, but... there's a small hotel in Fyxestroll Garden that has suites specifically for couples. We can go walking, take in an opera or a poetry reading....” He reached up and rubbed his thumb across Sunday's full lower lip, kissed his hand. Anything to assuage the guilt of lying to him. “I'm sure we could find some way to entertain ourselves.”
Sunday leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “Or I could give you a sneak peek of what you'll be missing?” he teased.
His mouth was hot and demanding as he leaned in for a kiss. Joachim moaned into it, a shivered thrill crackling hot down his spine with every fevered press of their lips. It was a tug-of-war, almost; Sunday bit his lower lip hard enough to bruise, only to dig his hands into Joachim's hair and viciously pull it when he tangled their tongues together, teasing little licks into long, sucking strokes. He was delicious—intoxicating, even, in his desperation. “F-fuck,” Sunday gasped as he started biting along his throat, arched and wanting and beautiful.
“I wish I had the time to fuck you, little sun,” he murmured against his skin. “But the sooner I leave, the sooner I can return.”
“How long do you think it'll take?”
“I'm hoping it won't take more than three days. If it does, then I'll know it's a problem too big for me to solve alone.”
“You'll call me while you're there?” Sunday helped him back to his feet, his smile quavering. “I'll worry if you don't.”
Another surge of guilt made his throat want to close. “I'll try to, but... don't be disappointed if I don't. He's not good about allowing for breaks, and I'll want to wrap it up as quickly as possible.” He hefted his bag over one shoulder, picked up his cane. The Star of Eden thrummed at the contact. “If I haven't contacted you in three days, then you have my permission to worry. But I don't think it will come to that.”
This time, their kiss was gentle and lingering. “...I love you, starlight,” Sunday said, worry clear in how his golden eyes wavered. “Please be safe.”
“I promise, little sun,” Welt said, and knew he was lying.