Kafka comes and goes.
That is her definitive trait as a person — the only thing in her life she obeys are the rare scripts she is given by Elio, and any other reasonable rule or idea flies past her completely.
Himeko, despite always ever moving through the galaxy on the Astral Express, always stays.
It's always been like this — people waltz in and out of her life, and all that is left is just her and the train, always the train; Akivili’s legacy that she fixed with her own hands during many, many sleepless nights that she spent on the same beach she’s standing on right now.
She doesn’t get to visit often – she’s busy more often than not now that her crew is more than just a girl fresh out of university and a space vehicle. It’s nice, though – the night cold breeze plays with her untied hair as her feet sink into damp sand. She takes a deep breath, feeling how salty air settles on her tongue. Sound of waves calmly washing over the shore is relaxing to listen to, and Himeko finally lets the tension seep out of her shoulders with an exhale. The express navigator takes off her shoes and starts to slowly walk along the edge of the water, letting her thoughts wander.
She wonders if Kafka once was a student, just like herself. It’s hard to imagine someone as peculiar as Kafka doing something so ordinary in an ordinary setting; it’s like she always was a stellaron hunter and never anything else.
That's partially a lie. Himeko can imagine Kafka in an ordinary setting, though, it's more so recall rather than imagine. Because she's seen her in one, two, different ones, multiple times across the galaxy; in bars, in hotels, on the Astral Express—
On the same exact beach she's standing right now, too. A memory of a faint silhouette lazily sprawled out on the sand is just as mocking as the facial expression of a long gone person.
Himeko bites through her lip and throws one of her shoes as far into the dark water as she manages to.
“Himeko, correct? Apologies for interrupting your little get-together—”
And Himeko looks absolutely livid, as if it's Kafka who is strolling across the train’s parlor in muddied boots that stain the carpet and not her weightless digital projection that Silver Wolf conjured up at the last second. Aeons, sometimes Kafka forgets that this really is her train. And if anything that has to do something with Kafka be it Kafka herself or anything even remotely connected that even graces the Astral Express with the featherest of touches, Himeko will take it as a personal assault of the highest rank.
“I’ve seen your face before, Stellaron Hunter, even if it was only on a Corporation wanted poster,” Himeko speaks slowly and graciously as ever, eyes burning holes in her with such intensity that Kafka suddenly remembers that she’s following the path of destruction. There is a warning and a thinly veiled threat in her gaze as she pretends to not know her.
They used to be friends, Kafka thinks longingly, even if “friends” is too loose of a term in regards to whatever it was between them. Maybe they were anything but friends, even, judging by how when Kafka searches Himeko's eyes she finds nothing but a sea of rage and a silent command that tells her to get off the damn train right this instant. She stalls a bit longer, throwing a couple more extra lines into the dialogue until she can't stretch it out any further, but nothing in Himeko’s gaze changes.
Kafka leaves.
Kafka knows better than to get on the Astral Express.
Delirious Kafka stumbles through the quiet corridor of the train in the dead of the night towards and then through a painfully familiar door with her hand pressed weakly against her side. There's a bullet under her ribs, or so she assumes at the very least. It sure is somewhere, it sure was not in the script and it sure does hurt as hell.
In the dimly lit bedroom she is greeted with a glint of amber eyes and an exasperated sigh.
“You’re staining my carpet.”
“I don’t think this is how you welcome guests aboard, Himeko, dear,” her words slur a bit more than she had expected them to.
“I don't think guests sneak into bedrooms with bullet wounds unprompted,” Himeko scoffs, sliding from under the covers to stand.
She's wearing a familiar long white layered nightgown that slightly glows in the light of an unknown star that creeps through a half-closer curtain. Her long, untied hair that falls on her shoulder adorn her tired face with barely visible remnants of a dream she was woken up from. Himeko looks ethereal and angry, and while Kafka's eyes trace her silhouette she thinks that this scene is the most beautiful thing that she's ever seen.
“Just like good old times,” Kafka says, and Himeko winces in sync with her smirk.
“They are old for a reason,” she responds flatly, before tipping Kafka off her balance with a light flick of her hand at her shoulder, “Sit down and don’t move.”
The stellaron hunter obediently freezes in place. Himeko kneels in front of her, but instead of her she reaches under the bed first, pulling out a neatly packed medkit. Kafka vaguely remembers the same box being there even years ago, and the thought of how nothing about Himeko or her bedroom changed even after so much time is both painful and not.
They fall into semi-comfortable silence that is interrupted mostly by the sound of medical supplies being unwrapped and Kafka’s occasional hissing from pain.
Himeko frowns the entire time she's wrapping bandages around the stellaron hunter.
“You seem rather displeased for someone who likes to fix all sorts of things.”
“All sorts of mechanical things. Not organic ones,” Himeko clicks the medkit closed before pushing it aside with a sigh, “You should give your wounds a rest for a bit if you want them to heal.”
“Did I hear that correctly? Is the navigator of the Astral Express offering me to stay in her bed for the night?” Kafka quirks an eyebrow at her in a teasing manner.
“Ask once again, and the navigator of the Astral Express will reconsider her offer.”
“How scandalous, miss Himeko!”
“Not more scandalous than your feat of boarding the train without a ticket in the dead of the night,” Himeko rolls her eyes, "Sleep.”
And so Kafka does.
Himeko does not fall asleep that night, observing the stellaron hunter as she rests soundly in her bed. She allows herself to slip under the covers next to Kafka — too close to be reasonable, she knows, but nothing is ever reasonable when it comes to Kafka. Life has a funny way of reminding the navigator that no matter how much she claims to have forgotten and buried any remnants or even hints of feelings she once had, her hands still itch to card through hair of rich purple color. Himeko caves and runs her fingers through the loosely tied ponytail once, discarding the hair tie, and then pushes herself back up to her feet. It's early morning, way before the hour her alarm is set to, but a cup of coffee wouldn't hurt.
When she returns not even 10 minutes later with a freshly made drink steaming in her hand, her bed is empty.
It's not surprising.
It doesn't make it hurt any less.
Himeko knows scripts always come first for Kafka – before Himeko, before herself, before the whole universe. It’s Kafka and the scripts she’s given and only then anything that has had the luck to remain after the scenario is carefully carried out.
Himeko hates her. Himeko hates that she loves her. Himeko hates that she doesn't love her enough to stay.
Kafka, Kafka.
A familiar voice hums a sweet, quiet tune; a lullaby for her ears and her ears only, a saccharine melody that she has heard only a few times through the murky curtain of sleep and sometimes searing pain.
My dear, dear Kafka.
Right, she used to be dear to someone. Someone with crimson red, long hair, someone with a fire inside her soul, someone with endlessly kind eyes and bitter coffee scent. She was once loved, and loved so deeply that she couldn't handle it; so mercilessly devotionally that it rivaled the path of Finality itself, the scripts and the entire universe. A Stellaron Hunter is not made to be loved like that; A Stellaron Hunter is made to follow scripts and avoid attachments. Or maybe, just maybe, a Stellaron Hunter is too scared of facing something so pure and fierce, and so the Stellaron Hunter does what she knows how to do best — she runs.
Kafka, Kafka.
The melody haunts her.
Kafka wakes up in the middle of the night in a vaguely familiar hotel room on a planet the name of which she has already forgotten due its limited and very short lived importance. She doesn't fall asleep for the rest of the night.
Caelus is a radiant boy.
Himeko fondly calls him a star child in her thoughts, because he really is – his eyes glitter gold, his sing-song voice and upbeat way of speaking rivals March’s on some occasions, spilling more warmth around the Express than there already was. He slots into the open space on the train like a perfect puzzle piece. Finds a way to carve a room for himself on every planet they visit, all cunning smiles and teeth – sweet when possible, stoic when needed and persistent at all times.
“Good morning, Miss Himeko!” He says, slipping into a free chair in front of her with the same expression of mischief on his face, full of energy as ever.
“You’re up early,” she nods in return, placing her cup of coffee back on the table.
You don’t get to see the sun rise and set when you’re lost somewhere deep in the recesses of cold and dark space, far from most stars. Himeko knows it's too early for breakfast regardless of that – the clock that matches some unknown timezone Pom-Pom chose as their “Express’ constant measure of time” politely tells them it’s barely 5:30 in the morning.
Caelus taps his fingers against the table’s surface in an improvised rhythm for a bit.
“I have errands to run before March or Dan Heng wake up,” he snickers, making a vague hand gesture, “May I disembark for a bit?”
“Polite and energetic as ever. No need to ask – of course you can, dear,” and Caelus immediately jumps to his feet, almost stumbling over his own chair.
“Thank you, Miss Himeko!” is the last thing Himeko hears as he skips away; he’s gone with a blink of an eye, and the train navigator watches the door behind him slam shut.
Caelus is a radiant boy, and Kafka left him.
And Himeko is not sure she can forgive that.
Kafka isn't given a script for Penacony.
Kafka isn't given any other script that involves a red-haired navigator of the Astral Express, either. She waits patiently, biting back a groan of disappointment every time Elio hands her a new folded piece of paper that has nothing to do with the Nameless.
When Elio smiles at her, his eyes crinkle in an eerily cat-like manner. His bright blue eyes pierce right through both her exterior and her core, peering into her soul — if she still has it or ever had one to begin with, — and it makes Kafka flinch every time. Something lingers in his gaze, something as old as time, borderline ancient, despite destiny's slave looking barely older than a teenager.
“Is there something bothering you, Kafka?” he asks, tone calm and sweet.
Stellaron Hunters are Elio’s storytelling tools, not more, not less, and Kafka willingly chose to walk the path of Finality, to dance to the words that are given to her. She does not regret her choice by any means, but—
Sometimes it's just difficult.
Sometimes a melody rings in her ears too loudly, rendering her deaf; sometimes Kafka wants to abandon everything she has and let the universe go up in flames if it means she can have one more night that is filled with a familiar soft laughter; sometimes she dreams of gentle hands that card through her hair and fingers that run down her cheeks with deep fondness.
And sometimes Kafka wishes to not wish anything at all.
“I think you know the answer to your question,” she smiles, but it tastes more bitter than she anticipated. Elio smirks in affirmation.
“Fate might be unchangeable and imminent,” he muses, “But we are free to choose the ways and means by which we relay it to the audience. Author is the narrative.”
“Author is the narrative,” echoes Kafka, hoping she caught onto his thought correctly this time. He's hard to understand, sometimes; A boy, a man, something not entirely human that can gaze into the future, driven to the brink of insanity by the visions and stories foretold, and one of the most trustworthy people in Kafka's life.
Elio gives her a slow nod of acknowledgement, and something in Kafka's lungs twists into a knot.
It's a relatively small bar, one of Kafka’s favorite ones. The vintage-like decorum with hints of loft drowns in warm, dimmed lighting that is produced by tesla-styled lightbulbs in pipe-shaped chandeliers; a calm, jazz melody floats in the air. There’s a miniature scene right to the left from the bar counter with a few amplifiers and a lonely drum set, meant for live performances. But it’s empty today, and music seeps from the speakers that are hidden across the ceiling instead. The audio system is of good quality, though, Kafka has to give it that.
They’re here today for a humble celebration of yet another successful mission, this time in the land of dreams. In which Kafka did not get the chance to participate, and no matter how hard she hid the disappointment of being held back, it didn’t slide past Silver Wolf. And thus the gray-haired hacker insisted they should let Kafka choose where to go out for drinks, and who is Kafka to pass on the opportunity to bring her friends to her favorite establishment? She tags along but hovers slightly away from others and the main conversation, simply enjoying the music with a glass of a sparkly amber drink in her hand – a bartender special, new one every week. The color feels mocking this time, though.
She spots Firefly in the middle of the clearing with a slightly lost look on her face and waves at her. She beams the second she notices Kafka’s inviting gesture and quickly walks up to her, slightest hint of gratitude to her expression.
“So how do you find Miss Himeko?” she asks after a while when their glasses quietly clang together.
Firefly smiles at her — gently, but not in the same sheepish way she does around Caelus and others. She might appear fragile and soft – and she is, to some extent – but the amount of self-confidence she has is something Kafka deeply respects.
“I find her nicer than you've described her, Kafka,” she replies, and Kafka quirks an eyebrow at her in fake disbelief.
“Kafka's descriptions rarely match reality. She has her own twisted perception of the world,” Blade scoffs as he approaches the two side by side with the last member of their small team.
“As if you're any better, Bladie,” Silver Wolf chimes in.
“Don’t call me that,” Blade frowns, to which Silver Wolf only giggles and ducks behind Firefly in a feeble and, frankly, dishonest attempt to hide from him.
Kafka laughs, and lets her sorrows temporarily melt away behind the happy chatter and clinking of glasses.
The air is humid and frankly suffocating at first when Himeko steps out on the painfully familiar beach, brand new shoes in hand. The sand crunches under her feet and rustles as the salty water sweeps across it, dangerously close to the edge of the navigator’s long skirt. It’s not like it matters, though, and it’s not like Himeko has a good reason to be here, either. On her rare visits, she’s usually here to reminisce about the years long gone and find peace deep within her coat’s pockets; today she feels restless and memories seep through her fingers with sand, running away from her. Still, Himeko feels like she has to be here.
The familiar sound of approaching footsteps tells her exactly why.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Kafka smiles, and it looks way too sheepish for her regular persona as she stands next to her side.
“I didn't say a single word,” Himeko retorts, turning away from a sudden visitor to stare at the peaceful night ocean.
The waves linger quietly.
Kafka comes and goes; that is her definitive trait as a person.
Sometimes, though, she lingers like the waves, before retreating. Himeko knows she'll crash against the tides eventually. Just not now.
And Himeko will wait. After all, she always stays – that is her definitive trait as a person. It’s always her and the Astral Express, but maybe–
Maybe one day she won’t have to be alone aboard the train.
