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Dan Heng x Express Crew! Reader, pt 3!

Results of the Valentines Day poll said Dan Heng gets another chapter, thank you to everyone for voting and having patience with me since this is definitely later than I wanted it lol.

Gn reader, implied chronic illness, continuing self esteem issues, pre-canon, introvert problems, return of abundance of food as a means of connecting with others, Dan Heng get a stable life challenge, sfw, crush at first sight/strangers to lovers continues, a hint of worldbuilding and a dash of anxiety attacks on Dan Heng's part, 10.4k words.

<<<< Part 2 here! Also on AO3, here!!!

Summary:

[8 Months Before the Deimos Cataclysm]

Dan Heng has never stayed this long upon a vessel, in his many frantic years of travel through the galaxy. He still has yet to solve the mystery behind his unexpected crush's life, but he is getting better at cooking breakfast. Welt Yang has been teaching him the process of trailblazing, and Himeko is starting to trust him with some of the mechanics of the train. Eventually, he was sure to be paired with his person of interest for an expedition, and it seems like that time has come.

Although if Dan Heng ever wants to live his own life, he'll need to wrestle control of it back from the judgment of a world he's long been banished from.

[8 Months Before the Deimos Cataclysm]

“Are you watching? I’m going to do the thing,” you tell him.

“Ready.” Dan Heng affirms, tone steady in concentration as he focuses.

“Alright, three, two, one…” you flick your wrist, maneuvering the pan in your hand and flipping over the pancake, “flip!”

The sizzling of the pan fills the air renewed, the golden-brown face of the pancake reflecting your enthusiasm back at him, “did you get that?” You asked, looking over at him as he hovers at your side.

“I believe so.”

“It would be easier to just use a spatula or spoon.”

“It’s a transferable skill,” he assures you. He doesn’t really know what else he’d apply it to, but he’ll figure it out, he’s sure.

An entertained sigh passes your lips, perhaps the remains of a laugh, “if you’re sure.” He coughs into his fist to alleviate the warm tightness in his throat at your gentleness. Safe to say that despite his… mood quirks… the cooking lessons he’s getting from you are bearing timely results.

“Would you like to make the next one yourself?” Dan Heng nods, shuffling over as you relinquish your spot in front of the stovetop. He grips the handle of the pan and tips the finished pancake out onto a separate plate. Setting it down, he picks up and pours out the mixing bowl of batter into the pan, eyeballing the amount and doing his best to keep the width even.

“And you flip it when…?”

He pauses, then answers, “when the top side bubbles and the sides look dry in… two to three minutes?”

“Perfect!” You praise, and Dan Heng’s stomach flips not so unlike how you demonstrated with the previous pancake. This time, he has prepared himself accordingly and takes a healthy sip of the glass of water he prepared for himself beforehand. Although, no matter how much he drinks, his face still feels as hot as it always does when you’re using basic courtesies with him.

While he takes over pancake making duty, you migrate to a site you pre-prepared before the two of you started cooking. You will be cutting up fruit and preparing toppings and dressings nearby, as you tend to stay productive nearby in case he needs some quick intervention at the stove. The rhythmic chk-chk-chk of your knife tapping against the cutting board interrupts the silence that inevitably settles around him when he undertakes the cooking himself with you. After a short few minutes, Dan Heng lifts the pan, flicks his wrist, and huffs in satisfaction as the pancake flips and lands on the yet uncooked side back into the hissing pan. A pretty good job if he says so, and he glances at you to see if you saw it. Alas, you’re facing away, still chopping fruit. Dan Heng can’t help but deflate. You didn’t see his pancake flip at all…

He shakes himself out of his momentary melancholy- he would find better results if he stayed focused on the task you gave him instead of sulking about unimportant things. There’s nothing significant about you not seeing his first successful pancake flip because he’s certainly not a figure in your life that demands that kind of awareness. He’s just… himself. And that’s not very much at all. In the end, most of his pancakes turn out circular and fluffy, cheerfully golden too, a few are burnt, lumpy and misshapen. When he presents the stack to you, he tries to keep the disappointment out of his own expression, lest he appear childish before you.

“Wow, these look great! Are you sure you’ve never made pancakes before?”

Dan Heng blinks at you. Are you- are you genuinely satisfied with how his attempts turned out? “There are some bad ones-”

Your smile is unwavering as you shake your head, “those are the best parts, here, let me…” you pull out one of the failed pancake lumps with a fork, drizzle some syrup on it and take a bite.

“Ish’ jush fine,” you declare, hand over your mouth to prevent spitting, before you swallow your mouthful and state more clearly, “bad ones are good excuses to taste-test your work early. Plus, if you eat it now, nobody will know you messed up.”

You hold out a second fork for him. Hesitantly, he takes it, stabbing into his subpar pancake. He swipes it through some of the syrup and lifts the breakfast food to his lips. Some parts are crispy where they shouldn’t be, likely where he overcooked, but the taste is sweet and fluffy, with the tiniest salty tinge where he added a little extra salt out of curiosity. It’s not perfect, but it’s certainly not bad at all.

“So?”

“...good…” He admits. He takes another bite. Then another. And then all of his bad pancakes are gone, and you’re done dressing them. Dan Heng stares as you set them upon the cart, soon to be taken to the rest of the crew for breakfast. From here, they do look quite mouthwatering. He decides it must be because of the decoration and flavouring that you added afterwards, yes, that must be it.

He trails after you as you push the cart out into the dining area, calling out ecstatic greetings to Pom-Pom, Himeko, and Mr. Yang. Groggily, the older man squints at Dan Heng in surprise but masks his expression before you notice. In that, the younger is thankful, but he has a feeling that he’ll be answering questions about it later. This is the first time that he’s exited the kitchen with you after learning a new food, since usually you assign him smaller tasks and send him out before the whole meal is done preparation. This time he’s been more involved. From an instructor’s viewpoint, he imagines that it makes sense for you to gradually work him up the difficulty scale as he comes to understand how to navigate your kitchen. He wonders how Himeko and Mr. Yang guided you when you joined the crew’s roster.

Some nights, he hovers over the member profiles of Nameless long past, of whom the occasional anecdote can be found in the better-preserved ancient data. Much was lost when the train fell, the Aeon’s path too corroded by stellaron pollution to continue on, including many records stored on the Express. His heart aches at the idea of the precious memories and information now gone with the wind. He wonders if the past guards were accompanied by their favourite crewmates when they patrolled and sorted through the security centers. One guard, Tiernan, alongside other members of a crew of old, have a final note in their accounts: departed at Penacony. Dan Heng wonders what expression he will wear when he types his final account into the archives, and where he will immortalize his departure in.

“It’s a different recipe today, does anyone have feedback?” You ask the crew after Pom-Pom delivers their morning message.

“The fruits are a wonderful and healthy addition,” Mr. Yang offers, “and the texture is excellent.”

Himeko concurs, “a little too sweet for me, but it’s a great breakfast regardless. Good choice, [Name].”

You beam, “actually Dan Heng cooked this morning!”

Mr. Yang hums appreciatively, “well done, son, they turned out perfectly.”

“Excellent, learning new skills is exactly what the Nameless should strive for,” Pom-Pom adds, while Himeko endeavors to eat as gracefully as possible despite her obvious enjoyment of the dish.

Dan Heng’s face flushes red all over again, gah, you really were a wonderful person through and through to just say something so flattering, “it’s nothing much…” he utters.

Then he catches your eyes, twinkling with pride, your mouth tugged open in a pleased grin. It’s not the same face you make when you’re congratulating him, no, that expression is far softer and subdued. That is… perhaps you made that comment about his cooking very intentionally. Perhaps the goodness of your heart is not a cause that takes effect passively, but rather more like a plot you execute. His heart thuds heavily in his chest, you needn’t even praise him this time to get that same response. Dan Heng really doesn’t know you well enough to say what goes through your mind, you’re rather quiet beyond teaching him how to cook and talking when the crew is assembled. How does his heart throb for someone he understands so little about? Traitorously, his brain whispers that maybe you have him on your mind like how your image haunts his own. It’s a silly, unfounded thing to assume from a single ambiguous statement that you made.

All he can say for sure is that the crew likes his pancakes, and that maybe he’s good at making pancakes too. He catches himself noting it under the yet-to-be-published tabs of his crew member profile when he shuts himself off into the privacy of the Data Banks later that day. His hand hovers over the delete button on his keyboard for a while. It's not very important that he can make decent pancakes, but also there are other sections of crew profiles that he filled in with the skill sets and abilities that he learned from his interviews. Mr. Yang has his replication ability and a steady hand for art, while Himeko can make tech cooperate with the touch of her hand and any person to do the same with a few gentle words. You seem to be able to fix anything if left alone long enough and you’ve got a keen eye for what people really mean when they speak to you. It would be unnerving if he wasn’t both envious and already biased in your favour. With that in mind, Dan Heng thinks that maybe leaving ‘good at making pancakes’ under his profile isn’t very presumptuous after all. He leaves it in the draft section in the end.

With not much else to do, Dan Heng returns to your profile. There’s more to read this time, proof of his efforts to interview you, proof that you shared a small slice of your inner world with him, dutifully recorded here for the crews of yet-unreached eras to browse.

[NAME]

Homeworld: Deimos, Ira Solar System

Birthdate: Unknown

Designation(s): Cook, Repairs, Emergency Medical Treatment

Hobbies/Interests: Reading

Dan Heng has tried to conform the styles of some of the entries he writes to that of the previous archivist, unfortunately a name he has yet to uncover. It’s fortunate that his Nameless predecessor was so organized and consistent, it has certainly made his formatting job simpler. The one section that he’s truly struggling with is the stylistic introductory lines that preface each article, with the especially artful ones being reserved for the crew profiles. Dan Heng is a wanderer, not a poet, and given that he’s the newest addition, he feels that he doesn’t have enough of an intimate understanding of his fellow passengers to write a fitting description. It might be better if descriptions were written by someone else, but he tries nonetheless to develop a tone that resembles the established format.

[A person who strives to give and provide for those who board the Express. They chose to travel on the path of the Trailblaze because {N/A}{N/A}{N/A}{N/A}{N/A}. Collects spare machine parts in case of emergency repairs.]

Except for his own, all of the profiles on people contain those two to three sentence sentiments. It certainly enforces a strong sense of concision, and Dan Heng wages an internal battle over the most significant parts of yourself to include. And out of what he does know, he wonders what is most appropriate to be sharing as a publicly accessible document to any of the Express guests.

[Skilled cooking instructor.]

[Reliable retainer.]

[Effective moral support.]

[Has a nice laug-] he deletes that input before he can complete the thought. That certainly isn’t relevant information that needs to be added, even if it’s in the private, unpublished drafts. What else does he know about you that he could be adding to your profile? Closing his eyes, he recalls how his last attempt to interview you went.

The scent of construction and dust floods Dan Heng’s senses, followed soon after by the signature energy of The Destruction as the path currents surrounding the car shift into a new designation. In the reflection of the glass, he sees your smouldering golden eyes staring into the hostile abyss as the lights in the car flicker on and off, only to cut entirely as your hands settle.

“Dan Heng, step back,” you request gently, and he complies without a second thought, unused to the serious, possibly even agitated expression on your face.

A sigil carves itself into existence beyond the glass, shimmering and warping in the void, until it finishes forming into the shape of a simple golden eye. He shudders, feeling as if it stares into his very soul itself, reading every sin.

But that’s nothing compared to what it does to the Antimatter legion outside.

The pupil of the rune roves for a moment, then widens, focusing on the legion. How he can tell where the two-dimensional eye is looking is unclear, but he has a feeling that he’d be far more scared for his life if he was certain it was looking at him. Dan Heng can hear his breathing at an almost deafening level as all other sound cancels out into nothing. The rune pulses, flares, and a blast of energy emits from the train, rattling the vessel. Dan Heng watches in morbid fascination as rows upon rows of the legion shriek and crumble, folding into dust before his very eyes. The light of the rune dims, revealing the lifeless space particles that used to be a threat, floating harmlessly in space. Dan Heng warily glances at his tablet, still sitting at the booth table. Not a single security alarm in sight.

The taste of dust and iron fades from his tongue, his keen ears pick up on the flowing of the air vents again. The lights of the car flicker back to life and warmth floods back into the room. Then a new wave of anxiety hits- you’ve just used your powers, are you going to collapse? Frantically, he spins back to you, hands raised in anticipation for another fainting episode. He takes an anxious step forwards, and at the sound of his approach you turn around to meet him. Your eyes are a blazing gold, wide in an awareness you never seem to have when your powers exhaust you.

“[Name], what about…” He begins, unsure of how to refer to your condition.

Your hands tangle together, pressed into your chest as realization sinks in, “wait- don’t come any closer!”

Dan Heng freezes, chest aching at your response. Do you hate him? Has he done something wrong? Why can’t he help you anymore?

Wincing, you shake your head, “no- dammit- I’m sorry, that came out wrong. Just wait until I have my gloves back on, please.” The longer he observes, the more he finds: you’re not even tired, not a trace of the energy drain is present on your features from your unusual constitution.

Swallowing stiffly, Dan Heng nods, “of course.” He doesn’t know what to do or say here, this requires social navigation skills that he hasn’t got the slightest inclination of knowing. You would be the one handling that normally.

You slip your lengthy gloves back on, and sigh in relief as you reflexively squeeze your fists to test the fit. As far as he can observe, you’re not in physical pain at all. You must feel safe with the gloves on. He’ll add that note to your page in his notebook later.

“Dan Heng,” you finally say, tone back to the softness he’s grown to expect, “I just want you to know that you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not mad at you.”

He flushes pink. How obvious had his turmoil been? He thought he was better at not projecting his innermost thoughts so much. He says nothing, waiting for you to elaborate as he hasn’t the understanding to continue himself.

“Do you remember that first battle when we met?” You inquire.

Dan Heng nods. The thing that has perhaps thrown his life off the most beyond the already unusual circumstances of his rebirth and Blade’s vengeance.

“Then you remember what happens when I touch things with my bare hands? It’s been a long time since there was an accident, and I can control it for the most part. I just don’t want the next mistake to be a person, so if you see me without my gloves, just wait until I have them back on before approaching me, alright?”

He nods, but your gaze is unwavering, “I’m being serious. I don’t want you to get hurt if I slip up, promise me that you’ll not get close if I don’t have my gloves on.”

It really is a shame for you that you’re asking the boy with the most ill-fated crush on you to stay away from you for any reason at all. As he understands you, you’re the sun, he’s just another planet in your orbit. Could you ask a moon to stay out of the range of the planet it’s bound to?

“I promise,” he says, although his chest still hurts at the fact that you’ve asked him to.

Serenity returns to your expression, “thank you. Can you check on the conductor? They should know that our little problem is fixed now.”

A knock upon the Data Banks’ door startles him out of his reverie and he swiftly closes the editing window on the profile accounts before he calls out to his visitor that they can open the door. The heavy panel slides open with a click and in leans Mr. Yang’s homely head.

“Dan Heng,” he greets him, simple enough for both of them to enjoy, “we’re having a meeting in the parlour, care to join us?”

The man likes to phrase the summons like questions, Dan Heng has realized. He has never had a reason to reject them before, he does wonder what they would say if he did. Does Dan Heng have that option, or is this just etiquette? Regardless, he hums an affirmation and straightens his jacket as he stands, palms flicking off potential dust from the fabric folds. A pleased smile finds itself on Mr. Yang’s face as he makes space in the doorway for Dan Heng to follow him through, slowing his stride so that the shorter of them can keep pace with him as they stride through the walkway. Dan Heng wonders if someone has ever slowed down so that he can walk beside them. He can’t remember if somebody has ever intentionally walked beside him.

You and Himeko are already seated and waiting in the parlor car, you, waving at his and Mr. Yang’s entrance. The more he does this, he hopes that the fluttering in his chest will die, but as of today, it still lives on. The best he can do is a nod of affirmation, picking up his speed as he suddenly becomes hyper aware of how long it would take if you were to watch him until he reached the central couches. Dan Heng doesn’t want to keep anyone waiting, least of all you, as he notes your red wheelchair is already out and parked by the teleporter device. He’s never been so satisfied and mortified all at once by being perceived.

Himeko is pleased, pressing her palms together in an expression of her thrill, “and that’s everyone, thank you Welt. Yesterday we had to delay our trip due to the poor weather at the landing point, but it seems to be cleared up now. Even better, the locality closest to the drop point is having a festival market spanning practically the whole city! I have some maintenance to run, so unfortunately I’ll need one person to stay aboard for sure this time while two people go trailblazing. Since this is a bit of a special occasion, Pom-Pom suggested that you should be able to choose what you do today. So, who wants to do what?”

Glancing at your wheelchair, you speak first, “I’m already set to go, so I’ll just stick to the previous plans, unless you need my help with something?”

The woman shakes her head, “nope, the help needs to keep track of our exploring team since I’ll be busy, they’ll be holding down the fort so to speak. Who wants to head out with [Name]?”

“Me.”

Mr. Yang looks at him.

Himeko looks at him.

Pom-Pom looks at him.

You look at him.

Dan Heng wonders if maybe he should have volunteered with less enthusiasm.

“Then I’ll stick around this time, you kids have fun and stay safe, alright?” Mr. Yang finally says, chuckling as he offers Himeko a glance filled with unspoken meanings. Dan Heng isn’t sure he likes that look, but it’s most definitely too late to back out and interrogate him now.

Ever a saviour, you wave your hand slightly to grab his attention, “do you have everything you need before we go?”

He opens his palm, summoning Cloudpiercer to his side, subtly eyeing you. He’s content to find that same wondrous sparkle in your expression that you bear in the training room when you catch him practicing his spearwork. He allows his weapon to return to light dust and pats his pockets: phone, first aid kit, hammerspace inventory bag, Express security pass. Yep, he’s ready for anything, and tells you as much.

“Great, I pre-booked a hotel for a couple days for us, so when we arrive we’ll check in and sort ourselves out for the night,” you explain, and Dan Heng understands why you’re so eager to go, given that it’s already late in the evening so once the sun sets you will be able to take off your heavy-duty goggles and see the world as it is.

The leg braces flex and the joints bend as you excitedly push your wheelchair over to the teleporter. He expected both to make noise, but they’re as silent and smooth rolling as it gets. His drifting mind ponders if you made it, or if Himeko made it, or if it was bought from somewhere in the galaxy that you passed through. Maybe it was a gift from a family member that you left behind when you boarded the Express, a little help from your loving roots. It’s a line of thought that admittedly makes him envious. This will be his first first expedition with you, it will be the second time ever that he sees the sunlight of another world bathe you in amber and pink as the sun sets. Your goggles are fastened to your face, your hair sticking up at odd angles around the band that holds them to your head, and he resists the temptation to fix it. He isn’t quite sure what to do with his hands so he tucks them into his pockets.

“Do you like trailblazing?”

“More than anything,” you say, your smile audible in your tone.

He can feel the flush of his face returning as he glances at your lips. Hopefully your lenses have dimmed the colours in your vision enough to prevent you from noticing the pigment changes on his skin. If you were to know what foolish impulses were clouding his vision now, if you were to ask if he was really going to work despite his immature fixation, he would swear to you that he would be reliable while he ventured with you. But you don’t ask, just silently anticipating the starting of the teleporter to send the two of you down to the surface of the planet. He doesn’t deserve to be taking this kind of pleasure from you, but if it means he can keep you smiling and come back behind you to the Express, he’s willing to forsake his atonement for a while.

By now, he’s familiar enough with the sensation of the spatial jumps. He hears Himeko and Mr. Yang’s well wishes before the sounds of thrumming energy rises in his ears. “Have a fun date!” Himeko’s mischievous call catches his attention.

His face explodes into colour as he stares at her in mortification, “this isn’t-” the teleporter activates before he can finish exclaiming.

Dutifully closing his eyes, he can see white light beyond his eyelids as the feelings of direction and gravity vanishes. He recalls Mr. Yang’s instructions, to just keep breathing as evenly as possible, to not make any sudden movements and just wait for the sensation to pass– better yet, wait for the sound of nature or urban life, which means that they’re done jumping. Ah, yes, he can hear it now: the sound of running water, distant rustling of leaves, the chill of the air on his skin.

Opening his eyes, a quaint park surrounds him, and not so far away a stone fountain crowns the small walkway court they’ve touched down in. The water gurgles pleasantly and Dan Heng feels his power surge under his skin, calling for it. The blue shine of the space anchor promises a safe return route to their vessel. He breathes in through his nose, feels the air against the top of his mouth as he sighs it out, and turns to you. He can see the gleeful squish of your upturned cheeks pressing against the rims of your goggles, fuschia sunset painting you in colours not so far off from the scarlet of your long coat. He has nothing against the choices that Pom-Pom has made in regards to the lighting of the Express, but you are made for natural light, especially that of the creeping dusk.

“Don’t worry about her, she’s just messing with you. Himeko must be really excited to work on the train today,” you comment, already setting off into motion.

Dan Heng observes as you wheel yourself over to the fountain, then dip your hand into the water. Briefly, he considers copying you, but then you hiss and he flies to your side. Instinctually, he reaches for your hand, but freezes. Right. He promised you. Instead, Dan Heng grips your sleeve and raises your arm.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I–” you force a pained exhale, “–it's just something that I need to do when I first arrive somewhere new. The feeling will pass.”

Dan Heng frowns at you in disapproval, “does every aspect of your abilities cause you difficulties?”

He expects your laughter, but the cutting edge of depreciation and irony is audible when you say, “no, just the ones I need the most.” Yes, he’s certainly offended you now. Bitterness and shame curls up inside of him, pressing against the underside of his skin like a parasite: he’s managed to ruin your joy just moments after they've touched down. Why had he thought this was a good idea…

“I– I’m sorry…”

“Gah, I’m the one who should be sorry, that’s a fair question. It’s good to know what your trailblazing partners are capable of, you have a valid concern there. Um, how is the best way to explain it…?” A halfhearted flick of your gloved hand attracts his eyes. For a moment, he assumes you’re stretching your wrist, but then a faint glow surrounds the two of you. The closer he looks, the more apparent it becomes that the glow isn’t some aura, but dozens upon dozens of little golden threads that drape from the hand that you dipped into the fountain.

“Every planet I’ve ever been on has a network like this, there’s energy flowing everywhere. People have it too. I think it’s universal, but I really don’t know yet. If it was like electricity, I suppose my relation to it is just being a tool with more opportunities than most to transform that power. I have enough to do it myself, but as you can see, that rebounds back at me most of the time since the Express runs off of the remains of Akivili’s path and Himeko’s efforts. On planets, as long as I can ‘integrate’ into the network, I’m better off. It's an unpleasant sensation to go through the first time, however.”

“That is… it is fascinating.” His mind whirls with questions and concepts and theories about what you might be capable of. But also with jittery worry for what your powers might do to you.

“Is it? It’s not so different from walking to me.”

He needn’t comment on that, that you don’t walk when you leave the Express. “Understood. If you are… ‘integrated,’ shall we head over to the hotel then?”

“Sounds perfect, I have the directions rightttttttt here,” you say, phone in hand.

The walk is quiet, but in all fairness he wasn’t expecting it to be anything else. Locals stream around the two of you, mostly preparing to end the day, but otherwise not paying either of you a glance. You’re talkative when surrounded by the other members of the crew, or if you’re teaching him something, but he’s observed (completely non-obsessively, naturally) that your small-talk skills suffer when you’re in less familiar company. He falls within this category when he’s casually near you. This isn’t exactly a complaint either, he’s certainly without grounds to stand on in regards to social skills too, but he finds himself missing the sound of your voice. Dan Heng feels it would be unfair to ask you to speak if he wasn’t prepared to return the favour, so in the end he keeps his mouth shut as you two pass through the edges of the residential zone and into a hotel somewhere between the still-bustling downtown and the now-sleepy housing districts. By now, the only light is reflecting off the clouds of insects vying for space under the street lamps. It’s still too bright for you to remove your eyewear.

Frigid AC blasts him as the automatic doors to their temporary arrangement slide open. Compared to the trees and the park, this place seems almost uncomfortably manufactured. There’s chrome and metallic sheen everywhere, and it hurts his eyes. Dan Heng hopes that the accommodations will be less aesthetically challenging to endure. He refrains from bristling under the stares of the staff and other guests as you roll into the elevator after checking the two of you in, him not far behind you. You shuffle some of the tourism pamphlets that you collected by the front desk in your lap, before drawing some and offering them to him.

“See anything that catches your eyes?”

Doing his utmost to ignore the omnipresent metal layering on every reflective surface that makes up the interior of the elevator, he thumbs through a couple of your pilfered pamphlets. There’s the city-wide festival market in two night’s time that Himeko mentioned, as well as more localized activities throughout the host city leading up to it. What most draws him, he places his finger over to show you, “this, the museum. The library is right next door. The tickets for the former are discounted due to the festivities, and the library could offer some notes for me to upload into the Express’ Data Bank for this planet.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. It would be good for us to figure out what is being celebrated before we see the market. Plus, the museum might have a gift shop and we can buy something small back for Himeko and Welt while we’re there.”

He hums his agreement, the elevator chimes to helpfully inform them that they’ve reached their floor. You seem to be in better spirits, back to the general optimism he’s observed you commonly showing, and your mind set on doing something to bring a spark of light into somebody else’s day. He can hear you counting under your breath as the doors to suites pass you by, gleefully announcing when the paired doors to your and his rooms draw close. According to the booking, the rooms are individual, but are connected by a door should either of you need anything. You pass him his security card before standing from your chair to lean on your door as you unlock it with your own pass. Using your weight, the door falls open and you drag your wheelchair in behind you, calling out a caring ‘goodnight’ and instructions to meet you in the lobby tomorrow morning to head out. As if in a daze, Dan Heng stands there until the heavy thud of your door closing throws him off. He should turn in too. Before he can reconsider, the moment his room door closes behind him, his hand locks around the doorknob of the adjoining door.

A moment passes. He could turn his wrist. He has a feeling that you wouldn’t care if he tested the use of the door. A flicker of memory plays in his mental theatre, of the setting sun bathing you in robes made of twilight’s flush. His heart beats so fast. In the end, he’s unable to follow through with anything beyond touching the door. He still has your pamphlets. Dan Heng sets them on the nightstand before he begins his nightly routine.

First job with [Name], so far, so good.

…

Dan Heng realizes just how spoiled he is the moment he bites into the morsels he picks up from the free breakfast venue of the first floor of the hotel. Some things taste and feel stale, the flavours are bland. The only high quality item is the water, which doesn’t quite feel like the badge of honour some might say it is. He bites into a soggy muffin that probably should have had a more solid consistency. He hadn’t understood just how fine-tuned your dishes were to the tastes of the crew, and how each time he offered you feedback, you had truly taken it to heart to make his next meal even more delicious. It wasn’t like there was anything wrong with the hotel food either, it was perfectly edible. But it wasn’t what you did. He casts a glance at you, your goggles resting on your hair, eyes screwed shut in a mixture of yet-unconquered sleep and to block out the meagre fluorescent lighting. While your body language suggests growing awareness and ambivalence to the circumstances of your shared breakfast, the drawn together features of your face twist your expression into one not so unlike irritation and misery. Dan Hang has never seen you be so… unpolished.

Each morning, you’re up before he is, certainly because each night you’re long radio silent before he’s even considering the ideas of sleep. If anything, he’s more nocturnal than you are. It means that when he finds you for cooking each daybreak, you’re already donning a mask of readiness for the coming hours. Your brand of orderly presentation is not quite the fashionable elegance of Himeko, nor the stately suit of Welt Yang. His racing thoughts about how cute you are despite your grogginess during this particular morning are better left unsaid. You might be a worse morning person that the rest of the crew.

There is no wisdom to be found in how wild his mind is running right now, so he elects to keep pace at your side as you make your way deeper into the core of the downtown centre. You and he had agreed on a route that was less in alignment to the expected grand market, hoping to avoid the worst of the construction and preparations. Nothing escapes the spirit of festivities anyhow, and there are teams of people installing lights or extra infrastructure in anticipation of the crowds along each street side. The two of you have made an unspoken agreement to spot potential danger for each other when skirting the boxes of tools and supplies, your paths merging into the streets again and again. As the architecture grows older, the maintenance winds down too, perhaps with the preparations having started in the more antique parts of the city and expanding outwards. Statue grotesques peer down upon the two of you like guardian angels from the ledges and eves of the surrounding buildings as the sputtering of the occasional car down the lane breaks the silence.

And yet neither of you speak much apart from pointing out if you see a bird to one another, or asking if the other has seen the street sign for the next turn to take. The grey sky remains passionless at your efforts, reflected in the dark lenses of your eyewear that stops him from guessing where or what you’re looking at.

“Please I-”

“Just— over alr-”

A metallic thud. Your head snaps sideways, body frozen to better locate what you just heard.

“You better— or-”

Cold nausea fills his lungs and weighs his feet down to the sidewalk. He battles the age-old impulse to screw his eyes shut and imagine a better scene like he did so often in the Shackling Prison. That sound… it sounds far too much like- like… It’s best to leave, best to be gone before things get worse, best to be safer somewhere else before this gets someone’s attention. These tenets of survival have been honed during his many years of desperate existence amongst the stars. Bad things inevitably happen, get as far away from them as you can, as soon as you can. His attuned senses tell him that the event is taking place two alleys ahead, and so the best course of action is to turn back and take a slightly longer route, just in case.

“[Name],” he whispers, only to freeze as your chair rolls onwards, drawing closer to the alley, “what are you-”

“I want to make sure it's nothing serious,” you state calmly.

“It’s not our business, we should leave now before we get caught up in it,” he urges you, hands shaking as flashes of indigo hair and black and cracked sword edges dance like little needles in his pinpoint accurate memories.

Every one of his instincts screams for him to go, but he needs you with him, but then your voice, even as a level, your voice tells him, “the Nameless are meant to be caught up, how would anything matter to us if we didn’t?”

You stand from your chair at the mouth of the alley, which now has ragged sobs ringing from it. The opening is precarious and littered with garbage, you elect to walk, leg braces holding strong with each step you take, farther from Dan Heng, farther from safety. If it was the Express, Dan Heng can and has stood firm, because the Express is a bastion that must be preserved at all costs, but this is an alleyway on a planet he’s too frazzled to recall the name of, where nothing matters to you and him because it's not your personal affairs so why did you walk into the alley?

“Excuse me, is there an issue here?”

“None of your business, leave before-”

A flash of light whites out the walls of the alley for a split second, silencing the voice of the one who dared to counter you. The sobs fizzle out into confused warbles, and to Dan Heng’s sinking, blessed relief, he hears your dependable tone uttering assurances. His muscles don’t manage to release their tension, but the weakness feels like it crushes him. He didn’t run, and the danger was resolved. Dan Heng’s lungs suck in a breath, and he can register the smell of old bricks. It's real. It’s possible.

And then the guilt rips into him twice as hard.

Coward.

Weak.

Unreliable.

Disappointment.

Worthless.

When your stiff steps carry you back out of the alley, huddled under your protective arm is a child with dried blood running from under their nose down their chin, and the fading rune of your healing spell dissipating from their face. For a moment, the embers of your golden eyes can be seen through your pitch black goggles, boring into his very soul. Judgement from the Luofu was distant, cold, but your eyes nail him in place without reprieve.

“The museum is just a few streets down, let’s head there and get some legitimate help,” you say.

There isn’t a trace of anger or accusation in your voice. You sound just like you do when you tell him how much he needs to measure out for the baking projects you assign him. He doesn’t know if that hurts more or less that you don’t react to what he’s done, or rather, what he hasn’t. Dan Heng wonders if this is a purposeful veneer of calm, to ease the child with you, if once they’re sent off to proper safety, you’ll unleash the gates of your disgust upon him. It’s what he would deserve after all.

He manages to choke out a weak “okay,” before you’re back in your wheelchair, an acquired child clinging to the backrest as you begin your route to the museum again.

Dan Heng tries to breathe in and out in a steady and measured pattern like he read to do once in a mental health book, but no matter how many times his lungs expand and contract, the world still spins in his eyes. Numbness latches onto his hands and feet, crawling up his wrists and calves. He can’t think straight anymore, his mind just keeps spiraling back to the child spiraling back to the child spiraling back to the child spiraling back to… He can’t think at all. His lungs move, but he can’t breathe. His limbs push, but he can’t tell if he’s going anywhere.

“–eng?”

“–n Heng.”

“Dan Heng, look at me.”

Reality zooms back into clarity, ice shooting through his veins as his vision finally focusses. The world stops spinning quite so much. He’s looking. He sees you. He tries to place the colour of your hair, tries to remember if he’s ever seen a mole on your face or not. Your bright red jacket is the only thing he can process though.

“Good, you’re doing well. You’re sitting down, can you feel that?”

He can. The cold wooden planks of this bench are pressing against the backs of his thighs through his pants. His heaving breaths catch in his throat as he tries but fails to speak, vocal chords still paralyzed. What he can do however, is feel the cold fabric of your gloves as they work open his clenched fists, flattening his shaking palms, then grip his hands tightly as his fingers fitfully hold you in return. It’s better. It’s something. Out of the corner of his eyes, he notes some sort of rune forming in the air, before a dome of mist surrounds the two of you, blocking off others’ sight.

“Nobody can really see what’s really happening inside this circle. They can only see us sitting on the bench, I think that version of me is taking a nap,” you explain, kneeling before him to look up into his haunted expression, “you don’t have to worry about being targeted. I promise nothing will touch you if you don’t want it to.”

At this, he feels the energy of a path change, and the scent of warm tea and the polish he uses on Cloudpiercer. This must be The Preservation. He finally registers that he can see your eyes, glowing a muted gold now. Your goggles lay hanging from your neck by their band. Swallowing, he straightens his back to the best of his abilities, uncurling from his protective hunch.

“There we go,” you coax him with a pleased smile, “that was perfect, can you take some more deep breaths for me?”

He does, counting silently as the air fills his mouth, holds, then releases, reversing his count. He repeats this a couple more times until he can feel his body fall back under his control again. Dan Heng looks up at the small dome surrounding the two of you. It’s paler than the clouds he remembers seeing above the city earlier. It looks more like steam than anything, occasional rays of light breaking through before a swirl closes the gap and opens it elsewhere.

“Dan Heng, do you feel safe?”

He wets his lips. Does he? The resolute, unjudging look in your eyes promises that he is. As for the weight of a promise to him…?

“I do.” He tells you.

“Okay, I’m glad. Can you tell me if there was something that worried you earlier?”

“... I’m sorry. I failed you.”

“No, you didn’t. That doesn’t answer my question either.”

“I didn’t do anything, I said we should have left without doing anything.”

“Did that upset you?”

“I’ve burdened you. I let you down. I- I’ll do better, I swear.”

“Alright, Dan Heng, I won’t patronize you by pretending to know you and what you’ve been through. You’re a rational person, you avoid conflict where you can, and finish what can’t be negotiated. This isn’t the reaction of such a person to a minor disturbance. You have not upset me, you have not let me down. What you did was the kind of thing that kept you alive until now, right?”

His head jerks up from its shameful hanging to stare at you with wide eyes.

“Am I right?”

“I’m strong enough, I should have been able to-”

“I promise you that strength is not the defining factor for the measure of a Nameless, Dan Heng. We’re not Galaxy Rangers. It takes a lot of courage to act, even if it isn’t a life threatening event. This is why we trailblaze in pairs or more, to make sure any weakness is covered by another set of eyes. And sometimes we can’t resolve something ourselves. That’s when you can find another person to do it. If you ever feel as if something must be done, but you can’t do it, tell me. We won’t force you into conflict if we can.”

“I’m the guard, I should-”

“I’m your senior, I should be setting a good example and looking out for you. I’m also not The Equilibrium, you don’t have to justify yourself to me. You don’t owe me the breakdown, nor am I here to judge or condemn you. Just know that I’ll be here for you if you want me.”

Of course he doesn’t owe you- hold on a moment. You really don’t want to force him to explain why he couldn’t do it? You’re not furious with him? Well you should be, because his sins are only- wait, that’s not right. The judgement of his homeworld says that he must be punished, that he must repent for a crime of immeasurable horrors. This defines his world. You, center of the bright little candle in the darkness, the Express amidst the vast void, have said that you cannot judge him. This also defines his world. He does not hold a debt to you, and he is not on the Luofu, where the crime was committed. The Luofu’s authority is limited by its sovereignty, even then, hardly beyond the Alliance itself in any capacity. But if the rule of the judgement only applies there…

Dan Heng blinks owlishly. Judgement is not universal, in fact it's quite subjective, hence how any matter of disagreements bear conflict eventually, universally in the cosmos. This makes logical sense, but even thinking about it in such a way feels alien and almost incorrect. Furthermore, if the Luofu’s judgement is not the rule of nature itself… can they be wrong?

“Is the child safe?” He murmurs, mind reeling at what his thoughts have uncovered.

“Yep, they’re just fine. The incident is out of our hands now, the city prefers to be the ones managing disruptions like that in the area so close to the market day.”

An unpardonable sin. An irreparable transgression. How does one repent for that? That’s the thing, isn’t it? You can’t, his inner voice declares. Dan Heng can feel the heavy frown carve into his expression. Just how did they want him to repent for the damages done? That’s the point though: they never expected him to successfully repent. If the sin is so horrific that it cannot be atoned for, what is he even doing? Had he been in their position, he would have ordered the offender to face capital punishment, both to solve the unpayable debt and prevent a future incident. They should have killed him. They didn’t. He didn’t even get the peace of a total rebirth.

Hot fury threatens to boil over from within him. It makes his fists clench and his teeth grit. He’s shaking for a whole new reason now. He knows there was interference, from the molt to the imprisonment, to his release by the hand of the man with golden eyes. They wouldn’t (couldn’t?) kill him, but wouldn’t absolve him, and he would never be free within chains like that. Funny. They could banish him, but by their own judgement they would demand his misery and toils for them as if he was still one of their citizens until he either died or molted again.

And all he does is suffer. This was never about justice, was it?

“Did you remember something unpleasant?”

Dan Heng holds onto the neutrality of your tone and holds onto it with every ounce of his concentration. “I did. Can we stay here for a little longer?” Despite his efforts, his voice wavers, rough as he tries to stifle the sounds of his inner turmoil from you.

“Whatever you need.”

Justice is subjective, but he knows that in this life he owes you nothing. And by the laws of his homeworld, he never should have owed them anything either. Amidst the rage that clouds his eyes with frustrated tears and fills him with boiling heat, he realizes something: his judgement is hypocritical at best, and downright self-defeating at worst. They were wrong and if they were wrong…

Dan Heng is universes away from them now. They do not dictate his life anymore. Dan Heng is free. He pretends that the hot drips of water that track down his cheeks is the early morning rain. The sky was so grey after all. Sometimes he dreams of flying in the sky, the moisture of the clouds catching in his hair as his eyes take in the worlds that turn so far below him, but now he really gets it. He feels like he could be soaring, even if he’s as grounded as ever on this insignificant wooden bench. Good riddance to them, this banishment will be his salvation. He’ll make sure of it.

…

He had expected the fatigue to catch up with you for healing the child, but he supposes that your increased endurance could be attributed to the new energy network system you had merged with when you arrived. You let him decide their path and order of the exhibits that the two of you will visit when you enter the museum. His previous fury is successfully overtaken by his fascination with the lines upon lines of information pressed into plaques and info boards throughout the displays, and he hopes he doesn’t give himself carpal tunnel with all the notes he’s taking in this room alone. The current exhibit is ancient armours from empires of eras long past on this continent. He sketches one of the reconstructed castles into his notebook, inexpressive beyond his wide eyes trying to take in as much of the history as he can in the short time he has here.

The one feature that he dislikes is the holiday crowds, their nose-burning perfumes and skin shuddering closeness of at least four people trying to pass him by at once. Dan Heng is conscious of your proximity to him at all times, since you sit lower than most of the visitors and it’s far more difficult for him to scan the crowd for you. You don’t seem too fond of the number of people all around you either, if the stiffness in your shoulders and upper back that he can see over the wheelchair are any indication of anything. He can sense the water flowing through the pipes in the walls and floor, his anxieties trying to tug at it, while he forces his power to leave it alone. It's been like that for every trailblazing mission he’s been on, and he can’t help but wonder if your own powers call to you in that same siren’s song to pull at the array of resources at your fingertips when you innately know that you must push away the urges. When he senses you draw further away, he moves on from his display to keep close to you.

You have stopped in front of a glass case displaying the robes of a long dead Emperor. The preserved fur pelt cloak hangs heavily on the mannequin, metal-studded grieves raised as if the mannequin was holding an invisible shield. The robes themselves are intricately patterned with octagons and lines, forming a sequence that reminds him of motherboards, but made of crimson and amber. The plated armour on the legs hides the fabric of the trousers, and Dan Heng finally connects why he’s so drawn: it reminds him of you. Even you seem attached, watching quietly for a couple moments longer than any other visitor before your hands are on the grips of your wheels, pushing you over to the next glass case. Dan Heng pauses to draw his phone and take a picture before he follows after you, slipping into the stream of foot traffic through the display hall. You’re good at looking after people, even better at getting people to like you (he can attest to this, but he’d rather die than actually do that), Dan Heng thinks you would be a good monarch.

It’s the exhibit filled with massive, ancient bones that fully catches your fancy. It’s also less populated, being one of the standard displays instead of the limited and novel ones that were set up in the museum in anticipation of the market days. The white plaster walls have been hidden by faux greenery and fashioned in the ways of a jungle filled with now extinct flora and fauna. There is an imitation of a hallway formed by using the model of a ribcage for one of the ancient giants that snakes through the expansive room, and you sit before the opened maw, phone out to capture its magnificence. You didn’t bother to take nearly as many pictures in the other display halls.

Dan Heng approaches, head tilted somewhat to better gaze upon the massive skull and absorb its many notches and other scars of time. “Do you like fossils?” He asks.

“Mm. It’s more like they remind me of home.”

He imagines giants walking the earth of your homeworld, where you described the dark, bog-like places you roamed as a child.

“Megafauna?” He suggests.

“Nah, not that literally. There’s the stuff in the lake that might count. Just the concept of mass death that leaves only parts of the picture behind. I wonder what these bones lived through before they were put here.” There’s nostalgia in your voice. Not enough for your voice to crack, or even indicate a sign of insecurity, but he hears it.

You don’t bring up stories of your homeworld, even with Himeko and Mr. Yang. Maybe they already know your stories, but he hardly has a grasp of your origins even when you told them to him when he interviewed you. It’s odd alongside your rather optimistic and open personality when you’re in the privacy of the Express. If anything, it feels like something he would do, since his homeworld is not a course of pride or joy for him. Would he know you better if he could learn more about your homeworld? The thought of being able to understand your thoughts better, to know why you extend your protection over him but demand none of his secrets in payment, to interpret what you mean but casting no judgement– it's an alluring type of information that he seeks.

Of course, he also understands that nothing comes for free. His own story is not yours in debt, but nonetheless he’s willing to part with some of it for you, “my homeworld was a flagship of an ancient alliance. From everything that I’ve read about it, and the one time I was able to look down upon it, it is a beautiful place.” He’s surprised his heart is still capable of immature speeds under your attention after all that he’s felt today, but as always his blood pumps faster as you regard him.

“What was it called?”

“The Xianzhou Luofu.” He takes a breath. He reminds himself that he chooses to say this, that he chooses to put down that shame of association, of what he experienced, “my existence began in imprisonment. For a long time, I lived in darkness, although there was one bar of light from the halls beyond my confinement in which I could read books. They didn’t bring me much else. Eventually they altered my sentence from imprisonment to banishment, and I am barred from returning.”

“That must have felt maddening.”

Maddening. Yes, it was. The very dream of anything other than that isolated existence nearly drove him insane for the years he spent in the Shackling Prison. That’s a particular thing to say. Your body language is resolute, but otherwise relaxed, like you expected this. Logically, there could be many reasons for that, he knows that. You could have seen any range of psychological effects during your travels as a Nameless, you might have a friend with a similar history of isolation, the universe is vast after all. But the way you said ‘maddening’ is like the reflex of turning to search for one’s own image in a reflective surface, indeed, you say ‘maddening’ because you were maddened once.

“Yes,” he continues, staring into the guiltless eye sockets of the ancient beast half preserved, ”and even after I was banished, I found a pursuer on my trail. That man… he was likely human once, but I don’t know what I could possibly call him now. It’s like leaving one cage only to end up in another.”

“Think he’ll pay us a visit?”

“I pray everyday that his sense of direction leads him head-first into a blackhole, but as you may have noticed, luck does not favour me much.” He squeezes his fists. Here he goes. This is where he really tests your tolerance, to map just how much you can take before he’s unforgivable to even you and the Nameless.

The cold of your gloves passes over the fist closest to you, and Dan Heng’s eyes retreat from his stare down with the inevitable to fixate upon you. Your thumb brushes across the back of his hand. If it’s meant to be reassurance or fidgeting, he is unsure, until a golden light springs to life on the flesh of his left hand. Within the initial circle, there are three rounded boxes linked together in a line, only the middle one has its silhouette broken, the beam pulled outwards almost as if this rune indicates its force.

“You’ve been fighting against that weight for a while now, haven’t you?”

He nods.

“I hope you realize just how skilled and resilient a person would have to be to even breathe under the burden of those years. That said, I’m not the kind of person who thinks suffering builds character. This spell counters imprisonment, if anything or anyone should ever stand in your path or hamper your freedom, this should take care of it. I’m happy that you told me. Whatever troubles should find us, I want to promise you that the Astral Express can handle it. Whether or not you believe me, if you wish to stay, we will fight tooth and nail for our own. Welt and Himeko have done so for me, and we would do so for you.”

The knee-jerk reaction is doubt, but he recalls Mr. Yang’s cane that rips open space and time to swallow up foes, or Himeko’s shrewd deals that have time and time again cleared the opponents in their path that were propped up by red tape. He remembers your golden eyes, the erasure of the Antimatter Legion outside their doors, with just the touch of your hands. If there was something that could truly withstand that man… well, Dan Heng would say that it would have to be the crew. Hope is a small, weed-like thing. It grows in the abandoned nooks and crannies of his soul, fighting for tenancy alongside his fears and doubts. It strangles its way into life, every moment a purposeful effort to establish itself. Hope is the blood, sweat, and tears he’s shed to get this far, to dare to see another sunrise after each encounter with the monster on his heels. Hope is the hours of his life that he’s spent imputing profiles and tabs and better navigation into the Express’ Data Banks to leave something of himself behind, a mark in history unsoiled by the sins of his last incarnation.

Hope grows under the skeleton of a long dead beast, alongside another lonely space farer. It brings with it the spring of possibilities, of Dan Heng one day choosing a permanent room on the Astral Express instead of hiding in the Data Banks. Hope is the text he sends to Mr. Yang, reporting some of the information from the museum that reminds him of the gentleman, and asking if he, the Navigator, and the Conductor, would like any souvenirs. Dan Heng has been saving his credits up after all, he wants to make sure you don’t spend all your pocket change in one place. Hope is realizing that maybe he has more to learn from you than how to cook, like how to forge a life for himself beyond just surviving. Years of shame have a deep, aching hold on him, but an existence filled with hope promises several hands to lighten his burden.

Dan Heng truly adores how much a person can learn in museums. He wonders what he will gain from the market at your side come the next day.

#hsr

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