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Sunday had just boarded the Astral Express when March 7th swept him up in one of her brilliant ideas. He had met March on several occasions while head of the Oak Family in Penacony, but he didn’t pay her much mind when Stelle had proven so much more intrusive to his schemes. March seemed unremarkable but pleasant to Sunday. He was uncertain why she volunteered to show him the Astral Express’ cars, but he appreciated the brevity of the tour. He was thinking of returning to his contemplation and reflection in the parlor car, as his need for penance drove his every decision since his leaving prison.
He was thinking about how he would repent over the coming years. He’d have to atone for his actions that led all of Penacony and potentially the universe to be under the power of Ena the Order. While he still believed in a paradise, it was no longer one bound by the strict dogmatic rules of his teacher, Mr. Gopher Wood. His years of tutelage under Gopher Wood galvanized him into the person he was today but that person was not who he truly was.
Sunday was so preoccupied with introspection that he had not noticed that March 7th led him to her room. It was bright and vibrantly colored in pinks, whites, and blues, and the space was absolutely stuffed with plushies and pillows. It reminded Sunday of his sister Robin's childhood room. Sunday thought he caught a glimpse of the Gambler, Aventurine, on the rotating photo display. He’d have to make amends to him as well, someday.
March looked up at Sunday and stared at him with a scanning gaze, looking him up and down as if she could see all his sin and doubt in his soul. March smiled then returned to a serious expression and started, “Mr. Sunday, why did you choose to hide yourself as a lady Intellitron?”
Sunday was taken aback by the question, “Excuse me?”
March continued, “I don’t want to pressure you, but correct me if I’m wrong you could have been a Intellitron man and your disguise would have worked just as Mr. Wonweek’s.”
Sunday was bewildered but instead of answering the question asked, “How did you know about Wonweek?”
“Oh, that was easy!” shouted March excitedly, “Mr. Welt told us what happened at the Grand Theater.”
Sunday thought he should’ve known that Welt would tell his companions about Wonweek being his old self made manifest by fate. The Astral Express crew was not like the family, and did not hide secrets from one another.
March probed further, “The reason I ask is that I was wondering if that is how you feel about yourself?”
Sunday was at a loss for words at the question. He chose the disguise based on strategy alone, at least he thought so. Harmony allowed him to take on any form and fool the perception of others. So why did he choose that form in particular?
“I chose it on instinct,” he answered, “in order to best escape Penacony as a fugitive.”
March didn’t seem too convinced by the answer and pressed further, “Mr. Sunday, we’re on the Astral Express, just like how the Masked Fools don’t care about your sexuality or identity, the Trailblaze doesn’t either. We’re all about finding ourselves through exploration. Ms. Himeko helped me when I started on the Express. If you want, I can help you.”
“You want to help me?” Sunday questioned, “But why after all I’ve done?”
March did not hesitate to answer, “I believe everyone deserves a second chance. I don’t know who I was before the Express, but I know that the Express is about second chances. So, want me to give you a little makeover so you can see the cute girl behind that grumpy face?!”
Sunday was endeared by March’s earnestness. She genuinely wanted to help and how could Sunday begrudge a soul that yearned to help another. There was also a part of himself that was interested in where this would lead, but also an anxiety of what he’d see in the mirror afterwards.
“Yes, Ms. March 7th. I would be happy to accept your help,” he finally answered.
March beamed at the affirmation and reminded him to just call her March. She ran to her secret bathroom to gather her makeup bag. She sat Sunday in her desk chair, turned him facing the light and started work. Sunday, for his part, sat still only moving when March requested him to purse his lips or close his eyes. March instructed him on each stage of the process. Concealer for blemishes, foundation for the face and neck, and color correcting palette to even out his tone. The eyeliner and eyeshadow took the longest, with constant corrections being made. March blended his makeup and finished with blush and lipstick. She stepped back to observe her handiwork.
“Well March, you’ve outdone yourself this time. She’s a beauty!” she exclaimed.
Sunday’s anxieties deepened greatly. His mind flitted back to Mr. Gopher Wood telling him how to act and the proper decorum for a man of his station. Years of built up stricture needled his psyche and ate at him like the black hole IX.
March pulled the full-length mirror over while slowly counting down, “Reveal in 3, 2, 1…”
Sunday stared at himself. He touched the mirror then his own face. He was indeed beautiful. He looked so much like Robin yet so himself. The anxiety at his heart was obliterated by the euphoria he was now feeling. Tears welled in his eyes, something he hadn’t allowed himself to express for years. March saw the tears and jumped in saying, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to make you cry. Is it really that bad?!”
“No,” Sunday said, “You’ve shown me a lot. I’m overwhelmed with the feeling of…”
Sunday couldn’t find what the word he was looking for was.
“Self?” he finished.
He got up from his seat and watched the mirror copy his movements. He looked toward March 7th and inquired, “March, would you teach me how to do this myself?”
March emphatically agreed to help and beamed with pride. Sunday took a moment in euphoria and in the dramatic fashion befitting of the Penacony Grand Theater announced, “Monday has arrived.” She outstretched her arms to embrace the new day for the rest of her life.