The Express crew agreed to leave Washtopia only when all of their train finished going through the so-called train-washing tunnel. Sunday's always been a big fan of cleanliness, but what even is there to wash off? She's been told space debris, but she can't care enough to look into it further than that.

While the train's busy getting prettied up, the crew separated to restock on their own wants and needs, with the fugitive ending up indulging in a pastry goods cafe. Hood up, wings tucked, and halo dispersed — Sunday picked at the frozen, not fresh, vanilla custard with berries, the tip of her small spoon tapping at the hard raspberries. She really shouldn't be surprised; it was cheap, which apparently is standard for Washtopia, as March put it when texting her about this. Sunday feels bad for always treating her as a food review blog, but supposes it's the only way she can start a conversation that feels somewhat natural. At least the latte was aesthetically pleasing,

... Her eyes narrowed. For a place called a Washtopia, the ceiling panel in the corner sure showcases a distracting spread of black mold. Sunday knew in her gut she was making a mistake walking in here, wasting her time, money, and health. Her eyes trailed from the ceiling back down to reality, not before stopping on your face, just a few steps away from her table, her spoon clattering back on her plate in an embarrassing spook from the surprise.