Coleman doesn't know how or when he got between the Flood and Sasha. Intellectually, there must have been thoughts involved at some point. Neurons must have fired, muscles contracted, to bring him to this point, chest and frills puffed out--[i]fear him, for he is big and scary[/i]--mere inches from the Flood's outstretched fingers. But for the life of him, he can't recall having them. He just heard Sasha whining and, well, here he is. He stares at the goddess's sightless eye sockets, and knows that he is going to die in front of an entire town. So it's time to double down. Look at how on-purpose and intentional this was, Ms. The Flood. Look at how he matches your lack-of-gaze without flinching. Just stretch out your fingers an inch or two. His chest, his [i]heart[/i] is [i]right there[/i] for the taking, and just think of the sweet love that you could harvest. His wrench--his father's, his grandfather's, and so on for too many greats to count--is in his hand, loose, confident-- +++ [i]Everything is so big! Stupidly big! But that's okay! Because he's big too! Big enough to help clean the train for the first time! It's the biggest day in his life! And yes, he needs help to reach the windows. But Grampa says that just this once, it's okay for him to stand on the benches. And he has to be right, because Gramps has to be the biggest kobold in the world! Why, he must be almost as tall as the train itself! And Gramps says that if he does a super good job, he'll even get to hold The Wrench! That's what Saturday afternoons are for, after all, is Gramps and Coleman sitting around a diner car table. He could listen to the stories for hours. There' that engraved story about the first engineer, this signature from the second, this elaborate manual on engine repair picked out in the tiniest font, the one picture that Gramps always faces away from him for some reason (which doesn't really make sense to him, since it just looks like the Nanny in fancy clothing, and what's interesting about that), jokes, advice, crypic wisdom, patterns, swirls, diamonds, the odd jewel... He cannot fail. Too much is riding on this moment.[/i] +++ And now the wrench is heavy in his hands. Because if there's one thing he can offer--one thing to match the potential new life of a new train--it's history of an elder. A tale of love and life, picked out in scroll and gilt. It's not as important as Sasha. It's not. It's a hunk of steel, no different from any of the flotsam scattered around this tranquil pond. If he throws it away, it's not like he's losing anything. All the stories are tucked away in his head, after all, he can remember it all. He should just make it easy on himself And maybe if he tells himself that enough, it'll feel true enough to let his suddenly-iron grip relax. The Flood is still watching, waiting. Grinning. And that grin--that smug superiority--is what turns fear to anger. How dare she? How dare she come in and lay claim to that which is not hers? How dare she force him into this position? How dare she think she has the right to [i]offer[/i] him life! To offer him freedom--[i]freedom,[/i] of all things--from existence? From suffering?! The wrench hits the floor of the raft like the gavel of judgement. "I have neither shame nor guilt to give you," he snaps. "And I value suffering too much to exchange it for the soporific stupor of false life. This journey will end either in glory or death, and I'll hang before I let Sasha down! I have a [i]duty![/i]"