Engines are not meant to run this hot. 

Coleman knows this. You run an engine too hot for too long, and, well… You hear the stories, right? Of engines that have burst, their boilers ruptured. Of flayed innards, derailed cars. Of entire crews that perish with their gods. They're meant as cautionary tales, as rumors and legends of Things One Must Not Do.

And still he feeds her.

Instincts he does not know jam the coal chute open. Fire roars from the firebox with every open and shut. Sasha glows with energy--first cherry red, then passing through molten orange sliding towards white.

And still, he stokes Sasha to greater heights. Dimly, he's aware that his clothes have started to burn, the denim smoking and charring, the brass buttons and fittings running and pooling around his feet. There are clowns outside. He knows this, can see them through the portholes, can hear the demonic ovens spitting the battle pies. Feels, more than hears, the movement But here, in this moment, he sits in the furnace that is Sasha and can only feel peace.

Sasha pricks at his mind, needles to be let in, and he could no more say no to her right now than he could sprout wings and fly. (Though, with the euphoria he's feeling, he's not ruling that last bit out either.) She's uncomfortable, he can feel--every seam is stretched fit to bursting, every rivet whines with the effort of holding things together.

He falls deeper, senses stretching out, every sense attuned to what Sasha is feeling. Reaches out with her, feels the minds around them. Sees themselves from the views of the clowns, views the terrors of the jet coaster from those trapped on them, listens to the world around them. Feels the line between them blur, blur, slide…

Their scales hurt. They're coming apart, they can tell.

Well, of course they are. That's the point, after all.

Is it? That makes no sense. If they come apart, then they'll die.

No! It's not pain of dying. It's the pain of growth! Of a shell that's too small, a chrysalis that's reached its limits! 

And they understand, now. Understand why it has to be a kobold. Why they seek the hottest part of the Heart. Understand that getting an engine hot enough to molt is so dangerous as to make the journey to Terminus tame by comparison.

Does every engine egg come to this realization? Do they all come to a point where either they reach Terminus and are hatched safely, or burn themselves out at a threat? And in this case, do they have another choice?

Together, they reach for the throttle.

There's no line between them, now. They think in tandem, act In unison, pull from all minds around them. They're a golden god, bowling through the clowns like a hot knife through butter. Flames belch, clowns sizzle. Keep on eye on Wolf, make sure she's following. 

They're never far from Jackdaw or Wolf. But they make a point of taking apart the carnival one ride at a time.