Carefully, the Engineer takes his boots off and lays them by the cab door. 

Iᴛ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ɢᴏ ᴡᴇʟʟ, ᴛʜᴇɴ.

He snorts. That obvious, huh?

Yᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴇxᴛʀᴀ ᴄᴀʀᴇғᴜʟ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ sʟᴀᴍ ᴍʏ ᴅᴏᴏʀs ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴜᴘsᴇᴛ.

Coleman pauses, one hand mid-overall-unbuttoning. Is he really?

Iɴᴅᴇᴇᴅ.

Huh. Well, ain't that a thing.

Nᴏᴡ, ᴛʜᴇ Rᴏᴜɴᴅʜᴏᴜsᴇ.

Coleman scowls, folds up his overalls, and leans back against the firebox. It's quickly become his favorite place on the train. From here, he can see every gauge, every dial, can keep track of what's going on in his baby girl. 

It's not that the council of Engineers doesn't believe him, naturally. You don't get to be an Engineer without a good dose of common sense and more than a good amount of cunning, and you'd have to be blind not to see how the number of accidents have skyrocketed since Wormwood imploded. Roundhouse lookin' a whole lot emptier'n normal, bunch of conspicuously empty spots for Engines that've gone missing. 

But, well, he's also the newest Engineer, and he was [i]there[/i]. Some blame him, others don't but feel he coulda done more, others just think that more seasoned voices--theirs--should be leading, and others still that just want to go their own way. Conagher's on his side, thank goodness--not sure what he'd'a done if the [i]Mighty Natascha[/i] turned away from her daughter. It's not a faction, not yet, but it's at least a start--the beginnings of a new way of doing things, of working together, of coming to each others' aid. It's no Wormwood, for sure, but maybe it'll be enough.

Maybe Lucien could wrangle the rest of the Roundhouse for him? Coleman snorts to himself. Lucien'd have a coup for him within days, no doubt.

He'd sit there all day if he could, listening to Sasha hum. Would let Sasha's warmth suffuse him, seep through every scale, work out all those aches and pains he'd almost forgotten about. Would sink into her, watch through her senses, let himself be still for a moment.

But, alas, he has jobs to do. There's a man here to talk about that stained glass, and some kobolds waiting to be interviewed, and always, always some bits of brass to be polished. 


He rubs a claw across the scrollwork as he turns to go. The patterns of Pappy's wrench are beautiful where they ran, the brass and gold melding with Sasha's hide. The history of the past, now molded into the history of the future.

"Come on, Sasha," he murmurs. "It's time to go home."