"Oh, now that you mention it -" Ailee handed a notebook over to Coleman. Inside are incredibly detailed drawings of the train, compass-precise as though stolen from the original blueprints. Coleman was there too - illustrated in flickering motions of lead, red arrows showing ranges of motion, bracketed by endless little cascades of kanji. Many little aspects of his day and routine were captured - detailed illustrations of every aspect of engine operation and maintenance, but also incongruously a number of quieter moments drawn with a timeless attention to mood. A landscape scene of him looking out at the desert, much like he was now, tiny against the vastness.
"Obviously I don't know everything," said Ailee, "but that's not for lack of trying. You're trying to take refuge in your own petty sense of expertise, imagining that this bunsen burner on wheels is somehow incomprehensible to me - it is not! I am fully capable of operating it based on my observations, and while I don't have all the nuance down yet I am not a helpless passenger. Maybe if you'd been paying attention to my magic rather than bricking your mind shut you'd have learned something too."
Jackdaw opened her eyes, and chewed her spoon thoughtfully. “...I could use a refresher on the eggs.” She admitted.
Watching him work gave time for stew and thoughts alike to settle. Stopping was...there were a lot of words for it, but none that she wanted to think about for long. If she didn’t think about them, she didn’t have to settle on one, and so long as she didn’t settle on one, she could pretend it wasn’t there. Or, try to, anyway. That’s how it worked some days, to keep herself moving. Only, they weren’t moving right now. And he broached the subject. Which. Maybe that meant it was alright to…?
Jackdaw bit her lip in concentration as she carefully cracked an egg - so lightly, she had to pierce the shell with her finger - and watched the clear fluid pour out. “Peaceful would be nice,” she sighed. “But I can’t stop now. It’s. Well…”
You’re going to remember, every time you look at me.
You won’t talk to me like you talk to everyone else.
You’ll ask me to do the easy things, from now on.
You’ll know. You’ll know. You’ll know.
Her shoulders hunched over with the weight of doubt, and she frowned into her mixing bowl. “...Lucien? Can you keep a secret?”
Jackdaw opened her eyes, and chewed her spoon thoughtfully. “...I could use a refresher on the eggs.” She admitted.
"That's fine, the next bit's more important anyway." This bit's easier to do than to teach. Crack with one hand, throw and catch the yolk between the two halves of shell until all the whites are in one bowl, all the yolks in another.
“...Lucien? Can you keep a secret?”
Lucien doubles over laughing so hard his ribs hurt. He wipes the tears out of his eyes, straightens himself. Fiddles with his collar as he clears his throat. "Yes. Yes, I can keep a secret. I had friends who used to call it 'defusing ticking blackmail'. Here," Pass the whites and the whisk to Jackdaw, "Beat these until your arms are about to fall off, and while you do, tell me what's on your mind, so you don't have to worry about me finding out." The reassuring smile he gives is effortless, because it's sincere.
Here's the other thing about raw eggnog - the superior eggnog - as a choice of recipe. Once the eggs are seperated there's no skill to it, no noises to raise your voice over, nothing to concentrate on. Just lots and lots of repetitive motions. Nothing to get in the way of talking.
It's a bit like coming home to find that things have been subtly moved. Your first worry is that something has been stolen but, as you open drawers and check the safe and go down the list of things you own, nothing is missing. But that lamp was up on the shelf, and that book's been flipped through, and wasn't that couch a few inches to the left of where it is now? Nothing's been taken. Rather, nothing's been taken but a sense of security, a feelign of privacy. Someone has come into your home and gotten their filthy little rat paws all over your things.
When did she get the chance? Has she--no, Sasha isn't acting like she's been invaded. Isn't fussing or pacing or making litle hissing noises. Focus. Yes, some of these pictures show details that can almost only be seen from inside the cockpit. Keep it down, keep it in. That's what Gramps always said. Take in the facts, figure out what's going on, before you jump in or blow up on somebody that doesn't deserve it. Or worse, on somebody that does deserve it.
"Ailee, have you been messing with Sasha without permission?"
"Pfft, listen to you, you sound like I just stole your girlfriend," said Ailee. She leans down and boops Coleman right on the nose with a smirk like the devil. "Well, if I did, I promise you I would have showed her a real good time. Very gentle. Very tender."
Jackdaw jumped. Ears, tail, fur, all of it, standing on high alert. Panic! Shock! Unknown laughter! Unknown joke! Red alert!!!
Was it a bad laugh? No? No, sounded genuine. Good laugh? Good laugh! Probably good laugh. So she probably hadn’t said the stupidest thing imaginable. So she could laugh, confusedly, herself. She got to the real thing when he tried in vain to salvage his poise. Even her tail decided that was a smile worth trusting, and settled back down under her cloak. “Alright. Alright, that sounds good. Yes. Here:” She rummaged about in her pockets, and offered him a folded-up scrap of paper with a nervous grimace. “Trade you for the eggs?”
Unfolded, the paper held a hastily-drawn outline of a plan. A two-step plan (and a one-step warning) to beating the antisirens. Simple, evidently effective, and captured quick enough before she could forget her own idea. Not too shabby, under the circumstances.
“Flip it over.” Jackdaw’s eyes didn’t leave the mixing bowl. “That...that wasn’t the first thing I wrote down.”
On the other side were another set of pictures. Little more than lightly-sketched figures with minimal features, but there was no mistaking it; it was their little group. There were Ailee’s ears, Coleman’s tail, she even got the smokestacks right on Sasha. Next to each of them, she’d written their names, and some brief notes:
-Ailee: Friend for life, best at magic, never gives up. -Coleman: Loves Sasha, rock of good sense, patient and kind -Sasha: Good train egg, here's the best spot to perch, likes pats here, here, and here -Lucien: Done everything, been everywhere, good stories, best advice, always happy to talk with you
In the few, desperate moments of lucidity she’d had left, she’d written a record of their entire group. The things about them she couldn’t bear to forget, the things that made them who they were to her. She’d tried to save a little something precious of everyone.
Everyone, except one.
“...maybe, I got the idea to beat them before I had a chance to finish.” Her voice cracked; she couldn’t even pretend to believe that. “There wasn’t much time, after all.”
"A flippant non-answer is still a non-answer, Ailee."
Coleman ignores the hand and the boop. It's not important right now.
"And the proper comparison is child. A child who I must help, a child that needs educating, and raising. A child that will grow into something more than I am, and for whom I care deeply.
"Realistically speaking, there's not a lot I can do to you. When you're in yer ooga-booga eyes mode, you're scary. But I looked at the way you treated your friend, how you didn't force her to do what you wanted, and said, here is a person I can trust. I can rely on her to, if not do the right thing, at least be consistent enough and respectful enough to leave well enough alone.
"So in the spirit of that, I'm askin' you once more. Can I trust you alone with my child?"
Lucien reads, then shakes his head. "These were plans to help you remember, Jackdaw." Reassurance that the signed name was hers, just in case. "You wrote down what you needed to know to trust other people, in case you forgot them. My guess is, it's a list of the people who could help you."
Another thought hits him. He breathes in as he wonders if he should say it or not, and decides on honesty here. "Another possibilty to consider. If you don't remember who you are, you have a chance on starting from scratch - on making yourself again." He shakes his head. "I thought about it, with the Flood. I'd lose a lot of awful memories, and everything I learned from them. Either way, I think..."
He takes the pen used to write grocery lists, and writes in; Jackdaw: Worries about a lot of things, but her friends will do anything to help and protect her. Worries a lot about what others might think, because she cares very deeply. Good listener.
"Some of the best parts of who we are come of the worst things that happen to us, I think, as much as we hate them being a part of us. The sand cuts the oyster for a long time before it can become a pearl - if it ever does - but it's the only way to make them I know of. For all it took to make her, Jackdaw is someone worth remembering."
Look at that tiny list. Look at all that it’s missing. Where’s the way her stupid voice cracks? Where’s her awful, mangy coat? What about the neverending avalanche of bungled words and improperly delivered lines that poured out whenever she opened her mouth? (Worse than unoriginal, she couldn’t even steal right.) Lost, cowardly, slow, ugly, hapless, useless, they’d need a much bigger piece of paper to get it all down.
...but. What of Lucien’s additions? Did any of those negate what he’d already written? If there were items in conflict on, which had the stronger case?
Hrmmmmm. It was a good question. A curious question.
“That’s...something I’ll have to think about,” she said honestly. But she was smiling, did that count for anything? For nothing? Either way? “Anyhow, you see why I can’t stop now. Whether I’ve forgotten, or starting over,” and that was a question she knew all too well already. “I have to know who I am. If I stop now, I’m just...I’ll just be an empty list.”
Someone worth remembering...
“Well. Not quite an empty list.” She buried her face in her mixing, which - according to The Rules - meant nobody anywhere could see her cheeks flushing bright red. (And any mention of her delightedly swishing tail would be just plain rude.)
Coleman snorts. "Ye've done all these figure studies of her, and you ain't figured out she's alive?"
Gently, he grabs one of Ailee's paws and guides it to the freshly burnished patch. "She's only a baby right now. Still comin' into her own. Still weak, still needs protecting. She's the reason the Flood came at us so hard, is because I wouldn't give her Sasha. Feel her cooin'? She knows it's you.
"This li'l bunsen burner's the whole reason I'm headin' to the Heart. Rather, to Terminus Station. Here, lookie at Gramps' wrench, it's got some pictograms of the history. See that li'l figure there? That's the First Engineer, and the bigger figure next to them's the First Train. There're whole crews of philosophers on other trains doing the mindwork of figuring out what happened, but when the two met, s'was like a spark. The two connected, an' each became something more than they were before.
"And ever since, trains've only been able to hatch at Terminus. We're not sure whether it's the heat or the memory or such, but for Sasha here to fully come into her own, we need to reach Terminus. There, she'll finally become an engine in her own right, and I'll probably be subsumed in the transformation."
He says it frankly, like it's just a fact of life, but there's just that little edge of doubt crinkling in the corners of his eyes. "At least, I think so. Maybe subsumed's the wrong word. Assimilated? Jackdaw's the one to know the fancy vocab about it. Point is, I'll take on some aspect of Sasha, and she'll take on some of me. We'll merge a bit more. It's a privilege and a heavy burden, because what I'm doin' now is going to influence Sasha for the rest of her life, and that's gonna be centuries past when I'm long gone."
"I'd say take as much time as you need," Lucien works the custard, almost finished now, "but I don't know how much we have, down here. It's why I think you could stop now, maybe become a teacher, or start an orphanage. Something with a lower mortality rate." Lucien looks up, sucks air through his teeth. "How strange, I live in a glass house and all I ever seem to do in it is throw stones."
“You should’ve kept the stones; who knows how long before we’ll see another down here?” Jackdaw was not a good liar in the best of times, nevermind the emotionally vulnerable cooking times. So where did she get the right to say that with a straight face? “It’s a...good thought. Good to remember,” she admitted. “But if I stopped, or if we stopped, would Coleman? Would Ailee?” That’s assuming she’d even Jackdaw stop in the first place. “Even if I wasn’t going for me, I couldn’t leave her to go on her own. It’s just...”
She faltered, searching for a word that could hold a lifetime, and found her vast collection wanting.
"I understand." He did. "I think we're done here. Just mix these together and I'll fetch the mugs. So you're aware, I made it strong." Whether that was warning or encouragement was up to Jackdaw. "Grand-mère would be mad if she found out I made it any other way."
Best not to risk it: Grand-mère was going outlive them all, yet, and time had only sharpened her tongue...
Ailee doesn't interrupt, or cut in with her own opinions or insight. Right now she's learning with such attentiveness that it's no longer a mystery how she got into the university. Not just the facts, though she does make quiet notes in her sketchbook, but she's clearly thinking deeply about the implications too.
"Strangely encouraging to hear," she murmurs to herself. She coughs, and continues a bit louder to brush past it, "And that's your endgame? You've lived a long and fulfilling life, and you're happy spending the rest of your days bound forever to a train? You've seen everything you wanted to see, had a family and children, and this is your idea of a happy retirement?"
"I've been bound to a train since I was born," he admits. "Not like an engineer is, not like I will be once we reach there, but train is in my blood as surer than those words're in yours."
He's quiet, contemplative, for more than a few minutes. "And if you want the whole answer, no. If I wind up as a face made up of engine dials, I'll be more'n a tad upset. Leastways, if it happens the second we reach Terminus. I'd like to have a long life with Sasha. She'll need someone to help clear the way out of Terminus, somebody to help guide her, be her friend. I want to help recruit a new crew to care for her, help find conductors, coalmen, mechanics, and so on. She'll be the hub of a new city, a new series of families, and I want to be part of that. Want to help commission and design her cars, maybe have a say in the stained glass, keep the nerds from getting too carried away with flamethrowers and claw arms.
"If I get that? That life full of family? If at the end of that, I become part of Sasha? I think I could be okay with that."
"Mmmm." Coleman sighs and looks out over the horizon of endless sand. "Yeah, me too. Me too."
It is not the companionable silence of two friends enjoying company, but a quietness brought on by too much internal movement to bother with talking. Paper ruffles as Coleman flips through the drawings, considering and looking back and forth between Sasha and Ailee.
How long has it been before he breaks the silence? Is anyone wearing a watch?
Either way, he finally reaches a decision and nods to himself. "How would you like to learn more about Sasha?"
The question is, like most things about Coleman, fairly blunt, but Coleman lets it hang in the air before going further. "I'm not sayin' that what you did's okay, right? Lotta trust to rebuild there. But you didn't know, and Sasha isn't fussin' like she would if someone she didn't trust got in there. And to be frank, some of these drawing's are fantastic.
"So, the way I see it--and I'll die before I ever say this again, so listen close--is that there are worse role models for godhood than you. And it'd be useful to have someone else understands Sasha, in case something happens. So I figure, so long as I'm around to supervise, maybe you'd like to learn some more?"
"Wait, do you mean strong-flavor or strong-strong?" Jackdaw looked at the humble conction in her hands like it was a lit bomb. Her eyes darted to Ailee, outside. Chatting away.
This is your fault. You know that as soon as you hear that droning, terrible bell drop down into audible octaves, sending your heart plummeting. This is going to happen to your friends because they stayed with you and Sasha.
clang. clang. clang.
There’s no time. All at once it surges around you, sand shivering out of existence and replaced by pitted stone and corroded steel, toxic quicksilver and fire. So much fire. You are alone, now, you and Sasha. The others are gone.
clang. clang. clang.
When you hear that bell at a station, that means an engineer is needed. When a crew hears that, they stop and bank the fires and send their best down into the bowels of the station, to the Central Administration Spine, to uncover the need. The less time between peals, the more pressing the matter.
clang. clang. clang.
But it’s very rare to hear that dreadful noise indeed, because the ancient masters who built, or shaped, or summoned, or grew the stations of the line? They laid a working upon their masterpiece, built a station and annexed it and its metaphysical weight. Accidents and disasters and curses and wrecks all slide down from the stations and end up in Wormwood Station, where the bells never stop.
They end up here.
clang. clang. clang.
Crackling, distorted laughter issues from the sparking, broken speakers embedded into the walls. Once they were beautiful fleur-de-lis ornaments, but now they look like they’re liable to give you tetanus if you so much as touch them.
“Now Arriving,” the speakers proclaim, the cheerful and caring voice of a Station underlaid with something deep and jagged and darkly wicked. “All passengers disEMbark at Terminal [bzzzzzt]. Mind the Gap. Mind the Step. Please be aware there MAY be delays in Departure. All outbound trains scheduled for departure at [bzzzzzzzzzt]. Mind the GAP.”
clang. clang. clang.
A train has the weight, physical and metaphysical, to barrel through Wormwood and save the crew from hell. Sometimes you see things through the windows. Sometimes you see people-shaped things running for the train, waving, sobbing. Wait, they silently scream before they’re lost in the distance. Wait.
clang. clang. clang.
Welcome to Wormwood Station. Mind the gap.
Disaster and Ruin. Everything in Wormwood Station is going wrong. This is because Wormwood Station is the place where things go horribly, terribly, impressively wrong.
The Boss: ????
Response Level 0.
***
Jackdaw!
There is a wand pointed up your nose.
A minute ago you were excitedly pointing out that the Forest was erupting within sight, thick black brambles choking the sand, ravens darting out to spear fat white worms on their beaks. Then there was the sound of a doleful, foreboding, desolate bell, and then a loud rushing, roaring noise, and your grip was torn away. And now you’re here.
There’s a huge stained glass window of unfortunate design arching above your head. Its subject matter is glorious, from what you can tell, all magnificent spires and beautiful trains and strangely-dressed people, but it is too heavy. It sags dangerously, and shards of glass shatter down from where it is cracked, drifting in a smoky breeze like snow. Huge glass-drifts fill the room, and you can already feel dangerous, shining glass settling in delicate specks on your clothes.
There is a wand pointed up your nose. The hand that holds it is clapped about in dreadful black iron. The helmet of the figure has grasping horns like bony fingers, but don’t be confused. They are shorter than you. As short as Ailee, even. And they have a similar tail, probably, under the barbed armor. It’s just that the faceplate is a snarling furious dragon.
All around you, among the glass-drifts, unfortunate kobolds slave away filling chests of black iron with glass. They are not dressed for the elements. The glass leaves clean white scars everywhere. Around them are these tiny black knights, armed with firewands and spears, with golden talismans and good-luck charms.
“In the name of King Dragon,” the rat squeaks, “you and your former belongings now belong to the Under-Empire, longlegs! Hand them over!”
I Bring The Name: the Chief Squeaker can manipulate both fire and gold as they wish, up to and including using them as Ranged, Burning attacks.
Noooo, My Scheme-Plans! when this stat becomes damaged, the Chief Squeaker suffers an ironic and terrible circumstance that removes them from the scene (or Takes them Out, if it’s the last one).
I BRING THE EYE: the Chief Squeaker can leave curses on those they damage, all highly Dragon-themed. Turning you into a pathetic little kobold is a favorite.
***
Lucien!
waaaaaooooow, sparks the angel.
It sightlessly stalks through the burning food court, its halo of white wisteria crackling. Its wings drag on the floor, knocking over tables and chairs. Whatever attracts its attention has that mournful head swing ponderously towards it, the wisteria parts, and then—
krakboooom.
That was a vending machine, which is still sparking with blue and white arcs of lightning, having just sprayed boiling drinks inches from your hiding spot.
Everyone said the Heart was mercurial, especially as you got lower, but this is ridiculous. One minute you hear an alarm bell, the next you’re tying a rag over your face to avoid dying of smoke inhalation before the angel can get you first.
waaaaaaaooooooow, it hums thoughtfully, and then incinerates a refuse bin.
Gaze of Destruction: the Angel is Piercing, Burning, Ranged, Reload at anything it looks upon.
Emissary of the Heart: the Angel cannot be damaged by the works of the Heart. For these purposes, both Ailee’s magic and Sasha count as “of the Heart.”
I Bring The Heart: the world around the Angel is highly mutable, and moves around it can be used at any range.
***
Ailee!
Whooooo boy! That was one hell of a shunt!
That’s a technical term. You would be very happy to explain it to others in small little baby words like this: “when a shunt happens, it’s because things from one u-ni-verse just went into another u-ni-verse.” But even that’s a simplification. Where you are right now is, if you’re right, and you always are, an artificially created and sustained miniature looped universe/timeline. Things come in when it intersects with Universe Prime, but there’s probably specific ways to exit the loop/torus manifold. Maybe you don’t quite know what those are yet, but you’re getting there. Like it’ll be hard.
The more pressing matter is the swarm of Bees that’s started glowing and humming angrily. You’re inside one of their hives, all slate-blue stone and gently throbbing azure circuitry. The Bees themselves (fat fuzzy beans with no mouth and giant solid blue eyes, wings buzzing at roughly the speed of sound to keep them from their assuredly intended destiny as caterpillars) are agitated about this. Really agitated.
One shoots lasers from those furiously glowing eyes and zaps you right on the paw. It feels like getting tapped with a smoldering coal, more annoying than painful... but you are surrounded by roughly seven bajillion bees.
(Also, if they really get angry, they will all land on you and vibrate at pandimensional frequencies until you are delicious baked mouse.)
