Midnight Rail

by daOtterGuy

Rating: teen
Tags: Horror, Equestria Girls, Science Fiction, Violence, Death, Alternate Universe, Human, Gore, Soarin
Length: 39515

Soarin, down-on-his-luck Deviant hunter, tries to turn things around with a ticket for the Midnight Rail.

Soarin is a hunter of Deviants, strange creatures that defy logic and common sense. Crippled with immense debts he has no hopes of paying off and an entity inside him that keeps misbehaving every chance it gets, he takes a chance on a random ticket to the Midnight Train. 

Everything gets worse from there.

Edited by EileenSaysHi

Inspired by Project Moon and the game Limbus Company.

Published 2023-06-06 01:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2024-05-19 15:16:30 UTC

Ticket to Tartarus I

The hospital had seen better days. Rust and moss clung to once-sterile tiled floors. Overhead lights flickered on and off at random intervals. Walls were riddled with hole punctures, the source of which was unclear.

Soarin hid behind a mostly-intact rusted wall on the inside of a dilapidated room, the open doorway nearby providing a perfect view down either end of the corridor. He adjusted his cap with a hand, messy blue hair falling over his face, slick with sweat. There was a haggard air to him, bags under his eyes, unkempt security uniform, and a weariness that seemed to seep into his body.

He glanced at his watch, a small black screen attached to an adjustable metal band. Green text scrolled across. Level 2. It was a Level 2. He could barely handle a Level 1 and now he was stuck in this burnt out hospital with a Deviant well above what he was capable of handling. One encounter with the monster had been enough to convince Soarin that he was out of his league. If he survived this, he was going to charge more for the effort.

Click. He tensed. The sound echoed down the hall, bringing with it a feeling of fear.

He peeked around the corner and down the long corridor. The lights flickered, then turned off. A crack rang out. They turned back on. A long metal leg ending in a point had punctured through the tiled floor at the far end of the hall.

Soarin quickly hid back behind the wall and into relative safety. Several more clicks followed. They Know the Way was coming closer and he only had mere moments before it would find him.

Breathing ragged, his body jittery, he reached into the sleeve of his uniform shirt, with one gloved hand and pulled at the long length of cable tied there. He let it fall silently to the floor, looping his hands around the two connecting chargers on separate ends of the makeshift whip. A quick look at the battery life showed that he had enough juice for a few minutes. Hopefully long enough to take the Deviant down.

Click. Click. Click. The sound was closer. It would be upon him soon.

He took a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. His heart pounded in his chest. He felt anticipation from deep inside him, separate from his panic-riddled mind. The part of him that wasn’t really him. It was giddy at the prospect of the ensuing carnage. Whether the carnage favoured him or not wasn’t relevant.

Click. Click. Click. It was next to him. He could see its metallic leg just past the edge of the doorframe. He only had one chance to surprise it. Soarin flicked the switch on his whip. Sparks of electricity hummed along the cable. He rolled into the hallway.

Two metallic legs. A square metal frame. A glass globe representing the world hovering in the center. He flicked his whip to wrap it around one leg. Electricity coursed through the Deviant. Its central globe vibrated violently within its frame, releasing a loud piercing shriek.

It rattled Soarin’s mind, drowning out his thoughts. He felt a trickle of blood run down from his nose. He pulled on the whip, hoping to unbalance the creature, thus giving him a chance.

The leg scraped against the floor, then lifted and punctured the tiles underneath, successfully anchoring itself. He’d failed.

“Dammit,” Soarin muttered.

A hole opened within the globe aimed directly at Soarin’s head. There was a hum of power then a laser of pure energy shot straight through. His body dropped to the ground, headless. They Know the Way tried to dislodge its leg from the floor as the perceived threat had been eliminated. It pulled and chittered as it struggled, stuck.

Soarin was barely conscious, awareness granted by the unique properties of the entity that resided within him. Already that entity was goading him into ceding control. Let him take over, deal with the Deviant before the inevitable timer went off.

He didn’t want to.

Beep. His watch blinked to life. Numbers scrolled across the screen. Increasing numbers. Numbers that would increase again, if he came back only to die to this stupid thing once more.

But if he didn’t want to owe even more, he needed to.

So, he gave Rot his consent.

The process was always strange for Soarin when he gave control. First came lightheadedness. A relinquishing of control similar to being in the driver’s seat, but letting someone else take the wheel behind him. Then came the smell. It was rank. The kind of funk found only on food that had been allowed to rot well past its prime. Maggot-infested and degraded into black sludge.

Finally, the physical changes. It felt… powerful. Cords of muscular fibers reinforced his limbs. Layers of matted fur grew thickly along his upper body. His head reformed, piece by piece, taking the shape of a boar head with pointed ears and massive tusks. His eyes were bottomless holes of green fire, filled with malice. Maggots burrowed through his body, eating away at him then repaired, stronger than before.

It was horrible. It was amazing. He hated it. He relished it. It was what he wanted. It was what he’d swore never to do. He was a mess of thought and adrenaline whenever he allowed They Rot From Inside control, but one thing was certain that when Rot took over—

Any monster around him was going to die.

Soarin (Rot) roared. He (they) pierced through the Deviant’s globe with their fist. They grasped a part of their inner core and squeezed. Blood flowed from his (their) arm from shattered glass. They Know the Way chirped in panic, screeching its worthless song. Maggots crawled out of their arm and into the Deviant’s globe, eating away at the inside, weakening the mass that kept the Deviant together.

Crack. They Know the Way’s head shattered. Its legs popped out of the globe and fell to the floor with a loud clang. They dropped the remainder of the globe to the floor. The Deviant’s body broke down into black sludge before dissipating into smoke, likely to reform several months later and be some other sucker’s problem.

Rot let go, satiated by the slaughter. Soarin felt himself regain full control. He hissed as the sensation of pain came back in full force. He gingerly touched his arm and nearly cried. He’d need to deal with that later.

For now, he had to report in.

Soarin sat on a metal bench several kilometers away from the hospital They Know the Way had been. Dilapidated buildings surrounded him, rusted out shells of what they once were. In the background, the district of Soladeplhia blazed from the fire that spewed from the chimneys of its many buildings.

He leaned back with a sigh, taking in the broken sky. Overhead, the Moon hung alongside the Sun. The prior had a permanent appearance of a crescent on account of the giant part of it that had been smashed to pieces, the other a dull red colour caused by sources unknown.

His arm was newly bandaged, but still throbbed from the prior damage. It would be a while before it was healed, especially as there was no way he could afford the expense of medical care.

“Thank you for your services.”

Leaning forward again, Soarin took in the figure that had greeted him. They were fully covered in long simple orange robes with a red trim. Two red eyes peered out from the depths of their hood. A staple look for the pawns of the Solar Order.

“We shall proceed with payment,” the figure stated.

“It was a Level 2,” Soarin replied in a blunt tone.

“Yes, that was quite unfortunate. We apologize for any additional difficulty that was caused.”

“The pay should be increased.”

“You were hired to subdue a Level 1. You will be paid accordingly.”

Soarin scrunched his face. He got up off the bench and approached the pawn, drawing himself up to his full height. “Listen, you can’t—”

“Your options are that we pay you or we don’t,” the pawn interrupted. “Your third option, should you harm us, is to die.”

He stopped short. They were a member of a rather militant faction that would have no issue hunting him down. Though it rankled him, he begrudgingly held up his watch. The pawn reached up with a scarred limb and tapped their own watch against his. The payment was transferred with a loud ding.

“Thank you again for your services,” the pawn said.

And then they left.

Soarin slumped back onto the bench. He leaned forward, covering his head with both wings and hands. He took a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Stress and frustration threatened to boil over. He needed to keep it reined in.

He’d once had promise, a future. Now he was just a dead-end loser in a dangerous career that did nothing but wrack up more debt for himself. He could check how much money he owed from his revivals and basic living necessities, but he didn’t need to make himself feel worse.

There was no escape.

Standing up, he tucked his hands in his pockets, clenching them tightly to stop the jitters. He began the long trek back to his office, each step a reminder of his neverending work.

Ticket to Tartarus II

Soarin trudged through the streets of the Rust, avoiding the rough-looking crowds that gathered on street corners. Tall, poorly constructed buildings of lackluster quality cluttered the sides, looming over him as he walked past. Gaudy signs advertising seedy business ventures bathed the dirty road in flashes of colour. Thick smog permeated the area, clinging to everything.

There was a desperation here that Soarin knew didn’t exist anywhere else. Those that lived in the Rust were the debt-ridden, the poor, and those that had fallen from the high Havens. Even the Burn Out, the area he had just come from, was better in a way. He didn’t need to worry about thugs ambushing him for what little he had when he was out hunting.

He’d grown up in a Haven. One of the better ones, since its only quirk was a highly competitive environment, which he thrived on. Had. Until… he tried not to dwell on it.

New Wing, his office, appeared in the near distance, squished between a cheap hair salon and a restaurant that served terrible pizza.

Climbing the stairs quickly, he pulled his keys out of his pants pocket, unlocked the door, and shoved his way in with his good shoulder. He flicked on the light, bathing the room in sterile white. All the better to accentuate the filth.

It was both his office and home. One side had a large worn down desk with a comfy lounge chair and green filing cabinets behind it. There was a fax machine, a land phone, and a computer monitor all crowded onto the surface that did nothing but stream messages to him.

The other side had a pile of blankets and pillows in a natural nook that acted as his bed. There was a mini-fridge filled with old takeout, some “nicer” clothes that he wore for (the possibility of) higher-end clients, and a detached bathroom that needed to be cleaned several months ago.

Ring. Ring.

He winced at the shrill sound of the phone going off. He decided to ignore it in favour of getting some food from the fridge. Yanking open the door, he took out a container of old takeout, then slammed the door shut behind him with his foot. Using a fork taken from the top of the fridge, he dug in as he settled into his desk chair.

Soarin didn’t need to answer the phone to know who it was. Instead, he ignored it and focused on the papers spewed out all over his desk by his fax machine. Debt statements. Advertisements. Debt statements. Job offers not worth taking. Debt statements. More advertisements. Staggering amounts of—

Ring. Ring.

Turning toward his monitor, he flicked it on. After a moment, a dark screen appeared. The desktop loaded, followed by a messaging app which began to scroll green text automatically. A highlight reel of his new emails.

Advertisements. Some obvious scams. A few more worthless jobs. Messages about his—

Ring. Ring.

He ate up the last of his food and tossed the rest into a nearby waste basket. He got out of his chair and wandered over to the nearest filing cabinet. Pulling open the top drawer, he reviewed past jobs he had completed on the off chance that he could follow up on any of them for more work. He knew the whole endeavor was pointless, since most clients never used the same hunter twice, but there could always be some loose end that he hadn’t noticed—

Ring. Ring.

Soarin slammed the drawer shut, only for it to catch and fall off the rails. He caught the drawer with a curse and tried to force the wheels back into its proper place. He wiggled the metal bin, a low growl emanating from his throat.

Ring. Ring.

The bin fell diagonally and spilled case files onto the floor. He didn’t notice. His body was shaking as his thoughts spiraled. Anxiety crept up on him, pulling him down into its grasp.

Ring. Ring.

The fax machine turned on. More papers. Timing meant they were all going to be about that. Because his entire life now revolved around that. He could never escape that.

Ring. Ring.

He covered his ears with his hands, and used his wings to cover his head, desperately hoping it would block out the horrible noise.

Ring. Ring.

His body shook. Inhale. Exhale. His heart thumped hard, filling his ears. Inhale. Exhale. He felt his office close in on him, the world narrowing to a single point. It was too much.

Ring. Ring.

Inhale.

Ring. Ring.

Exhale.

Ring. Ring.

It was all—

Bang. Bang.

Startled, he withdrew his hands and wings then turned toward the door. The ringing had stopped. Before acting, he waited to confirm that there’d been a knock.

Bang. Bang.

Moving quickly, he ran to the door and peered out the peephole, worried about who could be there. On spying the person standing on the front step, he breathed a sigh of relief. He yanked open the door.

His mail carrier, Parcel Post, stopped mid-knock. Unlike him, Post was especially chipper, with a clean uniform and nary a sorrow weighing down his body. Perks of delivering for the nearby Haven of Manehattan. Steady, safe, and, most importantly, well paid.

“Hey, Post,” Soarin greeted, barely managing to keep his voice steady.

“Well, hey there, Soarin. Got some mail for you.” He rummaged through his carrier bag. “How’s business?”

“Doing alright. Just finished a job for the Solar Order.”

Post whistled. “That’s doing better than alright. They’re some generous clientele.” Soarin held back the wince as he recalled the final pay negotiations. Post pulled out two letters then offered them to Soarin. He took them. “And that’s all there is. Take care, Soarin.”

“Will do, Post.”

Soarin shut the door. He walked back to his desk, glancing at the envelopes in his hand. One was dark blue with simple embellishes and no noted address. The other was a cream-coloured envelope from the central hunter office. He threw the blue envelope onto his desk and tore into the other.

Quickly reading the contents, he could feel excitement building up inside him. A job. A well paying one. Some Level 2 Deviant called We Sell Wholesale was lurking near the border of the Rust and some well-paying clients wanted it dealt with.

He was exhausted, and his injury still throbbed within the confines of his bandages, but he couldn’t pass this up. Central jobs were good money, but had a first come, first serve basis. Not to mention rare, with how many hunters there were registered. He couldn’t afford to wait and potentially lose out on such a massive reward.

Besides, his other option was to sit at home and wait for the collector’s notices to continue piling in. There wasn’t really a second option.

Soarin exited through the front door, slamming it behind him.

The blue envelope lay forgotten on his desk.

Ticket to Tartarus III

“It's hunting our future products,” the client said. “That’s our job.”

The client in question was a stoutly man with cold eyes and an aggressive disposition. Soarin doubted the man had a single margin of empathy within him. A useful feature, when your occupation was to harvest the body parts of the recently deceased and the recently poor.

“Anything you can tell me about it?” Soarin asked, keeping the irritation out of his voice. They had been talking for thirty minutes and the man had done nothing but whine and complain.

“Nope,” the client stated, arms crossed. “Just some gangly-looking weirdo with a basket full of parts. Parts that are rightfully ours.” He tilted his head to the side, scrunching up his face in thought. “And it clicks. Like some kinda insect.”

Vague, but enough of a description to get started.

“Alright. It hangs about in the Red Alleys?”

“Yep. If you listen for the clicks, you’ll find it soon enough.”

Soarin tipped his hat and walked past the man into the alleyway behind him. He unfurled his whip, ready to fight the creature at a moment’s notice.

The Red Alleys were the backstreet of a Rust restaurant district known as the Exotics. Every part of the Rust had something like it, restaurants willing to cook anything and serve it to paying customers. Because of that, they worked with a lot of different food, including ingredients taken willingly or unwillingly from those that don’t really have a say in the matter.

It was so named because it was the dumping ground for those restaurants. Dumpsters piled high with rotting meat that stained the cobblestones a rusted red. The smell was horrific and clung to everything. It followed anyone that entered, reminding them for days afterward of the detached rotting arms reaching out of the garbage.

For Soarin, it was just more fuel for whatever nightmares he would be plagued with the next time he slept.

As he traversed the main thoroughfare of the alleys, he spied a suspicious pile of blankets pressed up against one of the dumpsters. On a hunch, he approached and was rewarded for his curiosity by the haggard form of a young woman, attempting to covertly munch on what appeared to be someone’s leg.

“Where did you get that?” Soarin asked.

The woman held the leg tightly to her body, red-stained teeth barred. “None of your business,” she hissed.

“Was it from a Deviant?” She flinched. “I’ll take that as a yes. Do you know where it is?”

“... Maybe,” she replied.

“I’m hunting it. Can you point me in the right direction?”

“What do you got?”

He didn’t have anything to give, which meant he had to resort to a threat. “I’m working for one of the harvesters off the main row. Tell me where the Deviant is and I don’t tell him where you are.”

She shot him a furious glare. At one time, Soarin might have felt guilty, but neither he nor she were in a position to hold themselves to morality.

Not when morals got you killed and inevitably wracked with more debt.

“It went down the alley behind you and set up shop on one of the offshoots. Just listen for the clicks.”

“Thanks,” Soarin replied.

Not waiting for a response, Soarin continued his trek down the indicated alley. The red of the cobblestones died down as he moved further away from the main street, but the smell remained as pungent as ever.

Click. Click.

Soarin stopped. He turned toward the alley from where the sound had come from and carefully inched his way toward it. Hiding behind the corner, he peeked around.

Before him was, presumably, his quarry, tall and spindly with six long arms that ended in razor sharp nails. It was covered in thick stained cloth with a large woven basket on its back filled with severed parts. Its face was fully covered but for three eyes that peered through gaps in the fabric.

We Sell Wholesale was carefully tearing apart a whimpering man, each severed piece carefully placed within its overflowing basket.

A spark of fear and excitement shot through Soarin. The prior was his natural response to the Deviant, while the latter came from Rot, who was eager for the upcoming fight. Soarin quickly tried to contain said eagerness. He didn’t want to use him if he could avoid it. But if he had to… he would. We Know the Way had already taught him that he couldn’t forgo his last resort.

We Sell Wholesale finished scavenging what parts it could. The man, thankfully, had died between limb tearing. The remainder was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. The Deviant’s bandages rustled, and a massive jagged maw roughly positioned where a human stomach would be opened and began to devour the leftovers. It was fully focused on this endeavor, and would be Soarin’s best chance to kill it.

Moving quickly, but quietly, Soarin maneuvered himself into the alley, hoping the creature’s messy eating would cover the sound of his footsteps. Once he was behind We Sell Wholesale, he tightened his hold on his cable whip and readied to lasso the abomination. Anxiety flared as he remembered his injured arm. He hoped it would hold.

A deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Then he threw it.

The throw was perfect. It looped around the Deviant’s torso and six arms. It paused in its eating, seemingly startled by this turn of events. Acting fast, Soarin pulled on the cable.

As planned, the Deviant’s six arms were pulled tightly to its body. It made several startled clicking noises as it hit the ground.

Hoping to stun it, Soarin flicked on the electricity in his cables. The Deviant screeched as volts pumped into it. It fought through the pain and lunged at Soarin, who fell back onto the cobblestones and brought up his legs as it reached him. One on its upper torso, the other just below where he knew its mouth was. It snapped open its jaw, but was kept safely away from him by the placement of his feet.

Red saliva dripped to the ground from gnashing teeth. Soarin ensured his grip was tight on the cables, then punched the Deviant in its face, aiming for the eyes. It screamed. He punched it again. And again. And again. The eyes became bloodshot as Soarin continued his assault.

Suddenly, We Sell Wholesale scrambled back, blood dripping from its face. Soarin double-checked his grip and readied for whatever the Deviant was preparing.

It convulsed, jerking in odd motions before releasing a loud scream. To Soarin’s growing horror, a second Deviant began to lift itself out of We Sell Wholsale’s basket.

His watch beeped to life. Text scrolled across. Goods For Sale. Level 1.

It had a Minion.

Why did it have to have a Minion?

Goods For Sale dropped to the ground. It was an amalgamation of parts that We Sell Wholesale had gathered, formed into a giant meatball. A horrendous comparison made worse when it began rapidly rolling toward him.

Soarin sidestepped the new arrival. We Sell Wholesale lunged at him again. He dodged around it and yanked on the cables. The primary Deviant stumbled and fell to the ground.

The Minion had slammed into a wall. After a few seconds of maneuvering itself to face Soarin, it began to rev up, readying to roll at him again.

He couldn’t keep up. There was no way. He could manage for a while, but either he was going to lose his grip on We Sell Wholesale, who was going to tear him limb from limb, or Goods For Sale was going to tire him out and manage to steamroll him. It was a lose-lose situation.

Which meant he was left with only his last resort. Giddiness welled up inside him as Rot came to the same realization. He didn’t want to. But he couldn’t afford more debt.

Soarin called on They Rot From Inside.

Power coursed through him. The stench of rot intensified as his body was overtaken by the rotten pig inside of him. He could feel the maggots forming and squirming under his skin.

Goods For Sale rolled toward him.

They grabbed it by its center with one hand.

Before the Deviant could even react, they used their other hand to begin tearing Goods For Sale apart. The amalgamation screamed as he did. Maggots roared from their arms, ripping into the pieces that remained.

They dropped the remains to the ground, and began to approach We Sell Wholesale, keeping a tight grip on the leash. It screeched.

Together, they looped the slack of the cable around the Deviant’s neck and pulled. And pulled. And pulled.

Its head popped off with a sickening pop.

When the Deviant began to dissolve into nothing, Soarin called Rot back, shoving it back into the box where it should hopefully never leave again (it will happen again). Engorged maggots dissolved into red puddles, mixing in with the stained cobblestones.

Soarin stared up at the sky. He couldn’t do it by himself.

With some lingering resentment for a time fargone, he had never wanted to.

He trudged back to his office, head hung, hands tucked into his pockets. Bittersweet joy filled him. He’d gotten paid, well. More than he’d ever gotten before hunting down measly Level 1s. But it was tainted by him needing Rot in order to accomplish it.

His combat style wasn’t suited for solo fighting, but it was all he knew how to use. He could try to wield a blade, but training to use it was likely to get him killed.

Any Deviant that was more than one was going to be impossible for him. Not without… he didn’t want to… that wasn’t worth dwelling on in the moment. Soarin decided it was better to ride that joyous high on getting paid. Maybe even enough that he could afford something to quickly heal his throbbing arm instead of waiting for it to recover.

“Soarin.”

He looked up, surprised. He was close to his office. Standing before the door was a rough-looking man. He had the look of someone who had been in a fair number of scraps and the confidence that he would get through many more. A confidence further backed by the thuggish people that surrounded him.

The man grinned at him. It was not a pleasant sort of grin. Too late, Soarin recognized him.

“Get’em,” the man said.

Before Soarin could even react, they were upon him. Blows rained down on him as he attempted to cover himself with his arms and wings. One punch landed on his arm, causing him to cry out in pain. Another went into his stomach causing him to hunch over. The next decked him out on the ground. He curled into himself as they kicked him. He could feel nothing but an immeasurable amount of pain.

After what felt like an eternity had passed, Soarin hesitantly opened up from his position to see the confident man looking at him at his level with that same horrible smile.

His debt owner. Brass Knuckles.

“You owe us money,” Brass stated.

“I’ve been paying it back,” Soarin said.

“We know,” Brass replied. “Real reliable. But—” the man held up a finger “—I had a bad day and youse was in the neighbourhood. So, I decided to send a reminder.”

“I’ve been paying it back,” Soarin repeated, desperately.

“And keep doin’ it, got it?”

Without knowing a better response, Soarin nodded his head. Brass smacked him lightly on the cheek.

“Atta boy.”

Brass stood up and walked away, his thugs trailing after him, laughter following in their wake. Soarin stayed on the ground. Pain radiated through him, his body thoroughly battered.

Soarin didn’t get it. What did he do wrong? What could he have possibly done to deserve this? At what point in his life did he wrack up enough karma to be owed such a miserable existence?

A deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Those questions were pointless. He already knew the answer. He was a loser. In both meanings.

Soarin began the laborious process of standing back up. He fought back the urge to scream and curse in fear of drawing the attention of Brass again. Once he was (barely) standing, he limped the rest of the way to his office, each step a herculean task.

He shoved open the door, stumbling forward and falling to the floor in the process. The additional pain was nothing compared to what he already felt.

Kicking the door shut behind him, he crawled toward his lounge chair. Pulling himself up through sheer force of will, he flopped back into it, letting some measure of relief flood through him from the comparative comfort of the chair.

Ragged breaths. He fought through the pain and willed back any tears. He didn’t have the luxury to break down. Not when he needed to rest to get back to the neverending grind. He didn’t care that his mind wanted to wallow in in misery, he needed to keep it together.

Hoping for a distraction, he looked across his desk and spied the blue envelope from earlier. He grabbed it, tore it open and quickly caught the two pieces of paper that dropped out of it.

One was a dark blue ticket with ‘Admit One’ imprinted into it on a backdrop of a crescent moon. The other was a piece of elaborate stationery with fancy words scrawled across the page.

He read the letter.

Hello, esteemed passenger

You have been chosen for your unique circumstance and abilities. We invite you to join the Midnight Train to retrieve what was lost.

In exchange, you, Soaring Skies, will have your debt fully cleared and find what you need most: trust.

If interested, come to the old Manehattan Rail with ticket in hand.

We eagerly await your presence.

Midnight Rail

Soarin leaned back in his chair, letter still in hand. What kind of cruel joke was this? Clear his debts? Work for some unknown company he’d never heard of? Travel to some weird location no one goes to? Who was dumb enough to fall for this?

… Or desperate enough?

He couldn’t work with his injuries. That meant he needed rest for a few days. A night of any sleep would give him enough strength to drag himself to the old station.

If it was a lie, then no time was wasted. If it was real, he could weigh his options after inquiring further about the details. If he was walking into a trap and wound up getting himself killed permanently…

Well, that was that then.

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. He let himself drift off to sleep. Tomorrow he would deal with whatever may come of this letter.

For now, he slept.

Onboarding Passengers I

Soarin stopped just before the stairs down to the old Manehattan Rail, grabbing the railing to keep himself steady. His body was… not great. Rest had done little to ease the pain that consumed him; force of will was the only thing driving him, and he could feel that rapidly running out. He had no idea how he would get back to the office after this if he refused the offer, but, for now, he was going to continue to push through.

He took each metallic step down slowly, using the rusted rail to prop himself up as he descended into the dimly lit depths.

At the bottom, he was chilled by a thin mist. It was a sharp kind of cold that seeped into him and, mercifully, kept him alert. Turnstiles blocked the path to a rail tunnel lined by deteriorated benches and working lampposts. The latter was a welcome surprise, as he had been almost certain that it would be pitch black, due to the power being cut off to the station decades prior.

Pushing through the turnstile, he stumbled up to the platform and waited. He wasn’t sure what he expected from a tunnel that had been shut down long before he’d even been born. Pain pierced through him, chipping away at what energy he had left to still stand. This whole endeavor felt like a waste of time to Soarin, especially since there was no chance that—

Choo. Choo.

Soarin turned toward the sound in surprise. A bright light lit up the interior of the passage. Impossibly, a train appeared. A loud screech echoed through the station as it roared to a stop, the single boarding door lining up perfectly with where Soarin stood.

It was an odd locomotive. A cross between what Soarin knew to be a rail and subway train. It was low to the ground and sleek like the latter, but ornate and decorative with a clear night time motif as the prior. It was a strange amalgamation for him to reconcile.

Which was quickly put to the side when the doors of the train slid open and a figure stepped off.

They were tall and imposing, dressed in a high-class blue suit that made it impossible to identify their figure. Their hands were folded casually in front of them without a hint of fear. The ease of which this entity greeted him was off-putting, as Soarin was more used to the anxious, violent nature of the Rust residents.

They also had a full moon for a head. Just an entire unbroken moon that glowed a yellowish-white. It was so utterly absurd that Soarin couldn’t help but gape at it.

The entity tilted their head to one side in question. “Do you take issue with our appearance?” Their voice was gentle, but with every syllable clearly enunciated.

Soarin shook his head. “No, no, it’s… fine.” He glanced at his watch. No text scrolled across it. “Are you a Deviant?”

“We are to Deviants as an apple is to an orange. Categorically similar, but fundamentally different. You will not find us in that little watch of yours.” The figure stated.

“Right,” Soarin replied, uncertainty colouring his voice. “So, what are you, then?”

“One Big Leap, or Leap, for short, and that is all we shall tell you. Now, you are here for a purpose.”

“You can clear my debt.”

“We can, yes.”

“This deal sounds too good to be true.”

“Then in a show of good faith, allow us to clear half of it just for coming here. Hold up your watch.” Soarin did as asked. Leap took a watch out of their front breast pocket and tapped it against Soarin’s. Soarin watched his debt halve itself. “The rest will be removed should you agree to our terms.”

Soarin stared at the number in disbelief. What would have taken him half a lifetime to clear was gone in mere seconds. “... What are your terms?” Soarin asked.

“You will lead a team of twelve, including yourself, to delve into Traumas.”

“What do you mean by traumas?”

“No, Traumas,” Leap repeated. This time Soarin heard the capitalization. “They are unique spaces that only a few can enter. You are one of those few.”

“The others are also capable then?”

“Yes.”

“Where are they?”

“Not yet boarded, though, they will soon. Presuming they agree to board as we hope you will.”

Soarin grunted noncommittally. “So what do you need from inside these so-called Traumas?”

“Body parts,” Leap replied.

“... Of what?”

“An entity that I need revived, which is all we shall tell you.”

“I need more than that.”

“You do not.”

“If you’re trying to—”

“We cannot tell you more because we are incapable of doing so, not because we do not wish to,” Leap interrupted. “We apologize, however, there will be information we cannot provide to you, even if you agree to our conditions. You will have to accept that we cannot tell you everything.”

Soarin frowned. He didn’t like it. But their offer was still far too tempting. “Fine. What else can I expect inside of these Traumas?”

“Deviants. Stronger than the ones you’ve faced before, but we are confident that you and the others will succeed with your Manifests.”

He tensed. “How do you—”

“It is one of the requirements needed to enter the Traumas. We are aware of They Rot From Inside, and you would do well to become more familiar with them.”

“I hate using it,” Soarin muttered.

“The Manifest, despite its strange characteristics and appearance, is another facet of yourself. Like a quirk of personality or unique trait,” Leap explained. “It is, admittedly, a complicated facet of yourself, but nothing you should fear to use.”

“I’m not afraid of it, it’s just… I find it hard to see it as another part of myself. I’m not some… rotted pig,” Soarin hissed.

“Obviously. It’s a metaphor, Soarin. One we suggest you become familiar with even if you do not accept our offer.”

“So, I’ll have to use Rot.”

“No, but your effectiveness will be severely hampered if you suppress your greatest strength.”

Soarin scrunched up his face. “... I guess, I can use it if I need to.”

“Then you agree to our terms?”

“Not yet, I have more questions. What happens when we’re done? When we gather the… how many parts are there?”

“Twelve,” Leap provided. “After which, you will be free to go. No strings attached. We shall also provide you with multiple avenues to achieve your ideal life, but it will be up to you to decide whether to use it.”

“Does that include getting me back into the Cloudsdale Haven?” Soarin asked, disbelief in his tone.

“Canterlot, Manehattan, Fillydelphia, anywhere you so desire.”

“How?”

“We have our ways.”

Soarin paused a moment in thought, brow furrowed. “Anything else I need to know before I make a decision?”

“You will be given an alias to use with your teammates.”

“And that would be…?”

“Golding.”

“What’s a Golding?”

“The name of someone you have no way of knowing, but rest assured, it suits you. Now, we request an answer.”

“Can I think on it first? Come back later with my decision?”

“No. It must be now, or this opportunity shall be granted to another.”

He didn’t like that. The pressure. It twisted his stomach in knots. It felt like he was being trapped into a contract with the details hidden in the margins.

The offer was tempting. He could be free of his debt and able to live how he wanted after he was done with this job. However, despite how cordial and open One Big Leap appeared to be, he couldn’t help but feel that the most important aspect was being purposefully hidden.

His gut told him to ignore the offer. Leave and never return. Go back to his dingy office. Alone. Saddled with a debt that even halved, he could never hope to pay back. Struggle every day in physical pain from beatings he took from bored debt collectors and Deviants alike as his anxiety ate him from the inside out.

… This wasn’t a real choice.

“I accept the terms,” Soarin said.

“We are most pleased by your response.” They stepped to one side and performed a sweeping gesture toward the open entryway. “Please board. We will be leaving shortly, Golding.”

Soarin did as instructed, his mind abuzz with anxious thoughts. He may well have just exchanged one Tartarus for another, but, at least for now, he had a chance to escape to a better life.

Leap followed in after him. The doors closed shut behind them with a whoosh. A piercing whistle cried out. Then, the train left the station, off to places unknown.

Onboarding Passengers II

Soarin jerked upright in bed. He whipped his head about the unfamiliar room he found himself in. His heart pounded in his ears as he felt something squeeze his chest. He hunched over, clutching the front of his shirt tightly, his mind in the throes of panic.

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

As he came down from his anxiety, recognition finally registered. Rusted metal walls similar to a shipping container. A soft cot. Metal shelves and crates stocked full of parts, clothes, and miscellaneous items. A pig was spray painted on the door with the text ‘It’s Only Us’ written underneath.

It was his cabin on the Midnight Rail. A train that had proved significantly larger than expected. He felt he should have been more weirded out by the inconsistencies, but his boss had a moon for a head, so that was a distant second in comparison.

He got out of bed, refreshed. Despite the rough appearance, it was leagues more comfortable than his office. He threw on a fresh set of clothes (his usual, but washed, which he hadn’t had the luxury of for years) and walked out the door.

Moving briskly down the star-studded corridors, he came to the front passenger car faster than he had the night before. He filed the strangeness away with the weird dimensions of the interior.

“Good morning, Golding,” Leap greeted. “Did the patches heal your wounds?”

“Yeah.” A luxury from Stalliongrad. A simple piece of green cloth with a gel surface that instantly healed most wounds on application. He could never afford them before. “Good as new.”

“We are glad to hear that, as you will have a job to do later today.”

“Solo?”

“Three new members of the Rail will be joining you after we pick them up. They have agreed to our contract ahead of time, so all we have to do is pick them up.”

“Who are they?”

“London, Bradbury, and Hinton.”

“Codenames?”

“Yes, and they will introduce themselves as such. Please take the time to remember them when they do. For now, we encourage you to relax.”

Soarin nodded, then flopped into a nearby seat. He glanced out the window, watching the darkness whip past. He let his thoughts wander. Curiosity formed wild images in his head of who could be boarding the train. Worries cascaded in on the upcoming job and his ability to deliver.

His anxiety flared, but he clamped down on it. He was about to make a first impression on his future teammates and, as the leader, their first thought couldn’t be ‘panicky nutcase’.

The train shrilly whistled, announcing its arrival at the next station. It screeched to a stop before the sound of a steam whistle reverberated through the cabin.

Soarin stood up and walked to the entry doors. Leap observed from their seat. The new passenger stepped onboard.

“That’s a child.” Soarin hadn’t meant for that to slip out.

“Bugger to you too, ya knob,” the passenger retorted, flipping the bird.

She was lanky and tall for her age, with light orange skin and a short crop of messy purple hair underneath a felt flat cap. She dressed poor, in worn clothes that you would find in a cast off bin. Her eyes were ferocious, belying a deep seated anger and distrust.

“Age is not a requirement or condition to board the train,” Leap stated.

“They’re a child,” Soarin repeated, hoping that doing so would cause this event to make sense to him.

“And?” Leap replied. “As previously stated, age is a non-factor for recruitment. Additionally, being young does not exempt one from the hardships of modern Equestria.”

“But—” Soarin stopped. Leap was right. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen a child in a position they shouldn’t be, nor did he assume it would be the last. “... Sorry, you’re right. I’m acting foolish.”

“Damn right, you are,” the passenger said, arms crossed. “Ya done talking stupid?”

“Yeah.” Soarin gulped down his pride and extended a hand toward the girl. “My name is Golding.”

“Scoo— London.” She stepped back, scrunching up her face in distaste at the offered hand. “Thought I was working for some One Big Leap?”

“You are. We are they,” Leap remarked. “Golding will be leading.”

“Oh,” London said, her tone belying disappointment.

Soarin withdrew his hand and ignored the anxiety that flared in the back of his mind at the distinct lack of confidence. “You aren’t surprised at Leap’s appearance?”

“So long as they keep me out of Dodge, I don’t care if they’re a sentient butt.” She eyed him up and down then glared. “Get out of my space.”

Soarin coughed. “Well, I thought first we could—”

She pulled out a knife and brandished it in his direction. “Step off,” she snarled.

Soarin raised his hands and took a big step back. Keeping him within her line of sight, she stalked past, tucked her knife back into her sleeve, and sat down in the seat furthest away from them.

“We are glad that you have finally met,” Leap said. “This went much better than how we had predicted it to go.”

“How’d you think it would have gone?” Soarin asked.

“We presumed you would have ended up bleeding out on the floor.”

“Give me any reason,” London chimed in.

Soarin sighed.

The train slowed to a stop. Soarin gripped an overhead bar tightly. The next passenger was due to board.

“The tartar you doin’ on your feet?” London said. She had taken to glare at him for the majority of the trip, which had done nothing for his nerves. “You've been doin’ that for half the ride. Tryin’ to go flyin’ off into the wall or somethin’?”

“We believe that Golding is taking the initiative to greet our next passenger early to leave a better first impression.” Leap turned the page of their paperback. The title read Call of the Wild. He didn’t recognize it. “We appreciate his initiative as team captain.”

“So ya told me.” London snorted. “Pretty sure a tin can with a face drawn on it could do better.”

His fist clenched. Fingernails pierced skin. It grated on him. Not because of what she said, but because he couldn’t refute it. He’d left a bad impression on her. He was incompetent. But he couldn’t admit that.

“... I’m just trying my best,” Soarin mumbled.

“Sure. Whatever you say, Cap.”

“Cap?” Soarin asked, the nickname feeling good to say. “Like Captain?”

“Like your hat.” The idiot was unsaid.

“How delightful,” Leap added unhelpfully.

Soarin sighed. Again. He’d been doing a lot of that.

The door slid open. The next passenger stepped onboard. Soarin looked at them. Then up. And up. Soarin was by no means short, but this giant of a woman certainly made him feel small.

She was built like a labour worker, with an excess of muscle stretching out her blouse and thick long sleeved trench coat. The colour scheme and labels suggested she was part of public service. The singed parts of her long, waist length red hair narrowed that down to a firefighter. She clutched a messenger bag close to her, filled to the brim with something Soarin couldn’t make out.

The passenger grabbed his free hand and shook it up and down, nearly dislocating his shoulder. “It’s great to meet you! You must be One Big Leap!”

“N-no, I’m Golding,” Soarin stuttered.

A pause. “Then who’s Leap?” She looked past him. “Oh, you must be them!” She dropped his hand and walked past. Soarin clenched and unclenched his hand to ease the throbbing pain. The passenger shook Leap’s hand with vigour. “Thank you so much for this opportunity, uh, sir?”

“Feel free to address us however you please,” Leap replied.

“Will do, Moonie!” She glanced around the cabin. “So, where’s the boss? It’s some guy named Golding, right?”

“You just met him.”

The passenger turned to look back at Soarin. A brief look of disappointment crossed her face before it was replaced by a beaming smile. “Great to meet you, sir!” She called out, saluting. “It will be great working with you!”

“... At ease,” Soarin replied, trying not to be bothered by the glimpse of her real feelings.

She shot off her salute and scanned the rest of the train. Her eyes lit up as she saw London. She walked briskly toward her. London backed away.

“Oh. My. Gosh! You are the cutest thing!” The passenger cried.

“Stand back, giantess!” London shouted, waving her knife around. “I will cut you!”

London was hugged tightly by the passenger, who reached past the knife and brought her tightly to her chest, swinging her around like a rag doll.

“I can’t believe we have such a cute little girl to cheer us on!”

“I’m a passenger, you gnat!” London shrieked. She growled like a feral dog.

The passenger stopped. She looked toward Soarin and Leap for confirmation. Both nodded their heads. Embarrassed, the passenger set London back onto their feet.

London glared.

“... Sorry,” the passenger mumbled.

“You do it again and I’m going for the eyes,” London retorted. She eyed the bag at the passenger’s side. She reached toward it. “So, what’s in the—”

The passenger stepped back, pulling the bag tighter to her body with one hand, and pulling out a fireman’s ax with the other from the folds of her coat. She brandished it against London, her eyes wide with fear.

London took a step back, nervousness on her face.

“No harm will come to your belongings,” Leap interjected. “Should they be damaged, you can be certain that I will repair them back to pristine condition.”

“R-right. That was part of the agreement.” The passenger laughed. It was a pained sort that was desperately trying to recover the vibe. She put away her weapon. “So! My name is Bradbury. Looking forward to working with you all!”

Awkwardness filled the silence that followed. Leap, thankfully, broke it.

“Your cabin is further down the train if you would like to take a moment to recover. It will be the door with the mark of a thermometer.”

“Great, thanks! I will … go do that,” Bradbury said.

She briskly walked out of the passenger car and toward her room. Silence followed in her wake, broken only by the soft turning of a page from Leap’s book.

Soarin tapped his leg nervously as the train began to screech to a stop at the third station. He needed at least one of these introductions to go off without a hitch. Thankfully, London had gone back to her room for a while, and Bradbury still hadn’t returned. The lack of audience eased his anxious mind.

A mind that was reeling. The disasters that were his first meetings with London and Bradbury weighed heavily on him. He was meant to lead them, and it was clear that neither respected nor had any faith in him. He hadn’t even done anything yet, and he had already proved to be a failure.

“We can see that you are stressed, Golding,” Leap observed. Soarin nodded hesitantly. “We would like you to know not to. You will do fine.”

“... How can you know I won’t screw this up? I’ve already done so,” Soarin said.

“What exactly have you ‘screwed up’? You have been with us in an official capacity for less than a day. It is ludicrous to expect you to have succeeded or failed.”

Echoes of memories raced through his head. Expectations of who he was supposed to be. “I don’t feel confident in my capability to lead.”

“A problem that will be resolved with time as you get to know your fellow passengers and work with them,” Leap closed their book, tucking it inside their inner jacket pocket. “Know this, Golding. Regardless of how far you may get or how badly you may fail, that you have tried at all is more than enough to be proud of.”

Hollow words, but comforting nonetheless. Soarin could feel his anxiety begin to ease. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.” Leap waved a hand.

The doors slid open and the third passenger boarded. Another woman. Long messy green hair that framed a dour, freckled face. She wore a long knitted sweater and skirt all coloured in earthy tones. She was covered in mud and flecks of dried blood. She held a pistol in one hand. It shook in her grip. Green eyes peered at him, bubbling with emotions that he couldn’t begin to unravel.

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

He extended his hand to her, ignoring the details that gave him pause. “My name is Golding,” Soarin greeted. “I will be your team captain. I look forward to working with you.”

He was too anxious. He was too stiff. He was too him. She eyed him warily. He was worried he’d already made an error in judgement. She raised her gun hand, realized that it held a pistol, and extended her free hand to shake his instead.

“... Hinton,” she said. Her voice was soft, but as clear as newly cleaned glass. “Is One Big Leap nearby?”

Soarin stepped back and gestured toward Leap, who sat staring at the new passenger. Hinton moved to be right in front of them. She tried to speak, but her mouth quivered, making her incapable of speech.

“Speak,” Leap commanded.

“Was I supposed to be the one to live?” Hinton asked. Her tone suggested tears on the verge of breaking.

Leap regarded Hinton quietly. Finally, they said, “Things sometimes happen for a reason, and sometimes they happen because the world is cruel. You are not here for either of these reasons. You are here because someone cared about you more than themselves and made a selfless decision. That is worth more than something as contrived as ‘supposed to be’.”

“She believed in your cause,” Hinton said.

“... She did,” Leap agreed.

Hinton wiped at her eyes. When her hand came away, steely determination remained. “Then I’ll do what she can’t anymore.”

“We are happy to hear that.” Leap stood up. “Now, we believe that the others are due back.”

They clapped twice. Bradbury and London spilled out, the prior surprised, the latter already cussing up a storm.

Bradbury hissed in pain as she rubbed her backside. “That was not the kind of wild ride I enjoy.”

“Never do that again!” London shouted, jumping to their feet. “Who’s this chick?” She pointed at Hinton then waved her hand. “Actually, don’t care. Why’d you drag us out, Moon?”

“Your first job,” Leap announced. “Before tackling the first Trauma, you’ll need some more tools in your arsenal. The four of you shall be hunting two Deviants today.”

“Tartarus, yeah!” London pumped her fists. “Been lookin’ to do a good shankin’ all day!”

Bradbury stretched as she got off the floor. “Nice! Will be a good warm up for the real thing.”

“... Hopefully, it won’t be too harrowing,” Hinton added.

“What Deviants are we hunting?” Golding asked.

Golding got the impression of a wide mischievous grin from Leap.

“A rather powerful duo that will serve us well.” They paused. Presumably for theatric emphasis. “They are For Want of Everything and Tears for the Damned.”

Onboarding Passengers III

Soarin eyed the abandoned store wearily. It was an old record shop just outside of the Vanhoover Haven within the Burn Out. Like a deteriorated time capsule that was dated even at the time it was built, the entire street was decorated in neon aesthetic, with the music store as a gaudy centrepiece.

London, Bradbury, Hinton, and Leap stood next to him. They wore a range of expressions across their faces, each in a different state of anxiousness and anticipation.

“When we gettin’ to stabbin’, then?” London asked, her tone almost accusatory, as if she had been lied to.

“We need to gather information first,” Soarin replied.

London huffed.

“A good start to any hunt against these Deviants,” Leap remarked.

“... Yeah. These situations tend to go south even when you know everything about them.” Soarin hesitated a moment before he asked, “If things go badly—”

“You will be revived at our expense,” Leap interrupted, already anticipating the question. “We would like to assure you that mistakes are entirely acceptable, if perhaps quite painful.”

Soarin nodded. “So, you’re here to capture the Deviants?”

“Yes, but only after you all weaken them.”

“... I’ve never heard of something like that,” Hinton said, her voice carrying an undertone of worry to it.

“It is an ability unique to ourself, Leap replied. “We are certain that you have never met another being quite like us.”

Hinton gripped their pistol tighter.

“So, we doin’ the smash and… smash?” Bradbury questioned.

An exasperated sigh. “No. We’re gathering information first,” Soarin repeated.

“Ah, then we smash and smash.” Bradbury nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer.

“No, Afterwards—” Soarin rubbed his temples. “—Just stay here. I’ll scout the store out, then come back.”

“And then—” Bradbury began.

“Just stay!” Soarin retorted. He pointed an accusatory finger at London. “You too.”

Before London could respond, Soarin walked briskly toward the record store. He carefully maneuvered around debris, watching his steps to not make any unnecessary noise.

All the while, he tried to quiet his internal reprimands at losing his cool. As a leader, he shouldn’t have snapped at Bradbury and London no matter how frustrating they might be. He was certain Leap had been disappointed in him, but what was done was done. He only had to do better from this point forward.

As he neared the building, he slowed down, edging closer to the entrance. He plastered himself to a nearby wall and listened in. The only sound he could hear was the rifling of paper. Feeling that the Deviant was most likely distracted and probably hadn’t noticed his presence, Soarin peeked through the door.

Inside, the interior matched the exterior. Bright gaudy colours that had faded with time, aisles of wooden stands holding stacks of records.

In the centre aisle was an entity. A tall, hunched-over being enshrouded by dozens of differently coloured furs in the form of a massive coat and wide-brimmed hat. It huffed, a strange clacking sound mixed with a sharp release of air. It tossed the record it had been looking at across the room with a gnarled grey-skinned hand, decorated with an assortment of rings in various styles.

Soarin presumed that was the Level 2 For Want of Everything. A quick glance at his watch noted that Tears for Damned was present, but obscured either by the Deviant or by its own abilities, whatever they may be.

“Wow, what a freak.”

He whirled around to face Bradbury, London, and Hinton, the two prior far too close for comfort and the latter hanging back with an apologetic look on her face.

“What are you doing here?” Soarin hissed. “I told you to wait back there.”

“Bored,” London answered simply, as if that was a good enough reason. She drew out a knife handle first out of her sleeve, then flipped around to have the blade facing outward. “Let’s cut the blighter a new one.”

“And smash its face in,” Bradbury added, her eyes sparkling at the prospect of violence.

“No, we need to—” London and Bradbury charged into the store. “Wait!” Soarin called after them.

London slinked off behind the counter on one side of the store. Bradbury drew her axe from the folds of her trenchcoat and charged at the Deviant with a joyous cry.

For Want whipped their head sharply to face Bradbury, revealing a long sharp beak just under two beady white eyes. The rest of its body shortly followed, revealing a small gilded cage in its other hand, containing a small emanciated blue bird leaking black fluid from its eyes.

Bradbury swung her axe at the Deviant’s head, but For Want grabbed the blade end and pulled both it and Bradbury forward. Calls of “Mine! Mine! Mine!” emanated from within as the abomination yanked the axe out of Bradbury’s grip.

“Hey, give that back!” Bradbury exclaimed as she tried to wail into For Want with her fists.

The Deviant deftly dodged, cawing in mockery at Bradbury’s futile efforts.

“Take this, ya blighter!”

London leaped at the abomination’s back, knife aimed toward the creature’s head. Barely paying her any mind, For Want backhanded her with its arm and sent her flying across the store. She landed roughly into a display, cracking the wood.

“Dammit!” Soarin turned toward Hinton. “How good are you with that gun?”

“I won’t miss,” Hinton replied.

“Good. Provide cover fire for Bradbury. I’ll run in and see if I can stop its movement.”

Soarin charged into the fray, whips crackling at his side. Two gunshots fired in rapid succession. One went into the Deviant’s right eye, the second into hand holding Bradbury’s axe.

It screeched in pain, dropping the axe and stumbling back away from the gunshots. Bradbury grabbed the axe falling in mid-air with a cry of delight.

Closing the last of the distance between them, Soarin threw his whips in a loop over the Deviant’s head, then pulled them tightly around an approximation of its neck. Volts of electricity coursed through its body as it screamed louder.

“Take this, ya knob!”

A knife embedded itself in For Want’s back. The Deviant released a startled caw as it whirled to face London. She stood amongst the wreckage of the display, knives drawn and expression furious.

“London, stop provoking it!” Soarin yelled.

Ignoring his order, London threw another knife at the Deviant. The blade lodged itself within the depths of the abomination. For Want charged at London with a chorus of caws.

Soarin was dragged along with it as he held onto the whips entangled around the Deviant, wincing in pain as his torso scraped along the uneven, debris-riddled floors.

“Hey! Get back here!” Bradbury called out as she chased after them.

“Get ahead of the Deviant and protect London!” Soarin ordered. He was ignored yet again as Bradbury instead ineffectually slashed at air left behind by For Want with her axe.

Soarin growled in frustration. Bullets shot into the back of the Deviant’s head in quick succession. At least Hinton listened to him.

“Come at me ya git!” London cried, charging toward the Deviant. She thrust her knife forward, overshooting her shot and instead stabbing the smaller Deviant in the cage.

For Want froze in place. A moment passed, then the caged Deviant exploded into massive globs of black tar. It splattered For Want, Bradbury, Soarin, and London. A horrid hissing and acrid smoke filled the room as the tar burned both material and flesh.

Soarin bit back a scream as his whips went slack and dropped to the floor. London writhed as she took the brunt of the explosion.

An even louder scream drowned them both out as For Want’s coat flapped open into a multitude of wings, revealing a body made up of grafted-together magpies all clinging to a central metallic core made of shiny doodads.

“Bradbury, open up its core!” Soarin shouted.

Instead, Bradbury slashed futilely at the creature’s head. For Want was barely phased. Meanwhile, more and more tar leaked from the gilded cage. Soarin didn’t know what For Want was trying to do, but he knew they couldn’t let it continue.

“Bradbury—” Soarin stopped, then shouted, “Hinton, shoot it in the heart!”

Crack. Crack. Crack. Three shots fired out. The first dinged off the heart uselessly. The second caused a small hole to appear in the metallic core. The third found its mark.

A gurgling sound emanated from the Deviant’s beak as small trails of black tar spilled out of the corners. It dropped to the floor, beginning to dissolve away into nothing.

They’d won.

Leap stepped over Soarin’s body and held out one hand. The remnants of both Deviants swirled up into their palm, forming two perfect spheres. One was a small blue bird crying tears of black, and the other was an amalgamation of magpies all pressed up along the contours of the globe.

“Woo!” Bradbury cheered. She pumped up both arms, a wide smile on her face.

London glared, still visibly in huge amounts of pain from the burning tar.

“Allow us to deal with the unpleasantness.” Leap snapped their fingers and the tar dissipated, leaving behind slightly burnt clothing and red rashes from where the tar had touched skin. “There. All cleaned up.”

“Stupid exploding jerk,” London muttered.

“We were awesome!” Bradbury exclaimed.

“A-are you kidding me?!”

Soarin didn’t bother to correct her as he painfully stood back onto his feet, pushing through the pain that radiated from through his entire body. He turned to face Hinton, who stood nearby, fists clenched tightly at her sides. She looked furious, her face bright red.

“You were b-both pathetic!” Hinton shouted.

“Oh, knock it—” London started.

“Don’t even s-start!” Hinton stuttered, sheer anger keeping London quiet. “What were you thinking c-charging into there! You were both s-s-stupid! You should have listened to G-Golding!”

London and Bradbury looked away, the prior angrily sulking, the latter embarrassed.

“... It was my fault, Hinton,” Soarin said.

“W-what?! They were—”

“Acting out because I’m a bad leader,” Soarin interrupted. “If I’d shown that I could lead… they would have trusted me enough to follow my orders.”

The assembled group looked at him with a range of expressions that Soarin couldn’t begin to process through the cloud of pain that fogged his mind.

“... If you say so,” Hinton said, her voice returning to its normal dry tone. “As much as I don’t agree, if that’s your stance, so be it.”

“It is,” Soarin said. “Nice shot.”

Hinton nodded, gripping one arm with the other.

“Well then.” Leap clapped their hands together, both spheres disappearing. “Despite complications, we believe that this can be considered an overall success. We now ask that all passengers return to the train so that we continue our journey… and heal your extensive injuries.”

There was a collective grunt of agreement before they began to hobble off toward the train. They were silent as they all mulled over their own thoughts.

Onboarding Passengers IV

“So what are these new guys like?” London asked. She leaned against one of the cabin walls, staring out the window as the tunnel walls zipped past, a sour look on her face.

“You will find out soon,” Leap replied. They turned the page of their book. The title read Catcher in the Rye. Another story Soarin didn’t recognize. “It is important to be patient.”

“But what if they’re like those other bozos?” London said, her tone making the question sound more like a demand. “I don’t wanna deal with another loser like that big lady creep or that quiet weirdo with the gun.”

Soarin was surprised to not have been included in the list.

“Then that will fall to our appointed Captain Golding to handle,” Leap answered.

London glared at Soarin, seeming to demand that he fix this, as if he had any control over who boarded the train. His foot began to tap out an erratic rhythm on the floor as his anxiety spiked at their expectations.

“... I’ll do my best,” Soarin answered. He hoped neither of them could hear the nervousness in his tone.

She huffed. Whether satisfied or annoyed, Soarin couldn’t tell, and so he returned to staring out the window.

She’d become abnormally quiet since the other day, after their battle with For Want of Everything, and Soarin wasn’t sure how to feel about it. On the one hand, she wasn’t threatening him with a knife every other minute. On the other, it might mean she had become quieter in her planning.

Soarin was certain he was doomed either way.

The whistle shrieked and the train slowed down. A new passenger would be boarding soon. Another person for Soarin to screw up with.

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

He squashed down those thoughts as best he could. He needed to think more positively if he was to succeed in his new position. Rising to his feet, he waited next to the door. It slid open.

This time, the new passenger was a man. At one point, he might have been described as gorgeous. Snow white skin, pale white-blonde hair, and a white suit whose only splash of colour was a bright blue rose in the lapel. In his current state, he was singed and covered in ash, the tips of his skin and hair clearly subjected to an excess of heat if not outright burnt. He was weary, the kind of weary caused by being destroyed not physically, but emotionally. Exhaustion tugged at his face and dulled his golden eyes, giving the appearance of a man decades older than he was.

“Welcome to the Midnight Rail.” Soarin held out a hand. “I am Captain Golding.”

“... A pleasure,” the stranger dryly remarked. He shook the proffered hand with a look of disdain. “I have been told to introduce myself as Salinger.”

“As per One Big Leap’s orders,” Soarin replied.

“Hm, interesting,” Salinger said, his tone suggesting boredom instead. “And One Big Leap is… ?”

“Here,” Leap said, placing their book closed on their lap.

Salinger was startled, presumably by their appearance, before they quickly collected themselves.

“Thank you for the opportunity to board.” Salinger bowed at the hip with the practiced grace of nobility.

“A phrase we have no doubt you will learn to regret,” Leap said.

Salinger stood back up. A frown marred his face. “... I will keep that in mind.”

“This guy looks like a total wanker.”

Soarin winced. Salinger furrowed their brow and turned to regard London who glared back at him.

In one brief moment, an expression of unimaginable fury and grief crossed Salinger’s face, then was promptly buried under cold indifference. Soarin would have thought he imagined it, if not for London’s startled expression.

“I see that one of the passengers is a… child,” Salinger said. Soarin could hear the careful control in his voice.

“And what if I am, ya knob?” London retorted. “You another one of those dingbats that think I don’t belong?”

“No, hardly.” Salinger laughed. It was a sharp, dry sound with no humour in it, just desperation. “I just think there’s something inherently disgusting that we live in a world where you could qualify to be here in the first place.”

To Soarin’s surprise, London had no response. Silence filled the room, threatening to burst the cabin into pieces.

“... Well, um,” Soarin started, desperate to break the awkward silence. “It’s been nice to meet you.”

“Quite,” Salinger said. “Where is my room? I would hope we do not share a sleeping quarters.”

“Down the hall.” Soarin gestured toward the corridor leading further into the train. “I’m not sure what your door would have as a sigil.”

“A carousel horse,” Leap said.

Salinger tensed, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to keep his outwardly calm composure.

“Yes, thank you. I will be retiring there to rest for a moment,” Salinger said. “Let me know if I am needed.”

Then Salinger left.

The train rumbled down the track, the bumpiness of the ride comforting to Soarin as his anxiety-ridden heart thumped to the rhythm.

“How many new passengers are boarding?” he asked.

“Two more,” Leap replied. “As you have asked us thrice prior.”

“Right, yeah,” Soarin said.

“Wow, that’s a lot of new faces.”

Soarin eyed Bradbury wearily. London had left some time ago, and Bradbury had filled in the space left behind with a torrent of obnoxious questions and unwanted peppiness. As much as he didn’t get along with either of them, Bradbury was a particular subset of annoying that grated on Soarin’s nerves.

“Yes, and we’ll need to all be able to work together,” Soarin remarked.

“That’ll be easy for me!” Bradbury exclaimed. She pumped her fists. “I work great with others!”

He thought back on Bradbury charging into the fray against For Want of Everything and how he had gotten drenched in tar while she had blissfully continued to uselessly attack the Deviant.

“... Of course,” Soarin said flatly.

Bradbury nodded in response, arms crossed in front of her with a look of pride on her face.

The train whistle cried out as the locomotive slowed to a stop. The next passenger boarded.

This time, a mountain of a man appeared, rivalling Bradbury in size. He was red-skinned with straw blonde hair and a physique of sheer mass — the rough kind, earned through hard labour rather than athleticism. In contrast to the man’s ruggedness, he was dressed in the tattered remains of an evening ball gown. Make-up was smeared across his face, with one particular line of lipstick scaling the full breadth of his face. His hair was an equally tangled mass of braids.

His eyes were wild, like a panicked animal. Soarin was wary, as those in the throes of fear tended to be on the defensive and dangerous. He stood up carefully, approaching with measured caution.

“Hello, my name is—”

“Hey, nice to meetcha ya!” Bradbury interrupted. She approached the man with an eager expression, with all the cheer and aplomb of a wrecking ball. “What’s your name? Where are you from? You know, you look like you need a hug. Want one? Of course you do!”

Bradbury approached the stranger with their arms as wide as their smile. The new passenger tensed, seemingly growing in size portionally to their eyes.

“Bradbury, wait—”

“Don’t worry about it, Cap!” Bradbury interrupted. “Just come here big guy, for your—”

In one swift motion, the man grabbed Bradbury by the throat and slammed her against the wall. Bradbury struggled against the man’s grip, clawing at the hand that held her fast.

The man’s eyes were wild, his breathing ragged. He was going to kill Bradbury. Soarin needed to act.

However, before he could, the loud snap of a book spine being closed echoed through the room.

“Let her go Perault,” Leap commanded.

The room quaked from their words as it was flooded with eye-bleeding colours and skewed against the normalcy of reality. It was more than a command, but instead a sentence that went contrary to the fabric of the universe, untethering the cabin from the world proper.

Perault dropped Bradbury, shaking from the full brunt of Leap’s command. The room returned to normal as Bradbury gasped for breath, clutching her throat protectively.

“Your room is down the hall with the sigil of a slipper,” Leap said. They gestured toward the corridor. “We suggest you take some time for yourself.”

“... I’m sorry,” Perault whispered, his voice surprisingly soft.

He raced off in the indicated direction.

“I, uh, asked for that, huh?” Bradbury remarked.

“Yes, you did,” Soarin answered bluntly.

“W-well, it was really just a one-off. I’m—”

“We do not believe it is within our right to intervene in our passengers’ affairs, as that is the purpose of Golding’s position. However…” Leap looked pointedly at Bradbury. “You would do well to learn from this properly and show restraint in the future, lest you commit a mistake that cannot be undone.”

Bradbury nodded tightly, her expression downcast.

“Good.” Leap opened up their book, reutrning to their reading. “Carry on.”

The cart was once more quiet. Bradbury had left shortly after the earlier fiasco, and Hinton had slipped in thereafter. She had settled in a corner of the cabin and gotten lost in her thoughts as she clutched at her skirt.

Normally, the quiet would be unbearable, but there was something comforting in Leap’s and Hinton’s presence. The prior had hired him on for his potential, while the latter had professed to some form of dedication to his leadership. It reminded him of his days back in the Cloudsdale Haven during his time with the Bolts, when they were all just enjoying the afterglow of a long hard day. A positive experience amidst all the trauma.

But, as his anxious mind was prone to do, a worrying question came to mind.

“Will we be doing another mission after the next passenger?” Soarin asked.

“Yes, a Level 2 called the Queen Wants Your Head,” Leap replied, paging through a new novel titled Den lille havfrue. “It is a rather powerful Deviant, but I believe in yours and, by extension, the other passengers’ capabilities.”

“Will he be going with all of this, or just a select few?” Hinton inquired.

“Due to Golding’s station, he must be present. However, to grant a reprieve from the ordeals of the last mission, you, Bradbury, and London may stay behind. Salinger, Perault, and Andersen will go with Golding to handle the Deviant.”

Soarin felt cold dread grip him at the thought. He couldn’t speak for Andersen, but Salinger and Perault had already both proven difficult in different ways. He wasn’t sure how he would manage either of them, let alone the unknown third.

“I would request to accompany them on the next mission,” Hinton declared. She stood up, her posture rigid and gaze determined.

Soarin turned to her startled.

“That is not up to us, but rather your Captain,” Leap remarked.

She turned toward him.

“... Yes, I would like you to accompany us on our next mission,” Soarin said. At least one guaranteed constant in a group of unknowns.

She nodded and sat back down.

A few seconds thereafter, the whistle announced the arrival of the next passenger.

Soarin immediately wanted nothing to do with him.

Another man this time. He had a placid smile and dull blue eyes framed by a rat’s nest of short blue hair. He was lean and muscular, marred by crisscrossed red welts and scars on his bare chest that shone brightly under the intense overhead lighting. The missing article of clothing that was supposed to be on him was held tightly in one hand, the veins in his forearm threatening to burst with the deathgrip he had on it. Though difficult to make out from the stains and crumpled insignia, Soarin would recognize the colours of the Order of the Sun from anywhere.

None of this was what caused Soarin to want to never engage with him.

All people demanded space. Even the quietest and most meek sought out a small corner for themselves to simply exist in the world. This man wanted nothing. He carried himself as if he might disappear at any moment and was content to allow it to happen. It wasn’t from a desire to die, but rather a simple disinterest in anything that might be or will be in the world.

It was a slap in the face to Soarin, who struggled everyday to just retain the meager allotment he had garnered for himself.

By Hinton’s expression, he presumed she felt much the same.

“Andersen,” the man introduced himself as. His voice was oddly melodic and lazy. Like he could burst into song, but he couldn’t be bothered to muster the energy to do so. He held out a hand, “Golding?”

Soarin, against his every instinct to spurn the offer, shook it back. “Yes. Welcome to the Midnight Rail.”

He smiled. It was nice, if vapid. “Is there a place I can rest for a moment?”

“Down the hall.” Soarin gestured toward the back of the train. “I’m not sure which door.”

“It is—” Leap began.

“A pair of feet… right?” Andersen interrupted.

“... Yes,” Leap relented. They stared intently at Andersen, their novel laid on their lap. “Are you familiar with your motif?”

“I know what you are going for,” Andersen replied. “Though, I fail to understand how I have any hope of achieving what you seem to believe I am able to.”

“... You can never know what the future may hold,” Leap said. “Please return after thirty minutes. You will be joining Golding, Hinton, Salinger, and Perault on a Deviant hunting mission.”

“As per your command,” he replied, then began to walk to his room.

As he did, Soarin felt himself tense as he took in Andersen’s back. A mass of lines carved into his flesh to look like the face of a god-like entity in the sun. The blood congealed and stuck, sliding down only a fraction of the distance it should.

Andersen stopped just before the corridor. “... It is penance,” he declared. “A burden I will and have borne.”

Then he continued his walk down the aisle.

Onboarding Passengers V

Despite what most Haven dwellers would have you believe, there were several layers to the Rust. Closest to the Haven was the Brim, a decent living area for what passed as a “middle class”. Somewhere you could attain a decent quality of living, but that would be all you would be doing: living. Hoping for the chance to ascend into a Haven and start really living your life.

The next layer was the Fall. The starting position of those that lose their spot in a Haven. Those residents find their life in constant flux, their every action measured in progress toward or away from the Brim.

After the Fall came the Dream. That was where Soarin had lived. A destitute place infested with crime and poverty. A lawless land ruled by gangs. Though beaten and dragged through the mud, those that lived in the Dream always looked past the smog and toward the Haven that floated just out of sight.

Finally, there was the End, where hope went to die. Nothing happened there, no one ever moved on from it. Residents of that layer would never ascend to the Haven, so they gave up, indulging in basic pleasures as they struggled to survive in a place with no structure or protection. It was one step away from becoming part of the Burn Out, slowly encroaching upon the Dream.

The End was where Soarin and his group found themselves in. Just outside the Crystal Haven, and considered one of the worst due to the shattered crystal amalgamations that constantly shifted and grew without the proper care of one of the Empire’s tuning engineers.

The building before them was stuck between two large conglomerates of crystal that had overgrown from nearby burnt-out stores. If Soarin was to hazard a guess as to the prior purpose of the place, he would have had to guess a courthouse. Tall brutalist architecture, surrounded by the shriveled remains of rose bushes with a decrepit statue of scales weighed down drastically on one side.

Despite how loud and obnoxious they could be, Soarin’s current company made him yearn for London and Bradbury. They at least were upfront with their feelings.

Hinton and Leap were fine. The prior stayed close by, alert for danger, pistol at the ready. The latter trailed behind, idly paging through another unknown novel. Normally, he would be concerned by their lack of awareness, but Soarin was hard-pressed to think of an entity that could pose a threat to his employer after their display earlier with Perault.

Speaking of, Perault had said nary a word since he’d joined the group. He carried a sickle in one hand and was dressed in well-worn overalls that a farmer might find comfortable. His head hung low with his hair roughly chopped off into a short messy fringe that hid his eyes.

Salinger had clearly gotten over his prior sulk and had opted to criticize Soarin on every facet of his life, remarking on even the smallest detail. He had changed to something more casual, yet still blindingly white, and wielded a massive hammer of all things, shaped like a judge’s gavel. Soarin had noticed that his fingertips were blackened, either by damage or dye, Soarin couldn’t tell.

The final member of their company and the most unwanted was Andersen. He hung nearby, within sight, but not part of them. He had no weapon, but the way he walked suggested that he didn’t need one. He had chosen to wear loose, washed-out clothing that served to make feel like a ghost. It only served to amplify Soarin’s discomfort.

They were less than ideal, but Soarin was the leader. He would make it work as that was what he had been tasked to do.

“We have arrived,” Leap announced. They did so without looking away from their book. “Like before, we shall wait here while you handle the Deviant inside.”

He nodded in the affirmative and regarded his team. They waited expectantly.

“Alright. Based on the structure of the building, this place is most likely a courthouse,” Soarin began. He let himself fall into his old military mindset, hoping that it would help him sound more confident. “Due to the surrounding difficult landscape surrounding the area, we’ll most likely enter through the front—”

A snort.

“...What is it?” Soarin asked.

“Through the front?” Salinger scoffed. “What an idiotic plan. And you’re supposed to be the leader?”

“Salinger—!” Hinton started.

Soarin put up a hand to stop her. “What would you suggest instead?”

“Searching for a back route and then taking the deviant by surprise from behind, obviously,” Salinger threw his hands in exasperation. “How would going through the front ever be a good idea?”

“... How do you fight?” Soarin asked.

“Pardon?”

“How do you use your weapon?”

“I swing it.” Salinger narrowed his eyes. “Do I really need to explain—”

“Hinton uses a pistol and I use whips,” Soarin interrupted. “Based on the structure, any back room to a courthouse would be narrow and cramped between the corridors and possible holding cells. It's gonna be a tight squeeze for five people.”

“And?”

“How do you feel about getting ambushed inside one of those corridors, then getting shot in the back of the head or electrocuted because we don’t have adequate room to fight?”

“... Not ideal. But—”

“We also have no idea if the Queen is alone, just that she’s our target. There could be something lurking nearby that we aren’t aware of. Plus, look at those crystal growths.” Soarin gestured toward the massive spires that wedged the courthouse. “We have no idea how much area they cover or if it's even possible for us to go around without a huge detour.”

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try!” Salinger retorted. “The benefit of a surprise back attack could very well work in our favour!”

“Except for one, we don’t know what this Deviant does, and, frankly, I want some distance between us and whatever it is. For another, it has a name like Queen. Pretty sure it's gonna be sitting in the judge’s seat when we go in.”

“Then all the better to take the back route!”

“And then we end up coming out of a narrow passageway single file right next to the Deviant in question.” Soarin crossed his arms. “Do I need to explain why that is a terrible idea?”

Salinger looked ready to argue. Instead he looked away with a huff, scowl on his face.

“Does anyone else have any concerns about this plan?” A unanimous shake of heads. “Then we’ll be entering through the front with our main hitters Andersen and Salinger. Don’t charge in recklessly, and stay close. We’ll want to get a feel for the Deviant before we engage if possible.”

He could feel the pressure crushing him from the inside out. He needed to breathe, to take a moment to center himself, but he couldn’t afford the momentary weakness. Not when Salinger was questioning his command.

“Plan’s sound, Captain,” Hinton said.

“Sounds good to me,” Andersen added.

Perault nodded his head.

Salinger continued to sulk.

“Then let’s move in,” Soarin said.

The entry to the courthouse went smoothly. They entered through the massive double doors, crossed the corridor and reached the main entrance to the courtroom without trouble. Their first snag happened at the courtroom proper.

Laying on the floor, caught between the doors was the decapitated corpse of a mostly decayed body. Its head had rolled a ways away from the body, staring up at the group with hollow eyes.

“Gristly,” Salinger remarked.

Perault knelt down and examined the body.

“... This guy’s from the Order of the Sun,” Peurault said.

Soarin and Hinton turned to Andersen, who looked back at them with his consistently easygoing grin.

“It is bold of you to presume I would know anything about this,” Andersen replied.

“I didn’t presume that at all,” Soarin said. “I just wondered if you would know why a member of an Order that infamously doesn’t do any of their own Deviant subjugation is halfway across the continent.”

“And if they would have come alone,” Hinton added.

“Well, I can at least tell you that they would have come along with at least two or three others. Rarely do members of the Order leave the Sanctuary unaccompanied.” He regarded the corpse with cold indifference, uncaring toward the fate of someone that he had once been able to call a comrade. “As for why they would be here, I could not begin to hazard a guess as any groups involved with Deviants were not ones I was involved with. Unless they were exiles, but there would be other indicators if that was the case.”

“Wait, Andersen is a member of the Order of the Sun?” Salinger looked at Andersen in disgust. “Why would you allow one of those filthy cultists onto the Rail?”

“I do not decide who boards onto the Rail. That is Leap’s decision,” Soarin said.

“Also, an ex-member. I have been excommunicated for various reasons,” Andersen replied.

“Those reasons being…?”

“Sacrilege.” Andersen smirked. “Quite a lot of it actually.”

“For—?!”

“We should continue on,” Andersen interjected. “The presence of the Order and my past are irrelevant to our current mission.”

“... He’s right,” Soarin said. “We need to carry on.”

“Alongside one of those—?!” Salinger started.

“Ain’t none of us here got some nice happy past,” Perault said. “If we did, we wouldn’t be here. Don’t go throwing hay bales into a rickety loft.”

Salinger looked ready to argue his point, but instead held his tongue.

“If we’re ready, let’s move in,” Soarin said.

As one, they moved through the doors and into the courtroom proper. The dead Order’s companions were strewn about the pews on either side of the room. As predicted by Soarin, the Deviant was inside.

Queen Wants Your Head sat upon a decayed throne of justice. The back was nearly tall enough to reach the ceiling. Most of the abomination’s humanoid-like body was covered by a massive red and black ball gown. The kind that would be found amongst the out-of-touch elite. Two jagged pieces of black metal, roughly in the shape of axes, were laid against the banister separating the throne from the rest of the court, well within the Deviant’s reach.

In exception to the Deviant’s human-like appearance, its head was a massive pulsating heart grossly out of proportion to the rest of its body. It was bloated like a balloon, its ventricles overflowing with blood that dripped onto the stained floors below. It was attached to the rest of its body by a jagged lump of flesh that was in the approximation of a neck.

The Deviant regarded them coolly from its throne, seemingly content to wait.

“Now what?” Salinger asked. “We found the abomination, do we charge in and hope for the best?”

“... No,” Soarin said.

He scanned the room. Both sides were taken up by balconies and pews, but the tops were all cleaved off, presumably by the abomination’s axes.

“But we don’t really have any avenues of surprise,” Soarin continued.

“Then we’ll take it on directly? Feel it out as we go?” Andersen asked.

Soarin nodded reluctantly.

“May I volunteer as the point of attack?”

“Yes, excellent. Send the cultist first.” Salinger sneered. “I fully approve of this plan.”

“... Cold,” Perault said.

“... I’m not sure about that,” Soarin said. “We don’t really know what it does yet.”

“But the axes suggest it prefers getting into the thick of things,” Andersen said. “I can start things off, Hinton can provide cover, and the rest of you can jump in when you see an opening. Worse comes to worse, Leap revives us.”

“Let the man die if he so chooses, Golding,” Salinger said.

Perault levied a glare at him.

“... Can you provide cover, Hinton?” Soarin asked.

“Yes,” Hinton replied.

“Fine.” Soarin wasn’t fond of the plan, but didn’t see an alternative. “On your mark, Andersen.”

Andersen strode confidently toward the center of the room. Queen Wants Your Head stood up, grabbing its axes. It raised one ax to point at Andersen.

“Give me your HEAD!” It screeched.

A red band appeared around Andersen’s neck, tightening around his throat. He winced. A laminated paper label rolled out from the collar, displaying three small lines in the center.

Queen leaped forward, bringing one of her axes down on Andersen’s head. He caught the blade with his hands, holding both the Deviant and axe up in an impressive display of strength, an easygoing smile on his face.

“How aggressive,” Andersen remarked.

The abomination screeched incoherently. It swung its second ax sideways at Andersen’s neck. Perault stepped in and caught the blade on the edge of his sickle. He pushed the ax away, then swung at its neck. Queen quickly swung the blunt end of its ax at Perault, throwing him against the jury box.

Following up quickly, Salinger swung his hammer at the Queen’s head. There was a sickening crunch as the Queen was knocked back, a massive dent in the front of its head. Salinger chased after it, with the Queen backing up toward their throne.

It readied to slice into Salinger, but was stopped by two shots through the metal of the weapons.

The Deviant screamed as it continued to get away from Salinger. It raised a hand and made a slicing motion along its neck.

“Give it!” It screamed.

In one quick motion, the band tightened around Andersen’s neck and decapitated him.

“Shit,” Soarin muttered, then louder, “Keep on the pressure!”

“Give me your HEA—”

Another shot fired. The Deviant’s head was punctured by the bullet. Despite the interruption, another band appeared around Hinton’s neck.

Soarin rushed in, throwing his whips in a loop around one of the Deviant’s axes, pulling it out of its grasp and throwing it across the room. While partially disramed, Salinger smashed it again in the face, breaking more of its head and the podium behind it.

“We need to cut the neck!” Salinger cried.

“Give—” Queen started, making the slicing motion with her hand.

Hinton fired another shot. A hole appeared in Queen’s head, leaking blood onto the floor and beginning to deflate. A quick look back showed that despite the interruption, the band still decapitated her.

“Perault!” Soarin shouted. Perault looked to him as he got out from the wreckage of the pews. “When I say go, cut through her neck!”

A nod.

“Hold her down, Salinger!” Soarin said.

“How am I— Fine!” Salinger growled.

Salinger grabbed both ends of his hammer and pressed it against the upper body of the Deviant, pinning its arms up near its head. The abomination struggled against his hold, screeching all the while.

“Give me your HEAD!” It screeched.

Soarin could feel the band appear around his neck, digging into his skin and threatening to cut off his breathing.

Knowing he was running out of time and pushing through the panic gripping his mind, Soarin lassoed the Queen’s head and leaped onto the podium. He tightened the loop then pulled up, leaving the Deviant’s neck exposed.

“Go!” Soarin shouted.

Perault charged forward, his sickle ready.

“Give it!” Queen screeched, managing to free one arm enough to make the necessary motion.

Suddenly, Soarin found his vision flipped upside down, obscured by a fountain of blood. As his vision faded to black, he thought himself lucky that it had been so quick.

Onboarding Passengers VI

Soarin awoke with a start, drawing in ragged, gasping breaths. He clutched at his neck, feeling the smooth, thankfully-intact flesh. He was back in his room on the Midnight Rail. Though certainly grateful that Leap’s words had proven to be true, the act of dying was not something Soarin wanted to get used to, as he could safely conclude that it was awful.

He got off of the bed and did another check over himself, assuring his anxious mind that his body was as expected. Everything appeared fine, though he was still dressed in his clothes from the prior encounter, and opted to replace them with a fresh, blood-free set.

His worries assuaged and appearance made presentable, he made his way toward the main car.

Along the way, he met Salinger. He was stomping up the corridor, a scowl affixed to his face. He was in a bad mood, and Soarin hoped he would ignore him. Unfortunately, one look at Soarin and his scowl intensified.

“Oh good! you’re awake.” Salinger moved in close to Soarin. Soarin was annoyed to notice that Salinger was taller than them. “As Captain, would you be so kind as to put that wretch in her place?”

“...Bradbury?” Soarin asked.

“No, Wilde,” Salinger growled. “She is insufferable!”

Soarin wanted to note that similar personalities tended to clash, but instead opted to ask about the unfamiliar name.

“Who’s Wilde?”

“The new passenger, and, as noted previously, awful!” Salinger threw up his hand in exasperation. “As you are the leader of this unruly circus, it’s your responsibility to get her under control.”

Before Soarin could note that it really wasn’t and, even if it was, he didn’t really have that kind of authority over the other passengers, Salinger stomped off, muttering darkly about vapid women.

Chalking up Salinger’s grievances to his own shortcomings, Soarin decided that he would form his own opinions after meeting this Wilde. A quick jaunt brought him to the front of the train.

“Oh? Who might this one be?” A feminine voice said. “Hopefully more entertaining than the last.”

The voice belonged to a woman sitting cross-legged on one of the train seats. Presumably the alleged Wilde. Soarin found it near-impossible to look away from her; her mere existence demanded attention. Mischievous blue eyes, short wavy, white-streaked, pink hair, and an athletic figure born of aestethetic over practicality.

She wore clothing that made Soarin question the point of wearing it as it did nothing to hide her figure or the outline of her underwear underneath. She had flawless pastel yellow skin that told Soarin she was from a Haven. Nothing about her appearance suggested that she had ever felt the hardship of the Burn Out, though Soarin was not naive enough to think that she had never felt any at all.

“Golding,” Soarin greeted. He held out a hand to shake. Standard. “Captain of the Midnight Rail.”

“A military type then? Or perhaps stuck up, though clearly not as much as Salinger. He might be hot as Tartarus, but he’s utter rubbish.” She waved a hand dismissively. “No need to shake hands. Too formal for my taste.”

Soarin immediately liked her.

He let his hand drop. “Well, hopefully you’ll like the others more.”

“Those being?”

“London, Bradbury, Hinton, Perault, and Andersen,” Soarin recited.

“And a one word summary?” She held up a single finger. “Honest opinions only.”

“... Feral, obnoxious, dependable, strong, and a ghost.”

“How utterly unappealing. However, I can’t say that I’m not intrigued.” She stood up, the action seeming both provocative and graceful. “If you will excuse me, I would like to acquaint myself with where I will be staying on this train. Leap?”

“Down the hall, and you will be looking for a door with a portrait on it,” Leap answered, making their presence in the car known as they flipped another page of their book.

Wilde regarded Leap with an expression Soarin could best describe as barely contained rage behind a forced smile.

“That’s incredibly messed up of you,” Wilde said.

“We have no say on the machinations of the train. It represents the rooms as per the individual.” A pause. “Though admittedly, some of the chosen theming may be affected by the codenames we have given the passengers.”

“You and I—” She wagged a finger back and forth between herself and Leap “—are not going to get along.”

“Then rejoice, as the only ones you must cooperate with are Captain Golding and the other passengers,” Leap replied.

“We’ll see about these other passengers, though if any of them are like Salinger, I have doubts as to how well this will go.” Wilde raked her gaze across Golding. “That being said, this one seems fine.”

“...Thank you,” Soarin replied.

“Don’t thank me yet. I said you were fine, not great.” She smirked. “Treat me well, and I’ll elevate my opinion accordingly. Totes later, friendos.”

She waved her hand and sauntered off down the hall, head held high and a swing in her hips. Though he couldn’t be sure, Soarin felt that he had made a good impression with her.

“How do you fare?” Leap asked.

“I died,” Soarin replied, returning his focus to Leap.

“You did,” Leap agreed. “How was it?”

“Painful… and worrying.”

“We can predict what you may be worried about, and we are happy to reassure you that there is no cost for revival, unlike other more… barbaric services.” The lights of the traincar flickered momentarily at Leap’s declaration. “There are no hidden clauses or ‘gotchas’ underneath our generosity.”

“And this applies to the others as well?”

“Others being Hinton and Andersen, or just Hinton?”

“...Just Hinton.”

“Your honesty is refreshing, if rather unfortunate.” They closed their book, placing it gently in their lap. “Yes. It applies to her as well. And Andersen even, if you don’t care nearly as much. We would like to remind you, Captain, that should not play favourites.”

“...Many of the passengers are difficult.”

“Yet you will need to adapt. Each passenger is necessary for our journey. They are not disciplined recruits, but individuals that deserve a bit of kindness and understanding in order to thrive.” Soarin could feel Leap’s gaze bore into him. “Much like you had yearned for during your time in the Burn Out.”

Soarin looked askance, shame bubbling up inside him. As much as he wanted to argue the point, he knew he was in the wrong.

“... I will do better going forward,” Soarin said.

“And that is all we ask of you. Feel free to return to your room to think. We will call for you when the next passenger arrives,” Leap replied.

Their conversation over, Leap picked up their book and continued to read.

Soarin walked into the main car. Leap sat in their usual spot, reading a novel. He tried to read the title, but all he got was a ‘nkens’ between their fingers. More surprisingly was the presence of Perault, who sat in a corner. He kept glancing at Leap out of the corner of his eye like he wanted to ask a question.

“Excellent timing, Golding. We see that a notification was unneeded. We have just arrived at the station,” Leap said.

Soarin nodded and stepped forward, ready to greet the next passenger to board.

Another woman appeared. She was on the shorter side, with alabaster skin and short, coiffed purple hair that cascaded in waves down her face. She was dressed impeccably in a skirt, matching blouse, and knee-high boots. She had a practiced air of sophistication to her that felt glamorous to perceive.

This image was hampered by being dyed nearly completely red from head to toe by mostly dried blood. It was almost comical paired with the dazzling smile she had on her face. If Soarin had not come to presume that all of the passengers were wholly unhinged, he would have been more offput by her startling entrance. As is, it was one behind Perault.

“Hello, darlings. Pleasure to meet you all.” The passenger tossed their hair back with a hand, splattering the wall behind them with red. “My name is Shelley, and I look forward to working with all of you.”

She stuck out a hand. Soarin shook it back.

“My name is Golding,” Soarin greeted. “Welcome to the Rail.”

“Why thank you, I’m sure I will fit in—”

“Rarity?”

They both turned to Perault who stared at Shelley with wide eyes.

“...Whomever could you be referring to by that name?” Shelley said. “I assure you that is not my name, and, even if it was, I believe we are meant to go by our designated codenames not—” she clicked her tongue to emphasis the word “—our real names.”

Perault looked flustered. “R-right, sorry. You just… look like someone ah know from a long time ago.”

“Well, admittedly, I can’t say you don’t look completely unfamiliar to me.” Shelley stroked her chin, eyes narrowed in thought. “You do look like… no, I must be mistaken.” She waved a hand. “Regardless, I imagine we are not supposed to be playing guessing games with our real identities. Is there a place I can clean up? The blood is starting to congeal and it’s ruining my hair and makeup.”

“Down the hall, and through the door with a symbol of a severed hand,” Leap said.

“Ah, yes, thank you.” Shelley gave a small curtsey, causing the floor to be stained red by the excess that dripped off the frills of her skirt. “It was a pleasure, however, I would like to un-dye myself before we continue. Adieu.”

With that, she left for her room.

“...Perault. Please make sure to use codenames going forward regardless of your familiarity with the passenger in question,” Soarin said.

“I didn’t—!” Perault stopped himself and hung his head. “Y-you’re right. Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Soarin nodded and sat down to wait for the final passenger of the day.

“If she is willing, could I request the assistance of Hinton for the next mission?” Soarin asked.

“So long as she agrees, we see no reason not to,” Leap replied. “Having a stalwart companion when working with new passengers isn’t a problem so long as you make sure to not ignore all the others in favour of one.”

“I have reflected and realize the error in my past judgement. It was a mistake to rely on only one companion when I need to work with upwards of eleven.”

“Mistakes are part of the process, Golding. Try not to be too hard on yourself. We only sought to bring to light your shortcoming so that you may correct it, not to apologize for it every ten minutes.”

“...Understood.”

As was expected, the train whistle cried out and the train slowed to a stop. The last passenger of the day boarded.

A third woman came on, this time dressed in a white jumpsuit with pink stripes along the sides and front in a checkerboard pattern. She had a helmet tucked under one arm as she surveyed the main car with violet eyes. There was a sheen to her pink skin and long, vibrant multicolored hair that gave her place of origin as the Crystal Haven. Strapped to her other arm was a thick and wide curved piece of metal banded with leather straps. It and her jumpsuit were splattered with blood. Some was also streaked through her hair, presumably from when she would have run a hand through it.

Soarin found her unsettling, but in a different way from the comical Shelley and ghost-like Andersen. She felt like a predator, and every fiber of his being told him that a single misstep would lead to his demise. He couldn’t place one specific aspect of her that told him this, just the overall appearance.

Going against his instincts again, he held out a hand in greeting.

“My name is Golding. Welcome to the Rail,” he said.

All at once, the prior predatory vibe disappeared and was replaced by a cheerful expression.

“Thank you so much for the welcome!” The passenger shook his hand. “I’m Grahame.”

“It is a pleasure to have you aboard.” He gestured toward Leap. “Over there is One Big Leap.”

Grahame shot a warm smile their way. “Hello! Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity.”

“You are very welcome,” Leap replied. “Should you wish to clean up before the next mission, please go down the hall and to the door with a car emblazoned upon it.”

“Huh. Appropriate,” Grahame remarked. “Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll do just that. Talk to you later!”

She waved then quickly ran off. Silence filled the room as Soarin processed their newest addition.

“...There are two more passengers left, correct?” Soarin asked.

“Yes,” Leap replied.

“...How stable would you describe them?”

“The least amongst all of the passengers.”

Soarin felt himself fill with more regret.

Onboarding Passengers VII

On the outer reaches of Equestria were the Badlands, a massive expanse of lifeless wasteland. At the border between these places was the ruins of an old Haven and its Burn Out. No one knows what it was once named nor how it had been destroyed, but it was regarded as the inciting incident that led to the creation of some of the nastiest Deviants still present to this day, like Bride at the Funeral and The Banner That Never Fell.

There were several oddities to the unknown Haven. For one, the Burn Out had easy access to the Haven itself, which had never been the case with any other Haven. Additionally, there were a number of strange buildings made of six conjoined spires that dotted the landscape around the central Haven, their purpose unknown.

They found themselves before one such building, guided by Leap. Soarin, his main companion Hinton, and the three new passengers: Wilde, Shelley, and Grahame.

Wilde had changed their outfit for something more practical: cotton pants and a leather vest over a blouse with two rapiers at her side. Shelley had opted for similar, but with a matching skirt, a single short sword and a bandolier of needles. Grahame was the only one still dressed in their prior outfit, with the strange curved metal plate still in hand, though minus all of the blood.

The conversation had been pleasant enough, a departure from his prior two missions, which Soarin was extremely grateful for.

“How tacky,” Wilde remarked, surveying the spires with a look of disdain. “Spires are so Princess Era, and frankly come off as trying too hard. Who even lived in one of these abominable places?”

“An old order from the pre-modern Haven days that operated primarily out of what was once known as the Appleloosa Haven,” Leap answered. “They believed in the ‘Old Virtues’ and provided basic necessities to the populace in the wake of the Burn Out.”

“Why am I not surprised you know that?” Wilde huffed. “They were some sort of cult, then?”

“Or a type of charity?” Grahame provided.

“A bit of both,” Leap said. “They were similar to the Order of the Sun in certain aspects, but significantly less zealous.”

“Ugh, similar to them?” Shelley made a fake gagging sound. “Then they must have been utterly detestable, their ‘charity’ some form of brainwashing or bribery to pad their numbers.”

Soarin glanced toward Leap and noticed that they had clenched their fists. He presumed out of anger, but there was no way to be able to tell due to all of their expressions simply being ‘big moon head’.

“...This is the second time someone has expressed measurable dislike for the Order, but I only recall that they are a religion based around the worship of some Sun God,” Hinton said. “Is there something else they have done to garner such a bad reputation?”

“The issue is that they haven’t done anything,” Soarin replied. At Hinton’s confused expression, he continued, “Are you aware of the Cull?”

“...No,” Hinton said. She glanced askance, seemingly embarrassed to admit it. “I don’t know much about the greater happenings in the Havens due to… circumstances.”

“On a yearly basis, all the Havens participate in the Cull by sending volunteer hunters to collectively take on what is considered the most dangerous Level 5 Deviant at the time. Any person that participates gets a higher standing within the Haven and something of a safety net from being cast out.”

“Every Haven sends participants, as the Level 5s are a national threat. However—” Shelley hissed the last word through clenched teeth “—the Soladelphia Haven, and by extension the Order of the sun that rules it, feel it unnecessary to provide anyone for the Cull as it is ‘against their doctrine’.” She air quoted around the statement. “They’re a bunch of lazy zealots that use their cult as an excuse to not participate while the other Havens do all the work to keep us safe.”

“Furthermore, the Order of the Sun is very extremist,” Grahame added. “Many of their doctrines are either incredibly strict, strange, or violent. I’ve read a few of them and—” She shivered “—I can’t say I’m a fan.”

“An understatement.” Wilde snorted. “They’re disgusting, creepy, and obsessed with their stupid ‘god’. Useless, the lot of them.”

“What even is their god?” Hinton asked.

“That’s the best part!” Shelley threw her hands up in exasperation. “It’s—”

“Need we remind you all that the purpose of this venture is to hunt the Deviant Rites to Rest?” Leap interjected. “You will have ample time for idle debate when the mission is done.”

The group looked askance. Soarin felt shame and anxiety bubble up inside of him. He needed to take charge before their boss got any angrier.

Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

“Of course. We will begin immediately. Firstly, is anyone familiar with the general layout of a building like this?” The assembled group shook their heads. “Then we’ll go through the front and be as cautious as we can. Grahame, Wilde, you take front. Hinton, Shelly, both of you stay with me. Remember, that just because it’s a Level 1 doesn’t mean you should let your guards down.”

With the semblance of a plan in place, the assembled crew entered the spires.

“Do you think this is where the Deviant is hiding?” Hinton asked.

“I daresay there's a good chance of it,” Shelley remarked.

“Yes, but… butterflies?” Grahame said.

Before the group was a massive open archway leading into an atrium. Or at least they presumed, as a kaleidoscope of blindingly glowing white butterflies swarming the area was making it difficult to see inside.

They moved in clumps, clinging to the ceiling and upper columns. They looked like bouquets of flowers — massive, white, pulsating bouquets of flowers. They made Soarin feel calm and uneasy in equal measure from their beauty and possible dangers.

“Deviants don’t follow standard conventions,” Soarin explained. “Though normally harmless, I wouldn’t expect those butterflies to do nothing.”

“Oh, I never would. Butterflies are monsters,” Grahame said.

The group looked at Grahame in confusion who appeared equally confused by their reactions.

“What?” She asked.

“The small non-Deviant pretty insects that flit between flowers? Those are monsters?” Wilde said. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

“I suppose the standard versions are fine, but the Crystal Haven has crystal variants. They're facets are pretty, but razor sharp. It's a total horrorshow if you’re driving down a track or highway and then go through a cloud of them.” Grahame held onto herself, shivering as she seemed to recall a past event. “Without going into the details, there’s a saying in the Crystal Haven that you should never follow red butterflies, because you’ll only find the remains.”

Various expressions of shock stared back at Grahame.

“...Well, hopefully these ones aren’t as bad as that,” Soarin said.

“Only one way to find out, darling. Tally ho!” Shelley pointed her sword toward the open archway.

“Wait,” Soarin said. “We should try to come up with a plan.”

“With what information?” Wilde asked. “Like you said, Deviants are unconventional, this is clearly not the Deviant itself, and just from our conversation, I can tell that ‘butterflies’ means basically nothing in terms of figuring out its gimmick. Not unless someone would like to test whether these butterflies are harmless, in which case, not it.”

“...She has a point,” Hinton said.

“Hinton, I always have a point.” Wilde tossed her hair back with a hand.

“...And a correct one at that.” Soarin sighed, feeling his anxiety spike at going into another situation blind. “Alright. We’ll move forward in the same formation. Have your weapons ready. No telling what we’ll be dealing with here.”

They moved as one cautiously into the atrium, careful not to touch the beautiful monsters that flitted nearby.

As they inched their way in, the room began to take shape. A massive hexagonal space with arches leading toward a raised, central dais. Stone pews, worn down by time, were arranged evenly between columns, all facing toward the center. Soarin noted wearily that the entrance they came through was the only one not heavily blocked by debris, meaning it was going to also be their exit.

On the raised dais, sitting upon a pile of rubble, was a humanoid figure. From the neck down, they were like any other human dressed in an orange suit with a white butterfly bow tie. Within one hand was a massive leatherbound orange book, from which more of those white butterflies spewed forth. Its head was one mass of butterflies, their bodies replaced with giant eyeballs that blinked in random patterns.

A quick glance at his watch confirmed to Soarin that they had stumbled upon Rites to Rest.

“I confess that I’ve never seen a Deviant before. Are they always this creepy-looking?” Shelley whispered.

“...Yes,” Soarin replied.

“Ugh, how tacky,” Shelley said.

“...Sure,” Soarin said. “Now that we have a confirmed visual, does anyone have any ideas of what this Deviant might do while it's not paying attention to us?”

“No comprendo,” Wilde said.

“I’m still getting over how creepy this thing is,” Shelley added.

“...Not that I can see,” Hinton said.

Grahame narrowed her eyes, brow furrowed in thought.

“Grahame?” Soarin asked.

“...Does it not resemble one of those preachers from the Order of the Sun?” Grahame said. “The ones that go from Haven to Haven spouting the doctrines of their Order?”

Soarin did another quick survey, this time matching its appearance to his vague recollection of the Order Members that visited the Cloudsdale Haven.

“...Huh. It does,” Shelley said. “Though admittedly more classy than those abysmal Orderies, I can see the resemblance.”

“Strange to see a Deviant emulate that of all things,” Wilde said. “Like, how TOS of them.”

“TOS…? No, irrelevant.” Soarin shook his head. “I agree with the others, it does look like one of their preachers.”

Grahame nodded, then, uncertainty in her voice, she said, “So it looks like a preacher, do you think it acts like one? Like it may initiate its… effect?” She turned to Soarin for confirmation. He nodded. “By making a sermon, or through sound of some sort?”

“...There is a precedent for Deviants following closely to what they attempt to mimic,” Soarin remarked. “A great observation, Grahame, though an unfortunate one. We don’t have any way to stop—”

“I can stop it.”

They turned toward Wilde. She smirked.

“My Manifest is particularly suited to this, though, I’ll need the rest of you to do the dirty deed of killing the Deviant once I do my work,” Wilde said.

Manifestation. Soarin had known that the other passengers were capable of it, but found it strange how easily Wilde could offer to use it. He was extremely uncomfortable with his own, a feeling he knew Shelley and Hinton shared based on their expressions, and had just presumed that the others were the same as him.

Regardless of his feelings on the matter, if Widle was offering…

“...Can you control it?” Soarin asked.

“No, but Timeless Entertainment is rather…” She waved a hand as she searched for an appropriate word. “Docile. She’ll do what needs to be done, and nothing more.”

“...And you’re comfortable using it?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Wilde asked.

Hinton, and Shelley both flinched. Soarin hoped he hadn’t as well.

“I personally find my own rather difficult to use,” Soarin said. “So long as you’re comfortable using it and it will help more than hinder, we’ll kill the Deviant once its effect is active.”

“Then allow me to take the lead,” Wilde said.

Wilde sheathed her swords then stepped forward, moving into a strange position with her feet crossed and both arms held out. From what little Soarin knew, he presumed it was the opening move to some form of dance.

She moved toward the Deviant, spinning as she did so. There was a shift, as time seemed to slow and Soarin felt his gaze glued to Wilde’s form. Flecks of gold burst along her skin as sound died to bring full attention to her presence.

Feathers grew along her, dyed in a myriad of pastel colours. Her face twisted into a swirl of psychedelics, a constant vibration of noise given physical appearance.

Rite’s attention was drawn to Wilde. It held out a hand toward her. No sound gave out as no effect happened.

Wilde curtsied. The spell over Soarin broke.

He charged alongside the others.

Grahame smashed Rites in the torso with their shield. Shelley stabbed it through the neck with her sword. Hinton’s barrage bullets fired into the book. Soarin sliced through its free arm with his whips, the voltage set to its highest setting.

Butterflies spewed from its open wounds. Slowly, sound returned, its screams increasing in volume. The flapping of thousands of butterflies began to fill the silence as the swarms barrelled toward them.

“Stab it through the head before the butterflies can reach us!” Soarin shouted.

“Thou are children of sin.” The voice of Rites echoed in Soarin’s mind, calm despite its current circumstance. He felt disoriented as the Deviant continued, “let go of thy pain to be—”

Its sermon was interrupted by a wet schluck as Wilde leaped forward and stabbed the abomination through its head with her swords, a twisted expression of bliss on her face.

“No, I think I’ll keep that, thanks,” Wilde said. “Tata, loserino.”

The Deviant fell off of Wilde’s swords with a wet plop. The multitudes of butterflies dissipated into white light. The group stood over the corpse, satisfied at having efficiently taken down their quarry.

“...Well done, team,” Soarin said. “Especially you, Wilde and Grahame.”

Grahame smiled warmly.

Wilde tossed her hair. “Obviously, I’m the best one here.”

“Second behind me, darling,” Shelley remarked. “But I suppose you can take the spot temporarily.”

“I plan to keep it.” Wilde smirked.

Shelley answered with a wide grin.

“...Regardless, let’s report to Leap,” Soarin said. “We’ll need to have it captured before it disappears completely.”

Onboarding Passengers VIII

“...And then Wilde stabs it right in the head with both of her swords!” Shelley said. She titters lightly. “It was very dashing.”

“Well, I can’t help being so perfect.” Wilde tossed her hair at the compliment.

“You can, however, hold your ego in check,” Shelley shot back.

“Never,” Wilde whispered.

They both laughed.

“That sounds amazing!” Bradbury exclaimed. “Way better than how our mission went!”

“I suppose you all did satisfactory jobs,” Salinger muttered as he sulked in the corner.

“Nah, they did a bang up job… for a bunch of knobs.” London grinned.

“That’s Ms. Knobs to you, London,” Shelley said.

The group laughed at the poor joke. Soarin was gathered with the rest of the passengers in the front train car awaiting the eleventh passenger and last one to board. Leap had announced that they would be picking up Poe, then immediately heading off for the first big mission. The twelfth passenger, Verhoeven, would meet them there.

With everyone gathered together to be ready to go right away, the group had started to share stories between them (with notable exceptions Andersen and Perault, who both sat quietly in different corners of the car) and things had gotten rowdy.

It was loud, but Soarin hadn't felt so relaxed in a long time. Though he didn’t get along with all the passengers, there was something inherently nice about being surrounded by comrades in arms and celebrating a series of victories. He hadn’t been privy to this kind of success since his days in the Wonderbolts and… it was one of the only times in recent memory that he could remember not feeling so alone.

“So, when is this new passenger supposed to board?” Grahame asked.

“Based on our estimate, the passenger will be boarding—” the train whistle shrieked, interrupting Leap “—Well, now, it seems.”

Soarin stood up and approached the door as it slid open, granting access to the new passenger.

A pegasus man with massive black wings, charcoal black skin, a silver mohawk, and yellow eyes. He had a thick build and leaned forward like an animal, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. His eyes had narrow pupils and he breathed raggedly, surveying the train car like a cornered animal would in a room of its natural predators. He was dressed in a banded suit that, at some point, had bound his wings and arms, but now hung uselessly off his body. He had an iron pipe in one hand that dragged across the floor as he twisted to and fro to keep everyone within his sights.

Not put off by Poe’s strange appearance due to his prior experiences with the other passengers, Soarin held out a hand in greeting.

“Welcome aboard the Rail, my name is—”

Poe tackled Soarin to the ground. He started to scream as he wailed into Soarin’s face, fists flying back. Blood flew as Soarin desperately tried to protect his face from the barrage of punches.

Two passengers grabbed Poe from behind and pulled him off. Soarin backed away quickly. He saw Bradbury and Andersen struggle to hold Poe in their grasp as he flailed and screamed obscenities at them.

“Simmer down there, new friend!” Bradbury said.

“I don’t think that’s gonna work,” Andersen said.

“We need to—” Soarin started.

“Release him,” Leap commanded.

The room skewed for a moment, like when they had ordered Perault. Bradbury and Andersen dropped him. Leap grabbed Poe by the throat and lifted him off the ground. A burst of navy blue magic coursed through his body.

Black fluid began to bubble from his mouth and nostrils, causing him to choke. Leap released him.

He dropped to the ground and began to hack globs of black sludge onto the ground. It hissed and sputtered as a mildew-like smell mixed with sulfur began to permeate the air. After a few moments, Poe’s hacking subsided and he gasped for breath.

Leap snapped their fingers once, and the sludge dissipated into nothing. Poe stared up at Leap with wide eyes, his body shaking.

“...Your room is down the corridor behind us and marked by the image of a brain,” Leap said. “Take a moment to gather yourself, then meet us back in the front.”

Poe nodded, then dragged himself back onto his feet. He walked past the group on shaky legs, breathing heavily from the exertion. Once gone, Leap directed their attention to Soarin. They brought out several bandages and a tube of green gel seemingly from nowhere.

“Please use these to address your wounds,” they said.

Soarin got to his feet, took the offered medical supplies and began to apply them to his damaged face. It stung.

“I thought you didn’t interfere with the passengers?” Soarin asked.

“In this case, it is a state due to an incident prior to boarding, and thus falls to us to handle,” Leap explained. “We apologize for not fixing it immediately.”

“How can we be certain that he won’t attack Golding or someone else again?” Hinton demanded.

“...There are no guarantees, however, the root cause has been removed.” They stared at the spot the sludge had been before. “You won’t need to deal with that again for a long time.”

“...I’ll let it go, then,” Soarin said. “No point holding a grudge over something he couldn’t help.”

“We thank you and, on that note… it is time for the first mission,” Leap said.

A murmur of equal parts excitement and nervousness rippled through the assembled passengers.

“Where are we heading?” Shelley asked. “Somewhere glamorous? Oh! Please tell me we’re going to Las Pegasus. I’ve always wanted to visit.”

Wilde flinched.

“No, we will be going somewhere different. There isn’t necessarily an exact order to the Traumas, but we will be dealing with the most manageable one first,” Leap said. “The Dodge Junction Burn Out.”

“D-Dodge Junction?” London laughed nervously. “Why are we goin’ to a place like that?”

“Well, you would be most knowledgeable, as you are from there.” Leap directed their attention to London. “I would prepare thyself the most, as the first Trauma we will be tackling is in fact yours, London.

“We hope, for your sake, that you will reach a satisfactory conclusion to your arduous past.”

Call of the Wild II

Barnacles, Tartarus, and many other obscenities raced through Scootaloo’s head as she stepped off the Midnight Rail with the rest of her so-called team. They had arrived at the Dodge Junction Burn Out and Scootaloo was pissed.

There were twelve passengers on this bloody train and she was the “lucky” one chosen as the first stop. She didn’t know who she angered to secretly make her as miserable as possible, but she would love the opportunity to apologize and then tell them to piss off.

To her complete unsurprise, the Dodge Junction Burn Out, aptly nicknamed the Smoke Stacks, were exactly as she had left it. The Smoke Stacks were made up of filthy streets bathed in harsh red and orange light from overhead street lights lined by ugly squat brick buildings covered in black sludge. Smoke clogged both the air and every crevice it could reach, becoming a thick smog near the ground that one had to wade through to go anywhere. Tall chimneys fed the beast as the Burn Out’s many, many factories pumped out pollution.

Passersby from every race hurried by to finish their neverending tasks. They were dull-eyed and exhausted, but pushed through regardless, knowing that the coloured collars around their necks would notify the factory managers of their negligence. They were dressed in heavy furs that frequently caused the wearer to overheat, though that was still considered a better fate than whatever might happen due to the touch of a dangerous machine.

She hated the people, the factories, the smog, everything about the Smoke Stacks. She had hoped that she wouldn’t have to return to this Tartarus-forsaken place for a while, preferably not until the end of the line, but here she was back where she left not a week later.

Scootaloo surveyed the rest of the weirdos she’d been stuck with.

The prissy Wilde, Salinger, and Shelley acted as expected, trying their hardest to not touch anything with looks of disgust on their faces. Bradbury, the dunce, was excitedly taking in the dump around her as if it was the greatest thing she’d ever seen. The quiet loser trio of Hinton, Andersen, and Perault continued to live up to their nickname, with Hinton sticking close to Golding’s side like the suck up she was while the latter were as far apart as they could be without being separated from the group. Grahame and Poe mingled amongst them, and Scootaloo made a point to never let them leave her sight while they waited. Poe was obvious, but Grahame just unsettled her for reasons she couldn’t place.

That left Golding. The tryhard was sticking close to her and attempting to look like he was in control of the situation. How he actually came off was uncomfortable. He was one of the most awkward, spineless dorks she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting, and she’d talked to literally socially outcasted orphans.

Their employer, Leap, stood by the train. The “to-good-for-this” type that most certainly will send them into danger without having done a single thing themselves.

“What are the mission parameters?” Golding asked Leap.

Scootaloo suppressed the urge to gag. He was so unbearably stuffy. Probably ex-military or something lame like that.

“You will be making your way through the Dodge Junction Burn Out to meet our lead scout Pipsqueak at the abandoned HadGal factory,” Leap replied. “London will know where I refer to.”

The group turned toward her.

“Yeah, I know where it is.” She tsked. “Ya buncha ponces better keep close though. If you get lost or fall behind, I ain’t stopping to help ya.”

Golding nodded. “Anything else we need to know?”

“The final passenger, Verhoeven, will be waiting at the Trauma, along with several gifts to assist in the conquering of it,” Leap said. “Otherwise, how you get there is up to you. We wish you luck.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Bradbury asked.

“No. This mission is for you to do and, unfortunately, certain complications make us unable to assist beyond what we have already done. Now—” they regarded Scootaloo directly “—we would emphasize that any actions that you may be required to do in line with your inevitable success, we shall leave to your discretion. Do not be afraid to do whatever needs to be done. We shall handle the fallout accordingly. Even if it means going against the local authorities.”

“Are you saying we might be under threat from the Haven?” Grahame asked.

“No, just those damned Red Coats. They’ll be on us soon as we go anywhere in this dump,” Scootaloo said. “They want me dead for a dumb crime that ain’t my fault.”

“Were you framed?” Shelley asked.

“No, I just killed someone that had it comin’.” Scootaloo was pleasantly surprised at the lack of judgement or surprise at her declaration. “Means we’ll have to deal with’em sooner rather than later.”

“Can we avoid them?” Golding asked.

“We’re headin’ to Toy Mountain, so no.” Scootaloo sighed. “I reckon it won’t take ten steps before the wankers get the drop on us.”

“Wouldn’t they only go after you?” Wilde asked.

“No,” Scootaloo replied curtly.

“...Then we’ll play it safe,” Golding said, then louder, “Stay close and have your weapons ready.”

Everyone readied their individual weapons, looks of anticipation and worry scattered across the assembled group as they awaited the order to enter the depths of the Stacks.

“We wish you well and eagerly await news of your success,” Leap said.

Golding nodded, then directed the others to move forward, with Scootaloo in the lead. Brandishing her knives with a glare in his direction, she walked back into the wilds of her prison, ready to destroy whatever tried to keep her there.

“Why is it called Toy Mountain?”

The group had been traveling for a few minutes and naturally spread out as they did. Hinton, Golding, and Bradbury had opted to stay close to Scootaloo, with the others within roughly a meter of their location.

Scootaloo regarded Bradbury out of the corner of her eye. She had been surprisingly quiet most of the trip thus far, taken by the new sights around her, but had presumably gotten bored and decided to start on a barrage of inane questions.

“It’s where all the toys were manufactured before the factories moved up to the Haven proper,” Scootaloo answered. “Now, it's just a pile of rottin’ toys and husks of old machines that the local Burn Out kids use as a hideout.”

“Oh, neat! That sounds super fun!” Bradbury said, sparkles in her eyes.

“It's a rusted out factory. It ain’t that fun,” Scootaloo grumbled.

Ignoring Scootaloo’s gloom, Bradbury asked, “Why did HasGal leave?”

“Just told ya. Cuz they got transferred to the Haven. Try and listen with those ears, ya knob,” Scootaloo snapped back.

Bradbury’s face twitched to a scowl before returning to her usual smile. “W-well, I just thought it was weird that no one decided to reuse the factories.”

“Oh.” Scootaloo rubbed the back of her head. “That’s… fair. It’s cuz a Deviant called Joy to the Children moved in after HasGal left.”

Golding’s gaze sharpened as he directed all his attention on Scootaloo.

“There’s a Deviant at our destination?” Golding asked. “Why didn’t you or Leap mention that?”

“Cuz it only attacks the Red Coats,” Scootaloo replied. “Or anyone that bullies kids. It’s why we hung out there since the adults didn’t wanna be anywhere near the thing.”

“We’re adults,” Hinton stated. “Would we not be in danger?”

“Nah, long as you don’t punch me in the face or somethin’,” Scootaloo said. “Though, we definitely shouldn’t stick around too long since it starts gettin’ antsy round anyone thirteen and up.”

“That’s someone else that doesn’t like these Red Coats. They don’t seem to be very popular,” Bradbury remarked.

“They’re the law, and they follow whatever the jerks up top tell ‘em.” Scootaloo pointed up with one finger, a sneer on her face. “No one up top rightly cares so long as their precious junk is still gettin’ made in the factories.”

“So, the Red Coats are only here to make sure the workers keep working,” Hinton stated.

“Got it in one, pistol,” Scootaloo replied. Hinton mouthed the nickname with displeasure. “The Red Coats and especially the Haven don’t give two licks about anyone down here.”

“They sound kind of mean,” Bradbury said.

Scootaloo rolled her eyes.

“So what do they—” Bradbury started.

“We have company,” Andersen interrupted loudly.

A humanoid entity came out of an alley ahead of them. It was an amalgamation of flesh and machine, its head replaced with an insular metal box with a red headlight embedded in its surface. It wore only a long, crimson coat that did little to cover the gory stitched-together details of its form.

“Is that…?” Bradbury started.

Several more appeared from behind and to the side of them. They dove off of rooftops and came out from the natural shadows of buildings. The locals were long gone, making themselves scarce so as not to be caught in the crossfire.

“Yeah, it's the stupid Red Coats,” Scootaloo muttered.

“Fugitive sighted,” the first Red Coat intoned mechanically. “Charges: murder of factory owner. Punishment: death alongside known accomplices by any means necessary. Die.”

The Red Coats withdrew various weapons from the depths of their coats, brandishing them at the group.

“...How far are we from Toy Mountain?” Golding asked.

“Five minutes if we run like Tartarus,” Scootaloo replied.

“Will the Red Coats follow us inside?”

“Yes, but Joy will handle’em.”

“Then that’s our goal,” Golding said, then shouted, “fight them off, but keep moving! Follow London! We’re making a charge toward Toy Mountain!”

A collective affirmative rippled through the team as they prepared for the worst.

The Red Coats descended upon them.

Call of the Wild III

They were surrounded on all sides. Red Coats dropped in from every direction. Swords swung amongst their ranks as bullets fired blindly into the melee, the Red Coats uncaring if one of their own might be hit. Progress had been made, but had slowed down to a near halt. Scootaloo cursed their stalled advance, as she knew they were only a quick sprint to Toy Mountain.

The cyborgs were persistent, blessed with unending stamina and a dogged determination to see them all dead. The group was keeping up, but Scootaloo knew from experience that they would eventually tire themselves out, fighting endlessly against a horde that would never thin until they could fight no more.

Bradbury sliced through the neck of a Red Coat that attempted to go for Scootaloo. Its oil splattered across both of them. Before it could recover, she stabbed it through the mechanical heart in its chest, cutting through both flesh and machine.

“Remember to cut the head and the heart!” Scootaloo shouted. “That’s the only way to take them down!”

Nearby, Shelley parried a thrust from one of the Red Coats. It stumbled forward. She took advantage of the opportunity and stabbed it through the heart with her sword.

Schluck. She pulled out the sword then quickly decapitated the Red Coat.

Another took its place, slicing down on Shelley’s head. She blocked the blow with the flat of her blade.

“Such a gory mess!” Shelley exclaimed. She shoved the Red Coat off of her, then stabbed it through the chest in one swift motion. “I cannot even imagine how long it will take me to scrub the oil out of these clothes.”

Wilde dropped another Red Coat nearby, then turned to Shelley with a smirk. “As a seamstress, I would have expected you to know that baking soda would handily deal with those stains.”

“Oh, of course, what kind of fashionista would I be if I didn’t?” Shelley tossed her hair back over one shoulder. “However, I don’t believe—”

“Are you about done with your incessant chattering ladies?!” Salinger groused as he smashed a Red Coat’s head into a brick wall, shattering the stone underneath. “If you aren’t dealing with the Red Coats, then get moving!”

“Wanker,” Shelley and Wilde retorted in unison.

“You’re both horrendous!” Salinger shouted.

He swung his hammer in an arc at the encroaching cyborgs, smashing through several of them at once. Wilde and Shelley cackled in the background.

Several more Red Coats leaped off the roof. They met the business end of Poe’s iron pipe. He smashed through their skulls as Grahame crushed their chests with her shield.

“Come and get your bashin’s in, losers!” Poe cried out.

He cackled maniacally as he swung his weapon in an arc through several more of the Red Coats’ heads.

“We need to focus on moving forward before we become overwhelmed,” Grahame remarked.

“Says you!” Poe retorted. “I could bash in these pigs’ heads forever!”

“I highly doubt that,” Grahame said.

“Don’t question my talents!” Poe shouted back.

“There’s no end to them!” Hinton shouted over the din. She shot another Red Coat twice in quick succession with her pistol. “Golding, we need a way out!”

Golding sliced off the nearest Red Coat with his whips before he addressed Scootaloo. “Is there a way forward that can get us out of this mess?”

Scootaloo scanned her surroundings and noticed a stairway leading up to the rooftops. It was an option, but meant risking the smog. However, with how many Red Coats there were, she didn’t think they really had a choice.

“We can take those stairs to the roofs.” She pointed toward the indicated escape route. “Then it’s a straight sprint to Toy Mountain, but it's 50/50 whether we pass out to the smog or not.”

Golding seemed to weigh over the options before he shouted, “everyone cover your mouths with whatever you can get your hands on! We’re making a straight dash along the rooftops. Perault, Andersen, Grahame!” He pointed toward the Red Coats blocking their escape route. “Make us an exit!”

Grahame, Andersen, and Perault quickly tore off parts of their shirts and covered their mouths. Once secured, they charged through the Red Coats, bowling over them with their weapons pins on a bowling lane.

The crew did what they could to cover their mouths, and hurried up the newly liberated stairs. Scootaloo tightened the cloth strip from her shirt around her mouth as she followed after them. She knew this wouldn't be fun.

The smog was sudden. The air was clear, then it was clogged by black sludge that tried to force its way through the cloth covering and into her mouth.

She raced forward, ignoring the smog that weighed her down, trying to drag her to the floor and envelop her. It wasn’t alive, but it felt like it was in that moment as it actively tried to end her.

It was a straight shot to Toy Mountain, thankfully, as she could barely see in front of her through the thick smoke. She’d catch the occasional glimpse of fabric from one of her colleagues, but only barely. Otherwise it was just her and Dodge Junction smoke.

Her throat burned, having inhaled some of it despite the mask. She felt heavy, and exhausted, pulled down by dense poisonous air. Her body ached, screaming for rest, but she pushed on.

It burned. It ached. It hurt. The smog wanted her dead, but she wouldn’t stop. Just a little more, just one more push …!

Then she was falling.

The world opened before her. High above ground with the wind whipping past her face. She saw the rest of the Midnight Rail in varying degrees of panic, but Scootaloo didn’t need to look down to know they were about to land on a mountain of plush toys, as planned.

Thwomp. They impacted onto a cushioned landing pad. Groans emanated from the piles as Scootaloo happily laid among the refuse, breathing heavily as she grinned ear-to-ear.

“Never again,” Salinger moaned.

“Again! Again!” Bradbury shouted. Scootaloo could just barely see Bradbury’s hands going up in excitement from the corner of her vision within the plush pile.

“I don’t think that would be—” Golding started, then continued in a panic, “Wait, are those—?!”

Red Coats leaped off the ledge they had just jumped from. Scootaloo could feel the panic from her companions as they struggled to disentangle themselves from the discarded toys.

Scootaloo just laid back, utterly unfazed by this turn of events. She raised her hand in a finger gun motion and pointed her index finger at the closest Red Coat.

“Bang,” she said.

A massive plush, felt arm smashed into the group of Red Coats. They shattered against the wall, a slew of machine parts and flesh splattering them from above. Red cotton spilled from tears along the arm, looking like red snow.

She brought herself into a seating position and followed the arm to its source.

Joy to the Children was a stitched together monstrosity of felt and cotton. It had the rough shape of an enormous teddy bear that towered over them, but was a mess of torn plaid patterned fabric. The muddled colours of its stained cloth body were stitched haphazardly together, with cotton spilling out. Its head in particular was the worst off, an exploded puff of cotton held barely together by a bow tie, with but a single crimson red button eye remaining of its facial features.

From within its depths, Scootaloo could see its Minions, the Toy Refuse, skittering inside and peering out with glossy bright-coloured eyes. She watched as toy arms began to harvest the parts of the decimated Red Coats for purposes Scootaloo had never found out.

“Thanks, Joy!” Scootaloo waved.

The Deviant screeched in return, a loud, conglomerate sound of gnashing and chittering from the Toy Refuse and Joy itself.

Scootaloo waited to see if more Red Coats would appear. When none showed up, she stood up and dusted off the fluff stuck to her clothes. She watched the rest of the team get back, wearily eyeing Joy with one notable exception.

“Is that giant teddy bear?!” Bradbury shouted.

“It’s the Deviant Joy to the Children. Level 3.” Scootaloo stretched, feeling perfectly at ease in the presence of the Deviant. “One of the nice ones… if you’re a kid.”

“Can I hug it?!” Bradbury exclaimed.

Joy turned its butchered head toward Bradbury. Angry chattering reverberated from it that slowly increased in volume before it suddenly stopped. Bradbury and the others shirked back.

“Sure, ya can… if you want it to hug ya back,” Scootaloo replied.

“...No thanks. I’m good,” Bradbury said, a slight quiver to her voice.

“Good choice,” Scootaloo said. “Anyways, we should get goin’ before Joy decides it don’t like your faces.”

“Agreed,” Golding said. “Which way do we need to go?”

Scootaloo walked to the edge of the mountain and toward the roofs of the factories below. She could see the HasGal factory, which would be the most probable place Pip would be waiting, but she knew it was going to be a long frustrating climb down with all the fluff. Well, unless they could fly, but she had no idea how many flight capable Pegasi were in the group, and she certainly wasn’t one of them with her underdeveloped wings.

“Any of you fly?” Scootaloo asked.

“... Technically, yes,” Golding replied.

“Yes, but it's not something I normally do,” Grahame added. “Keep them tied under the jumpsuit normally, so they aren’t in flight-shape.”

“Sure, but I ain’t helping any of you down.” Poe spit to one side.

“I could at one point in time,” Andersen said.

Everyone besides Hinton and Golding looked at Andersen in surprise. He just smiled the same way he always did.

“You could—” Shelley started.

“Why do you ask, London?” Andersen interrupted.

“Since then we could just glide down to the roof of the right factory, but since we don’t have the people for it, y’all should get ready for a long climb down.” She sat down on the edge, feeling around with her foot for the first ledge down. “Though if you wanna fly down, go ahead. Just watch out for the smog.”

She grinned as she found her first ledge. She started to climb down, uncaring if the others followed her down.

In the background, she heard Joy’s jubilant cries.

Call of the Wild IV

Scootaloo stepped away from the mountain and surveyed her surroundings. The rest of the team were in the final stretch of their descent and gingerly dismounting from the wall of plush.

The HasGal factory, or factories, were just as Scootaloo remembered: permeated by the thick scent of mildew and on the verge of collapsing. Claustrophobic alleys clogged with rotting toys swerved between squat square buildings made of all sharp edges and no decoration. They were burnt-out hollowed husks of what they once were, their tall chimney stacks that once spewed neverending streams of smog reduced to dead giants.

There was a rather morbid pleasure in standing in the corpse of something that used to be so strong.

“So, where’s Pip’s hideout?” Golding asked.

“In the main office.” Scotoaloo glanced out of the corner of her eye and noticed that the rest of the team had gathered nearby. “It's near Joy’s nest.” She smirked as some of the group wearily eyed the Deviant that could still be seen atop the mountain. “I’ll lead the way.”

She strode forward confidently, these alleys having once been her home turf. Winding through the passages of the husks, the faint scent of mildew lessened as they neared the heart of the HasGal factories.

Golding caught up to her, matching two of her hurried strides with one of his long ones. She suppressed a growl of annoyance at his presence, as she knew he wanted to grill her for information.

“So, how do you know him?” Golding asked.

“Who?” Scootaloo tried to feign ignorance.

“Pipsqueak.” Golding wouldn’t let her.

She sighed, ruffling her hair in irritation. “Do I hafta tell ya?”

“...No, but I thought it might help to talk about it since the Trauma is supposed to be tied to you in some way and he seems important to you.” He looked directly at her. “We don’t really know what to expect, so any information might be helpful.”

Trauma. Capital T. Something that may or may not be related to her trauma. Lower case T. Based on the name alone, she was pretty sure it was closer to the prior than the latter.

Leap had told them there were twelve Traumas, that each of them contained something they wanted inside (which Scootaloo didn’t know since she hadn’t bothered to ask and no one had told her), and that each were tied to one of the passengers of the Midnight Rail, which was why they had been given tickets to board in the first place.

She didn’t like any of it. They had no idea what to expect and, out of twelve passengers, she got chosen as the test guinea pig. Leap had not elaborated on why them, but the lack of knowledge grated on her nerves because of how little she felt that she was in control of her own decisions. It reminded her of Pipsqueak.

And that made her mad.

“He’s a stupid know-it-all,” Scootaloo said. “Always talkin’ down to ya like he knew somethin’ you didn’t… which he usually did.” She growled out the last word. “He took over as leader of the Smoke Stack Urchins just before I ended up down here and established the new base at the HasGal Factory. Made sure there was a place for all the factory kids to live. Thought it was cuz he cared, but looks like all that was a lie since now I know he’s been workin’ for Ole’ Moon Head.”

A bout of silence followed as Golding digested the information. That suited Scootaloo just fine as she felt all her old complaints about Pipsqueak flood back into her, her anger rising.

“...So he was protective?” Golding asked.

Scootaloo snorted. “Nah. He’s more like one of’em wizard types from old Equestria. Give ya all the things you need to succeed along with some cryptic nonsense with how to use’em, then he just sits back watches as you fumble your way through.”

“But you always eventually learned and came back better for it?”

“...Yeah,” Scootaloo relented. “But that doesn't mean he wasn’t a massive pain in the butt.”

Golding nodded. “Then to summarize, he’s smart, cryptic, and prefers to help people improve rather than just help them even when things get bad?”

Scootaloo nodded.

“...He sounds like the worst.”

She released a sharp bark of laughter. “Yeah, that he is. Biggest knob in the Stacks.” She scowled. “We’re here.”

‘Here’ was a squarish needle-shaped building that pierced through the upper smog layer above. It was made of square glass panels, all of which were either dirty or broken. The upper floors of the building were filled with toys fit to burst, the conglomeration resembling a cloud. The words ‘HasGal’ were imprinted in block letters just above the entrance.

“What’s with the nest?” Bradbury asked.

“That’s Joy’s home,” Scootaloo answered.

Several of the team flinched.

“I thought you said it was just ‘near’ Pipsqueak’s base?!” Salinger exclaimed.

“Above is ‘near’.” Scootaloo smirked. “Technically, I didn’t lie.”

Salinger looked ready to argue the point, but held his tongue.

“So, Pipsqueak’s in there?” Golding asked.

“Right in the lobby as he usually is,” Scootaloo replied.

“Ready to head in?”

No. “Yes.”

He nodded and waited on her lead. She took it.

The building grew in her view, becoming an even bigger presence as its shadow loomed past her. Rather than feeling nervous, Scootaloo instead felt her frustration grow as her thoughts turned to Pipsqueak.

He was reliable, but a pain. He was helpful, but a pain. He was one of her best friends, but a pain.

He got her entangled with the Midnight Rail without nearly enough warning. On top of that, the whole point was to get away from the Stacks. If she was just gonna end up right back where she started not even a week later, then why did she join the Rail? This question was made even worse since now she knew that he was Leap’s main scout. That meant that when he offered up the ticket, he already knew that she was the first passenger on the Trauma docket.

She slammed open the double doors of the building. They smashed into the walls on either side. She didn’t care. She had worked herself up into a bit of frenzy and was chomping at the bit to find the source of her ire.

Speaking of, said source was reclined on an office chair that had been placed amongst stacks of papers and office supplies made to look like a throne. Typical.

Pipsqueak sat hunched forward, his wiry body ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. He had always been the cautious type, and his tired brown eyes proved to Scootaloo that he slept as badly as he used to. He was in his early teens, like her, but looked more like an adult in his worn tan suit, minus the jacket and bright red tie that hung like a noose around his neck. He had messy brown hair that, knowing him, hadn’t been brushed even once, and had patchwork white and brown skin (he’d told her the word for it once before, but she couldn’t remember what it was).

Scootaloo continued her forward advance.

“Hey, London, how’s the—” Pipsqueak started to say.

Then Scootaloo punched him in his stupid face.

Call of the Wild V

“You hungry?”

“...”

“Wow, snippy, aren’tcha?”

“...”

“Hey, hey, no need to growl at me… Look. It's bread. Little stale, but still good. Isn’t probably what you’re used to, but— Hey! Watch the fingers.”

Crunch. Crunch.

“So, what’s your name, mongrel?”

“...I’m not a mongrel.”

“Not literally. But with your little tumble right there, you just went from the domestic bliss of a homestead to the feral wilds of the Stacks, and they sure as Tartarus didn’t treat you like a person when they made that choice.”

“Could you piss off with the stupid dog analogies?”

“Tell that to the Executives. They sure weighed your qualities like some kind of show animal and decided you didn’t measure up. What’s wrong with ya? ADHD? Mood swings? Physical—”

“Shut up!”

“So the last one. Well, based on how ya look, doesn’t seem to be anything that would save you from the worst in the factories. You might have bit off the heads of those Red Coats, but there’ll be more, so long as you got that collar on ya.”

“... Can you get it off me?”

“No.”

“Then—!”

“I can at least give ya somewhere to call home and maybe a few friends to show ya the ropes before you make a mistake you can’t reverse. Name’s Pipsqueak.”

“...Scootaloo.”

“Pleasure to meetcha even if it's not the best of circumstances. Mind if I call ya Scoots?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay, Scoots. Let me give ya quick word of advice: what the Owners say goes and they don’t care for attitude. You’ll need to learn to fake some cheer or at least indifference.”

“Owners?”

“Oof, not a good start. They really don’t teach ya anything up there. Factory Owners. They run this place, and they’ll be your new employers soon enough.”

“Can’t I work for you?”

“You can… but the Red Coats’ll make ya join a Factory eventually whether you like it or not. Come on. Let’s get you settled, then we can get ya in an easy spot to start up your new career as a paid slave.”

“You’re a dick.”

“Well, I prefer to go by Pip, but whatever gets your butt movin’, Scoots. Now hurry up. I ain’t waiting on you all day.”

“Come on, London. Talk to me,” Pipsqueak pleaded, a nervous grin on his face. His eye was fluttering closed from Scootaloo’s prior punch. “Let’s hash this out.”

Scootaloo ignored him. She stomped through the winding alleys of the Burn Out, the mildewy scent of the HasGal Factories replaced by the burnt smell of the Smoke Stacks. The path was familiar and amplified her rage.

When she’d asked for the location of the Trauma after clocking him in the face, Pipsqueak had just given her a sad smile in return. It was all she needed to know exactly where the Trauma was located and had served to make her even more furious than she already was.

In her haze, she’d had enough sense to tell the rest of the team to follow after her before she set out toward their new destination.

“We have nothing to talk about, ya stupid dumb moron,” Scootaloo retorted.

“That’s kinda harsh,” Pipsqueak replied.

“No, it’s not. This is.” She grabbed Pipsqueak by the collar and shoved her face into his. With as much venom as she could muster, she said, “I hope the Red Coats catch you and spit roast you on a spike over an incinerator so you can slowly burn alive.”

She dropped him and continued on her way. Pipsqueak, after a moment, caught back up with her, an equally impressed and shocked look on his face.

“Damn. That was harsh,” Pipsqueak remarked.

“And if you don’t piss off, I’ll give you a second black eye,” Scootaloo retorted.

“Whoa, not necessary!” Pipsqueak held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Look, I just wanna talk, okay? And get a chance to apologize.”

She glared at him. He grinned back with his stupid, stupid face.

“...Fine,” Scootaloo relented. “But we talk as we go.”

“Okay, I can agree with that.” He ran a hand through his hair, making a bigger mess of it then it already was. “So first off, yes, I was working for One Big Leap before we met, but it wasn’t specifically for you… at first.”

“At first? What were you actually here for then?”

“Leap predicted that one of the passengers for the Rail would appear in the Stacks, so she wanted me to scope out the place ahead of time.”

“Then what? I came along and ya just knew that I was the passenger you were looking for?” Scootaloo asked.

“You manifested,” Pip replied. “First day I found ya, you’d just fallen from the Dodge Junction Haven and turned into Instinct.”

“So only passengers can turn into wolves?”

“I mean, not all of’em turn into wolves, that’s just you.” Pipsqueak looked up, deep in thought. “Though, I don’t actually know what the others manifest as, so they could all be wolves for all I know. Point is, ya resonated with the Trauma here, so you can Manifest, and that means ya might be a passenger for the train.”

They continued in silence for a moment. Scootaloo felt her thoughts entangle with questions as she tried to decide what she wanted to know next. Eventually, she settled on the most pressing.

“...How’d I resonate with the Trauma?” Scootaloo asked.

“Dunno.” Pipsqueak shrugged. “Ya’d have ta ask Leap about that.”

Something to be mad about later, then. “What happened to the rest of the crew? Bauble, Jacks, and Flannel were still ‘round here when I left, but I didn’t see’em at HasGal.”

“Took’em on as scouts and have’em checking out the other Traumas. Bauble is up in Manehattan, Jacks in Canterlot, and got Flannel tryin’ to get close to the cultists in Soladelphia as a ‘supplier’.” Pipsqueak grinned. If Scootaloo knew anything about how Pipsqueak worked, the supplies being supplied were nothing short of horribly illegal. “They were wasting their lives here in this Tartarus-damned place, so I thought I’d put them to better use.”

“How’d you pay off their contracts?”

“How’d you get out of the Stacks without gettin’ chased by the Red Coats cross borders?”

Leap. “Who even is Leap?”

“A lot.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Cuz I ain’t given’ ya one.” Pipsqueak tapped the side of his nose. “Under a DJNDA with Leap and I like how I am, thanks.”

Dodge Junction Non-Disclosure Agreement, also known as a Factory Slave contract. Every resident of the Smoke Stacks ended up under one eventually. Breaking the contract meant the contractee got Blanked, which was a fate worse than death.

“Fine. I won’t push. I’ll just ask Ole’ Moon Face myself after all this is over.”

Pipsqueak snorted. “Ole’ Moon Face, huh?”

“They got a moon for a head. Name works.” Scootaloo furrowed her brow. “Did ya know I was the first one up?”

“...Yeah,” Pipsqueak replied.

“Why’d you give me that ticket, then?”

Another bout of silence. “It was your only option, and despite what it might seem like—”

A Red Coat leaped from the shadows at Scootaloo. She watched in horror as it came toward her, sword out and ready to skewer her through the head. She didn’t have time to grab her daggers. The Red Coat was—

Cut into ribbons, splattering Scootaloo and the alley with gore as it exploded into chunks. She looked to Pipsqueak just as his bladed yo-yo went back to his hand. His expression had a coldness to it, amplified further by the gore smeared across it.

Then, he was back to his usual placid smile.

“—I do care about you.” He tucked the yo-yo back into his pocket, then chuckled. “Though, as long as we’re out of the Trauma, Leap’ll just revive you again, so saving ya wasn’t that huge a deal.”

“Why—”

“How far are we from the Trauma?!” Golding shouted.

Both Pipsqueak and Scootaloo looked behind them, finally remembering that it wasn’t just the two of them there. Scootaloo had not been the only target of the Red Coats; the rest were all engaged with other assailants and struggling from the sudden outpouring of them.

“As much as I enjoy shipping, we should probably get a move on!” Grahame added.

“S-shipping?!” Scootaloo exclaimed. “W-what do you—”

“Minute if we sprint,” Pipsqueak interrupted. “Verhoeven has something to deal with the Red Coats when we get close.”

“Right.” Golding turned to the rest of the team. “We’re making another run for it!”

A collective groan emanated from the group as they fought off their current assailants and charged their way forward. Red Coats continued to pour in from all sides as they ran. Bullets flew past, the Red Coats thankfully as bad at aiming as they’d always been.

Scootaloo felt the familiar shortness of breath that came from exertion and internally cursed at her recent misfortunes. Running from all her problems was not something she liked being in the habit of doing, and she had been doing an awful lot of that lately.

Just as Scootaloo neared the limits of her stamina, the Red Coats began to drop, one-by-one. The team slowed down to a stop, watching in fascination as each of them short-circuited and hit the ground hard.

Poe poked one with his pipe. “Yep. It’s dead.” He swung the pipe back over one shoulder. “I don’t know how. I didn’t get to smash their heads in.”

“Verhoeven,” Pip answered. “He— actually it's easier to just show you.”

Pip continued down the alley. Scootaloo and the team reluctantly followed after him. Soon, the narrow corridor opened into a wide open space.

She was first drawn to a massive pulsating arch of metal on the opposite side of the area, embedded into a building that Scootaloo was intimately familiar with and not ready to deal with. It undulated like water, the interior akin to a warped reflection of a factory, all twisted metal and smoke. It made it difficult to discern what even lay inside.

Next to it was a tall metal something. She had no idea what it did, but it sparked and spat and whirred at an annoying frequency that made Scootaloo want to turn the horrid thing into scrap metal.

Standing nearby was presumably the final passenger of the Rail. He wore a long tan buttoned-up trenchcoat that dragged along the ground with brown slacks and dusty dress shoes. He had two pistols hanging from a belt at his waist and brass knuckles on both fists.

This alone would not lead her to believe he was one of them, but two important details solidified the idea in her mind. The first were his eyes. Slicked-back brown hair with bright blue eyes that had the look of someone who was truly, truly deranged. That they had forgone even the veneer of sanity and opted to thrive on madness.

The second was the mountain of corpses that littered the ground before him, a copious amount of blood and gore splattered across him. Scootaloo wasn’t even slightly put off by this, as she had begun thinking of it as a sort of calling card for the Rail.

“Well, howdy-do there!” Verhoeven waved to the group, nearly stumbling to the ground with the force of it. “Glad you could finally join my soiree that I painstakingly set up. I’d offer refreshments, but all I have left is blood wine!”

He laughed. It was the kind of laugh someone with no social graces and too high a lung capacity would have. No one else joined him.

“I crack myself up sometimes. Anyways!” He clapped his hands together, a metal clang emanating from the impact of his brass knuckles. “My name is Verhoeven, apparently. For anyone that would prefer, I also accept ‘Doctor’.” He laughed again. Scootaloo wished he would stop doing that. “Now, which one of you is London?”

Hesitantly, Scootaloo raised her hand.

“Excellent! Now, please prepare yourself accordingly, as I and the other members of this lovely team will in fact be diving into your deep-seated trauma and horrific past in all of its grisly details. Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’ll be fun! Like therapy! If therapy was with eleven total strangers and took the form of horrific monstrosities set out to kill you and everyone you hold dear. Now, buck up, we have exploring to do!”

It was at that moment that Scootaloo wondered if letting the Red Coats kill her before boarding that damned train would have been the better option.

Call of the Wild VI

“So, I have to sign this?”

“Yes. So you can begin working.”

“Why?”

“So you can begin working.”

“But the conditions are—”

Bang.

“Listen, brat. You’re in the Stacks now. You don’t get to complain about anything anymore. You do what we say and you don’t end up on the wrong end of the Red Coats. If they don’t outright kill you, you’ll end up in the Dump. If you think here’s bad, wait till you get a load of that place.”

“That place being…?”

“Where all the unwanted garbage goes… Like you. Now, sign.”

“…”

“Why’s the penalty gotta be total memory loss?”

“Because if you die, we lose a worker. Even brain dead, so long as you’re physically functioning, we can still get work out of you. I’ve put up with enough of your snark. Now, sign or I call the Red Coats.”

“Right then. That’s my cue to bounce,” Pipsqueak announced.

“Your cue to what?!” Scootaloo exclaimed.

“My job was to get you to the Trauma, then return to Leap for new orders,” Pipsqueak replied. “I’m just a scout, London. I can’t go into that place with you.”

“So, you’re just gonna leave me to deal with all of this?!” She gestured wildly at the metal archway. “On my own?!”

“I have to.”

Scootaloo clenched her fists tight, fingernails digging into her palm. Someone touched her lightly on the shoulder. It was Golding.

“Take all the time you need to say goodbye,” Golding said.

Then he left. As much she thought he was a knob, she appreciated the gesture. She took a deep breath to forcibly calm herself down. Pipsqueak stared at her with his usual placid smile. It was always frustrating how she could never really tell how he was feeling.

“Why would you make a big show of apologizing, then bugger off when I need you the most?” Scootaloo asked.

“Because as much as it sucks, Leap is my boss and my contract says I haveta listen to’em,” Pipsqueak said. “I might not be your favourite person right now, but you sure won’t like me if I get blanked.”

She hated to admit that he was right. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“Yeah, I know.” He rubbed her head with a hand, leaned in close, and whispered, “Sorry again, Scoots.”

“...I’ll see you at the next Trauma then?”

“Probably.” His grin widened. “That is what Leap wants me to do.”

“Okay.” Scootaloo nodded. “Now, get your hand off my head, and never touch it again.”

He jerked his hand away and tucked it in the pockets of his pants.

“Noted,” he said. He waved to the rest of the team. “See y’all around!”

“Great to see you again, old friend!” Verhoeven replied.

Pipsqueak lowered his hand uncertainly, confused by Verhoeven’s words. “Ugh, y-yeah, I guess?”

“Oh! Make sure to grab some more allergy pills!” Verhoeven added. “You never know when your hay fever might act up again!”

“I don’t—” Pipsqueak shook his head “—bye.”

Then he left. Scootaloo didn’t care. And she definitely wasn’t crying. Shelley just gave her a tissue because the smoke was making her eyes red.

“Are you ready, darling?” Shelley asked. “We can always—”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Scootaloo interrupted.

Her and Shelley joined the rest of the team by Verhoeven, who was mid-monologue about what he found out about the Trauma. Scootaloo could already tell from how little he breathed that he would be her most annoying compatriot yet.

“...To be a living breathing factory! Truly a twisted interpretation of a traditional industrial manufacturing plant. I would love to spend more time studying it—” Verhoeven noticed her approach and waved “—But the lady of the hour has arrived, thus concluding this brief introduction to the Trauma in question. Now, before our entry, there are three important things to cover: our main objective, equipment to assist in our Trauma-delving efforts, and a small personal message from myself to the team.”

“Will this be as ‘brief’ as your ‘short’ findings on the Trauma?” Salinger groused.

“Alas, yes. For I have been told by Leap directly prior to this mission that when explaining things that I should, and I quote, ‘get to the damn point’.” Verhoeven clapped his hands together. “Now, let’s start with the first order of business. The goal. What have you been told thus far?”

“That we need to destroy all the Deviants hiding inside,” Grahame answered.

“Smash’em real good!” Poe added.

“No, that is not the real goal here,” Verhoeven said.

“What? My understanding was that we were no better than an overglorified cleaning crew?” Shelley said.

“There are plenty of easier and more readily available options if that were the case. Certainly, with less exacting requirements.” He scanned across the crowd, his wide smile wavering. “Did Leap truly not tell anyone the true purpose of these exhibitions?”

“...We’re retrieving body parts,” Golding said.

Scootaloo whipped her head toward Golding, shocked by the revelation. By the others’ expressions, she was not the only one.

“We’re—?!” Salinger looked sharply toward Verhoeven “—Whose body?!”

“Someone important, and not someone I am at liberty to speak of,” Verhoeven replied. “The important thing is that our goal first and foremost is to acquire the part by securing the Trauma, which I suppose does mean we are an ‘overglorified cleaning crew’.” Before the team could inquire further, Verhoeven pulled out several items from the depths of his trench coat and tossed them toward Grahame, Wilde, Salinger, and Hinton. “Catch.”

Each of the passengers caught their respective items. Grahame acquired a brooch in the shape of that weird bird from the prior mission Scootaloo had been on. Wilde had a tiara with a heart-shaped red stone in the center. Salinger had a shiny ring with a small figure of a magpie that reminded Scootaloo of the other bird from that same mission. Finally, Hinton had a white butterfly clip.

All the items seemed to pulse with a strange energy that made Scootaloo feel uneasy. She was thankful that none of them had been given to her.

“What are these?” Grahame asked. “They seem… familiar.”

“Abberations. The processed remains of the Deviants we hunted prior. To Grahame, Tears of the Damned, Wilde, Queen Wants Your Head, Salinger, For Want of Everything, and, finally, Hinton, Rites to Rest,” Verhoeven explained. “A unique gift that only Leap can provide. Simply focus upon the objects while they are on your person and you will manifest the abilities of the Deviant in question for a short while.”

“...And why were they given to us?” Hinton asked.

“Abberations require a certain threshold of resonance with the wielder in order to manifest,” Verhoeven replied. “You four are the best suited to those particular Deviants. Though, I would use those Deviants sparingly if possible, as excessive use can be… problematic.”

The unwilling recipients nodded uncomfortably and slipped them onto a suitable place on their person. None of them looked happy to do so.

“Now, to end things, a personal word from me to you all. As Leap has asked, I will keep it short and to the point.” Verhoeven’s smile morphed into a serious expression, pointedly looking directly at Scootaloo as he said, “engage with the Trauma.”

“...What?” Scootaloo asked.

“It is vitally important for our future endeavors that, when we delve into a Trauma, each of us confronts the core of what made it so.” He gestured toward Scootaloo. “As the first, it is even more important for you to be able to find some kind of catharsis from the pain that you had gone through before. Whether that be getting what you need, getting revenge, or just getting on, do what you need to… or we’ll face consequences later down the line.”

“That’s—” Scootaloo scrunched up her face into a scowl “—screw you, weirdo.”

“Ah, yes, my old nickname, weirdo. How nostalgic.” He laughed. “Well, anyways, tally ho and all that! We have Trauma to unravel! After you, dear London.”

He sweeped back, opening his hands forward toward the maw of the beast. There was no more waiting, nothing else to prepare. She would be forced to confront this place whether she was ready to or not.

Forcing herself forward, with each step increasing the dread in the pit of her stomach, she moved toward her goal. Whether that would be in victory or ruin, she wasn’t sure.

Call of the Wild VII

Clunk. Clunk.

“...”

Clunk. Clunk.

“...This is so boring.”

“Stop complaining.”

Clunk. Clunk.

“...How many hours until we’re done for today?”

“Boss said we’re behind, so we’re all doing overtime.”

“Yeah, I know, ya knob. I asked how long?”

Clunk. Clunk.

“... five hours.”

“Seriously? Ugh. This sucks.”

“Look, Scoots. Pip did you a solid and gave you the boring job rather than the dangerous one, so—”

“Yeah, yeah, stop complaining and get to work. I know this is way better than—”

“This is the machine that needs repairs?”

“Hey, Flit. Yeah, it keeps making a weird clunking sound when I pull the lever. Know what’s up?”

“The weights are probably off. I’ll hop in and realign’em quick. Keep the machine off while I do.”

“Can do.”

“...”

Vroom.

“...”

“So the boss’ll make us work an extra hour over this, huh?”

“Of course he will, he’s—”

“Why aren’t you workin’?!”

“We’re just waitin’ for Flit to—”

“I don’t want your excuses! Get back on the line! …Is the machine off?! You lazy worthless wastes of space! I told you never to turn the machines off!”

“Wait! Sir, don’t—!”

“I told you I don’t want to hear your damned excuses!”

Vroom. Clunk. Clunk. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

“...”

“...Flit?”

“Flit? What was she doing in there for?!”

“...She was fixin’ the counterweights.”

“Then why’d she take so long?! Ugh, useless, all of you. Now I’m down a worker! Extra hour of overtime from each and every one of ya! Scootaloo, why is your uniform dirty?!”

“...It’s Flit’s…”

“I want it cleaned up by your next shift or I’m moving you to repairs! All of you back to work!”

“...”

Clunk. Clunk. Squelch.

“...Scootaloo. You need to get back to work.”

“...She’s dead. I can see her through the gaps. It’s spilling—!”

“Scootaloo. If you don’t get back to work, you’ll be joining her.

“Get back on the line.”

It was a massive, living organism. That was Scootaloo’s conclusion after only a few minutes of travel through the narrow passages of the Trauma. Belching machines of smoke and noise overflowing with fleshy organs pumped by oil-filled veins. It spilled between gaps in the gears, taking up what little space there was in the heated alleys between monstrosities. She was careful not to touch anything metal, knowing that the orange glow emanating from it meant that it was too hot to touch.

All of this served to flood her with memories. She was overwhelmed by the horrors of working in the factory with an owner that cared more about output than the safety of his workers. She saw the pile of bodies piled up before her, all entangled within the pistons and gears of the machines. A constant clunking turned to a morbid squelch.

Stains and rust mixed together into a reddish-orange that could never be scrubbed out of the metal. Minced remains staring at her through the open gaps, the mangled corpses left to rot as they worked through it, letting the machines digest the remains and leaving behind a stench of rot and burning.

The machine struggling to pump out the next product while protesting against the odd obstruction that the owner had deemed unnecessary to remove.

Because it took too much time. Because it lowered output.

She hated it. She remembered it. She hated it. All the sights and sounds and smells. She hated it. She was never going to escape it. She hated it. She hated it. She hated it. She—

“So everyone in the Smoke Stacks had to work in the factories?”

“Obviously, Bradbury. Take a damn hint!” Scootaloo snapped. “You live here, you work here, them’s the damned rules. Only Tartarus-blessed psychopathic kissasses got excused, and that only meant they got to be Owners instead of Workers.”

“Huh, okay! Thanks for clearing that up,” Bradbury replied.

She seemed ignorant to Scootaloo’s current mood, as usual. Scootaloo hated that about her. Salinger took that moment to give her a disapproving scowl. She wanted to punch it right off his stupid face.

“So why would anyone want to be a factory owner?” Bradbury asked.

“Why do you even want to know?” Scootaloo retorted.

“Oh, well, I was just thinking—”

“Oh, she thinks! Great!” Scootaloo threw up her hands. “How about you think quietly!”

Bradbury’s smile faltered.

“She’s just trying to distract you,” Salinger said, his tone soft. “We can all see you’re having a hard time.”

Scootaloo surveyed the rest of the group. They all looked back at her in various degrees of sympathy and pity. She did have to admit that it was unfair to be taking out her rage at them, when it wasn’t like they made her go through her own personal Tartarus.

“...It’s the quickest way to earn your way into a Haven,” Scootaloo answered.

“Really?”Bradbury put a finger on her chin. “I thought they only let the smartest people in from the outside?”

“Maybe in yours, but here it’s based on productivity,” Scootaloo continued. “Every Factory Worker gets one point per product made. Factory Owners get three points per product made by each worker under them. If you get enough points, you can get into the Haven.”

“Wow! That’s… incredibly unfair!” Bradbury exclaimed.

“That is rather skewed toward the Owners,” Salinger remarked. “I imagine Factory Owners ascend on a frequent basis?”

“One every decade or so,” Scootaloo said.

A moment of silence.

“...I don’t understand. A Factory Owner gets three points per product made by each worker under their employ. An average workforce would be around fifty to a hundred people based on the size of these factories. With a worker able to produce a hefty number of products every hour, an Owner would be garnering at least a thousand points in a mere few hours. For there to only be—”

Another bout of silence.

“Billions?!” Bradbury exclaimed. “I don’t even know what that number looks like!”

“It is… several zeroes,” Salinger said. “Why is the entry requirement so high?”

“Cuz they don’t want anyone in the Haven!” Scootaloo around to face the group feeling her frustration boil over. “Having an entry requirement is just cuz they have to! They don’t want any of the losers down in the Burn Out cloggin’ their streets since then there wouldn’t be anyone to make their stupid garbage!

“That’s all this place is for! They keep people here to churn out their trash and then throw people down here that aren’t good enough to ensure the factories are always runnin’! No one cares about us! No one wants anyone from down here! The only thing you can do is work here until you die!”

Her breathing ran ragged from having shouted too long. Her emotions were running hot with equal measures of shame at having aired out her frustrations and rage at having them in the first place.

“London…” Bradbury said. Then, while reaching out to grab her, she shouted, “Watch out!”

Too late to react, a nearby vein burst, spraying a clear liquid all over her. She realized quickly that it was coolant and thankfully not the boiling oil. She wiped it off and stared at it, her hand shaking.

In her eyes, it was red. She saw the corpses peering at her through the gaps.

“I-I’ll grab a towel and clean it off!” Bradbury exclaimed.

“Where are you going to find a towel here?!” Salinger demanded.

“I dunno! Isn’t there usually—”

“...I can’t,” Scootaloo whispered.

“What?” Both Salinger and Bradbury asked.

“I can’t do this.” Scootaloo shook her head, and stepped back, deeper into the belly of the factory.

“Wait, London,” Golding said as he moved toward her. “You can’t separate from the group. We don’t know what Deviants are lurking around here.”

She took another few steps back.

“London!”

Then she was gone. She ran, desperately seeking the exit out of the bowels of the beast. She would not be devoured by the factories, another corpse feeding the monstrosity. She had to—

Scootaloo hit the metal floor hard as something tackled her to the ground. That something turned out to be a metallic insect-like monster. It had six long curved blades for legs, two of which kept her pinned to the ground. They were attached to a central dome covered in glass eyes.

The bottom of the creature dropped into a small cage. It was stained with dried blood. A mouth of razor-sharp metal whirred to life underneath, rotating in two congruent circles with a metallic screech.

She was going to die. The machine had finally caught her.

Author's Note

Deviant L1: Feed the Machine.

Call of the Wild VIII

“It feels alive.”

“What?”

“The machines. They feel alive.”

“‘Kay… How exactly? They’re just a buncha metal parts. These stupid things can’t even talk.”

“But they do, Scoots. When they make wrong noises we fix them. When they sound right we use them.”

“That’s just basic maintenance and repairs, Royale.”

“They’re fed oil and release smog in return. Just like a normal digestive system.”

“That’s how machines work. That doesn’t make them—”

“They’ve devoured us.”

“...”

“We’ve greased their cogs with our blood. We tend to their every need. We’ve been left to die in their stomachs, rotting away until the machine inevitably breaks us down into scraps.”

“...Get to the point, Royale.”

“Don’t enjoy the discussion?”

“You only go on your damned tangents when ya got somethin’ you haveta tell me. Somethin’ I won’t like. What is it?”

“A little patience goes a long way, Scoots.”

“Why do you— Ugh, fine. Keep goin’ with yer stupid talk.”

“Thank you, I shall. Now where was I, ah yes. The machines are living organisms that function just the way we do, but… they’re better than us aren’t they?”

“And how do ya figure that?”

“We tend to their every need. We ensure they are properly fed. We even make sacrifices to them with our time, our sweat, and our lives.

“They are more akin to gods than people.”

“‘Kay, that’s the last straw, they aren’t—”

“I’m being moved to repairs.”

“...”

“Lumos got caught in one of the belts and was crushed to death by the pistons. I’m to replace him.”

“...Don’t say goodbye like this. Being in repairs don’t mean you’ll end up like the others. Yer smart.”

“Intelligence means nothing in the face of the machine’s maw. We both know my fate has been sealed. Without change, it is inevitable.”

“...Please don’t.”

“You ask this of me as if I have any choice in the matter. I truly am sorry, Scoots. I just want you to know that I’ve really enjoyed our talks. But, alas, all good things must come to an end.

“For I am to be the next offering to our mechanical gods.”

Scootaloo struggled against the grasp of the Deviant. Her shoulders were pinned down under the armpits by the abomination’s legs, thankfully through her clothes and not her flesh. Less thankfully, she was unable to reach her blades and thus ineffectual against the metal monstrosity. She had managed to maneuver her legs to be underneath the chassis of the creature, and used her leverage to keep it at length away from her, but the Deviant was both persistent and strong. Inevitably, it would overtake her.

If she could grab her knives, she could end this immediately. She’d already identified its heart within the central appendage: a small red dongle sticking out of its torso. A single stab would kill the Deviant instantly, but required an ability to do so.

She had regrets about letting her fear control her. With her death impending, she realized that even if they had to continue, it was better to stay with the group. As much as she wasn’t particularly fond of any of them and even if it was mostly out of obligation, at least they would have ensured she wouldn’t end up in this situation. If she had a future past this moment, she really hoped that she would learn these important lessons before she was about to die.

Well, at least she could reflect on this in whatever afterlife she ended up in.

“GET OFF!”

Crunch. The Deviant was smashed in the side of its body by the flat edge of a hammer. Salinger came into view as the monster went flying off into a mass of pipes. Bradbury raced by in the background, axe in hand and a murderous look in her eyes.

“Break the red thing inside its main body!” Scootaloo shouted after her.

Bradbury didn’t acknowledge she’d heard her, but still swung her axeblade through the noted dongle. It broke into pieces, and the Deviant spazzed with sparks of electricity shooting off the core. It collapsed against the wall, twitched for a few more moments, then died.

“Are you hurt?” Salinger asked, now beside her.

“...No,” Scootaloo muttered.

“Good. NOW—” Salinger raised a finger, his face twisting into fury “—we need to discuss—”

Bradbury charged in and swung her axe in an arc, slicing through another copy of the Deviant that had launched itself at Salinger’s back. It clattered to the ground, cleaved in two.

The clatter of metal and chitter of whirring gears filled the small area they were in as more appeared.

“I know you’re mad Salinger, but you might wanna save the lecture until we’re somewhere safe.” Bradbury gave him an apologetic smile.

Salinger bit his lower lip in frustration, then released it with a sigh. “Fine. Destroy the riff raff, return to the group, then lecture.”

Scootaloo flicked her daggers into her hands, ready to fight. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad to see ya both.”

“Aw, me too!” Bradbury replied. She swung her axe back, ready to slice through their foes.

“...You’re still getting that lecture.” Salinger hefted his hammer over one shoulder.

Then the machines were upon them.

Salinger smashed his way through the throngs while Bradbury and Scootaloo finished them off with a slice of their weapons through the creatures’ red weak points. They mowed down the pests one-by-one, making slow progress back toward the rest of the team.

Though Scootaloo would never admit it aloud, she was happy to fight alongside them. There was a budding camaraderie between them that she had missed from her days with Pipsqueak and the gang. She trusted Salinger and Bradbury to have her back, and in turn she sliced through whatever threat tried to get them.

She’d missed that feeling.

After killing what had felt like hundreds of these abominations, they finally managed to reach the rest of the Rail when the last Deviant was shot by a bullet. Definitely Hinton’s work.

One more turn, and their trio were reunited with the rest of the team. Scootaloo noted that they too had been ambushed by throngs of the Deviants based on the piles of corpses surrounding them. Weirdly, she noticed Brabury and Salinger tense up, then move out of the way. The strangeness was immediately understood when Golding approached her.

He was furious. Not in the dopey frustrated kind of way that she was used to, but the kind any pegasus would recognize. He snarled as he approached, his wings flared behind him, and his fists were clenched tight. There was an energy around them that meant his unique signature was ready to explode at the slightest provocation. She’d screwed up.

Golding stopped just short, towering above her.

“...I’m sorry,” Scootaloo said. “I got scared and ran off. I shouldn’t ‘ave done that.”

“...Never, ever do that again,” Golding hissed. His voice was only just above a whisper, but the rage in his tone couldn’t have made it more louder. “Keep with the group, unless told otherwise. It’s safer for you and the ones who end up chasing after you.”

“I understand,” Scootaloo replied.

“...As long as you do.” Golding held onto his anger for a moment longer before he released it with a weary sigh. He turned on his heel. “Let’s keep going.”

Half-committal affirmatives rang out amongst the group. Scootaloo fell in line with the rest, Golding at the front. Salinger and Bradbury came up next to her.

Bradbury laid a hand on her shoulder. “Glad you’re okay, buddy.”

Scootaloo nodded.

“I hope this will serve as a lesson that should you become overwhelmed again, you would at least let us know before running off,” Salinger remarked. “We’re mostly a gaggle of idiots, but hopefully there is one person here you trust enough to talk to.”

“Hope you include yerself in that gaggle, ya knob,” Scootaloo shot back.

Bradbury cackled as Salinger grumbled about ungrateful brats.

Scootaloo smiled.

“...London, what is that?” Golding asked.

“What do ya mean ‘what is that’?!” Scootaloo said. “How am I supposed to know?!”

“This Trauma is supposed to be connected to you, so… I don’t know,” Golding said. “Is there some part of your past that would bring this thing to your Trauma?” He gestured at the Deviant before them.

The Deviant in question was a metal sheet that took up the entirety of the wall embedded with a hodgepodge of nonsensical pipes, buttons, and lights whose only purpose seemed to be to make noise. It had a massive mouth of sharp, jagged metal teeth that chomped at regular intervals. Whenever it opened its mouth, Scootaloo could see the interior of a stomach leaking some oily black substance onto the floor that hissed as it dissolved the metal flooring underneath.

Those smaller machines they had been destroying earlier delivered the corpses of both people and small animals into the mouth. They would be heaped into corners of the abomination, where they would then be slowly broken down by the dripping black liquid. Occasionally, one of the smaller Deviants would be caught by the mouth and devoured just like the rest.

Pointless. Utterly pointless. Scootaloo knew machines, and this machine worked for the sake of working. Was fed for the sake of feeding, without any end product to be made. The bloody thing just sat there puffing out more smog as its little minions scavenged food for it to continue uselessly chugging away.

And when she thought about it like that, she had a few guesses as to what parts of her subconscious might have attracted a monstrosity like this.

“Wow, gross,” Wilde remarked. “We should absolutely kill it.”

“Yeah, smash its stupid face in!” Poe added, tapping his bat on his shoulder.

“It may be more prudent to avoid it,” Hinton said.

“And let those nasty little spider machines chase after us all the way? No thanks,” Shelley said.

“Yeah, but we can’t let ourselves get exhausted from useless fights and I’m not sure how we’d even be able to beat it,” Grahame said.

“Ah! Truly a conundrum befitting an intrepid and dangerous adventure!” Verhoeven added.

“I won’t be much help for this,” Andersen remarked. “I don’t think punching that thing would be wise.”

“I for one would be happy to have you as far away from the front as possible, darling.” Shelley tossed her hair back.

“Wow, priss.” Poe sneered.

“Excuse me?!” Shelley exclaimed.

“Ya heard—”

Scootaloo tuned out the conversation as it descended into insults and arguing. Even if she’d resolved to listen to and lean on this group more, they were still a bunch of morons. Instead, she surveyed the Deviant.

It was a giant metal wall, but it was also a machine and, as stated, Scootaloo knew machines. A switch was most likely off the table, but a power source was not. Those smaller machines were definitely feeding something to keep it powered on, and no deviation from the natural laws of physics was gonna change that.

She squinted as she looked closer at the interior of the Deviant’s maw. There was something inside. It looked like a heart. If someone could keep the mouth open, she might be able to cut it open with her knives.

Scootaloo yanked on Bradbury’s and Salinger’s sleeves. They both regarded her in surprise.

“Ya think you two might be able to keep that thing’s mouth open for like a minute?” She asked.

“Yeah, definitely!” Bradbury said with a wide grin.

“There is a high chance of success with the two of us,” Salinger added, his tone apprehensive. “Though, I am worried about what you have in mind.”

“Don’t be. I got a plan, and it requires you both to do that,” Scootaloo said. “While you keep its mouth open, I’m going in and stabbing the thing it's stupid heart.”

“Ooh, okay!” Bradbury replied.

“Rather risky, but if you think it’ll work, it's worth a try,” Salinger said.

“...I’d thought you’d at least be more against this, Salinger.”

“I had just told you to rely on us more. It would be hypocritical to go back on something I told you not an hour prior.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Though, admittedly, I was hoping for more emotional support than anything. Plus, this argument is going to go on for a long while and I’m already sick of it. Shall we?”

Scootaloo nodded, then called out to Golding, “keep the pests off of us!”

“What?!” Golding shouted. Scootaloo, Salinger, and Bradbury charged forward. “London!”

She heard behind her rushed orders from Golding to keep the smaller machines occupied, then tuned it out in favour of focusing on the big abomination before her. One of the smaller machines tried to leap at her, but was shot through its core.

Bradbury and Salinger rushed ahead and, as it opened its mouth, brought their weapons up and used them to keep the toothy orifice wedged open.

“Hurry up!” Salinger shouted.

“Yeah, this thing is heavy!” Bradbury added.

Scootaloo ran inside. She immediately saw the organ from earlier, confirming it was in fact a beating heart held up by a mass of nerves and muscle tissue. She winced as a splotch of that black substance dripped onto her. It was warm crude oil and, from the heat emanating from below her feet, she presumed it was gonna get hotter when she started killing it.

She leaped onto the heart, stabbing it with her knives as handholds. The monstrosity shrieked, a sound similar to a rotating saw through metal. She stabilized her grip, then proceeded to shank the heart over and over with her knives.

The Deviant shook. Oil splattered over her, but she ignored it. With each stab, a little more of the organ gave out until it began to tear itself.

Scrambling onto the top of the heart, she managed to avoid the splash zone when it dropped from its moorings and fell to the floor.

The mechanical monstrosity whirred for a moment more before it stopped.

“That was reckless.”

Golding had entered the creature’s stomach, the rest of the Rail just behind him. There was a mix of emotions on everyone’s face, from concern to awe.

“But good work,” he continued.

Scootaloo grinned.

“And her stunt has opened the way further into the depths.” Verhoeven gestured toward the back of the monster’s maw, where a corridor of flesh lead deeper in. “We have our new course, everyone!”

Hopping off of the dead organ, Scootaloo said, “so, we headin’ in?”

“Yes,” Golding said.

He trudged forward, the rest of the group following suit. Scootaloo waited until Salinger and Bradbury joined before falling in between them.

Author's Note

Deviant L2: Fuel Required.

Call of the Wild IX

“Aunt Holiday, when are mom and dad comin’ home?”

“They’re very busy ponies, Scoots. Just be patient.”

“‘Kay… So by busy—”

“They can’t come back until their survey work is complete. I couldn’t tell ya when that would be.”

“‘Kay… So that would mean—”

“Scootaloo.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine dear, you just— cough cough cough”

“...”

“Gotcha water.”

“Thanks— cough cough cough — sweetie.”

“...”

“...Shouldn’t you see a doctor about that?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s not like I have what… Scootaloo, can you come here for a second, sweetie?”

“Yeah, Aunt Holiday?”

“I actually sent a letter to your parents the other day asking them if they can come back earlier.”

“Wait, really?!”

“Yes, I think it’s been too long and you’re due to see them.”

“Awesome! When do you think they’ll send a reply?!”

“Not for a while. They’re in a very remote location. Though, I’m sure they’ll get the letter within the next— cough cough cough.”

“I’ll get you more water!”

“...”

“You’re such a dear, Scootaloo.”

“...Do you have what Auntie Lofty has?”

“...”

“Aunt Holiday…?”

“Listen to me, Scootaloo. If… if something happens I want you to know—”

“What do you mean? Are you and Lofty—”

“No! No… But if something does happen, make sure to kick up as much of a fuss as possible to get to your parents. They’ll help you.”

“‘Kay, but… I’ll have you and Auntie Lofty still though… right?”

“...”

“Eww! You know I don’t like hugs!”

“Well, too bad missy, you deserve one. Now, listen closely. You are wonderful, Scootaloo. You deserve a good life, and your bast— lovely parents will definitely be there for you. I’m sure of it. I just need you to know that no matter what happens—

“None of it will be your fault.”

Scootaloo kept her arms close to her sides, lest she make the mistake of using the walls for balance. She absolutely did not want to touch any surface of this place unless she had to.

On the upside, the corridors were much wider than that of the prior section. On the downside, the corridors were made of sticky, breathing, metallic flesh. It was like traveling through a beating heart, but without the thumping sound.

The slime itself was a translucent purple and felt like machine lubricant mixed with sweat (an accident, and one not to be repeated). It covered crude metal plating that couldn’t quite hide all the fleshy bits underneath it. Even worse, the corridor was rank. A scent that got worse every time someone touched the slime.

She, Shelley, Sainger, Perault, and Wilde were launching a combined whining assault on our intrepid leader to hurry the group along, but Golding, very unreasonably, wouldn’t do so, because it was unsafe to rush through unknown territory.

Him and his stupid sound logic.

Even worse yet, because gross slime walls weren't enough, Scootaloo was caught up in her own thoughts and reminiscing. Of course, it couldn’t be happy memories. No, it was all the traumatic stuff replaying in her head over and over again without any ability to skip past it.

Long forgotten echoes of her coworker’s screams. The crunch of their bodies as they were ground up by the production lines. The feeling of knowing that her friends’ lives had amounted to no more than a bunch of useless junk.

It was an overwhelming sense of dread that consumed her with every step forward she took into this place. A creeping chill that—

“...Are you okay?”

Scootaloo shook herself out of her revelry and regarded the person that had approached her.

“You’ve been quiet,” Hinton said. “And falling behind the group.”

Not the first person Scootaloo would expect to check in on her.

“...Yeah, I’m fine. Just hate all of… this.” Scootaloo gestured toward the fleshy metallic walls of the corridor.

“Yeah, it's… yeah,” Hinton agreed. “If this is the norm, then I’m not looking forward to when my turn comes around.”

Right, the others. It wasn’t enough that Scootaloo would have to live through her own personal torment, but she would be front row for another eleven of these, tailor-made to each of them. Different locales, different monsters, different pains. In that way, they were all equally screwed.

“At least, you might get to be at the end of the list,” Scootaloo replied.

“...I’m not sure if that’s a good thing,” Hinton said.

“Why not? Ya can put it off for longer.”

“Exactly. I can put it off. Keep it out of my mind until I have to deal with it at which point… the dread will have only built itself up into its own form of trauma,” Hinton intoned in a dull monotone.

“...I didn’t really think ‘bout the waiting,” Scootaloo said.

“We all have to go through our pain. It just hurts how real it has to be compared to most.”

Scootaloo nodded her head in agreement. She definitely would have preferred sitting on a couch and talking through her inner demons instead of literally killing them.

“Yeah, well, at least—” Scootaloo stopped.

The wall behind Hinton bulged.

“At least…?” Hinton asked.

Scootaloo charged past Hinton while drawing her knives. She slashed at the entity that burst from the surface. Something dropped to the ground with a wet plop.

It wiggled.

Then it got shot, leaving behind a smear on the floor.

“...Good catch,” Hinton said. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now, where in Tartarus did—”

Utter bedlam consumed the corridor as strange fleshy limbs burst from the walls. Hands grasped at the passengers, separating them from each other as new flesh grew to block off hallways.

When everything calmed down, Scootaloo cursed her luck, as she ended up with her two least-liked teammates.

“Come back’ere and get smashed, ya punks!” Poe yelled, swinging his bat in a belligerent rage.

“I don’t think your taunts are going to be very effective against that Deviant,” Grahame remarked. She regarded Scootaloo with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Scootaloo said. “What—”

A hand of metal and flesh sprung from the wall and grabbed at her head. Grahame intercepted the limb with her shield and bashed it away. Several more limbs formed and began to attack them.

“London, Poe! Stay behind me!” Grahame shouted.

“Screw that!” Poe shouted as he swung his bat and blew up one of the offending limbs.

Scootaloo took the advice and huddled behind Grahame, slicing at anything that got too close with her knives. More and more limbs poured out from the wall. Inevitably, despite Grahame’s efforts, one managed to slip past them both and pull Scootaloo away.

“London!” Grahame exclaimed.

She struggled against the tight grip of the hand. This damsel in distress schtick was—

Smash.

The room spun. Another hand had grabbed the back of her head and slammed her into the floor. Then again. And again. And again. There was a ringing in her ears as blood flowed down her face, obscuring her vision.

“Piss off!” A voice said.

The tone was furious. There was a bang, andthen she was on the ground. She looked up. Through her blurred vision, she saw Poe smash the limbs with his bat, his face twisted in rage, veins popping out of his face and neck. He looked terrifying.

“Ya don’t touch the kid!” Poe shouted, his voice guttural.

Seemingly taking his advice, Scootaloo watched as a long limb wrapped itself around Poe’s head. It squeezed.

Pop.

She was splattered with— she didn’t want to know. She couldn’t— it was too much. It reminded her of— she didn’t want to remember.

“Let me out! Let me out! Please! It hurts, it hurts, IT—”

“-don, London!” Grahame shouted.

Grahame was shaking her, but Scootaloo couldn’t get her body to cooperate. Limbs continued to grasp at them as Grahame tried to fend them off. Poe lay— she couldn’t look at him.

Her mind whirled, screaming at her body to move, to do anything, but it refused.

“...Okay, London. I’m going to make an opening for you.” Grahame stood up. There was a pulse of blue from her brooch. “Please, run when you get the chance.”

The blue grew in intensity. Her usual clothes turned into a blue suit with a collar of dark feathers, her hair done up into a bundle of braids. Oil dripped from her eyes in time to the pulses of the brooch on her chest. Her shield had transformed into a round buckler with an image of a Tears of the Damned imprinted upon it.

She held up the buckler overtop Scootaloo and screamed. A horrid sound filled with grief and loss.

“I am so happy for you to be here in my final moments, Scootaloo. Thank you for being a wonderful friend. All I ask is that, ugh, please stay?”

Hot oil poured from the ceiling, raining down on them. Burning flesh filled Scootaloo’s nose. The Deviant screamed. Grahame continued to scream, reaching a higher pitch as the oil hit her.

She was burning. Grahame was burning and—

“Make it stop! Make it stop! MAKE IT—”

Muffled silence, like being underwater. Only the sound of her heart pounding in her ears was clear. Her vision swam in a murky blur, everything just different coloured smudges through her eyes.

The abomination was still alive. She wasn’t safe. Her protectors were dead. She knew they were dead. They couldn’t possibly be alive. They were gone just like—

“I can’t breathe! Help! Please! I’m burning, I’m—!”

Something sent her careening across the floor, knocking the wind out of her. She gasped for breath as she staggered onto her elbows and knees, shaking. That thing had killed Poe and Grahame. It was still alive.

If it killed her… they couldn’t finish the Trauma. Grahame and Poe would be—

She hated it. It was an uncontrollable gun that fired off at random with no way to aim, but she didn’t have any other options. She was seriously hurt and if the Deviant managed to get in the final blow… it was all over.

The voice screaming inside her, warning her of danger and demanding release. She listened to it, she grasped it.

Scootaloo unleashed it.

Her heart pounded harder in her ears. Power coursed through her limbs then broke them. Snapping and mending them into something stronger. Something to protect her.

They called her a mongrel. They called her feral. They called her nothing.

They were right.

Feral Instinct’s (Scootaloo’s) skin broke out into a mass of black fur. Smog spewed from their (her) maw. Orange light radiated from inside them (her), the heat searing their (her) body from the inside out.

Feral (She) sensed an enemy. Enemies are to be hunted. Enemies must die.

They (She) found it. It was a fleshy mass of limbs. Hot oil had burned through the body of the creature to reveal its inner heart. They (She) must tear it. They (She) must devour it. It cannot be left alive. It must die.

Claws in flesh. Ripping. Spurts of burning blood. Black. Its hurt mattered not. There was an enemy. It must die.

Teeth. It tasted of heat and burning. It was foul. An enemy not to be consumed, merely conquered. They (She) returned to their (her) claws. They (She) ripped it apart, piece by piece.

The thing in the walls was dead. They (She) killed it. They (She) could no longer hear the beating of its foul-tasting heart.

The burning blood dripped from their (her) mouth.

Scootaloo demanded control.

Feral didn’t allow it.

They (She) grasped their head. A struggle. Feral demanded control. There were more enemies. They (She) was in danger. They must be eliminated.

The Sad Blue One must be first. He could bind them. The Big Coat Lady with the axe could slice them up. The Hammer Man could smash them. Gunshots were loud and went bang in their (her) chest. Too much danger. Too many ways to die. Scootaloo needed Feral. Feral must be in control.

They were dangerous, but Scootaloo… She…

An echo of words reverberated through her psyche.

A white hospital room. Tears. A gentle caress on her face.

“I hope that even after this, you can still find it within yourself to let people into your life.”

Words written in desperation. An invitation promising what she needed, not what she wanted.

Scootaloo wrested control. She fought dirty in her own mind, biting and scratching. They (She) howled. The fur receded. Their (Her) strength faded.

She (JUST she) collapsed to the ground, saliva dripping from her mouth as she grasped onto her own body with her normal hands, desperately getting air back into her system. Feral flailed inside of her, demanding release. There was danger, it must be eliminated.

Through force of will, she shut it out. Her manifest needed to just… not be here right now. It protected her… but so did the team. She decided to place her trust in them.

She desperately hoped it wasn’t misplaced.

Author's Note

Deviant L2: Its in the Walls.

Call of the Wild X

“T-they— Why?! What did I— How could—”

Thump.

“W-where—? The stacks? Why am I— They really did—”

Thump. Thump.

“I feel sick. Aunt Holiday? Auntie Lofty? Please, I’m scared.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“I-I have— they’re… What is this? … It’s… I’m hurt. No, I can’t—”

Snap.

“W-wait, I’m not in the Haven. I’m in… I don’t want to die.”

Snap. Snap.

“N-no, please, I don’t— Help! Please, help! I-I’m hurt, I—”

Snap. Snap. Snap.

“I need to protect myself. I need to find safety. I need—”

“...”

Growl.

“...I’m here, Scootaloo. I’m here. No one’s gonna hurt you.

“I’ll kill them if they try.”

Scootaloo trudged through the corridors, searching for the rest of her team. She was on high alert, as there was no guarantee that the other Deviant was the only one here, nor that there wasn’t a copy lurking nearby. She was feeling paranoid and nervous on her own. She hated to admit it, but this situation made her—

“London!”

Turning toward the voice, she saw the rest of the Rail appear. It took a lot to stop the flow of overwhelming emotions from bursting from her, but she did. There was no need to show weakness. Not now.

“Glad we found you,” Golding said. “We were starting to get worried.”

“Especially since we can’t keep going without you,” Verhoeven noted. “Would be pointless to traverse a Trauma without the person it belongs to.”

“Really, darling?” Shelley said.

“What I believe he meant—” Salinger glared at Verhoeven “—was that we are glad to see that you are well.”

“Yeah!” Bradbury pumped up a fist. “Now we just need to find Poe and Grahame and we’re off!”

Blood and oil. Their bodies—

“They’re dead,” Scootaloo said, her tone flat. “They protected me from the Deviant that attacked us earlier.”

“What?!” Wilde exclaimed.

“That does make things more difficult for us,” Verhoeven remarked.

“Are you truly incapable of some form of empathy?” Shelley retorted.

“Of course! I just think that being objective will help us more at this time,” Verhoeven answered.

“Oh, I’ll show you—”

“Enough,” Golding cut in. “We’re going to move onward.”

“But—!” Several members started.

“We expected this going in,” Golding continued. “They aren’t gone forever, just until after we complete the Trauma, then Leap will revive them. We keep going.”

There was a begrudging murmur of consent amongst them.

“Then let’s get back to that place.”

“You know where to go?” Scootaloo asked.

“Found the Deviant further in. A Level 2 named ‘Can You Hear the Ticking?’ We wanted to grab you and the others before we took it on.

“Let’s move out.”

“...I think I need to consider therapy after this,” Scootaloo remarked.

“...Might be wise,” Hinton said.

“We didn’t want to say it aloud, buuut yeah,” Wilde added. “Though, I’d think we all need it considering the qualifications we needed to even be here.”

“They might give us a group discount if we all apply together,” Shelley remarked.

“...Or have us immediately committed,” Perault muttered.

“Focus in,” Golding said. “We need everyone together to take this one down.”

Considering the previous Deviants, Scootaloo definitely believed that. The room was floor-to-ceiling clockwork covered by thick glass. Clinks and clanks echoed through the room. A familiar background symphony to Scootaloo’s ears. On the far side of the room was a corridor leading deeper into the Trauma. A thick forest of belching smoke stacks shrouded the area with a black smog.

In their way was the Deviant Golding had mentioned. A humanoid-like robot of clockwork with four arms, holding long serrated swords in the shape of clock hands. Red fluid leaked from its body and over its exposed mechanical organs, providing lubricant. A single red eye peered from its head at them, tracking their every move.

It waited, probably wanting us to make the first move. Which was unfortunate, as it made it difficult to discern what abilities it may have, even if Scootaloo was certain about what exactly this abomination was attempting to emulate.

“So, what’s the plan?” Scotoaloo asked.

“We’ll have Andersen, Bradbury, Perault and Wilde keep the Deviant distracted from up close while the rest of us chip away at it from afar,” Golding said. “Since we don’t know what it might be hiding, we’ll stay cautious and adapt as needed.”

“Best chance we got,” Scootaloo said.

“Then, leeet’s—” Bradbury charged forward, axe swung back “—go!”

Bradbury swung her axe forward, aiming for Ticking’s neck. An arm intercepted the blow as a second followed to swing at Bradbury’s neck. Andersen punched the offending arm at the joint with an uppercut, then swung at the Deviant’s chest, knocking it backward.

Perault charged in, aiming his sickle to cut through one of the arms at the shoulder. The abomination parried the blow just as Wilde leaped onto its shoulders. She raised her swords to strike through the creature’s chest.

Two arms tried to slice through her legs. She jumped off. Bradbury took another swing, the others backing up her assault.

They continued for several minutes, the rest waiting for their moment.

Ticking became unbalanced.

“Now!” Golding shouted.

The rest of the team charged in, weapons at the ready.

Screech.

Loud noises began to emanate from Ticking as sparks shot off, red fluid flowed more freely along its internal workings, and its mechanisms whirred into high gear. After a moment, new arms burst out of the back of the Deviant, all armed with weapons.

One arm thrust toward Hinton. Salinger smashed it with his hammer as Hinton fired a bullet into one of the abomination’s shoulders, causing the arm to fall off.

Another sliced at a surprised Shelley, who was protected by timely shots from Verhoeven.

Two others launched themselves at Scootaloo. Cables wrapped around the arms, pulled tight, and then away from Scootaloo. Golding held tight on one end of the whips, an anxious look on his face. Scootaloo raced forward and cut further along the limbs, letting them drop to the ground with a thud.

“Pair up and stay together!” Golding commanded.

But it was too late to recover.

More and more arms began to sprout from the Deviant’s back, increasingly overwhelming the group even as they tried to push back. Exhaustion was already taking its toll, and mistakes were being paid in flesh.

Wounds piled on. Scootaloo could feel panic begin to settle in, her heart pounding in her ears. They were in a battle of attrition and barreling toward an inevitable conclusion. For each limb they cut off, two more replaced it. The Deviant was an infinite limb factory, constantly doubling down on its numerical advantage.

They were reaching their limits. Scootaloo could see the future corpses. Her teammates spread out in pools of blood. She couldn’t lose everyone again. She couldn’t—

A gentle hand laid on her shoulder.

“Make it to the end,” Verhoeven whispered into her ear. Then louder, “Wilde, I need you to use the Queen and claim its head! That is, presuming you don’t mind going out in a blaze of glory?!”

“Oh, you sweet talker!” Wilde called back, lobbing off another of Ticking’s arms. “You know just what to say to make a lady happy! Of course!”

“Then we commence!” Verhoeven said, a manic gleam in his eyes.

Wilde backed out of close quarters. She became enshrouded by a haze of red. Her eyes took on a crimson gleam made brighter by her ruby lips and white powdered face. Lace and cloth formed a tight-fitting dress reminiscent of royalty on her figure. Her rapiers transformed into blood-stained blades engraved with flowers and gemstones.

She smiled at the Deviant. It was like a predator greeting its eventual prey.

“Off with its head!” Wilde cried out as she sliced her throat with her thumb.

A red band formed around the Deviant’s neck, pulling itself tight. The monster appeared unfazed.

Verhoeven tucked his pistols back into their holsters, pulled out a syringe from the interior of his coat, and plunged it into his neck. He grinned. The abomination thrust toward Verhoeven’s chest.

He let it.

The blades ran clean through. Blood gushed from the open wound. Verhoeven cackled.

“Ah, the wonders of pure adrenaline!” Blood trickled from his mouth as he continued to laugh. “Well-suited for purposes such as these!”

He pushed forward, feeding the weapons through his body. He moved closer and closer until he was next to the creature’s chest. Gripping the edges of a metal plate around its neck, he pulled.

Veins popped out along his neck as the Deviant plunged more swords into his body. Exertion and persistence eventually bore fruit; a loud tearing sound echoed through the room.

“Now, Wilde!” Verhoeven shouted. “Your coup de grace!”

“With pleasure!” Wilde called back.

She vanished in a red mist, then reappeared above Ticking, her swords both raised to thrust downward. She plunged them through the exposed panel. There was a shriek as metal ground against metal, then stopped.

Ticking jerked in place. Once. twice. Light enveloped the Deviant, along with Wilde and Verhoeven.

Boom.

Only streak marks remained.

The team looked at the spot in shock.

“...It appears Verhoeven figured out the meaning behind the Deviant’s name,” Hinton remarked.

Two more were dead. They were down by four members now. There was still more to this Trauma. An unknowable end that was still not in sight. She was—

“We need to keep moving.”

Scootaloo snapped out of her spiral. She turned to Golding. She was about to lay into them for his callousness, then noticed his fists were tightly clenched at his side. As the others began to argue, she looked at things from a different angle. It hurt, but it was temporary. Once they got through the Trauma, they would be back. She needed to act accordingly.

She walked toward the entrance to the forest of smoke stacks. She heard a hush come over the group. She turned around to look at the concerned faces of her team.

“You comin’?” She asked.

Reluctantly, they followed her into the woods.

Call of the Wild XI

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Sniffle.

“Please answer.”

Ring. Ri— Click

“Mom! Dad! I need you—”

“This is Snap and Mane! We are currently on an expedition to discover a lost civilization and can’t reach the phone. Leave us a message after the tone!”

Beep.

“O-oh! Um, it’s Scootaloo. S-something bad happened to Aunt Holiday a-and, I’m sorry, I know you’re busy and I keep calling, b-but I need you here because they’re gonna—”

Click.

“...I’ll call again.”

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Sniffle.

Everytime Scootaloo thought this Trauma couldn’t get creepier, it did. The stacks spewed constant smog that hid the edges of their traversal, obscuring what might be lurking in the depths of the stacks. Growls and snarls emanated from the shadows between like large animals pacing along the outside of their reach. They were being hunted, Scootaloo could tell that much, but by what was still very unclear.

She tried to outwardly appear collected, but internally she was freaking out. The constant assault by Deviants was wearing down on her. It was inevitable that another would appear, but it being the last or the first of another deluge of them was unknowable. She just knew for certain that at the end of this, there would be a god limb and some monster protecting it. Plus there was the whole gaining-closure aspect that she would have to go through, and that somehow terrified her even more than the monsters since she had no idea what that would even look like.

It didn’t help that she could see the exhaustion that tugged away at all of them. That burden of wounds and tiredness that steadily slowed their pace and frayed already-rattled nerves. Grit and stubbornness kept most of them on their feet, but eventually that would give out too. However, if they could survive just a bit longer, push just a bit more, they’d make it.

Scootaloo knew that was already a lot to ask for at this stage.

“This reminds me of my last day at the convent.”

Scootaloo looked askance at Andersen. “With the Cult of the Sun, right?”

He nodded. Others in the background twisted their faces into varying levels of disgust. Certainly not a beloved group in the modern world.

“I had just forsaken my beliefs and felt very lost,” Andersen continued.

“Why did you even do that?” Scootaloo replied, not really in the mood to discuss someone else’s problems, but needing the noise to soothe her nerves. “Finally saw what a fraud they all were?”

“They aren’t frauds,” Andersen replied.

“They worship a god—”

“Who exists. My final meeting with the One Who Carries the Sun was what caused me to eventually spurn their teachings.”

“You met them? Isn’t the whole point that a god is—” Scootaloo waved a hand about.

“Our worship is very much direct and, besides that, we’re literally hunting down the pieces of a dead god.” Andersen shook his head. “No, it was because I lost Triton.”

“Who is…?”

“My ex-husband.”

There was a long pause.

“You were married?!” Shelley exclaimed. “Wait, no, you’re—”

“A sexuality I have zero interest in disclosing, thank you,” Andersen interrupted. “And the ‘ex’ was unwilling on both our parts. ‘Widower’ is a more appropriate word.”

“So, he died?” Scootaloo asked.

“Due to a mandate of the Cult. It was what started my crisis of faith. It reminds me of our current situation.”

“...How?” Hinton asked.

“The day I left the covenant, I had taken to wandering the Burn Out with the hopes that I would eventually die through some means. I was unwilling to do it myself.” Andersen smiled. It felt warm despite the words he said. “That was until I was offered an opportunity.”

“The Rail?” Scootaloo offered.

He nodded. “I’m surrounded by those that have a grief similar to, if not more than, my own. It’s comforting to see us all push forward in spite of it, to resolve our problems regardless of the pain they cause us. It gives me hope that, regardless of what we go through, we’ll make it out.”

Though odd, Scootaloo found Andersen’s speech somewhat inspiring. It did mean a lot to be surrounded by those who’d fallen to the bottom of the barrel and desperately climbed along with you. To push through the grief and self-loathing to find some ray of hope at the end of it all.

She felt lighter, a subtle warmth spreading through her body at the thought.

“Wow, Andersen. That was—” Scootaloo started.

“Additionally.” Andersen clenched his hand into a fist. “I also spent most of my time bare-handed fighting monsters much like now.”

“Wait, what?” Scootaloo exclaimed.

Andersen lunged forward, swinging his fist up. It connected squarely with the bottom jaw of a monster that had just leaped out from between the smokestacks at Scootaloo.

“It’s about time they made their move.” Andersen continued to smile as oil splattered his face. “I’m glad that I finally have the opportunity to deal with the situation.”

The situation in question was best described as a mechanical wolf. Its fur was sharp sheet metal, its teeth drills, with two pools of leaking black oil serving as its eyes. More of that same liquid leaked from the wound Andersen had inflicted it with as it crumpled to the ground, hopefully dead.

Scootaloo drew her knives and took a step forward. Andersen blocked her advance with a hand.

“Stay behind me,” Andersen said.

Growls that had been in the background came to the forefront as more of the same wolves stalked out of the depths. They appeared in droves, teeth grit and furious black eyes leveled at them.

“O-oh dear,” Shelley said nervously.

“Hinton, Salinger! Use your aberrations!” Golding commanded.

There were two bursts of coloured light. Then they were swallowed by the pack.

It was an ocean, waves of metal and teeth. Scootaloo was adrift with only Andersen at her side. They fought together, knife and fist. The sea snapped back, biting and snarling and snapping at them. They undulated and dove onto them, sheet metal scraping against skin and drawing blood.

This was the worst match up for Andersen.

After what felt like only minutes, Andersen was a mass of scars. Cuts and gouges grazed his flesh, his hands having suffered the most and become two burning spheres of red that smashed through the sea despite how much it must hurt him.

Still, they fought to stay afloat, fighting back the natural course of the tide. Andersen had a wild, deranged look on his face. Something akin to hopeful desperation.

Scootaloo wondered if he was thinking about Triton at that moment. That he refused to lose someone else to a monster, unwilling to live through the devastation that would once more wrack his mind. It was the only reason Scootaloo could come up with as he fought as monstrously as those that assailed them.

She felt her concentration slip. Too late to refocus. One of the wolves had lunged for her throat.

Then she was on the ground. Andersen was overtop of her, shielding her with his body. The wolves piled onto him, the ocean drowning him in waves of steel. Flecks of red dripped onto her. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she looked up into his face. Almost serene, despite the horror of being buried by the depths.

Butterflies swarmed the pack.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The Deviants dropped. The ocean parted. Holes in the heads of corpses where the butterflies had touched. Hinton came into view, dressed in grey, her hair taken up by white butterflies. A long pistol engraved with flowers was held up in one hand.

“We need to move!” Hinton shouted.

“Got it!” Scootaloo called back, then quieter, “okay, Andersen. Get off. You’re heavy.”

No response.

“Not funny, Andersen.” She shook him. “We gotta—”

He collapsed on top of her, unmoving. She saw his back. It was— she couldn’t resolve— it was so red —too much. His chest— he wasn’t— No more.

Perault pulled Andersen off of her, rolling the body to the side. She noticed that one of Perault’s arms were— Her vision swam, blurring with tears.

“...We gotta keep movin’,” Perault said softly.

She didn’t even know how she had heard him, just that he was offering her his undamaged hand and that she needed to go. She took it. Perault dragged her to her feet.

The rest of the team appeared then, much worse for wear. Salinger had changed to reflect his Aberration. He was dressed in this ridiculous feather jacket of too many colours and adorned with far too much jewelry. At any other time, she would have laughed.

“Golding, what do we do?!” Shelley shrieked.

“We need a plan!” Salinger shouted over the snarling wolves.

“Soon please!” Bradbury called out.

“I-I don’t—!” Golding said.

“Run!” Hinton shouted.

“Hinton?!”

“We’re gonna get overwhelmed. I’ll hold them off so you can get away,” Hinton declared.

“We’re already overwhelmed!” Shelley cried.

“We can’t leave—!” Scootaloo started.

“I’m not giving you the option!” Hinton interrupted. “Move!”

Hinton swept her hand at the wolves. Swarms of butterflies enveloped them as they all lunged as one toward Hinton. Scootaloo never saw the aftermath, as Perault had roughly pulled her with the group as they charged deeper into the Trauma.

Bang. Bang. Ba—

She could only hear the wolves.

Only six were left.

Author's Note

Deviant L2: What Stalks the Woods.

Call of the Wild I

“I didn’t have a choice. I woulda died in there! He had it comin’.”

“Course he did. Owns a factory here, don’t he? But the red coats won’t see it that way.”

“T-they wouldn’t—”

“What, kill ya? Nah, they won’t. They’ll do worse. They’ll make you do all the jobs that kill ya slowly instead of right away. You’ll wish you died in that thing before long.”

“No… No! Pip, please, I can’t—”

“Slow it down, Scoots. I didn’t say it was a sure thing, did I? Ya want out? Don’t get caught. Not until you get yourself into a position they can’t touch.”

“I’m just some urchin git on the streets! I haven’t been part of a Haven in forever. I got nothin’.”

“You ain’t got nothin’. Ya got me and that’s worth more than some wishy-washy Haven. Listen here, Scoots, I’ll give ya a choice.”

“And what’s that?”

“There’s a train. It needs particular passengers and you fit the bill. I give you a ticket and you’re on board with a bigwig the red coats can’t touch.”

“... That ain’t a choice, Pip. That’s just you tellin’ me what to do.”

“And you’re gonna take it, cuz you’re desperate and your other two options are to do yourself in or let the red coats do what they want with ya.”

“I-I could… there’s… I don’t have any other options.”

“No, ya don’t, but hey! There’s a swanky deal comes with being on this train. Do what the conductor tells ya and ya get one free wish granted.”

“Wish? Pip, you been sniffing Tartarus fumes?”

“Look, just read this here invitation. It’ll tell you what you wanna know.”

“... This sounds too good to be true.”

“Cept it is true, and your only literal ticket outta here. You signin’ on?”

“Like I have a choice.”

“Not true. I told you your other choices, and, personally, I’d be offing myself instead of dealin’ with this mess, but hey! You won’t have to worry ‘bout dyin’ soon enough since you won’t even have that out once you get onboard.”

“Ain’t that a good thing?”

“Spoken like a kid.”

“Like you ain’t a kid too, ya git.”

“And spoken like someone who don’t know nothin’. Look, we ain’t got time to waffle on this. Red coats are gonna be here soon, and ya need to be gone long before that. You goin’ or ya stayin’?”

“... I’m goin’.”

“Then I’ll getcha outta this place. Follow close and don’t sidetrack ‘less you wanna get left behind. Oh, and make sure to introduce yourself as London when ya board.”

“What kind of name is London?”

“The kind of name for a mongrel that’s lost all its domestication and become nothing but a beast.”

“That’s feral, Pip. Even I know that!”

“No, it’s you, ya mutt. Now come on. We gotta scram. Like I said before, stay close or the red coats will getcha and they’ll have no problem treating you like the mongrel you are, Scoots.”