I'm Starry, nice to meet you! I've never written an Animal Crossing story before, so as you can see... I'm really excited. X3 So! Welcome to Divided we Fall but United we Rise (Or DFUR (dee-fur) because that's not a mouthful) whose main character, one of well, many, stars a weirdo I named Lyla.
(OC forums at the bottom of the chapter~!)

So without further ado...

Trains Lead to Adventure

Badumm-badumm; badumm-badumm; badumm-badumm; badummmmm...

The train always sounds so giddy to him.

Beneath the soles of his particularly thick shoes, the rattling of the engine and the patter-patter of motion has always rather interested him. It's a groovy little beat, something he could listen to for a long time, that being if he had the patience to sit so still for once.

A hand pops from one side, a nicely-tanned but not-too-toasty sort of tan, this tracing the minty green rim of his glasses. Not on his face: specifically, they're reading glasses, around his neck until they're absolutely needed. His checkered jacket, unbuttoned and matching—his favorite, turquoise and brown—splutters with the wind of the train whizzing by around him. His feet tap, somewhat nervously, upon wood.

Dull brown eyes pick across the seat behind him—he's standing, one hand on the rail—yes, he's cool like that—managing slowly their scrawl across faces. Blows a stray brown wave of curl from his eyes. There's happy faces, there's sad faces. There's sleeping faces specked in drool: his favorite. They make him laugh. Most of these faces have this habit on them called, well, fur; sometimes scales or mushy fins or something moist and amphibian-y like a frog.

But today there's a nicely pale-face sitting aside from the others. Checkered in dirt. Thrumming with the beat on the window of the train. A human—and there aren't many humans around here.

His large hand raises, waves over in a form of apology for the driver—they all know him—as he sidesteps from one part of wooden train to another, and in a silky five seconds stoops and plops himself into the seating in front of her. He's facing back; more or less she's facing the front. Two bobs of hair separate using the careful assessment of hair bands: they're fuzzy and sparkly but her hair is thick of chocolate curls. Aquamarine eyes—now that's a color. He likes that color, too.

The seating squishes around his figure like how it's sucked in hers. Gently he snaps a hand into the table, just in that right sweet spot where the wood peeled away somewhere on the inside, squishy but hollow: attracting her attention without that noise.

He practically owns the trains.

Sighting his display of kingly comfort, the driver snorts around his muzzle, and he cracks a grin.

It's been almost... ten years, now, since he graduated high school and began his life along the trains. He's gotten his network assessed and planned out since the beginning: everyone knows him, he knows everyone, and he's learned the rails enough to make quite the decent living. If anything, he is the king of the rails. Literally.

This girl, on the other hand... Her shifting eyes alight in sight of some guy in front of her, some older guy she doesn't know. But man, she's not living at all.

If he took a gander, she'd have to be at least... two years out. Twenty—no. Four, tops. Twenty to twenty-two. Has to be. The stiff, crumpled dress resting about her body, simple white, fuzzy at the collar, has begun to show signs of wear. Other than the grime of course. That dress, he notices as modestly as he can, is nearly too small for her—hairlines of fabric from fitting.

Just as ill-fitting as her clothes is the life on the trains for this poor thing. He can't help but pity her—but a snap and a shake of the head, and it's time to work his magic.

He asks the girl her name, and with a yawn pops her response. Rustling bangs shift around her forehead with that lolling head of hers, smushed into the glass. He tries to be polite asking about her age—girls are weird like that.

Decent twenty-two.

Oh, he knew it.

Like marbles his gaze scatters across the entirety of the train car, of the faces of fur and fins surrounding. One of them, bleach white, a thick black nose in the midst of misty eyes, snorts toward him; a blue kitty by his side offers a wild grin. He winks back.

There are other too, hidden between the lines of the seats. Some most possibly could be in worse states than this girl—than this little Lyla here, only four or so years out of high school.

That's okay.

Turning himself back to small Lyla, he asks again, cloaking his words in his modesty, about what she's been doing here on the trains, how she's been faring.

In a just-as-modest retort in return, she attempts to deny all of her struggles of four years. Her hands, empty and tucked together, deny the lack of resources and deny the fact that her cheeks coat like makeup in weeks of grime—months, maybe, in the places behind her ears. She's seen better days, she mentions that, but she shrugs and refuses much else.

A stubborn one. Stubborn girls... he knows stubborn girls.

And he knows just how badly Lyla begs for his help, so he goes on.

Any siblings? Oh one. Parents? Yeah, my old man and old lady... somewhere back home. He awkwardly manages to word out the last time she's sent them a letter without seeming impolite—oh, it's been awhile. Awhile? Yes, awhile; letters aren't cheap and nor are my thoughts on them. Or whatever that means.

It's a risk, but he takes it. Maybe a little too early, but Lyla here looks tired and it'll probably slip anyways.

Quietly—so may I ask where you're going?

Oh, I don't know. Wherever the rails take me, I guess. A soft laugh.

He nods quietly, yeah, yeah, we all get that sometimes. Leads her away from the conversation a little, comforts her again—but it's palpable how easily he snuck that question by.

Stubborn girls—stubborn girls...

He asks her about her friends back at home; oh, but she never had much back then, her school was small and her friends probably don't remember her. Like her family? Yeah, maybe, she supposes. Somehow he knew Lyla's answer would be that casual, that melancholic. Detached from the "good old days."

So Lyla—here it comes—have you ever been to a place called Wherford?

She stiffens, knows what's coming. Darn those stubborn girls. He thinks about going back to subtle comfort in snide conversation, but her face is red beneath the dirt, so he'd better just move on.

Correcting himself, he softly tells her this is the place his friend lives in—name's Freya, you probably know her as much as you know me. But the thought of someone else gives a nod to Lyla's round head; he silently praises himself for another good one. She likes Freya, keeps listening. He tells her about other people, too. Freya's best friend and the best friend's best friend.

Lyla, nodding, mumbles, oh, I don't know. Maybe I'll go there sometime—I don't know.

He has to coax her into the thought of moving there: his head reels about what to ask, what to comfort her—ah. His gaze catches that cat and that dog in the corner again.

The golden in their gazes suggests he'd better keep going.

Rude. Do they want this more than him? A snort. Shake of the head.

So he asks her what kinds of animals she likes. They live everywhere as it is. And Lyla stops and she ponders this, and she mentions that frogs are fun people, but a little slimy she supposes. And dogs are sweet, she likes dogs; yeah, great, he likes dogs too. Oh, but she rather doesn't like cats—good, Freya's not one. Smirk in the corner of his eye: a modest one...

Head raised toward feathery clouds out the window, she mentions, just in passing, oh, yeah, birds, too. She likes birds a whole lot.

He asks her why. Remembers something in the back of his head.

Oh, they're beautiful, birds. No matter what, they always are, right? Sometimes you really can't tell with a bird, who they are, but their wings are pretty and their dances in the sky... they're just beautiful. She's adamant on this. Birds can do the worst things to people and still win your heart over, just because they're birds.

So quietly he smiles. She's smiling too, laughing a bit, sun on her chin.

And so, he asks her if she'd like to move to Wherford.

"Yeah, I think I will."

Her voice is a little soft, but that's mostly from the regular fogginess in her gaze, in the aquamarine eyes he thinks are pretty cool. She's bright, a little blustery sometimes. Chill. Strangely chill, making her seem like she's always forgetting something. Maybe she is.

The train subtly shifts beneath their feet. Gently, gently, they pass more rolling hills and soft plains speckled in daisies, innocent white daisies in specifics. They near the tunnel, and out they pop toward the town. It's a little spooky, little foggy, rainclouds overhead.

Kshhhhh...

Lyla's the only one to get off at Wherford, but that doesn't stop her from leaving. When she scuttles away, he notes that she goes barefoot, and judging by the scrapes, she won't be as soon as she can. He offers her good-luck, and good-bye, Lyla, and it's not until the moment he's gone that she steps off toward the gate she realizes:

"I forgot to ask him his name... I must seem like the rudest person out there, oh my goodness..."

So, yeah, meet Lyla! Maybe we'll see more of her mystery friend, too~