For once, I would advice reading this. Here begins a mini-series lovingly titled "Clay" by Bragi151. I'm pretty sure 'Train Song' pissed Bragi151 off, despite his claim that he loves angst, as he then told me that he was going to write a follow-up to the story to resolve it. He tossed around a couple ideas that eventually ended up becoming the bare bones of "Clay". Around that time, I got my first Laura Marling CD from my older sister and was hopelessly hooked. I immediately started looking for scenarios for her music in RttB, but all I could think of is how well 'Clay' and 'Alas, I Cannot Swim' meshed in my mind. So, I begged Bragi for permission to write 'Clay' myself as a birthday present and he generously granted me his idea and his title. 'Clay' will span about thirteen chapters and resolve 'Train Song'. I made the decision to spin this off out of Running to the Beat because it was a much more intertwined universe than my usual half-assed "one shots". Much love from me to Laura Marling for the inspiration and Bragi for everything else. If you want to show your love, pick up her CD or PM Bragi with your own reviews of the overall storyline, thanks for all his hard work, or just some love for being so goddam awesome.

Train Song

Sena was born and bred Japanese; that was an indisputable fact. Which was why, despite the fact that he usually jogged to get to where he wanted to go, he still knew how to navigate Japan's train system with ease, he decided.

Sena was standing in the entryway of one such train, gazing out the window in a trance-like state, half meditating on the oddity of his knowledge, half wondering just what he was doing on said train. He couldn't bring himself to care too deeply about why he was on the train; however, for his body felt too lax, loose, like he hadn't a care in the world.

Gazing out the window, for that matter, might have been a bit of misnomer, considering the landscape beyond the wide windows – or lack thereof – was pitch-black. It might have been better to say Sena was watching what he could see of his reflection being cast in harsh relief by the glaring florescent lights behind him.

As for the other half of Sena's concentration, well, he remembered promising to visit Juumonji-kun at Saikyodai, so that must be why he was on the train, mustn't it…? But, no, Sena realized, and glanced down at his shoulder. How could he be visiting Juumonji-kun without his duffle-bag? It had his change of clothes, his gear in case Hiruma-san actually let him practice with them, his homework that he'd been planning to do over the long weekend. Did he lose it somewhere?

A little disturbed at his lack of memory, Sena pressed hard. Where had he put his bag? When he had boarded the train, he had… No, that couldn't be right. When he had boarded the train, it had been early afternoon, and it had been pretty full. Not packed, but still, standing room only.

Frustrated with the time lapse and with the lack of weight on his shoulder, Sena felt compelled to investigate. Resolutely, he tore his gaze away from his reflection, though he still couldn't drag his eyes away from the door. He gritted his teeth in what was quickly becoming irritation at his uncooperative body. Sena tightened his grip on the hand bar he'd been clutching above him, and put as much energy as he could muster into turning around.

The train was empty. Sena gaped at the sight. Like what he was beginning to think of as 'his' window, all the others offered no view to the outside world, only resounding blackness. The florescent lights that had made a black mirror for him in his window barely shed enough harsh light to illuminate the car, and left dark pools and faded corners of shadow.

Sena frowned, and again checked his grip above his head. Where had everyone gone? He was pretty sure the train hadn't stopped yet; he thought he could feel the motion of the car beneath his feet. Still, people be damned, where was his bag?

With a frown of determination, Sena scanned the car a second time, making sure to let his eyes linger under the shaded seats. Then, upon seeing no bag, looked up. Perhaps there was an overhead compartment? No, not there either.

Sena couldn't explain why, but he was now burning with determination to find his damned duffle-bag.

Still, for some reason, Sena just didn't want to – no – it wasn't that he didn't want to move from where he was standing, it was that when he tried to turn around, he just couldn't.

This was rapidly starting to piss Sena off. It felt like his body was leaden, like every movement was weighted, like he was trying to walk accross the bottom of the ocean. Sena wasn't used to his body not listening to him; he was used to it complaining viciously, to it begging for rest, but in the end, his muscles always responded to him. Always.

Well, fuck this. He had to find his bag, damn it! Resolutely, Sena took a step forward and almost knocked himself out. While he did manage to move, he had forgotten to move his hand still attached to the bar above him, and almost swung around and knocked himself out on the vertical bar in front of him.

He chuckled nervously at his carelessness. But still, for some reason, it seemed like a worse idea to remove his hand from the slowly warming metal. Compromising, Sena slowly started stepping down the empty aisles, but slid his hand along the stainless-steel. In order to stay as close to the bar as possible, Sena felt his legs brushing against the hard, cheap plastic seats, thinly upholstered – if one could call the travesty of horrible, furry patterned plastic upholstery – but paid them no mind, even as his heart started thumping ever louder when he childishly wondered if something more monstrous than the color combinations would reach from under the darkness of and drag him to some alternate dimension to be devoured.

Still Sena marched on. Where was his duffle-bag? He kept his eyes firmly on the door that would lead him to the next carriage, and his hand firmly attached to the bar above him. He walked, passing countless black windows and endless stretches of plastic chairs, and he walked some more.

Slowly, Sena realized he should have reached the door by now. He paused, and looked behind him uncertainly, wonder how far he had gotten. To his utter shock, he couldn't even see 'his' window anymore. Just a long, shadowed tube of carriage and plastic and black glass.

Pushing back the urge to hyperventilate, Sena did what he did best. He ran. Sena, careful not to remove his hand, bolted like the hounds of hell were nipping on his heels. He didn't think he had run faster in his last match, nor the first time the mock hell-hound of Hiruma's had chased him. He ran and he ran, but he still couldn't reach the door.

Finally, overwhelmed and pissed off, Sena yelled, "NO!" and stopped in place.

"No, I will not chase this damn door. No, I will not accept the fact that I am not getting any closer; no, I will not accept the fact that I'm lost; and FUCK NO, I will not accept the fact that I cannot have my duffle-bag back, damn it! That had Kazuki's anniversary present in it, GOD DAMN IT!" Sena screamed, refusing to give in. He screwed his eyes shut and bolted forward again, bound and determined to get to the damn door.

"Woah, there, son. Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Struck by the surreality of the situation, Sena tightened his grip on the bar to keep himself from colliding with the voice that had appeared suddenly in an empty train.

"That's right." Sena whispered to himself, his eyes still firmly shut. "I wanted to visit Kazuki Juumonji this weekend, because it's our second anniversary. He asked me out our second year, and even though I left at the end of second year, we maintained our long-distance relationship. It was harder to maintain it when we went off to university than it was to maintain it when we had an ocean between us. This weekend is our anniversary, and it was my turn to visit him. I even bought him the new warm-ups he had been admiring, but said he couldn't justify buying himself. I was taking the train to visit him. This weekend is our anniversary." Sena repeated like a mantra, to ward off the cold that was settling in his heart.

"Son? Open your eyes for me, would ya'?" The warm, old voice requested.

"I don't want to. If I do, it'll be real."

"Now, son, you went this far to wake up, don't be difficult now."

"Please," Sena all but sobbed, "Please, if I do, can I have my bag back?"

"… We'll see what we can do."

"No." Sena was fully sobbing now. "No. I've been stubborn enough to get this far, don't deny me now."

"Open your eyes, Sena Kobayakawa." The voice was no longer kindly, but harsh and guttural. "This has gone on long enough. You couldn't be content waiting for the train to pull into the station, so now you'll have to sleep for the rest of the ride."

"No. Not until Kazuki gets his present."

"Don't be stupid, boy. It was a train that took you away, but a train won't take you home. Open your eyes and forget about your damn bag. You won't need it anyway."

"No. Not until Kazuki gets his present."

The voice let out a hiss of frustration. No, it was too long to be frustration. And there was different sounding hiss answering it. Was the voice talking to the others that made up the 'we' to which it had referred to earlier?

"Damn." The voice muttered.

Suddenly, Sena felt his duffle-bag get shoved into his stomach violently, almost making him lose grip on the bar above him.

"You will ride this train to the end of the line; you will get off when we tell you. In exchange, since you're so extraordinarily difficult, you may give your present to your partner. Curl up around it and do not let go." The voice lectured, somewhere between the kind voice and the cruel voice, causing echoes in Sena's mind that chilled his bones with the frost of fear. "Open your eyes."

And Sena did.

"I hope he's worth it." The voice echoed.

Sena was hit with waves and waves of overwhelming pain.

"He is." He whispered, with a soft smile as he writhed and agony and clutched his duffle. "He always was."

"We've got a live one over here!" A voice cried above him.

Sena gaped for breath like a fish out of water, his lungs trying desperately to draw in oxygen, despite the large, bloody hole in his chest.

"Hey, son, just hold on a little longer," The rescue response man urged above him, and leaned down to get a better look at the chest wound that was blocked by a large duffle-bag.

"Don't bother," The boy whispered, and the man's eyes were drawn up to the boy's horribly disfigured face. He didn't think the poor, sweetly smiling boy would ever be able to see again. "I'm dead. I just borrowed some time to complete one last errand."

The man looked away from the horror of blood burbling and bubbling and dripping from that serene smile. "Don't talk, ok, son? You're only hurting yourself."

"No."

The man froze from the resolution in that one word, and knew this was a battle he was going to lose.

"Please, won't you help me?" Gone was that resolution, and instead, the sweet, hurting boy was begging for help.

"Yes." The man answered helplessly.

"Thank you," Sena sighed. "Please, I need you to give my bag to Kazuki Juumonji at Saikyodai. His address is in my phonebook. Please, please," He whispered. "Please, it was supposed to be our anniversary. Please."

The man's eyes filled with tears, unable to say no, even to such an unusual request, with the boy below him begging with his dying breath.

"Yes." The man answered helplessly.

"Thank you." Sena sighed, for the final time.

Tears ran down the man's cheeks for the unnamed boy, as gently pried away the boys' arms from where he had clutched the bag, turning his eyes from the metal pole that had once been a hand rail in what had once been a train - rather than ruined, twisted, smoking metal mass spanning the tracks - protruding from the boy's chest cavity, and even more carefully retrieved said phone from the dead boy's pocket.

It wasn't until he had delivered the bloodied bag to the tall blond at the address written in the phone, and watched the other boy's heart break in front of his eyes, that he had to go home and sob quietly for the life cut short in front of his eyes.

But Sena knew none of that. All he knew was that he was back on the endless train, back at his door and window, but this time, he could see the gaping hole where the large chunk of flesh had been torn from the area around his eyes by his windows shattered glass. Had he been alive, of course, he wouldn't be able to see such a gruesome sight and he idly wondered if it was that, or his own ignorance had caused him to miss it earlier.

Slowly, gently, the train drew to a stop and Sena knew without looking the voice was back.

"Go on now, son. This is the last stop, and you promised." The voice was again kind.

"Yes," Sena answered steadily.

He dropped his hand from the stainless-steel bar that had anchored him so firmly and exited the train into a blinding white light, a small, serene smile settled upon his lips.