I don't own Numair, and possibly another character.
Chapter 1
The door slid open with a whoosh of air. Numair picked up bags and stepped over the gap between the car and the dimly-lit platform, into the train compartment. He paused for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the bright light inside. A few people were in the cart already: a woman who appearing homeless, wearing many raggedy layers and with several paper shopping bags gathered at her feet, a sallow-skinned teen with several piercings and tattoos, head banging with closed eyes to loud punk rock, a business man with an exhausted air, and a black college student who appeared asleep.
Numair trudged over to a set of empty seats near the back. He opened the overhead cabinet with such force that the college student jerked with the noise. She leaned toward the window and fell asleep. Numair glanced around apologetically and embarrassed. The punk continued to head bang, the business man stared, aghast and the bag lady began to snore. Numair stared at the business man until he uncomfortably cast his eyes down and twitched his head away.
Numair fell into the cushioned seat and propped his feet one the vacant chair in front. He sighed as he thought about his life. Being a professor wasn't so bad, and it paid well. He had knowledge advanced far beyond his years: several of his students at the college where he taught were older than him. He could afford a nice penthouse and the organic food and exotic ingredients he required. But he felt dreadfully unattached. He wandered through his days, through life, in a way that could be described as gazing on a foggy field, a few trees scattered throughout. Mentally, he corrected himself. It was not the feeling obtained from looking on the field, it was the field itself that was his emotion, the true feelings a human felt were the trees; maybe they truly existed, but perhaps they were just a trick of the weak light.
He slipped off his shoes and kicked them under the seat. No one was around to see him. Who cared if he acted like a professional here? Certainly not the bag lady, the punk, the sleeping college student. He tilted his head back and let his eyes flutter shut. After all, his stop was hours away . . .
A crackling of static - perhaps because they were underground this time – shielded the conductor voice from human perception as the train juddered to a gradual halt. The doors slid open and air rushed in to the carriage. Numair say silhouettes and their tall thin shadows step into various compartments, but his remained free of any newcomer. It was, after all, the last on the train. A few guards strolled around the cement platform, their polished shoes tapping out sharp rhythms.
Fast foot beats pounded down the stairs. Slower, heavier ones followed behind. Silhouettes jolted into view. A figure – to judge by the long hair, a woman – was followed by three tall, thick people who were gaining speed. The woman leapt down the last few stairs, landing painfully one her left foot which twisted out from under her. Unhampered – Was there too much at stake? Numair wondered – she jumped up and hobbled as fast as she cold to the train. The two hefty beings caught up when she was just halfway to the train. One roughly grabbed her by her arms and the other began to beat her. Several guards ran over and tried to foil the attackers without hurting the woman. One guard tripped the puncher and, with the help of another guard, dragged him away from the fray. The woman watched this all with large panicked eyes as the remaining attacker twisted her arms farther into a painful pose. She curled out one foot and hit him in the shins. He yelped and grabbed that leg with one arm. She took the opportune moment and swung her hobo bag, hitting him in the back of the head. He let out another yelp and let go, him hands occupied with his injuries.
The train began to move away. By this time, all the members of the cart had their noses pressed against the windows.
The woman ran as fast as she could to the carriage. Numair saw her predicament and leapt out of his seat. He grunted with the effort of trying to open the door. The business man rushed over and, with surprisingly un-business-manlike strength, the two managed to slide open the door.
The woman was clearly in much pain, a cut above her eyebrow bleeding heavily, blinding her, the left ankle swollen to immense proportions. She pumped her arms by her side, trying to catch the train before it left. A square-ish object flew out from the open bag. She heard it fall behind her and craned her head back. For a moment, an eternal moment, she paused, torn between the train and the object.
A feral roar sounded. One of her attackers had broken free from the guards' restraint. He charged over with wild anger. She made her decision and bounded for the train. She took a flying leapt and . . . Numair saw no more. The train had entered the tunnel.
Oooh, cliffie. Is it Daine? Is it Varice? Or someone else entirely? Or maybe this will just be a one-shot.