An old satellite orbited the planet. In the form of a mechanical seahorse with a chrome-colored shell, the scope of its observatory device extended far and wide-reaching; a testament to the might of the hyper-advanced, space-faring human civilization.
Even now, it continued to observe the arid wasteland, watching over the lives of the first colonists' many descendants. As decades passed into centuries, its energy generators had started to fail, forcing it to resort to gradual recharge through inefficient solar panels. Its communication array could hardly maintain a stable line with the surface station too, but its duty remained the same. To observe, keep records, and deliver its findings back to the ones who had launched it to space.
It was a tireless job. A duty with no real deadline.
Until the day its structure collapsed and the planet's gravity pulled it down in a burning death, the century-old satellite diligently and faithfully captured movements in the surface. However, seven months and nineteen days ago, it had detected a unique anomaly. In a certain coordinate, a blueish white sphere appeared from the heart of a dead city, slowly spreading like an oasis that spilled out from deep within the planet's hallowed gut.
The computer onboard of the satellite judged that it was a tiny miracle caused by how the Third City had been destroyed.
[Recovering past data analysis…]
Once upon a time, a rapid twisting of local spacetime fabrics, followed by extraordinary gravitational pressure which ballooned out of control, completely wiped out the Third City from the face of the planet. The burst of energy was similar to the birth of a star, but it could also be likened to a vacuum triggered by the death of one. In any case, its highly erratic nature resulted in the total pulverization of July like throwing a toy ship into a whirlpool. For flesh and blood humans, the pain would be non-existent. At most, only brief glimpses could be seen of the city's last moments before organic matters completely disintegrated.
[Past record retrieved. Identifying observation target as Lost July. Registering new observational record… file name, X3-07A0027. Beginning data comparison…]
Even though the planet designated as No-Man's Land was so very far away from the sol system, the observatory satellite was in possession of classified information all the way up to the early space migration era. Still, the program knew not of the energy emitted by the blueish white sphere which it had found to be slowly covering the Third City.
[No change to local fabrics of space and time detected.] The satellite readjusted its scope pointed straight to the surface. [Confirming no distortion of light particles for the next hundred of miles surrounding the observation target. Atmospheric pressure within acceptable parameter. Gravity force at normal values. Detecting no sign of radioactive waves.]
It judged that the blueish white film blanketing the city to be harmless. However, as of this month, bundles of white began to surface. They roiled like waves influenced by the cycle of moon, bubbled up, receded before roiling again, and eventually formed a dome-like structure which enveloped the crater of a city. Once again, the satellite identified the subject in new light, yet still it found no critical need to alert the surface.
The blueish white sphere that started this so-called "infestation" did not possess radioactive activity, and neither did it have the peculiar "magic" of a Plant.
It was as if something was there, but it also wasn't there. A paradoxical mirage capable of tricking the hyper-advanced optic lens of the old satellite was, perhaps, a completely unknown scientific phenomenon. Normally speaking, it was a cause for celebrations for the humans living on the surface. Thus, the satellite's main computer deduced that the optimal course of action was to keep on recording the results of its observation.
Out of habitual behaviours it had imposed on its program, the computer carried out a diagnostic analysis of the Third City. It began with presenting today's date.
[Stardate 0117, 4th moon, 9th day. 10:49 AM.]
...what came first was a general overview of the layout of the land.
[Checking first heuristic level… cleared.]
...next was the chemical compositions within the grounds.
[Checking second heuristic level… cleared.]
...afterwards came the atmospheric pressure, water moisture, wind speed, etc.
[Checking third heuristic level… cleared.]
...the second to the last check involves a scan of inorganic matters.
[Checking fourth heuristic level… cleared.]
...the final check. Organic matters scan.
[Checking fifth heuristic level… error.]
The satellite detected something. It sensed the heat signature of a living being. Where did the living signature come from?
It shifted to its telescopic lens and maximized the zoom in feature. Like an eagle surveying the earth, it caught him. A man estimated of 27 years. He clad himself in red cloak that billowed in the winds. Portions of his body were riddled with steel parts, likely cybernetic implants and prosthesis. He walked in a stride that never broke, heading straight towards the city's outskirts.
His steps did not falter. Why? Did he not see the state the Third City was now in?
[Beginning query…]
Could it be that the man was blind? No, that was not the movement of a blind and disabled man. He was perfectly well and aware. His brain waves were a little bit different to the normal signatures, but it was still within the parameters. A human species walked alone into the breach, seemingly unaware of the abnormal changes which had been enveloping Lost July and the areas that extended past it.
[Why?]
The computer self-diagnosed itself. It queried, queried, and queried. At the speed of light, untold amount of parameters were calculated and filtered away. It asked itself innumerable questions as many as the grains in the stars above and beyond. So many sequences that would have driven a man crazy. It didn't even notice its own circuits had burned away, flaking and recompiling themselves into something new, something different which couldn't have possibly suit its original specifications.
[Detecting… detected. Reporting…]
As the man disappeared into the white void, the lens of the observatory satellite flashed an eerie crimson glow. Its transformation complete, a letter of a long dead language glitched in and out of its monitor. The symbol of the divine one as proved by ten sacred letters.
[...query.]
In the brink of assimilation by this "error" which had devoured its codes in no less than a microsecond, the last of the old satellite's original program started with an inquiry.
[Who… art thou?]
The migratory bus service had unfortunately dropped him off a few dozen miles away from his destination.
When a city died, the satellite towns around it began to decay and wither away. The first thing those towns faced were the loss of local businesses, things like trading posts which breathed life into the wheels of economy. As lack of revenues worsened to the point not even medical facilities could operate, no bandits would bother targeting these dying towns. The last thing that would die off was the postal service, but it bear repeating that these towns could hardly do much to save themselves.
It was just his luck that this was the last bus service. Only the old and stubborn would insist on sinking into the sand when it came to these ghost towns. The blind elderly living on his lonesome at least seemed to think that way. What a hassle.
"Hmph. I'm not so weak that a youngster needs to crow over me." The old man with a cane stepped away from his rocking chair, hobbling his way to a cupboard. His hand lingered over several cans, but soon he decided on one and opened the lid. A faint aroma of cheap tea wafted in the dry air. "Besides, I should be the one asking a fool like you who'd dare travel all the way out here. Nothing exists past this point."
Yes, nothing, not even a grave remained.
The guest knew. He was painfully aware of that fact. Even as he gazed towards the windows, he could hardly hear the sound of people. The town was empty, save for this one particular old and rickety house. Lost, abandoned, and then forgotten. However, the journey he hastily put himself through all because of that radio news had an even lonelier destination. He felt his grips over the steel mug tighten if only for an instance.
Seeing was believing. I know that… there's nothing waiting for me.
"...hmm. Sounds like you've got a reason to go, huh?" As if his silence had become too much to endure, the old man droned on. "Unfortunately for you, give it up."
The guest looked up. Spiky black hair waved, and he saw orange shades staring back at him from a broken round mirror hung on the wall across of the room. The elderly man hobbled to seat himself down on a nearby stool; and as he folded his arms…
"A few months ago, was it? Either way, a convoy ran past this checkpoint," the last inhabitant of the ghost town muttered. His eyes glassy and unblinking, yet light did not seem to exist within them. For a moment, the guest wondered what thought and feelings did the elderly man have over a world devoid of light. "Big. Rugged. Long, heavy and tightly packed with leads and gunpowder. Spooked us greatly, that they did."
The elderly man lifted his wrinkled hand, scratching his chin from which a roughly trimmed beard hung upon.
"But of course, that's how the military should be." The owner of the house nodded, sounding like a man who had matched two similar pictures and coming to terms with the result of his own investigation. "Top-of-the-line gears. Militarized vehicles. A chain of structure with plans and backups. Only a few could mess around with those pompous bunches, though they at least deserve their uniforms to some degree."
The guest sensed it.
Something was amiss. It felt as if there was some contradiction looming ahead. He had always trusted his instinct, his ability in reading people honed by his long, very long life experience on this wasteland. The curiosity tinged with confusion he once had now bled away, replaced by an odd sense of apprehension.
"But those bunches that passed by here were different. Far too cold. Too heavy, too clean and inorganic." The old man dropped his cane, making a loud thud that rattled the drink in the traveler's mug. "There was nobody alive in that army. Tanks, helicopters, trucks, ballistic arrays and what-not. No soldier among them all. No, it was something way too much for us who were merely enjoying our last days here."
"Way too much… but what sort of military personnel do they…?"
"Robots, I mean. Those mechanical wastes of space." The elderly huffed. He was completely disgruntled, but his voice implied frustration and… and anger. "Robots aren't good, they will never be good. Nobody wants to talk with a voice recorder face-to-face, but suddenly we've got a whole slew of iron puppets equipped to the teeth."
The guest almost dropped his jaw. Shock reeled his focus, words failing to form at the idea of a fully-automated mechanized army. It was absurd, a complete detachment from the thin veneers of propriety human soldiers would have. Of course, robots existed in some capacity even out here. This was No-Man's Land, a planet in which some of the space-faring human species had crash-landed on. Their lowest level technology could still restore civilization to that of the Wild West era.
But that's precisely why this autonomous army defies all logic and senses.
A mechanized army fully composed by extremely advanced combat programs made absolute no sense in terms of cost-effectiveness. Especially one deployed all the way out here where not a single town had a decently maintained Plant meant to keep their oils slick and their gears free from sand particles. This army of drones were even left to their own devices for months. Months. Judging from the old man's story, this armed force of clandestine origin had built themselves an enclave, a military outpost, and confined themselves there doing god-knows-what.
A whole slew of hyper-complex and precious resources diverted to produce such things…
He could only believe by seeing through his own eyes. Whether it be the result of lost technology from the far-flung past or a splintered faction of the space fleet from Sol System, he now must make sure of it. Already, his intuition was warning him, sending his body to high alert status. However, today was the fateful day. He had hastily travelled while ignoring all thoughts and feelings that threatened to burst out of his chest, and to turn around just because he was facing an army of steel would be… it would be...
That's too much cowardice, even for me…
He couldn't run with his tail tucked between his legs. He just couldn't. He had a hand in the destruction of July. He couldn't bear the thought of letting their graves—those warm people's memories—disturbed, no matter how much the city had been reduced into a hollow grave, empty with nary a coffin or husks resting beneath it. Vash the Stampede would never be able to face his benefactor and his brother if he were to do that, so—
"...hey."
The traveller stopped. Luggage over his shoulder and a foot stepping past the doorway, the voice of the elderly reached out to him like a clear knocking on a wooden door. He couldn't help but to glance back, only now realizing that he had been so absorbed in his own thoughts that he had left his body on auto-pilot.
"...it's a good thing that I can no longer see bloodshed," the elderly said. It turned out the wrinkled man was putting his hand on a photograph resting on a cupboard next to the stool he had been on. "When you get as old and useless as me, it doesn't take much to keel over. Easier to endure if you just forget all the bad things."
Or at least, that's what I tried to convince myself. That unspoken line, left to linger in the ennui, seemed to reverberate like no other.
"I heard it before. That voice of yours, somewhere and sometimes ago." The old man remained standing, supported by his cane. "I kept on telling you. If you've got the time to mope around, grow some spine in your voice, Stampede."
…
...oh.
"Hold your head high." The old man slowly turned around. With a smile that seemed to have been carved on granite, rugged and covered with scars, the last inhabitant of the trading town huffed. "That's not the sort of face you should wear now that you've fulfilled your promise."
The revolving doors swayed with keening squeaks. There was only one person living in this dead town, now. As the wind blew across the vast wasteland, the elderly huffed and resumed his task, shaking his head at the child-like action of his final guest.
The night was cold and windy. With clouds scattered across the heavens, starlight dimmed and the moons only managed to show specks of her serene visage.
Multi-layered fences, thrice as tall as an adult man, stood against the winds. Electrified and barbed, complex security measures had been established to barricade the place formerly known as July. However, the city proper was actually still a few miles away. It felt as if these fences served to contain something inside from escaping instead of intimidating any would-be trespasser.
And those turrets… the heck are they?
Even though they had the stature of a mounted heavy machine gun, they rotated on their own, red dots beeping and flashing once in a while. They felt like automated defence system, but the man had never seen such a thing freely deployed like this. Not only bandits would want to run off with them in tow, these rotating turrets seemed a bit much of an overkill against human opponents. What was the intent behind their placement, and what sort of enemy did they have in mind to bother with placing them?
Those calibers and range are excessive…
Well, the night was young. He also knew this area well. Moving across the wasteland, the tails of his red coat fluttered in the darkness. Swift and steady, he gradually made ways through the shadows cast by the few rubble and hardscape dotting the wasteland. Sometimes he crawled on all four like bug, sometimes he hunkered down and walked slowly on his toes so as to advance as quietly as possible. In any case, he managed to accomplish the easy part while keeping his presence on the down low. Now came the hard part...
His vision blurred momentarily, the image of a beaten road overlapping with the soulless steel plates stretching into the yawning abyss waiting in the horizon.
"...I thought homecoming would feel a bit more pleasant," Vash the Stampede murmured, his eyes narrowing at the distant edifice he knew had never once existed even in the depths of his memories. A strange, out of place thing which rose up from the center of a giant crater carved out by his Gate. Laid out before it, in difficult-to-see spots, were block-like objects, decorated with bulky shoulder pads and elbows connected to what could only be anti-material rifles, bazookas and missiles. "Is all this for war…?"
Spread in twelve directions, these giant sentinels were further attended by rows of robotic soldiers, each and every one of them bearing heavy weaponry to win over a small village or two. The soldiers numbered in the low hundreds, but there might be more lying in wait, ready to be activated for the sole purpose of ruining somebody's day. They also looked to be wearing desert camouflage patterns on their sleek mainframes. Indeed, these were not run-of-the-mill mercenary company, much less a bourgeoisie merchant's private army.
An army. A real, professional army. Except they were all automated and programmed to exercise lethal termination of anything deemed as their targets.
"Yeeshh… I don't think I can get past them." His .45-caliber custom Long Colt now looked like a children's toy in comparison to the scary things up ahead. There were guards, oversights, command units, and definite reinforcements. Hell, he even saw tanks nursing up thick iron shields—shields!—on their front and back! "How am I supposed to go further…?"
He was just a sack of blood and meat, while these hunks of iron could stand around till their backup batteries died. Vash really, really must have gotten ahead of himself to commit a frontal infiltration attempt like this… but what else could he possibly do, he was just a single man lacking any prospect for youthful sprite!
Dammit, now he felt like crying. Fine, fine, fine. He would just do things his way now that it came to this. And I mean by making gaps to exploit!
In the dead of night, winds billowed only to die down. Dense clouds cast random deep shadows over the region, and all was quiet.
Clink, a metallic glint flashed. An oil drum resting by an ammunition hangar suddenly burst into flames. The others sitting by it followed the same blazing fate, rupturing and spreading as red snakes which ran across the paved grounds and into the nearest stacks of mortar shells. In no time, secondary explosions followed by enormous detonations of heavy ordinances swallowed a not-so-insignificant area of the military outpost. Some droids were blown away while others caught by falling wreckage, and the chaos had only just started.
As command chains moved in response, counteroffensive measures built up with the sounds of loaded guns and ignited engines. Tanks rolled out, the giant robots shifting with cold red radiance in their optics. Sirens blared loud enough it'd wake up the dead while spotlights flipped on to pierce the dark of the night.
Bang-bang-bang! The lights didn't last. Several rounds shot out from the darkness and right into the spotlights, disabling them. Before the mechanical soldiers which manned the watch towers could process that, an explosion shook them from their very foundations, keening screeches of metal melding with the ensuing chaos.
In spite of the frantic noise, the army reorganized themselves swiftly. The bulk of the infantry charged headlong into the directions from which the bullets had appeared. It would have been a grisly sight to behold, but the culprit cloaked in red had already moved away from the location, nano-wires cut off from his prosthetic arm.
One of the gigantic robots almost three-story tall rotated its upper body, the advanced red mono-eye it had gleaming over its white and yellow painted chassis. However, the red shadow fluttered as it jumped over a falling crane and landed atop the main cannon barrel combined with the block-shaped torso of the giant robot.
It was an adult man, taller than average with spiky black hair that seemed to dissolve into the night sky. The man clad himself in a black outfit and a fancy red coat with long, tattered tails which danced from his momentum. Reddish orange shades covered his eyes, and the moon hanging overhead painted confusing shadows, disguising the man's intents. The human estimated to be 25 years old then pressed a revolver against the robot's main camera.
"Sorry about this—!"
A singular gunshot sound followed in the wake of a three-round-burst. They aimed in one spot, hammered each other to dig past the bulletproof glass, and passed through the scope to embed deep into the camera's processor. Smokes and electricity, mixed with sparks and burnt out circuit board created one nice recipe for a flowery explosion that destroyed the giant robot's head. A droid soldier could be seen ejecting from behind it, but it stumbled for a few steps before faceplanting as the intruder in red hopped onto his back with a knee drop.
The man pushed forward, though he felt like he heard a pained grunt from below.
Well, he didn't stop by for pleasantries. He charged forward, a storm of leads chasing after his trails. The tanks were too slow to spin their turrets, while the giant robots were set in a fanned out position. It'd take time for the infantry to return, and so the wanted man broke through the encirclement without a scratch…
"Huh—what!?"
Like a wild animal, the man reacted a step ahead. As he dodged to the side, a missile spiraled down to earth and detonated. Smokes which smelled of gunpowder rose up, while dust clouds billowed. The beating noise of helicopter rotors and fans soon dispersed all that visual obstruction.
"Armed helis!? What the hell, anything goes at this point—nnuuooooooaaaa!?"
The man exerted tremendous energy to flee even further. It was actually amazing if one did not see the expression he had as he sped away from the horrible fate of death by quench gun and rockets. Well, human body ordinarily would turn into perforated chunks if their aim was true, but the intruder stood in a league far beyond the average bandits and armed vagabonds.
"Just a little bit more," the man huffed. "Come on, make iiiiiiiitttt!"
With a well-timed jump and coordinated reflex, he leaped over the final fence to breach into the core of the military outpost. At once, gunfire stopped chasing after him. When he looked back, he saw the army of robots halting their movements with forced stilt to their frames, seemingly held back by an emergency order. A dragonfly-like shadow passed over him, which made him turn his head upward, but rather than wasting his chance by gawking away, he decided to return his focus to his original objective.
The strange edifice was right up ahead. No less than a few hundred meters away, the shape looked like a mangled skyscraper without a top floor. Barren, desolate, with chipped off-white paint and dirt-ridden windows.
"Will it be a demon or a snake…?"
Vash the Stampede pushed his shades up the bridge of his nose. Slinking back his gun into the holster, he walked into the dark tower riddled with mysteries. All the while unknowing of the sand that blurred and erased the footsteps he had left behind him.
A sound of distant thunder roared—
Vash blinked, feeling a stiffness to his shoulders.
His consciousness regained itself after a sudden whiteness filled his head. Like waking up from a dizzy spell, the man found himself standing before a small cubicle separated by a sterile, white-tiled wall. Inside the cubicle was a person, a stranger he knew nothing about, writing something on a worn out book lined up like a schedule book.
"Err… huh?" Vash couldn't help but to speak out his mind.
What had happened? What was he doing here? Why was he standing around like a client waiting for the bank teller to finish a request for withdrawing deposit? Well, that was horribly specific, but this little ole Vash had no such thing as bank account. He was a man on the run, a fugitive, a wanted bounty worth of sixty billion double dollars.
In other words, he was a good for nothing criminal. That might be a bit depressing to segue away…
"Right, here you are." His attention was soon stolen away by the voice of the person inside the cubicle. He wore a dark blue uniform with white shirts and checkered necktie, a hat reminiscent to that of those serving for commercial services owned by the federal government. However, he hardly possessed firearms. "Hey, you. I don't have the time in the world to entertain you. Either take this or go back, you doofus."
What, what, what? Vash was confused, to say the least. Even so, his awkwardness ended up causing him to accept the thing extended out from the cubicle. It was a small piece of paper, neatly trimmed and clipped on one end. Uuh… this is—?
A blank ticket.
"...huh."
Something was off. He felt like something had nearly clicked inside his mind. But even for the great him, he had unfortunately failed to remember. His mind a white haze, his body then staggered to the side, pushed one-sidedly into the building by a sudden rush of crowds. Vash cried out, looking back and past the many people he could hardly recognize. The cubicle far in the back had already been swallowed up in the sea of man. Pass a gateway made of delicate machinery, climbing a staircase with hollowed out hand rails, and then arriving in an open space sheltered by an unnecessarily tall yet barebone ceiling of mixed iron plate.
Splitting the massive, cavernous platform in twain was a pair of train tracks.
It was crowded. Dizzying. Nauseating. Vash couldn't tell where he was, even though it also felt like he stood out for having such a bright red and tattered coat on his person. All of the rush of movements and standing stock still from an abrupt stop had made him feel… nervous.
"Hey," somebody called out from the side. "You look pale there, buddy. Need some refreshment?"
Somebody, a kind somebody, had offered him a drink. It was a transparent plastic bottle containing clear water inside of it. Unusual, since water easily dried up or grew mold inside with that type of container.
"Err… aah, thanks." The black-haired man rubbed his head, bowing slightly along the way as he and his helper stood side-by-side. But more importantly, he accepted the gift of kindness and took no moment to relieve his thirst. "Phew… that hits the spot."
"Hmph. You sure look like you're in a bind." The stranger nearby said, "what, did you get lost or something? Were you hoping to go somewhere and do the right thing with that sort of look in your face?"
Now that was uncalled for. He was trying to… that was right. He was trying to close another chapter of his past. He was fulfilling a promise, making amends, redeeming himself, and then… and then, maybe he could settle down.
Yes, that sounded good. Settling down, resting in laurels.
He had no more reason to keep going on. Fulfilling his obligation, ending his legend, and then fading away from the annals of history. It wouldn't be such a bad idea to live an idyllic life somewhere out there, far from conflicts, chaos and bloodshed. A retirement life fitting for an old veteran like him. If he could just lie low, he was sure that people would eventually forget about his notoriety, his name, and his footsteps…
After all, painful things were painful.
"Cat's got your tongue?"
"Shut it." Vash couldn't help but to blurt out. This was starting to get annoying, especially with that stupid snicker from the side. "What's this all, anyway? This is… a train station? Where are these people heading to?"
Vash heard him muttering "now that's a hard question…" in the bustling noise. His focus was strangely fixed on the train tracks, so he ended up throwing sideway glances every then and now. The helpful stranger wore a worn out dark suit. From the bottom, he'd have made for a respectable impression until your eyes moved to his opened chest and coarsely ironed shirts.
It made him look like a good for nothing that tried too hard to look sharp. Heh.
"Well," the stranger muttered. Seemingly unaware of the insult that hardly escaped Vash's cranium, a clear voice tinged with casual weariness reached his ears. "You can never tell, when it comes to people. Where do we come from, where are we going? I think, therefore I am. Or so some great person a long time ago would often say."
That's… not an answer.
"It is what it is, but does life need an answer to all things?" At his silence, the strange man grinned. Lop-sided, a bit smug, and maybe tinged with mockery. And then, the faint sounds started to enter the train station. "There we go, no real right or wrong answer to it all, eh?"
Gatan, goton. The occasional thudding, followed with the sliding sounds of wheels on iron tracks grew louder. Before long a humongous iron carriage came into view. It roared with the arrival of deafening winds. However, it didn't seem to be stopping. Vash could see figures within the train carriages, different in shapes but serving a similar purpose in transporting people to their desired destinations.
It was elegant in a simplistic way. Busy in its lack of comfortable spaces to stretch out your legs, no sleeping cabin in sight or even a dining hall. He had once heard that trains meant to cover short distances prioritized purpose over comforts above all else. A bit of a difference to the Sandsteamers, compensated with the fact that it needed not the utilization of a Plant as its generator.
...it somewhat felt a bit lonely.
"Your train should be arriving next," his helper said.
Vash looked long at the track. His train, huh? Didn't he ride on a sandsteamer too, some times ago? Where was he heading before? Augustus, he believed. But after that… after all that had happened… here he was, wavering for the umpteenth time.
"Cheer up," then the stranger said. As the faint sounds of another train about to arrive, a rough slap on his back rained down once, twice, and thrice. "You're heading out there, so might as well get a whole story out of the trip. Sides, it's not like you to look down and lose your smile like that, spikey."
"...huh?"
The train arrived. Silver and light gray, it was lined with many doors and windows. From his vantage, he could see red seats and dull metallic sheen to the interior compartments.
The door opened. He turned his head around, only to receive a kick to his butt. He stumbled past rows of people, trotting and wobbling until he crashed headfirst into the train carriage. Vash quickly got up, but the door was closing.
But it was right there.
He was right there.
That man, that cross. That cigarette.
"You—"
The tradesman smiled alongside the other people. Startlingly familiar people who had left behind only their vanishing footprints in this sandy planet. The dead man then shrugged, the giant cross wrapped in white cloths on his back letting out a dull crinkle.
"Bye, Spikey." Nicholas Wolfwood waved. "You've still got a long way ahead of you."
The door closed shut, and the train departed.