Chapter 79: Static Theology

Chapter 79: Static Theology

I held the radio like it was some relic of divine stupidity—the kind of artifact priests would burn books over and call blessed technology, never once daring to admit they had no idea which end to speak into.

The thing buzzed faintly in my palms, alive with static, the sound crawling through the metal walls like a nest of restless insects. For one reckless heartbeat, I was nearly convinced I could feel the prison breathing through it—its pulse, its decay, the hum of unseen gears grinding in the dark.

Atticus gazed at me from across the car, that sharp line between his brows deepening as though he were witnessing a child discovering fire and knew, absolutely knew, something in the room was about to burn.

He adjusted his glasses with a single, deliberate motion—always calm, always in control—though the faint tremor in his jaw told a different story.

"Loona," he said finally, his voice careful in the way one might address an unstable chemical, "you still haven’t answered my question."

I blinked, feigning innocence so expertly it could have been a profession. "Oh, haven’t I? My mistake. I was too busy basking in the awe of my own brilliance."

He gave me that look again—one part skepticism, one part exasperation. His eyebrow arched higher, dangerously so. "And what exactly is your brilliant plan this time?"

I smiled, all teeth and mischief. "Simple. We impersonate a position of command."

A silence settled over the car, thick and suspicious. Saints above, you could almost hear the collective disbelief materializing in the air—so dense it might have been visible if anyone dared to breathe.

Atticus blinked once. Then again. "You mean," he said carefully, "you want us to pretend to be an officer?"

"Oh, pretend is such a limiting word," I replied, pacing like a man on stage addressing an unseen audience. "I prefer ’temporarily assume the authority of an incompetent superior who happens to be very, very absent.’ It sounds more... official."

Victor, ever the picture of unamused patience, leaned back against a crate and crossed his arms. "You know what?" Se said dryly, "that’s not the worst idea you’ve had so far. Which is quite concerning to say the least."

"I’ll take that as a compliment," I said brightly.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Please don’t."

Brutus groaned, dragging a palm down his face. "Right then," he said, his voice rumbling like an irritated avalanche. "Who’s gonna do it?"

That was the question, wasn’t it?

I froze mid-stride, my grin faltering just enough to betray the sudden flicker of panic. My gaze snapped to the others. They looked back at me like deer caught in lantern light, each man wearing the same expression—that collective, silent prayer that maybe, if they stayed perfectly still, I’d choose someone else.

Victor, ever the opportunist, raised a finger. "I’ll do it," he offered, though the tone was more resigned than heroic, like he already regretted volunteering for whatever idiocy this was about to entail.

I shook my head almost immediately. "Oh, no. No, no, no. You were in the cab earlier, remember? The conductor knows you. If he recognizes your voice, we’re done for. This needs to be someone who wasn’t with him at the time—someone faceless, forgettable, and marginally capable of pretending to be sober."

A ripple of discomfort passed through the others—the kind of collective dread that moves through a room like a draft through an old church. Shoulders tensed, eyes darted, throats swallowed hard enough to make sound. You could almost smell their fear; that faint, sour musk of panic wrapped in cheap bravado. And saints help me, it was delicious.

Then, as if conjured by narrative convenience or the universe’s impeccable sense of irony, a figure stirred in the far corner.

A lazy stretch. A slow roll of muscle beneath fabric. Then the flare of red—hair bright as a forge spark, catching the lamplight like a flame starved of oxygen.

He unfolded from his crate with all the urgency of a cat deciding whether to kill something or keep napping. The motion was fluid, insolent, almost beautiful. He cracked his neck once, then yawned so wide it looked like defiance disguised as boredom.

It was Renly.

The bastard looked like a sin made manifest, a sculpted contradiction between grace and apathy. His movements were unhurried, self-assured in that maddening way only men born without fear or ambition can be.

He ran a hand through his fiery mop of hair then fixed us all with a half-lidded stare.

"I’ll do it," he said.

The words dropped into the air like coins into a wishing well—smooth, heavy, and inexplicably final. For a moment, I forgot to breathe. Then—oh, Saints above—delight bloomed in me like a flower fed on chaos. I could’ve wept. I could’ve applauded. I did the next best thing.

"Ah, Renly!" I cried, hands clasped in something between reverence and theatrical hysteria. "My gallant, reckless knight! How brave, how bold, how gloriously stupid in all the right ways!"

He blinked at me, the universal expression for I regret existing near you.

I ignored him, of course. I live for that look.

With a flourish worthy of an overpaid magician, I tossed him the radio. "Here," I said, "your instrument of deception, your weapon of choice. Use it wisely, O Crimson Charlatan."

He caught it one-handed, not even glancing, turning it in his palm like he was feeling for its heartbeat. "Does it even work?"

"Oh, it’ll work," I said with a smile sharp enough to cut through stone. "Or it’ll explode. Fifty-fifty."

Before he could reply, Atticus darted forward—spectacles gleaming, hands fluttering in academic panic. "Hold on—hold on! If we’re actually doing this, we need preparation!

Renly cut him off. "No need."

Atticus sputtered. "No need? Are you insane?"

But he was already pressing the button.

The soft click that followed was louder than thunder. The air in the boxcar tightened, everyone turning to stone as the radio crackled to life—static spilling out in a long, dry hiss like the breath of something ancient waking beneath the floorboards.

Then, through the static, "—llo? That you, Garret? Damn thing’s been fritzin’ all night. You better not be breathin’ heavy into the line again, you creepy bastard."

Renly didn’t miss a beat. He rolled his neck, thumb poised over the button, and spoke with a calm so smooth it could’ve sold miracles to skeptics. "Negative. This is Lieutenant Voren of Section Seven. Garret’s been reassigned to maintenance duty. You’ll be reporting to me for the remainder of the route, conductor."

I nearly choked on my own tongue. Saints above, he was perfect.

The conductor’s reply crackled back, suspicion bleeding through the static. "Voren? Don’t recall seein’ your name on the roster this week."

Renly smiled. It wasn’t a grin, not even a smirk—just a small, confident curl at the corner of his mouth, dangerous as a secret. "Not surprising," he said, tone sharp and clipped. "Section Seven’s records are running a week behind. As usual."

The silence stretched, a taut string of uncertainty. Then, finally, the conductor barked a laugh. "Hah! Ain’t that the truth. Bureaucratic bastards couldn’t organize their own funerals. So, what’s the fuss? I was just about to hit the junction."

Renly’s gaze flicked to Victor, who snapped the map open across a crate like a gambler laying down his winning hand.

"We’ll need to divert," Renly said. "Reroute to line..." He paused, squinting in faux calculation while Victor stabbed a finger at the correct marking. "Line seven-two-alpha."

A skeptical snort echoed through the speaker. "Seven-two-alpha? You’ll have me loopin’ halfway through the western shaft!"

Renly’s tone didn’t waver. "Regulations changed this morning. Direct order from the Warden’s office. You’ll be conducting a test run to reestablish the corridor. Structural checks, logistical assessment—the usual bureaucratic poetry."

The silence that followed was akin to a blade’s edge. I could feel the tension humming through the floor, flickering across the faces around me—every man holding his breath like it was borrowed.

Finally, the conductor’s voice came again, softer, uncertain. "Test run, huh? Would’ve been nice to get a heads-up. Got my apprentice on board, y’know. Don’t fancy buryin’ the boy if that shaft caves in."

Renly’s voice gentled. "He’ll be fine. The reinforcements were completed last week. You’ll have a clear path to the next junction. When you hit the signal post, switch back to primary."

Watching him was hypnotic. Every word fell like a stone into calm water—rippling with just enough authority to sound real.

The conductor hesitated one last time, then sighed. "Alright, Lieutenant. But if this thing caves in, I’m hauntin’ your ass."

"Understood," Renly said, voice a velvet threat. "Proceed as instructed. And, conductor?"

"Yeah?"

"Appreciate the diligence. Not many men left who take pride in their work down here."

A laugh, rough and genuine, rolled through the static. "Ha! You’re alright, Voren. I’ll drink to that when I hit the depot."

Then—click. Renly lifted his thumb, ending the transmission.

For a heartbeat, the world stood still. The train’s hum was the only sound enveloping us—steady, patient, and waiting. Then the spell broke all at once.

Victor exhaled a bellow of laughter, the map fluttering in his hands. "By the gods," he said, grinning to himself. "He actually did it."

I could only stare, giddy and disbelieving, before the joy bubbled up in my chest and escaped as laughter—bright, reckless, and utterly manic.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I was moving—one wild, delighted blur of limbs and impulse. I all but launched myself across the space between us, a streak of manic gratitude wrapped in tattered silk and bad decisions.

Renly had just set the radio down when I collided with him, wrapping my legs around his waist like an overexcited cat claiming its favorite perch. I laughed into the crook of his neck, giddy, unrestrained, almost feral with relief.

"Renly!" I gasped, breathless and ecstatic, pressing a quick, triumphant kiss against his cheek. "You magnificent, flame-haired miracle! Who knew you were such a marvelous actor?"

He didn’t even flinch. One large, calloused hand came up, not tenderly but efficiently, and he plucked me off his torso as though I were some affectionate barnacle that had attached itself without consent. The look he gave me was somewhere between tolerant resignation and existential fatigue.

"Glad you’re happy," he muttered, voice low and rough, a yawn escaping halfway through the words.

Then, as if saving a train from capture were the dullest thing a man could do before breakfast, he turned on his heel, lumbered back to his crate, and collapsed onto it with the graceless ease of someone who’d already decided consciousness was overrated. Within seconds, his breathing evened out—steady, slow, and utterly unbothered.

I stood there for a moment, still glowing, my arms hanging at my sides, half expecting applause that didn’t come.

Even Dunny, poor sweet Dunny, looked like he might burst into tears. His little soot-stained face crumpled with relief, his shoulders trembling as if the weight of survival itself had finally sunk in.

The poor boy clasped his hands like a pilgrim before an altar, whispering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer to whatever gods presided over reckless idiots and redheaded saviors.

I exhaled slowly, the laughter dying down into a satisfied hum. "Well," I murmured, glancing around the stunned faces of my crew, "that went rather well, didn’t it?"

And from the corner, half-buried in sleep and shadows, Renly muttered without opening his eyes, "Don’t jinx it."

I smiled back at him. "Too late."

And just like that, the tension bled out of the room, replaced by something perilously close to hope, the kind that glows too bright, too fragile, like a candle daring the wind to try it.

The wheels beneath us clattered on in rhythm, steady and sure, as if the world itself had decided—just this once—to play along with our madness.