Chapter 77: Checkpoint Charade
Brutus held the door open like the reluctant usher to a dreadful play, the kind where everyone’s already forgotten their lines but insists on performing anyway. One by one, our crew shuffled out of the cab, muttering curses under their breath, a procession of weary sinners pretending to be saints on break.
Their boots clanged against the grated metal, the sound echoing in uneven rhythm, mingling with the hiss of steam and the soft whine of cooling pipes. The Boss was the first to complain, naturally. "If that old bastard starts another story about his ’glory days in the vents,’ I swear I’ll hurl myself off this train."
"Please do," Freya said without missing a beat. "You’d make a lovely stain."
Behind her, Atticus adjusted his hood, looking every bit the scholar turned outlaw. His glasses caught the faint glint of the station lamps as he raised a brow in my direction. I caught it—just the faintest lift of inquiry—and couldn’t help myself.
I gave him a little giggle, low and conspiratorial, the kind that said yes, I am up to something, and no, I won’t be explaining what.
The sound barely left my lips before my eyes caught the world beyond the cab—what lay ahead on the track like a gatekeeper of damnation.
The first checkpoint loomed in the distance, a sprawling barrier of iron and barbed wire that stretched across the tunnel. It wasn’t just a wall, it was a scar in the earth, a fortress carved from paranoia and bureaucracy.
Two squat observation towers stood like watchful gargoyles at either side, their spotlights cutting slow, deliberate paths through the steam and haze.
Below them, a dozen or so guards milled about the station platform, their robes torn, their postures slouched.
Half of them were gathered around a battered wooden table off to one side, playing cards and laughing with the easy confidence of men who thought danger had forgotten their names.
Brutus gave me the kind of look reserved for frustrating insects. He stopped, sighed, then promptly yanked me by the hair.
Pain flared, bright and immediate. "Ow! Saints’ tits!" I yelped, stumbling forward. "You could’ve just said please!"
He didn’t answer, of course. He never did when violence worked faster.
The conductor blinked at the sight of us—me wincing and dramatic, Brutus looking like he’d just discovered new and exciting ways to loathe me. The man’s eyes, glassy and pale as spilled ale, flicked from Brutus’s hand in my hair to my pout. Then his weathered face split into a grin so broad it could’ve housed a small family.
"Well, I’ll be damned," he drawled, his voice carrying that sing-song rhythm of sailors and gamblers—half laughter, half confession. "Didn’t think you’d be catching strays this early in the run. You’ve got an eye for trouble, I’ll give you that."
Brutus gave the kind of grunt that could mean anything from thank you to I hope you choke on your own teeth. "Found him hiding in one of the crates," he said flatly. "Said he was lookin’ for work."
The conductor cackled, a sound like gravel rattling in a tin cup. "Work, is it? Oh, the boldness of youth! You’re a spirited one, eh, little crow?"
I sighed, long and dramatic, rolling my eyes skyward as if appealing to the invisible gods of patience. "Oh, absolutely," I said, all sugar and spite. "I wake up every morning and think, Loona, why not risk immediate execution for a bit of fun? It’s practically a hobby at this point."
The conductor chuckled again, his grin crinkling into deep lines that spoke of too much laughter and too little sleep. "He’s a bit energetic, eh?" he said, glancing at Brutus. "You sure he ain’t one o’ yours?"
Brutus didn’t even blink. "Nope."
"Tragic," I murmured. "And here I thought we were bonding."
The conductor’s gaze lingered on me, and I could feel it, that probing curiosity cloaked in amusement. He leaned in just slightly, close enough that I caught the faint scent of tobacco and oil ghosting his breath. "So, what’s your story then, sweetheart?"
"Oh, the flattery!" I gasped. "First you call me spirited, and now sweet—careful, conductor, or I’ll start to think you’re courting me."
He barked a laugh that made one of the nearby guards glance over, then leaned in closer still, voice dropping to a rasping purr. "Darlin’, if I were courtin’ you, you’d know. Hell’s, you’d be wearin’ my hat."
I arched an eyebrow. "And ruin my hair? Saints forbid."
He grinned. "Sharp tongue ya got there. I like that. Shame it’s gonna get you into trouble."
"Oh, it already has," I said brightly. "Repeatedly. I’m considering having it gilded in honor of its service."
He laughed again, shaking his head. "You’re a right menace."
"I prefer national treasure, but I suppose semantics are flexible underground."
Before the conductor could reply, the low murmur of the guards by the table cut through our banter. Two of them—one tall and angular, the other round-faced with a mustache so tragic it deserved its own funeral—pushed back from their seats. Cards fluttered across the table, coins clinking in little piles as they stood and stretched.
The one with the mustache, clearly the officer of the two, called out, "Oy! Conductor! Manifest check!"
The conductor turned, half exasperated, half indulgent. "Aye, aye, keep your britches on," he said, fishing into his coat for a small brass contraption. It looked like a child’s toy had mated with a meat grinder. With a few clicks and a whir, it spat out a square of stamped metal, which he handed to the approaching guard with a flourish. "All in order, gents. On schedule, underweight, and overworked—just how management likes it."
The mustached one gave a lazy salute, flipping the card over before nodding to his partner. "Looks fine." Then he said, "Go on, do the sweep."
The subordinate guard snapped to attention, barking something unintelligible to the others at the card table. A handful of men stood and began trudging toward the train cars, muttering complaints about the cold, the noise, and the existential misery of employment.
Meanwhile, the mustached officer lingered—and, Saints help me, his gaze landed squarely on me.
He squinted, tilting his head. "And what do we have here?"
I flashed him a dazzling grin, the kind I reserve for potential marks and bad first dates. "Why, good evening, sir! You’re looking positively radiant in this dismal lighting. Truly, the torchlight does wonders for your complexion."
The guard snorted, shaking his head. "Saints save us, this place is a circus."
From then, him and the conductor fell easily into old camaraderie, chatting like drinking buddies reunited in the world’s worst pub.
I simply stood there, caught between them, playing the role of harmless fool so well I could’ve taken home an award. My mind, however, was sprinting ahead. We were losing time.
In that same instant, I leaned back toward Brutus and, with impeccable grace, kicked him in the right in the shin.
He didn’t flinch, but his glare could’ve stripped paint. "What," he hissed under his breath, "was that for?"
I smiled sweetly through gritted teeth. "I didn’t just come out here to be decorative. I need you to grab something—some kind of radio, a communicator, whatever these glorified magpies use to call ahead."
Brutus blinked at me, completely lost. "A what?"
"You know," I said, gesturing vaguely. "The noisy box thing. Buttons. Dials. Probably reeks of dust and regret."
He frowned deeper. "That’s half the stuff on this train."
"Well then," I said cheerfully, "you’d better start looking."
He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the guards. "And you’re going to...?"
Brutus’s glare was the last thing I saw before I decided to do something deeply, unforgivably stupid. Which, in fairness, was becoming something of a recurring theme in my life.
"Distract them, obviously," I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips before my body made the catastrophic decision to act faster than my brain.
With one sharp twist, I tore out of his grip and bolted through the cab door, my boots skidding against the metal platform as I burst into the open air like a theatrical disaster in motion. The noise caught every eye at the checkpoint.
The guards turned as one, the remaining gamblers at the card table froze mid-laugh, and for a single glorious heartbeat the world paused—long enough for me to realize that I had, in fact, no plan beyond "run loudly and see what happens."
Then they moved.
A chorus of curses followed me like an enthusiastic audience, and before I could even take three proper steps, a wall of bodies surged forward. Someone barked an order, someone else tripped, and then three sets of hands grabbed me at once.
I went down with a grunt that would have embarrassed any lesser performer. My face hit the cold stone floor, my knees protested, and a boot landed squarely between my shoulder blades, pinning me like a decorative insect.
"Well," I wheezed, struggling against the weight with just the right amount of dramatic flair, "this isn’t very welcoming hospitality. I was promised at least a drink before the manhandling started."
I made a point of heaving my chest with exaggerated breaths, each one a dramatic gasp that pushed my curves against the floor in ways that were equal parts uncomfortable and, let’s be honest, strategically alluring.
The guards hovering over me exchanged glances, a mix of confusion and intrigue flickering across their faces.
The one with the tragic mustache hauled me up by my arms, his grip firm yet careful, like he was handling a feisty kitten rather than a full-grown menace.
"Easy there, sweetheart," he grunted, propping me on my feet. "What in the Saints’ name was that little sprint about? Trying to make a break for it?"
I dusted off my skirt, batting my lashes as I steadied myself against his chest—purely for balance, of course.
"Oh, darling, if I were making a break, you’d still be chasing your own tail. No, I just felt a sudden urge to... stretch my legs."
I rolled my hips just a tad, letting the motion draw their eyes southward, my breath still coming in those soft, heaving sighs that made my chest rise and fall like a ship at stormy seas.
They inspected me then, hands patting down my sides in what started as a professional search but quickly veered into territory that was decidedly less official.
One of them ran his palms over my hips, lingering a beat too long, while Mustache Man tilted my chin up with a calloused finger, peering into my face. "Hold on," he said, squinting. "You’re a bloke?"
I blinked at him. "You say that like it’s a plot twist."
He squinted. "Well, you’ve got the—uh—" He gestured vaguely at the air in front of me, as though describing shapes in the fog.
I tilted my head, smirking. "Yes, I’m aware of my assets. Careful where you point, darling, I might start charging by the glance."
That earned a roar of laughter from the group. I felt the tension ease just a little—exactly what I needed.
Just then, one guard’s hand dipped lower, bold as brass, grabbing at the soft lace of my panties beneath my skirt. His fingers brushed my bulge, sending a jolt through me that I played up with a theatrical shiver.
"Well, well," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly rumble. "Feels promising. You hiding any weapons down there?"
I giggled, high and flirtatious. "Weapons? Darling, the only thing lethal about me is my charm."
I winked, grinding subtly against his hand, turning the so called inspection into a game where I held all the cards. Or at least, the ones that mattered.
Over his shoulder, I stole a quick glance at Brutus, who was rummaging through a nearby crate like a bear in a picnic basket.
He held up a rusty wrench first, waggling it questioningly. I shook my head, nearly face-palming at the sheer idiocy.
Next came a coil of rope, which he dangled like a limp noodle. No, you oaf! I thought, suppressing a groan as I kept my smile plastered on for the guards.
Then came a dusty lantern. "You’ve gotta be kidding me," I muttered under my breath.
Mustache Man leaned in then, his breath hot against my ear. "So, tell us, sweetheart—how’d a pretty thing like you end up stowing away? Looking for some... excitement?" His fingers traced my collarbone, dipping lower toward my chest and brushing past my nipples.
"Excitement, eh?" I moaned softly, arching into the touch with slutty abandon, my voice a breathy whisper. "Darling, I’m positively dripping with it. But if you’re asking about my preferences, let’s just say I like my adventures rough, ready, and with a side of danger. You boys up for showing a girl—er, boy—a good time?"
I giggled again, keeping their focus locked on me while Brutus continued his comically inept treasure hunt.
The guard nearest to me chuckled, his hand squeezing my ass with proprietary glee. "Cheeky bastard. Ever been frisked this thoroughly before? Bet you’d beg for more if we had the time. But for now, why don’t you have a drink?"
I gasped, pressing a hand to my heart. "You flatter me. Though I should warn you, I’ve been known to drink men under the table—sometimes quite literally."
That got a roar of laughter from the others. A flask appeared from beneath the first guard’s cloak and before I could protest, the thing was shoved into my hands. It was dented, sticky, and reeked like the distillation of regret itself.
"Go on then," the guard said, grinning wide. "Prove it."
I tilted the flask, eyeing the liquid inside. "What is this?" I asked. "Lamp oil? Boiler runoff? A potion brewed by a blind apothecary with unresolved trauma?"
He laughed. "Prisoner’s brew. Bit of ethanol, bit of whatever wasn’t nailed down. Warms the blood."
"I see. And what does it do to the liver?"
"Destroys it."
"Marvelous," I said, and took a sip.
It hit my tongue like a forge hammer dipped in acid. My throat burned, my eyes watered, and I made a strangled sound somewhere between a hiccup and a confession. The guards burst into hysterics.
"Oh, saints," I gasped, pushing the flask back to him. "This stuff is downright vile."
He grinned. "Not bad for a first gulp. How bout another?"
"Another?" I croaked. "Are you trying to seduce me or assassinate me?"
He laughed before thrusting the flask back at me. "Drink!"
And so I did. A little more. Then a little more after that, each swallow burning brighter than the last until I was swaying slightly on my feet and giggling against my better judgment.
One of the others, a pudgy guard with a thick scar to his neck, snatched the flask from me and took his own long pull, then held it to the air like a champion, chest puffed out, saying, "Now that’s how a man drinks!"
"Oh, please," I said, fanning myself. "You call that drinking? I’ve seen nuns do better with communion wine."
The crowd erupted, some jeering, some cheering, and before long someone fetched a proper bottle—a battered thing with a faded label and the distinct smell of battery acid.
"A contest then!" someone shouted. "Let’s see who drops first!"
And just like that, I was seated cross-legged on the ground opposite the scarred guard, the crowd gathering in a loose circle around us, chanting and laughing.
The first round went down easy—sweet burn, smooth finish, nothing to worry about. The second hit like a divine punishment. My throat begged for mercy while the others else howled for more. By the third, the scarred guard had started narrating his life story in verse, complete with sword noises and dramatic pauses that no one had asked for.
By the fourth round, he was glassy-eyed and swaying, his words slurring into heroic nonsense. "’S’like water," he declared, gesturing grandly. "I’m barely even warm!"
Then he collapsed right then and there. I stood up and bowed, wobbling slightly. "A gracious defeat, my good sir. May your hangover be merciful and your stomach lining remain partially intact."
Then, miracle of miracles, from behind me Brutus held up something that actually looked promising—a chunky handheld device with buttons, dials, and an antenna that screamed "communicator" louder than I was pretending to. Yes! I nodded fervently, my eyes wide with urgent approval, before snapping my gaze back to the guards to avoid suspicion.
Just then, the group of guards who’d been sweeping the train cars ambled over, drawn by the commotion like moths to a flame. "What’s all this fuss?" one of them yawned, the angular faced guard from before, rubbing his eyes.
The main guard, Mustache Man, turned to them, reluctantly peeling his attention from me. "Just a feisty stowaway causing a scene. Everything in order back there?"
His partner nodded, stifling another yawn. "Yeah, all clear. Train’s good to go."
Mustache narrowed his eyes. "You sure you checked all the crates? No skimping now—we don’t want any surprises down the line."
The other man burst into laughter, slapping his knee. "Checked all the crates? Saints, boss, if I checked every last one, I’d be older than your mustache by the time I finished! Nah, gave ’em the ol’ once-over—peeked in a few, kicked a couple. If there’s trouble hiding, it’s probably as bored as we are. Let ’em through already so we can get back to the game; I’ve got a hand that’s itching to bankrupt you lot."
Mustache sighed, waving them off with a grudging chuckle. "Fine, fine. You’re all useless, but go on."
The conductor grabbed me by the ear then, yanking me back toward the cab.
"Come on, pretty boy," he said with a grin that was all teeth. "You’ve had your fun."
I let him drag me, making a show of whining and stumbling like a petulant child denied dessert. "Oh, must we? I was just starting to enjoy myself!"
"Don’t push your luck," Brutus muttered as I passed him, his form melting back into the cab with deceptive ease.
"Oh, relax," I whispered back, a grin spreading across my face. "We got what we came for."
For a moment, I allowed myself to bask in the satisfaction. The guards were fooled, the inspection passed, and Brutus—miracle of miracles—had found a radio.
Outside, the guards’ laughter drifted back to us through the open windows, mingling with the hum of the train’s engines as the gates began to open.
The world resumed its rhythm—steam, steel, and motion—and I, still tasting the electric thrill of survival on my tongue, thought to myself,
Gods, I am very good at being stupid.