Chapter 78: Hostile Notions
I leaned against the wall, my shoulder pressed into the cool iron of the cab, eyes locked on the conductor who was stuck whistling some cheerfully maddening tune.
The sound was so painfully out of place it almost felt deliberate—like the man had decided to serenade the apocalypse itself with a nursery rhyme.
He sat there in his battered chair, one hand lazily turning the throttle, the other scratching the bristle of his neck. His boots tapped idly against the floor, keeping time with whatever song was trapped in that meaty head of his.
But it wasn’t him that grabbed my attention.
Instead, my eyes drifted down to the cab’s console. And there, nestled into the grimy metal dash between a cluster of flickering gauges, was a small grill-like circle—slightly dented, flecked with soot, and humming faintly.
A radio speaker. No doubt about it.
My grin curled slow and certain. Just as I’d suspected. The handheld device Brutus had stuffed into his pocket was meant to be the backup model.
The dash unit was its mother, pulsing faintly, waiting for a signal. Which meant if we timed it right, we could make these two sweethearts talk to each other like lovers in a forbidden romance.
I tilted my head toward Brutus, who loomed behind me like a walking monument to disapproval. Tugging on his sleeve, I whispered, "Now."
He blinked. "Now?"
"Yes, now, you charming wall of indecision."
Brutus scowled, fishing the radio from his cloak. His fingers were too big for the delicate buttons, and for a moment, I half-expected him to crush the thing by accident. But then he pressed one of the side switches—and there it was, the faintest crackle, like the sound of dry bones whispering through static.
The console at the front responded almost instantly. A soft pop, then a long hiss. The conductor’s whistling faltered.
He turned toward the dash, brow furrowing, muttering under his breath. "Ah, what now, you temperamental bastard..." His hands slapped against the metal casing. The radio crackled again, a weak ghost of our signal feeding back into itself.
Then, with all the subtlety of a guilty child, Brutus stuffed the handheld device back into his pocket so fast it nearly tore the fabric.
The conductor gave the speaker a few firm whacks. "Bloody thing’s haunted," he grumbled, leaning down to fiddle with a panel beneath it. His voice rose, sharp with irritation. "Swear it was workin’ fine this mornin’. Ah damn it, where’d I put the backup?"
I shot Brutus a look, motioning toward the rear of the cab, mouthing go, go, go!
He nodded and straightened, clearing his throat. "Uh, gonna take the brat to... you know." He jerked his head toward the back door. "Relieve himself."
The conductor glanced over his shoulder, unimpressed. "On my train?"
Brutus snorted. "Off the side."
The old man huffed, waving us off. "Fine, fine, just don’t fall under the wheels. I’m not stoppin’ for a cleanup."
That was our cue. We slipped out before he could change his mind. The door shut behind us with a hiss, sealing in the rhythm of the train—the deep, metallic heartbeat of motion, steam, and distance.
The narrow passage between cars groaned as we crossed it. I didn’t even realize how tightly I’d been holding my breath until we stepped through the next couple doors and the familiar clamor of voices hit me like a wave.
The rest of the crew were there, sprawled across the cargo space like exhausted travelers in a moving tavern. A few were stretching, some sitting cross-legged on crates, others leaning against the steel walls, rubbing at sore muscles or muttering to themselves.
Victor was the first to spot us. He had the perpetual smirk of a man who’d seen too much, survived it all, and still found the world mildly entertaining.
"Well, look who didn’t get stabbed," he said, arms folded. "I’ll admit, that went smoother than I expected. Thought we’d be scraping you two off the rails."
I gave a mock bow, sweeping my hand dramatically. "Oh, ye of little faith. You doubt me, and yet here I stand—damp, disheveled, and miraculously un-stabbed."
Freya snorted from the corner. "There’s still time."
"Oh, sweet Freya," I said. "your optimism sustains me."
Before she could reply, Atticus shifted near the beastman, who was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, rubbing his stomach in slow circles.
His ears twitched at the sound of my voice, and for a brief, surreal moment, I found it...kind of cute. Which was quite worrying to say the least.
Atticus pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, looking up at us. "Well, congratulations on not blowing our cover—for now. Gods know why you decided to do that in the first place. And yet, we still have one minor issue to address."
Victor sighed, stepping forward and unfurling the map hidden in his sleeve before saying, "Right." He traced a finger along one of the thicker paths, the train’s current trajectory marked by a faint line of ink.
"If the train keeps going on it’s current route, it’ll bypass the sealed tunnel entirely," Victor explained. "We’ll end up circling back toward the guard depot near the main cavern."
"Marvelous," I muttered.
Victor continued. "We need the conductor to switch the tracks manually. And even then, after we take the detour, there’s still one last checkpoint ahead." He paused for a second, letting his words hang in the air before saying, "our best course of action from here would be to take the conductor hostage and force him to work in our favor."
Atticus let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We’ve been over this," he said. "Taking the conductor hostage is a risk we can’t afford. The man’s worked these tunnels for decades. He’s got connections—fail-safes. You think someone like that doesn’t have a silent alarm or two?"
Brutus crossed his arms. "Then what do you suggest we do?"
Atticus hesitated, looking down at the map as though the answer might crawl out of the parchment if he stared hard enough. For once, the man looked... uncertain
. His voice came softer, slower."I don’t know."
Before either could say more, Freya stepped forward from the shadows near the far wall. "This is pointless," she said flatly, her hand resting on the hilt of her knife. "We should kill him and break through the barrier by force."
Ah, Freya. Sweet, homicidal Freya. Always the pragmatist. "Of course you’d say that," I said, flashing her a tired smile.
She rolled her eyes at me. "As if you’re any better."
"Ouch," I murmured. "You wound me."
"Not yet," she said, before starting toward the front of the train.
Her boots clanged on the metal floor with a slow, coaxing rhythm, the kind of sound that made everyone in the room instinctively shift out of her path. Atticus immediately raised a hand like a frantic schoolteacher trying to stop a fire. "Freya, wait—don’t do anything rash!"
She didn’t even glance back. "Define rash."
"Oh, I don’t know," Atticus sputtered. "Murdering the one man capable of operating the two-ton machine we’re currently standing in?"
Freya’s pace slowed only slightly, her eyes narrowing. For a moment, I actually wondered if she might ignore him entirely—to keep walking and see how much blood it would take to get her point across.
And then, before she could take another step, a small voice piped up from the corner.
"No, please! Please don’t hurt him!"
Everyone turned.
Dunny, our trembling ball of nerves and overalls—stumbled forward, tripping over his own feet as if gravity itself wanted him dead. He scrambled to a stop in front of Freya, arms outstretched like a child trying to settle a stampede.
"P-please!" he stammered, his eyes glassy with panic. "Don’t hurt him! Not my gramps! He’s—he’s just an old man! He doesn’t deserve this!"
Freya blinked at him, her expression momentarily blank, as though her brain was recalibrating to process the audacity of this tiny, trembling creature blocking her path. Then, with a snarl, she bared her teeth. "Move."
"I refuse!" Dunny cried, voice cracking like splintered glass. "You can’t—he raised me!"
"Raised you into what, exactly?" Freya snapped. "A nuisance?"
Before the poor boy could even stutter out a reply, a large, meaty hand shot forward and grabbed him by the back of his shirt, lifting him effortlessly off the ground like a disobedient kitten.
It was Brutus, naturally.
He squinted at Dunny dangling from his grip, who began kicking his legs uselessly, sputtering and flailing. "Alright, hold on a damn second," Brutus said, his deep voice rumbling. "Who the fuck are you, anyway?"
"I—I already told you!" Dunny yelped, his voice muffled as his shirt bunched under his chin. "I’m the conductor’s apprentice!"
The silence that followed was almost comical. Brutus stared at him for a long moment, then sighed deeply—one of those heavy, world-weary sighs that suggested he was reconsidering every decision that had brought him to this exact point in time.
"Of course you are," he muttered finally, setting the boy down with all the grace of someone returning an unwanted parcel.
Dunny landed in a heap, glaring up at him with wounded pride. "You didn’t have to pick me up like that!"
Brutus arched a brow. "Kid, you were in the way of a knife-happy psychopath. You’re welcome."
"I’m not a psychopath," Freya growled.
"Debatable," I said lightly.
She turned that glare on me, and I immediately busied myself with examining the nearest crate, which, I must say, had never looked more fascinating in my life.
Brutus stepped between Freya and the boy before she could advance again, planting a broad palm on her chest to hold her back. "Enough," he said simply. "The last thing we need right now is a bloodbath. You try to slice the conductor, you’ll alert the other guards, let alone the High Warden."
Freya’s jaw tightened, her hand still resting on her blade, but after a long, simmering pause, she exhaled through her nose and stepped back. "Fine," she said at last. "But when this plan falls apart, don’t come crying to me."
"Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it," I said with a sweet smile. "Crying ruins my complexion."
She shot me a look that promised violence, but thankfully Victor cut in before she could act on it. "We don’t have time for this," he said sharply, turning back to the map.
From then, Atticus and Victor went right back at it—two egos in a cage match, throwing logic and ethics at each other like blunt instruments. By the time Victor suggested using Dunny as a bargaining chip and Atticus threatened to throw himself off the train instead, I’d had enough.
"Saints above," I said, clapping my hands together. "You people argue more than a pack of drunken aristocrats at a dinner party."
They all looked at me then, half-annoyed, half-curious. Just the way I liked it.
"I knew this would happen," I continued with a theatrical sigh. "The moment we got past that checkpoint, I thought to myself, ’Loona, darling, it’s only a matter of time before these idiots start squabbling again.’ And here we are—prophecy fulfilled."
"Do you have a point?" Victor asked tightly.
"Oh, I always have a point," I said, pacing in front of them with my hands behind my back. "I just prefer to take the scenic route getting there."
Atticus groaned. "Loona—"
"Shh," I interrupted, raising a finger. "Let me have this."
I stopped pacing, turned on my heel, and grinned. "...I’ve already got it covered. Brutus, darling, the radio please."
There was a beat of silence. Then Brutus—sweet, hulking, surprisingly cooperative Brutus—reached into his cloak and pulled out the brass radio, placing it delicately into my waiting hand.
The little device shone faintly under the flickering light, its dials catching the glint like uncut gems. Victor blinked. Atticus’s mouth fell open. Freya’s brow furrowed in suspicion.
"Oh, Saints," Atticus whispered, realization dawning slow and dreadful. "What exactly are you planning?"
Victor sighed, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "Whatever it is, I doubt it’ll work," he said with the resigned condescension of someone who bets on misery and rarely loses.
"Oh, please," I cut in. "When do my plans ever go wrong?"
Brutus snorted. "You want that alphabetically or chronologically?"
I ignored him, already turning the radio over in my hands, feeling its faint static hum beneath my fingertips. "Alright then," I said, my voice laced with mischief, "time to make some noise."