Ever since Inkopolis had grown more centralized and the monorail had been installed, most of the old trains that ran between it and the countryside had been closed. Most lines were intercity—if that counted for the cities swallowed under the name, if not jurisdiction, of Inkopolis—and underground stations were fewer and farther between than the overland routes. But a few still ran, maintaining stops out to Bluefin Depot and Saltspray Rig and Camp Triggerfish.
Yes, the kettles could take her straight into the heart of the city—but scuffed up as she was, Agent gear still flashing, dragging a stolen suitcase for reasons better left unquestioned, it’d earn her more looks than she wanted to bargain for. And she didn’t feel like gambling a place to lie down. She hadn’t been sleeping lately, didn’t have the energy. Her eyes were half-shut and dull. Tired. Always tired, lately.
So. She’s taking the long way home.
Two fingers push one earbud in; a turn of her head, then the other; the high, soft collar of her jacket brushes against her cheek and her knuckles bump against her headset. She stands stiff and still, feet a hips-width apart. This station’s on the outskirts—abandoned, once, then reopened a few years ago without much explanation. It was a money sink, but no one in government had complained. Still, the trains here only ran thrice every twenty-four hours (10 AM, 6 PM, 2 AM, said the scratched placard on the wall), and nothing but silence echoed in between.
A guest speaker drones on about humanity’s fourth world war in her ears. She watches the mounted analog clock tick closer to two and studies the walls—concrete, water-stained, covered with faded graffiti and posters whose features ended a long time ago. Some of the symbols that peek through look familiar: an octopus shape and an arrow painted in magenta, and a sticker she’s almost sure she saw on a parka in Jelonzo’s shop. Plain wooden crates loom in stacks in the corners: some are rotted, others splintered and scattered across the floor. The back of her neck prickles and she curls her lip instead.
It slides down her spine like glacial surging, slow and cold and shivering. She scuffs her foot on the floor and ignores it, ignores the rumbling in her stomach, ignores the distant aching of her limbs. Her vest is frayed and her legs are bare and the station’s wet chill sinks its teeth in deep. So many electric lights keep flickering. It must have felt like home to them.
Finally, the train roars in the distance. She’s almost there.
(And it will be as cold and dim and beaten-down there too. But—she has to remember—it’s in these places that she thrives. Homes are no more than people and places she trespasses on.)
Camp Triggerfish’s Main Station is cleaner than this: a metal pavilion open to the elements, covered in summer-camp stickers and trinkets and crafts, raised on stilts like trellises that the weather force fields can’t stop vines from scaling. But it’s still another twenty-minute ride into the surrounding wild before she finds her cabin. Her footsteps will echo hollow on the diamond-plate platform, and she’ll push apart the undergrowth to find her bike, tie the suitcase down over the back wheel, and tumble into the valleys beyond.
Oh, she says she’s not afraid—it becomes a mantra, a chanting, a war cry. Oh, she says she’s not afraid, but she’d be a liar if she said it wasn’t ‘cause she’s used to it.