Bolton
The first thing Bolton heard was the steady clinking of glass, the scrape of metal on wood, and a low hum that seemed to vibrate deep in his bones. His eyes fluttered open, the dim glow of lanterns casting soft shadows across a rustic ceiling. Where am I?
His body felt leaden, every movement met with resistance from the dull ache of his bruised ribs—a brutal reminder of the assault beneath the sewers, just below the hull of the Akiyoma Airship. He tried to sit up, but a sharp, searing pain shot through his side, forcing a groan from his lips. Blinking hard, Bolton struggled to make sense of his surroundings.
This isn’t the sewers.
The air here was different—warmer, almost stifling, filled with the sweet tang of puffed smoke, rich mead, and roasted meat. The subtle sway beneath him hinted at something in motion, though he couldn’t quite place it. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light from flickering lanterns that lined the walls. Shadows played across thick wooden beams, giving the place a rustic yet oddly comforting feel. Long, winding nets adorned the walls, barrels stood taller than him, and the room was dressed in riverboat charm as if it had been plucked from a world far removed from the one he knew.
Vermolly? Panic jolted through him like lightning. “Vermolly!” Bolton shot up, but the sudden movement sent a wave of pain crashing through his body, forcing him back down. He winced, groaning. “Vermolly…” he whispered, feeling the sting of his wounds.
His heart pounded as he scanned the room, eyes flitting from shadow to shadow. Where is she? But no sign of her. Just the haze of his pain and the steady click of train tracks below.
Looking down, Bolton noticed the worn bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. He tugged at them, momentarily lost in thought, before realizing his arms were bandaged as well. He lay in a narrow cubby, the bed bolted to the wall, with a small table attached by a sturdy metallic arm just to his left. The soft, rhythmic click of train tracks rumbled from below. A faint sound, but unmistakable.
I’m on a train? His pulse quickened, a rising sense of dread knotting in his stomach. How did I end up on a train? More importantly… how am I still alive?
Fragments of memory fluttered back to him—the fight, the desperate struggle beneath the airship, the crushing blows dealt by the Quadrant Leader. His body had given in to darkness then, hadn’t it? He had felt it close in. But something, or someone, had saved him. Someone with a strange, otherworldly presence... and a foul scent of oil and sewage.
But who?
Bolton’s breath quickened, the realization settling like lead in his gut. He wasn’t safe. He was far from the sewers, far from the fight, but that didn’t mean anything. Whoever saved me… they’ll know. They’ll find me.
A creak from nearby snapped him back to reality. He wasn’t alone.
Across the cart, a large, round-bellied man with a wild, white beard stormed toward the far end where a bar stood beneath the glow of lanterns. His boots clunked against the wooden floorboards with each step, shaking the glasses hanging behind the bar. The man’s voice boomed, echoing off the walls as though it were meant to shake the very structure of the train.
“Pistol! This is yer brilliant Midnight Train, and brilliant for certain!” The man bellowed with laughter, his voice rumbling through the car like thunder.
Bolton’s heart thudded in his chest, his mind racing. I can’t be here. They’ll see me, they’ll know. He tried to sit up again, but the sharp pain in his ribs flared, keeping him pinned. His hand instinctively moved to his side, fingers brushing over the rough, makeshift bandages. The memory of the Quadrant Leader’s assault came rushing back in vivid flashes—the fight, the desperation, and then… nothing. Blackness.
But someone had saved him.
Who?
His head swirled with fragments of thought, fear clawing its way up his spine. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to move, to get out, but his limbs refused to cooperate.
The gruff voice of a man at the bar cut through the din. It was dry, gravelly—seasoned by years of rough work, full of grit and character.
“Just boarded and already makin’ noise, Chief Hogswind,” the bartender muttered, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen far better days.
Chief Hogswind. The name hit Bolton like a punch to the gut. He’d heard it before—stories, rumors of a legendary miner turned leader, a rough man who commanded respect in the New Dwardian Kenton Mines of Quadrant 9.
The steady rumble of the train beneath Bolton reminded him he was far from the sewers. But how far? And why?
Hogswind’s voice filled the cart again, raucous and full of wild energy. “Oi, every young’un and ol’ beard here’s heard the stories! Tales of an infinite train, filled with monsters, deadly spirits, and royal arseholes from across the world!”
The crowd cheered. Bolton’s heart thudded against his chest, louder than before. They’re all here… and they could find me at any moment.
Bolton’s pulse quickened even more. Can’t they find me? Can’t they see?
Hogswind’s voice filled the cart again, raucous and full of wild energy. “Oi, every young’un and ol’ beard here’s heard the stories! Tales of an infinite train, filled with monsters, deadly spirits, and royal arseholes from across the world! But what do we see when we arrive? A fancin’ five-cart train with a tavern, a bath cart rivalin’ the Springs of Veranus, and a whorehouse to boot!”
The patrons erupted in cheers, their soot-covered faces breaking into grins as they raised their drinks high. “Yardrats! We’ve earned this! Workin’ the hardest mines in all the thirteen Quadrants!”
Bolton’s head throbbed. It felt like he was sinking into the fog again, the haze of exhaustion threatening to pull him back under. His eyelids drooped, but he couldn’t afford to slip into unconsciousness—not again. He forced himself to stay alert, his mind racing through fragments of memories, half-formed plans, and a creeping sense of dread.
With effort, Bolton tried to focus on the conversation happening at the bar. The bartender—an older man with gray-streaked hair and a face weathered like old leather—glanced in his direction, his eyes narrowing as if sensing something was off.
Bolton’s pulse quickened. “Damn it. What kind of mess…?”
He shifted, trying to move, but his limbs refused to cooperate. His vision blurred, the dim light of the train car mixing with the haze of pain and exhaustion. He couldn’t stay here. He needed to escape—but how?
“Pistol!” came a voice—a woman’s, firm yet gentle. Bolton’s ears perked up, catching the tone beneath the words. “We’ve got a small, tiny problem we need to talk about after these guys leave.”
Pistol. That must be the bartender’s name. Bolton glanced toward him again, noting the way Pistol’s eyes darted to the woman before narrowing in thought. Something was off.
Bolton’s pulse quickened further. His skin prickled as if something cold and sharp was creeping up his spine. I need to get off this train. Now.
The scrape of a rickety wooden stool from the far side of the cart made him freeze. Then, the heavy thud of worn leather boots echoed across the floorboards. A voice followed—a primal shout, deep, gruff, and hoarse, breaking through the low clatter of the train.
“Pistol!!!”
Pistol barely turned his head, wiping his hands on a dirtied rag. “How’s it I’ve got a shelf of ale behind me, yet I can smell Nicholas Hogswind from here?” he thought with a wry smile. “Like the damn mines of old. By the blessed, time passes right through ‘em.”
He caught sight of the man approaching—a ragged, smoky-white beard above a protruding belly. Chief Hogswind. There was no mistaking that booming voice or the swagger in his step.
“Pistol!” Hogswind shouted again, dragging out the L’s in his name. “This is yer’ brilliant Midnight Train! And brilliant for certain!” He laughed, each step shaking the glasses behind the bar. “Oi, how’s one come about getting a job on this train? HOLD ON! Don’t answer! Politics,” he whispered with a devious grin. “I hear… that’s how we got in the mines too. POLITICS!”
Pistol smirked as Hogswind’s voice filled the cart. Roaring laughter and chaotic murmurs rippled through the train as soot-covered miners crowded every corner. Dusted hardhats, sooted overalls, and blackened boots lined the booths from end to end, adding to the hearty chorus of cheers greeting Hogswind’s bombastic arrival.
“We drink to Chief! Chief drinks for us! In our moment of death, we wish for a moment of luck. To drink again, oi, a request for our life. To drink som’ more, lest we return to our wife!”
Hogswind raised his arms, a grin spreading wide across his face as his loud, raspy hum reverberated through the car. With dramatic flair, he belted out his response:
“I drink for life, I drink for you. Chief Hogswind arrives, insane it’s true. What’s crazier than me is the job that I love. We drink to my death, our moment beloved!”
“Chief Hogswind! Chief Hogswind! Chief Hogswind!” The crowd erupted, chanting until Hogswind hushed them with a thunderous “Halt!”
Bolton’s mind raced. I have to move. I can’t stay here. He tried again, struggling to shift his weight, but his body felt sluggish, pinned down by a force he couldn’t fight.
“Pistol!” whispered a soft voice beside him.
Pistol didn’t respond at first, focused on cleaning his barrel-shaped mugs, paying little mind to the chaos around him. But the footsteps grew closer. The voice called again—softer, more insistent.
Finally, Pistol turned, glancing toward the sliding wooden door at his side. Two glowing orange eyes peered from the crack in the door, watching.
“We have a whorehouse!? Where is it?” the voice asked, filled with a mixture of wonder and amusement.
“No,” Pistol responded dryly.
“That’s rough,” came the reply, followed by a chuckle. “Two questions: who’s the injured guy? And who’s this Chief guy? Looks like you, but somehow has a bigger belly.”
“The boy... A powerful favor. Nicholas—or Chief—is an old beard like me,” Pistol muttered, turning back to his work. “Now close the door. You’ll spoil the food.”
“Okay. But there’s a tiny problem we need to talk about. After these guys leave,” the voice said, a playful note creeping in before fading into the shadows.
Pistol sighed, continuing his work. He glanced at the sliding door with its intricate circular window, which separated the bar from the dimly lit storage room. Enough provisions to feed a small village sat inside, and tonight, they’d need every last bit of it.
“Oi! Close the door! Fruit’s gonna rot right outta the baskets!” Pistol barked, looking toward the darkened doorway. “Sarah!?”
There was no reply. Frowning, Pistol brushed past the swinging waist-high doors and peered into the storage room. The absence of lit lanterns sent a chill up his spine.
“Sarah? Where the hell’s that girl?”
Before he could take another step, Sarah appeared, rushing in with her fiery red hair catching the dim light.
“The Moonfruit creature’s at it again! Turning off the lights and scurrying through the train like it’s a sweet shop!” she huffed, snickering as she caught her breath. “I was tryin’ to catch the little bugger.”
“Moonfruit? By the blessed…” Pistol groaned, shaking his head. “That thing’s still scuttlin’ around? A problem for another hour. Close the door and get Grissm’ ready—we’ve got orders coming in fast.”
Sarah’s eyes flickered toward the passengers, narrowing as she spotted the rowdy crowd. “Yeah, I see him. Thunder boots and his rock brigade back there, huh? What happened to this train, Pistol? It used to host royalty. Now it’s all miners and muck.”
Pistol’s gaze followed hers. “I wouldn’t dismiss it just yet. That boy over there? Royalty. And we may or may not have a New Dwardian Quadrant Leader somewhere in these cars.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “Royalty? A Quadrant Leader!? What happened to predictable clientele?”
Bolton felt the conversation between Sarah and Pistol like sharp, whispering knives, prodding him to his feet. Danger seemed to lurk between every cheer and roar of the crowd, which only grew louder around him.
Pistol glanced over at Bolton, finally noticing him awake before dropping his voice into an even lighter whisper, his words firm. “Speculation leaves our mouths open in the rain, Sarah. Keep the boy safe and serve the everyday workin' man—that’s our job tonight. More important now, considerin' life back home in Dwarden.”
Sarah sighed, nodding as the reality set in. “As you put it, Whisky Sunday doesn’t run on two hands,” she muttered in a raspy mimicry, knowing there wasn’t time for argument.
As Chief Hogswind’s heavy boots echoed closer, Pistol squinted down the train’s aisle. The lanterns cast a warm, fire-lit glow across the car, bathing the rustic interior in an almost enchanted light. The Whisky Sunday felt alive, its atmosphere thrumming with energy. But something darker loomed on the horizon—Pistol could sense it like a drunkard ready to brawl at any moment.
“Miner Company #32! Settle and beg me an ear!” Hogswind’s voice growled.
Pistol’s heart quickened, the familiar chaos of the night just beginning. He didn’t know then that something far more dangerous than miners or muck was about to breach the safety of his Midnight Train.
“I just heard—Bolton Woltwork is in the train car tonight!” Chief Hogswind’s voice boomed, stirring excited murmurs from the crowd. “And look at him now, crawling out of his cubby like we all should be doing in a couple of hours! That’s the spirit, Woltwork. Lead. By. Example.”
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The train fell into a sudden, heavy silence. Every pair of eyes locked onto Chief Hogswind, his large frame illuminated by the swaying, fiery lamp overhead. Shadows and moonlight brushed across him with each jolt of the train, lending his already imposing figure an almost mythic quality.
Bolton turned his gaze to Chief Hogswind, watching as the man approached with deliberate, measured steps. A growing unease crept over Bolton as his eyes flicked toward Pistol behind the bar. The man was just as formidable—barrel-chested, shirtless, his sweat-slicked skin barely contained by his grease-streaked overalls. Pistol’s bald head glistened in the dim light, and his long, scraggly white beard, smoke-stained and tangled, drifted down his chest. He was a mountain of raw muscle, equal in size and presence to Chief Hogswind.
Standing just beneath Pistol’s chin, Sarah moved fluidly around the bar, working in perfect sync with him. Her bright orange eyes gleamed beneath the oil lamp, occasionally catching the glowing tip of Pistol’s beard. Despite her smaller frame, she had more than proven herself capable, evident in the unconscious figure slumped near the bar, a bruise already forming on his head. Her slender figure and loose-fitting uniform added to her fiery demeanor, a striking contrast to the brute strength around her, yet she held her ground with quiet authority.
As Chief Hogswind drew closer, Bolton’s gaze drifted over the dimly lit train car. The miners, scattered in booths on both sides, looked different now. The train's low hum echoed through the metal frame, but it was the miners’ uniforms that caught Bolton’s attention. No longer dressed in the black-and-blue of the past, they now wore denim blue overalls with striped white shirts and flat caps. Though the uniforms had changed, the grime and soot that clung to their boots remained, a constant reminder of their labor in the deepest depths of the earth.
Bolton’s attention returned to Chief Hogswind, whose black-and-blue overalls were relics of another time, stained and worn from years spent underground. Dirt clung to every crevice, a testament to his past. Before Bolton could sink further into his thoughts, Pistol’s voice shattered the silence.
“Cut it will ya!?” Pistol snapped, his fist tightening in frustration. “Bolton’s about as useful as a one-winged bird. His crown’s on the ground right next to your vacation, my pay, and—”
“And my conductor’s license?” Sarah chimed in, her voice light and playful. She flashed a fleeting smile before returning to her work, polishing gourd-shaped glasses and barrel mugs for the rush ahead.
“I’m in no rush to leave the Yardrat life! It’s truly all I know!” Chief Hogswind’s booming voice echoed through the train, shaking the walls. “It’s all we know. See, you escaped the life, Pistol. Bravo! But how many carts does this Midnight Train, this Whisky Sunday, need before you realize it’s just another shaft, another tunnel, yet another cave? You and I—we’re Yardrats! Born to remain in our tubes, tunnels, and lamp-lit adventures!”
Chief Hogswind’s eyes bore into Pistol’s, his cheeks flushed, his flask leaking liquor with every sway of the train. His brows furrowed, not with anger, but with something darker simmering beneath the surface.
“Nicholas?” Pistol sighed, exasperated. “Life’s a damn series of endless tubes and tunnels either way. You and I both know it’s best to face a bucking horse from its front.”
The Chief paused, his heavy boots squeaking on a metallic sheet spread across the wooded floor as he took a deep breath. A single nod passed between them, a gesture of mutual understanding. Then, slowly, Chief Hogswind continued toward Bolton. Each footfall grew heavier, sending vibrations through the train, until Bolton could feel the pressure mounting in his chest.
“Whisky Cream, anyone?” Sarah’s cheerful voice broke through the tension, holding up a bottle. The brightness of her offer clashed awkwardly with the thickening atmosphere. “Bad time for drink…” she mumbled, stepping back toward the bar.
“Right time! Always!” Roared Chief Hogswind with a wide disarming smile.
Bolton’s heart raced as Hogswind’s massive frame towered over him, filling the narrow space. He pressed himself back into the booth, his body aching and stiff. His eyes darted between Hogswind and Pistol, trying to gauge his options. It was hopeless—he felt trapped, like prey caught between two predators.
“Best follow me, Prince!” Hogswind’s voice thundered, breaking the stillness. “A New Dwardian’s denizen would like a chat! An opportunity rare! I imagine.”
Bolton’s hands instinctively dove into his pockets, his mind racing for a weapon—or anything—to defend himself from the approaching giant. “I was free to roam yesterday! Only thing that’s changed are these bandages,” he blurted, desperate to deflect the rising confrontation.
As Chief Hogswind drew closer, the tension in the train car tightened. The miners exchanged uneasy glances, torn between laughing at Bolton’s boldness or staying silent in fear, waiting for Hogswind’s next move.
“Grit! A sharp and valuable quality with direction! Dictation! Designation! Delivery! Eh, King?” Hogswind’s voice boomed in a sing-song, but Bolton barely registered it. His attention was elsewhere, drawn to his clothes. He suddenly realized that nothing he wore was familiar. In his frantic search for something to defend himself, his fingers closed around the one thing he still recognized—his pocket watch.
As he pulled it out, something strange caught his eye. The watch trembled in his hand, pulsing faintly—something he hadn’t noticed before. Bolton flipped it open, expecting to see the familiar gem nestled inside with the family photo. But his heart skipped a beat. The gem was gone, shattered into fragments. In its place was a strange, mechanical-fleshy core, softly pulsing. It seemed alive in a way that made Bolton’s stomach twist.
He stared, transfixed by the soft blue glow. The world around him faded as the watch’s steady rhythm synced with his heartbeat.
"Why would someone… or something steal the gem and leave this?" he thought.
The core pulsed again, its wires and veins—a grotesque blend of machine and flesh—alive in a way that defied logic. Bolton had seen many machines in his life, but none like this. He reached out, drawn to the faint hum it emitted. The moment his fingers touched the core, it recoiled, releasing a puff of hot air. A sharp pain lanced through his chest, and he flinched.
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“Was this core part of him now?” The thought flashed through his mind.
“What’s that in your hand?” Chief Hogswind’s voice snapped Bolton from his trance. The Chief’s large hand clamped down on his shoulder, dragging him back to reality. “I’m trying to inspire here, and you’re fiddling with some freak watch?” Hogswind’s voice was sharp, cutting through the fog clouding Bolton’s mind.
Before Bolton could respond, Hogswind leaned in, squinting at the pocket watch. His eyes lingered on the strange, pulsing core for a long moment. Then, with a grunt, he straightened up, turning away. “Ahhhh! Should’ve expected you’d make a deal,” he muttered under his breath.
Bolton’s heart pounded, but defiance flickered in his eyes as he raised his head. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he muttered, shoving the watch back into his pocket.
Hogswind chuckled darkly, glancing over his shoulder. “Come now, I don’t care about the watch or whatever deal you and your family made.” His voice dropped to a low rumble. “Let’s talk terms for us Yardrats moving forward. That’s far more interestin’.”
As Hogswind spoke, the train remained eerily silent, save for the soft hum of its movement and the flicker of lanterns. Bolton, seeking answers but desperate to escape, followed Hogswind reluctantly toward the bar. He slipped into a seat across from Pistol, his eyes flicking to the miners on either side of Hogswind. Their faces were unreadable, but their eyes locked onto Bolton, waiting for whatever came next.
“You’ve got a lot of faith in that boy, Pistol,” Hogswind said, casting a glance at Bolton before turning back to Pistol.
“Not the boy, Chief. Like I said, just a favor,” Pistol replied casually, as if discussing the weather.
“The Legendary Rock Brawler, ‘Pistol’ of the Kenton mines, doing a favor?” Hogswind barked, disbelief in his voice. “Tell me that doesn’t sound like the beginning of—”
“…another complicated adventure,” Pistol interrupted with a half-smile, swaying his head in disbelief.
“Precisely, old friend!” Hogswind’s scraggly laughter rang through the car. He took a seat at the bar, settling into Bolton’s right with a wide grin. “Now. Do I drink with this potential’ threat?”
Bolton tensed, his ears catching every word, but he kept his gaze down, pretending not to listen.
“Threat? Sounds to me like you’re afraid of—” Pistol’s voice cut through the chatter as he took a long swig from the barrel mug at his side, “—a mere boy.”
“Mere boy?” Hogswind chuckled, his voice low and rough. “Since I met you many ticks ago, I’ve learned not to underestimate what a boy is capable of.”
Bolton’s heart pounded, but he stayed still, straining to hear more.
Hogswind leaned back in his seat, his eyes flicking to Pistol. “Now, let’s try that legendary drink. Ain’t too often a ‘mere’ Yardrat gets to ride the Midnight Train.”
Pistol nodded in agreement. He grabbed a mug and filled it with a golden, frothy liquid from one of the many giant barrels mounted on the walls and overhead. The miners gripped their empty mugs tightly, their eyes following the stream of drink as it flowed into Pistol’s hands. When the tap snapped shut, a collective sigh of anticipation swept through the car, the comforting scent of the drink now filling the air.
Pistol had the train car prepared—mugs and glasses neatly arranged, each fitting perfectly into the train’s compartments, complementing the warm firelight that flickered across the room.
All eyes were on Chief Hogswind now. The men watched with bated breath, eager to see his reaction as he wrapped his massive hand around the mug. Pistol, too, stood still, his rag forgotten over his shoulder as he leaned slightly forward, waiting. The glow from the fire reflected off the drink, casting an inviting shimmer as Hogswind slowly lifted the mug to his lips. Every miner leaned in, the moment drawn out, thick with anticipation.
Even Bolton, despite everything, found himself caught in the moment, watching intently as Hogswind prepared to take his first sip of Pistol’s alleged ‘legendary’ drink.
“By the damn green, Pistol!” Hogswind bellowed after a long gulp, his voice slicing through the air. “You’ve outdone any man, god, or Colossus. This drink is divine!”
Laughter erupted through the train car, quickly followed by a roaring cheer that seemed to shake the very walls.
“The Yardrats will drink good tonight!” Chief Hogswind shouted, rising triumphantly from his seat, his booming voice igniting another wave of celebration.
“I know it’s been decades, but you know this boy ain’t no threat,” Pistol said, chuckling deeply. “I’ve known you to sniff out a spent cigarette in a loo.”
“Why not let the act play out?” Hogswind grinned, wiping foam from his mouth as he glanced at Bolton. “Bolton, this is Nicholas Hogswind! Always makes a grand entrance. Exclusively drunk too,” Pistol teased, tugging at his beard.
“Call me Chief,” Hogswind said warmly, leaning back into his seat at the bar. “A friend of Pistol’s is a friend of mine. Practically an obligation.” He settled in, his posture relaxed but his presence still commanding.
“The name’s Sarah,” sprang a voice to Bolton’s left.
Bolton turned to see Sarah standing next to him, her fiery orange hair flaring at the tips. As she slipped off her orange gloves, Bolton noticed her freckled face, the spots tightly packed around her nose like scattered embers on her pale skin. She leaned her elbow on the bar, a grimace on her face that even made Pistol uneasy.
“The old guy in front of us?” She nodded toward Pistol. “He’s the sweetheart who made sure you were doing okay,” she said with a large smile. Her eyes sparkled in a way that made Bolton momentarily forget his pain, lost in the warmth of her gaze.
“Delivered to you by—”
“Someone… who really cares for you,” Pistol interjected, guarding the secret.
“Yes,” Sarah added, her voice softening as she caught Bolton’s eye again. “If you need anything, just let me know. I know you’ve got questions, but for now, sit tight and enjoy a drink. Sounds like you’ll need it.”
Bolton stole a glance at Sarah, his mind briefly drifting. The soft hues of her loose skirt contrasted with the warm firelight, and her bright eyes flickered with a quiet kindness. For a moment, he found her undeniably charming.
But now wasn’t the time. He tore his gaze away, refocusing on the looming figure of Chief Hogswind.
Chief Hogswind downed the last of his drink before leaning in with a broad smile. “Now, what Primarian Royalty…” he burped, grabbing the top of Bolton’s and forcing him to meet his eyes, “doing on a Midnight Train?”
Bolton heard Sarah recede into the shadows behind him, her boots softly thudding as she tended to the booths. He had no choice but to meet Hogswind’s reddened, weary eyes. The smell of liquor was heavy on his breath.
“Leave the boy alone. He doesn’t know much. Got banged up from a fight,” Pistol interrupted, pouring another drink for Bolton.
“With whom?” Hogswind’s voice turned sharp.
Pistol glanced at Bolton, eyes narrowing, as if warning him to remain silent. Bolton leaned forward slightly, eager to piece together how he ended up on this train, how much time had passed since the fight.
“Doesn’t matter. He ain’t dead,” Pistol said firmly.
Bolton frowned, struggling to remember. “I... I was fighting... my friend... she was killed. Then—”
“What kind of drink did ya serve me, Pistol?” Hogswind cut in, his voice lighter but firm, steering the conversation away as Bolton’s words faltered.
“Orange Smooth Honey from the Gallup Mountains. A kick of allspice from the Essessel Woods,” Pistol explained, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, give it to him—and double the potency!” Hogswind boomed, his laughter filling the car. “Everyone on this train deserves a drink, huh?” he shouted, riling up the passengers once more.
“Here’s a secret, my royal… eh, understudy!” Hogswind’s deep belly laugh shook the air as he smoothly swiped a shot of liquor from Pistol’s hand and passed it to Bolton. “Drink makes things a little easier, but money…”
Pistol chimed in, finishing the thought with a knowing grin. “—Money is always the result of someone’s hard work.” He gave a satisfied nod, watching Bolton with a gleam of pride as the young man hesitated, then reluctantly downed the drink.
Hogswind stood tall, raising his mug high. “On my mark, Yardrats. We drink!”
The miners, their empty mugs clutched in eager hands, leaned forward, eyes flicking between Bolton, Pistol, and their Chief, waiting for the signal.
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"Chief! Hogswind! Chief! Hogswind! Chief Hogswind!" The crowd chanted in unison, their voices rising between the booths lining the train. Stomps shook the wooden floorboards beneath them.
"Oi, Yardrats! Half past the time to scratch your arses! If you wan’t the drinks ya earned then eyes on me!" Chief Hogswind bellowed, his voice booming through the train, shaking the flames of the lanterns above.
"Sir, MY HEART IS FOR SIR!" one side of the train cheered.
"Sir, MY ARMS IS FOR SIR!" the other side shouted, even louder, eager to outdo their rivals.
Hogswind leaned over the bar, scanning the rows of oddly shaped bottles—meads, exotic juices, liquors—before settling his gaze on Bolton, who was still reeling from his first swig of mead.
"Boys! Some bigwig from Dwarden City, maybe a Quadrant Leader—hell, could even be the King—saw fit to reward those who keep the pistons pumping and gears churning by letting us ride this Midnight Train! A rare honor!" Chief Hogswind's voice boomed over the crowd, commanding their attention. "But rarer still, we got royalty among us. This here is Bolton Woltwork, a man who's likely been through—"
"You don’t know me," Bolton interrupted, his breath shallow.
"A man who—"
"I said, you don’t know me!" Bolton’s sharp retort sliced through the air, plunging the cart into an uneasy silence.
From the bar, Pistol took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing on Bolton, intrigued by his next move. He gave a subtle nod to Sarah, who stood tense, her gaze fixed on Chief Hogswind, ready to spring at any moment. Pistol’s attention lingered as Hogswind clamped a heavy hand on Bolton's shoulder, his glare darkening with unspoken menace.
"Lay off! He's clearly been through a lot, you rock ogre!" Sarah shouted at Chief Hogswind, positioning herself behind him after handing out the barrel-shaped mugs to the miners. Her tray wobbled precariously, but her voice remained steady, her eyes locked on him.
Hogswind didn’t even glance her way, his focus entirely on Bolton, as if her words didn’t register. The train cart fell into a heavy silence, tension thickening in the air.
“Nicholas, do you remember when we were first conscripted into becoming Yardrats?” Pistol asked, wiping one of many glasses, his tone casual but intended to ease the rising tension between Hogswind and Sarah.
“Ah, yes,” Hogswind replied, his eyes distant. “We had just finished kicking some teeth in at Whistetop’s adult section. Four sorry excuses for men and their monster, knocked down into the dirt like human pegs.”
Pistol paused, his gaze falling into a moment of nostalgia. “...Ya’ you remember why?”
“We were rounded up quickly. The Primarian Arc’s just as ruthless with children as with adults,” Hogswind said, his voice growing somber. “The rest… well, we know how that went.”
As Pistol’s face shifted from light-hearted to serious, Sarah instinctively moved closer to Bolton, her expression mirroring the grim look that had settled on Pistol. She glanced at Bolton, who seemed lost in thought, watching as his gaze flicked between Pistol and Hogswind, both momentarily caught in their own memories. Seizing the moment, Sarah leaned in toward Bolton, who rested his face on his arms, head propped up.
“Trust Pistol,” she whispered softly. “He’s the conductor of a Midnight Train. These things run on a little more than just steam—think good will and soul magic.”
“Wha—?” Pistol’s confused voice cut through, his eyes darting toward Sarah.
She gave him a playful glance before turning back to Bolton. “He’s a good guy, and he knows your brother. More importantly, he knows the Quadrant Leader who saved you. And hey—” she added with a wink, “you’re still breathing, so that’s something.”
“Who saved me -Sally?” Bolton asked, quickly sitting up straight.
“It’s Sarah.” Sarah replied suddenly growing into a frown before springing in her usual happy go lucky self. “Aurous. Smelled like a sewer, but it was Quadrant Leader One—Aurous.”
“Who saved me… Sa—Sal… Sa…?” Bolton stammered, struggling to refocus as he sat up straight.
“It’s Sarah,” she corrected, her brief frown melting into her usual cheerful self. “Aurous. Smelled like a sewer, but yeah, it was Quadrant Leader One—Aurous.”
“Aurous!” Bolton shot up from his seat, the name hitting him like a bolt of lightning.
Pistol, mid-conversation with Hogswind, caught Sarah’s revelation and shot her a disapproving scowl. Sarah, seeing it, responded with a lighthearted smile before gently tapping Bolton on the shoulder.
“You’re not invincible,” Sarah said softly, guiding Bolton back to his seat, “but you’re very protected.”
Bolton’s body tensed, his muscles itching to spring into action. A part of him wanted to shove Sarah aside, storm down the train’s narrow aisle, and throw himself off at the next stop—anything to escape the growing pressure. His eyes darted toward the counter, his mind calculating how quickly he could hop over it and grab something—anything—to use as a weapon. The weight of his pocket watch pressed against his chest, a reminder of the unknown forces he now faced.
Then, the name Aurous echoed in his mind. A man of legend in the Primarian Royale, a figure so mysterious and boisterous that his very presence was enough to command respect. Aurous, the creator of Quadrant One, a name whispered with both reverence and fear. Bolton had heard the stories—how the man’s strength and cunning had shaped an entire Quadrant, his boisterous laugh shaking the halls of the Royale as easily as he moved armies. The idea that Aurous had saved him felt surreal, almost impossible.
His thoughts drifted back to the bedtime stories Michael used to tell him and Amelia—tales of the thirteen Quadrant Leaders, each represented by a revered animal in their respective domains. There was Enton, the Bear—strong and immovable. Aurous, the Ape—boisterous and cunning. Glassford, the Owl—silent and wise. Newton, the Ignorpa—a beast of instinct and speed. Drock, the Toad—sly and adaptable. And Davina, the Cat—graceful and elusive.
Before Bolton could recall the rest, the weight of the present dragged him back. The pressure inside him mounted, the sense of impending danger closing in once again.
But Sarah’s calm expression, paired with the revelation of an old friend who had come to his aid, eased the edge of his panic. Slowly, his heartbeat began to steady. Before he knew it, his legs had given in, and he found himself back in his seat at the bar. He exhaled, his gaze shifting toward Pistol and Chief Hogswind on his right, their conversation pulling him reluctantly back into the moment.
Pistol cleared his throat, refocusing the conversation with Hogswind and speaking louder, as if signaling Bolton to pay attention. “Anyway, we did the right thing back then. Just got caught in…”
“In the fuckin' middle,” Hogswind finished, nodding in agreement.
Pistol leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Yeah, keep things under your breath, but Quadrant Leader Aurous rides with us on the Whisky Sunday—two carts ahead, near the front of the train. He expects the boy at a destination, to meet with another. The less we know, the better.”
“The boy’s mind is broken…” Hogswind began, his voice trailing as if thinking aloud.
“He saw his best friend murdered in front of him,” Pistol said quietly, his voice carrying a weight of understanding.
Bolton’s shoulders tensed, his fists clenching briefly before loosening. His eyes, hard with disgust, flicked to Pistol, but the anger drained from his expression as he caught Pistol’s steady, knowing gaze. Pistol didn’t speak further, but the way he held Bolton’s stare, with a slight nod, said more than words could.
“Familiar,” Hogswind muttered, noticing the silent exchange between the two.
“So maybe we take a little more caution when speaking with him,” Sarah chimed in, her voice gentle but firm.
Pistol gave her a soft, knowing smile, his eyes warm as he gestured for her to leave. There was no disapproval in his look—only affection, as if silently thanking her. Sarah’s face softened in response, and without another word, she slipped away behind the counter, preparing for the next round of service.
"Are we certain we don’t understand each other, Bolton Woltwork?" Hogswind challenged, locking eyes with him. "You were exiled, weren’t ya? At eighteen?"
Bolton met Hogswind’s gaze, anger and confusion flickering across his face before he slumped back into his seat.
"Right!?" Hogswind barked, grabbing Bolton’s stool and spinning it to face him directly.
"F—" Bolton began, but the words stuck in his throat, the weight of Vermolly heavy on his mind, his eyes welling with unshed tears.
"Greisha," Hogswind enunciated slowly, each syllable landing like a hammer. "The ceremony at eighteen, right?" He raised his voice, addressing the crowd now. "Challenges set by the Quadrant Leaders: Power, Pride, Practice. Ring any bells?" His voice boomed, the stool creaking beneath him. "The ruler chosen by the final challenge. The rest? Exiled."
"I don’t need my life explained to me! Why!? For what!? So I can be told to leave again? To wave at the people who were cheering me on minutes ago, only to never see them—or my sister—again? My brother! To go command a world that might not even need me?" Bolton screamed in a sudden outburst before slumping back down. “Why?”
"Don’t ya?" Hogswind shot back, turning to the miners. "Boys, how many of us got no home?" Cheers erupted. "How many of us come from dirt? How many of us got no families, no wives, no kids?" With each question, the train roared louder. "And at what age did life’s 'complications' conscript us into becoming Yardrats!?"
"At eighteen!" the train cart roared back in near unison, the sound shaking the air, with only Pistol, Bolton, and Sarah remaining silent.
"At eighteen, we’re expected to descend into the bowels of the underground! At eighteen, we become the necessity that keeps the city lit! At eighteen, we give up our lives in the Quadrants to fight monsters, all for a crown that’s worth little more than a train ride and a few drinks. But we’ve sharpened our purpose from a dull spear!" Chief Hogswind’s voice thundered, the crowd erupting in wild cheers.
Bolton glanced around, his thoughts drifting to Vermolly, the memories of his small workshop tucked inside Mama Alton's bakery flooding back. He recalled how Vermolly had taught him the intricacies of "machinerium"—the study of engineering using Gigarock, the precious ore derived from Yerro’s remains. His mind wavered between Chief Hogswind’s expectant gaze and Pistol’s patient, knowing one. Both men were waiting, eager to see his next move.
The warm, swamp-like atmosphere of the train blurred in Bolton's vision, his mind slipping back to the Greisha ceremony. The faces of the miners seemed to morph into the crowd that had once watched him at the ceremony. Everything swirled and darkened until he found himself floating in a black void. The voice of the former King—his father, Hios Woltwork—echoed around him: "We forfeit the right to be like everyone else, just as a parent gives their life so that their child may walk a higher path."
Suddenly, Bolton snapped back to the present, the roaring of the train and Chief Hogswind’s face inches from his own, practically crouched down in front of him.
"See, boy? You’re not alone in this. Most of us got nothing to go back to. Exiled! Darkness, tunnels, monsters, drink—repeat. That's all we know." Hogswind’s voice softened, but the steel remained. "Far as I see, you’re just another Yardrat in the making."
The train erupted in cheers again, but Bolton barely heard them.
"So," Hogswind leaned in closer, voice low but firm, "you got a choice. Grab my mug and drink the mead, or... let life sink you to its bottom and float up only when it’s molded you into a slab of manure."
"I—" Bolton tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat.
"But know this," Hogswind continued, his voice unwavering, "if you grab that mead, we’re in this fight together."
Bolton stared at the mug in front of him, its worn wooden surface reflecting the dim light of the train car. Chief Hogswind had placed it firmly in his hands, but Bolton hesitated, his fingers tightening around the handle. The weight of his choices felt heavier than the mug itself. He could walk away, leave this life behind—or embrace what was coming, Yardrat or otherwise. Slowly, he raised the mug, the scent of mead filling his senses. His eyes darted to Pistol, who gave him a small, knowing nod.
“Best celebrate that we’re alive anyway,” Pistol said with a wry smile, “Yardrat or otherwise.”
Bolton’s grip tightened, and with one last, deep breath, he tilted the mug back. The cold liquid hit his throat, and he guzzled it down, the foam spilling over his lips as the cheers of the miners filled the train car.
“Clearly, we choose to live again!” Chief Hogswind cheered, wrapping one massive arm around Bolton, a wide grin on his face as he swigged from his flask. “The monsters fail again! And we—we drink again!” His voice boomed through the train car. He turned to Pistol, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “So, with your permission, Pistol—are we ready?” Hogswind asked, eager for the signal to let the celebration truly begin.
“What say you, Sarah? Ready for a night on the tracks?” asked Pistol.
“Glasses and mugs are served,” she sighed from just behind him. “Guess all we gotta do is open the tap.”
Pistol chuckled, then turned to Bolton. “What say you, Bolton? Our destination is still half a day’s journey. Care to join us?”
Bolton hesitated, his fingers tightening around his mug. His mind wandered back to his father, Hios Woltwork, and the words he had once spoken: A parent’s duty is to smile alongside his children when possible. The memory hit him like a wave, pulling him between the past and the present. His father’s voice seemed to linger, urging him forward, reminding him that even in the darkest of times, there was room for moments of joy.
He took a deep breath, then raised his mug, his smile spreading. “Open ’em!” he shouted, surrendering to the energy of the moment.
The train cart erupted into a cacophony of voices—cheers, clanking mugs, and the rapid footfalls of miners swarming toward the center of the giant train cart, where the bar waited. Music emerged from the chaos, a mix of humming, banging on tables, and stomping feet, as if the train itself had joined in the celebration. The swaying lamps above cast flickering light over the red carpet that lined the center aisle, illuminating the wild, joyful scene that had sprung to life in an instant.
Suddenly, one of the miners jumped up, banging his mug on the table, his voice booming above the crowd as he launched into song.
Coffins With Mead
Miner 1:
My mother once told me, It'd be best if she’d left for a bucket of mead (Miners together: Ha!)
She bit her lip, her lip quivering pissed, and she spat her rum on me! (Miners Togethers: Ha!)
All Together:
She was a whore! A stinkin fat boar!
A pig foul indeed!(Together)
One hundred adored, a hundred on four,
for being on her knees! (Together)
We drink to the whores, we drink out the door,
We’ll drink a barrel on me (Together)
Brothers and sisters!
Fuckers and fisters!
Prepare our coffins with mead
Miner 2:
My mother once told me, love is a bet, my lassie’ but a dream (Miners Together: Ha!)
She quivered her lip, the cunt royally pissed, and she poured her rum on me (Miners Together: Ha!)
All Together:
She was a whore! A stinkin fat boar!
A pig foul indeed!(Together)
One hundred adored, a hundred on four,
for being on her knees! (Together)
We drink to the whores, we drink out the door,
We’ll drink a barrel on me (Together)
Brothers and sisters!
Fuckers and fisters!
Prepare our coffins with mead
Miner 3:
My mother last told me, life is best, licken those accursed bottles clean (Miners together: Ha!)
She ran her lips, her breath burnin’s of piss, then she-
The swaying lamps flickered as the noise and energy filled the train, the miners' voices rising into a chaotic anthem. Just as the final verse was about to hit its crescendo, a sudden, forceful bang echoed from the far end of the train cart, cutting the song short.
The doors slammed open, and Enton strode in, his cold blue eyes locking onto Bolton. The celebration froze. Bolton’s breath caught as rage broke through him, before settling into icy fear.
Enton was an unsettling blend of authority and monstrosity. His sleek, military-style black robe clung to his hulking frame, with precise tailoring that added to his aristocratic demeanor. His paperboy-style cap, perched neatly atop his head, contrasted the terrifying power underneath. Beneath the robe, the rhythmic clanking of pistons could be heard as they jutted out from his spine, powering the grotesque fusion of human and machine. His metallic legs, clicking with each step, were threaded with steely strands that reinforced his towering, mechanical bulk.
He moved through the crowd like a force of nature, his cold presence sending miners back into their seats. With each heavy step, the ground trembled beneath him.
Chief Hogswind’s eyes flicked to the opposite end of the train car. His brow furrowed as he muttered, “Aurous…” the name barely audible over the growing tension.
Before Enton could reach Bolton, a thunderous crash came from the far end of the cart. The doors burst open, and Aurous charged through. His broad, muscular chest was bare, his body human-like but draped in a simple loincloth. Massive mechanical arms jutted from both sides, adding to his four-limbed form, his shorter legs giving him an ape-like stance.
Aurous’s entrance cut through the chaos, his confident smile never wavering. He locked eyes with Enton and, with a playful grin, asked, “Who’s your favorite cousin?”