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.