(26)

"Attention, passengers. Thank you for choosing the 506 engine today. As many of you may know, after over seventy years of passenger service, this signature of regional travel will be retiring at the end of the month, making this one of its final trips across the plains. From businessmen to newlyweds, families to runaways, the 506 has been the courier of hearts and drives for generations!"

The announcement continued over the car speakers, going on to describe how it would be moved to a museum after its retirement, while the passengers, themselves, filed in to store their bags and take their seats.

Haru had always enjoyed riding long-distance trains like this. Unlike the cramped cars of anything for shuttling around the city, full of grumpy, miserable people trying their hardest to be blind to everything around them, these were laid out more like an airplane. Everyone with a ticket had a seat, and with the three of them, she and her parents had half a row all to themselves.

"Put my bag overhead for me, would you, dear?" Hisako, Haru's mother, offered the item to her father.

"Of course," Masao agreed immediately, taking it in one hand before turning to his daughter. "Give me yours, too, Haru."

She immediately obliged, of course. "Thanks, Dad!"

He just chuckled. "Not much of a choice in the matter, you're both too short! Better go ahead and tuck into the window seat if you want it."

"Aww, you know I like sitting between you and Mom!"

Between Haru and her best friend, most people obviously mistook her for the one that was only half-Asian. It wasn't hard to guess why. She'd inherited her mother's figure and thick, easily grown hair, but managed to snag her father's color palette. Not his six feet of height, though. Pity. It was fun to imagine herself towering over even Reina, like some sort of miniature giant Haru.

While it was generally accepted, even by the families, themselves, that there must have been a Westerner somewhere up both trees, the culprit had been well-hidden. Which probably meant some great grandma had been involved in a daring tryst. Haru always thought that was a story she'd love to hear, but the families disagreed.

Still, she wouldn't trade the parents she had for anything, even if it meant she came out looking like a lopsided potato. She never, ever doubted their love for her or for each other. That's why she liked to sit between them. To her senses, it was like being wrapped on both sides in a warm, fluffy blanket. She was looking immensely forward to wriggling down into her seat, pulling an actual travel blanket up over her, and just basking in their presence for a couple hours.

Fetching the blanket and opening it up meant her parents were already in their chairs before she'd actually put her own butt down. She was halfway through that last step when an incomprehensible malice crashed over her like a wave. The sensation froze her in place as its rancid waters twisted through her stomach.

Almost silent in the general noise of settling passengers and the continuing speech from the intercom, the doors sealed shut.

"Again, thank you from the bottom of our hearts for joining us during this time of transition. As an expression of our gratitude, please sit back, relax, feel free to ask a concierge for complimentary drinks and snacks, partake of the in-car entertainment, and enjoy the ride for the rest of eternity."

The train, having already started moving, shifted into a higher gear. The sudden jolt shook Haru into nearly toppling as her senses returned to her.

Her father grabbed her arm to brace her, radiating concern. "Haru? Are you alright?"

A seal. They were in a seal. That meant a demon had hijacked the train. Was the seal covering the entire thing, or just a few cars? She had to find out. Not just for her parents. She couldn't let all of these innocent people stay in so much danger, even if they didn't realize they were in it.

She forced herself to put on a happy face, grateful that her parents weren't empaths, too. "Ah, yeah, I, uh, just forgot to go to the bathroom before boarding." Haru moved to start stepping over her father's legs to get out. "I'll just slip out and use the train's--"

A hand came down on her shoulder, firm but irresistible as it forced her back down into her seat. When she looked up to see who'd done it, she froze again.

"Siddown, doll."

... Haru always thought that if she ever met a mobster, they'd be the Italian Gorilla type. Big, brutish, a fedora half beaten to death over a greasy mop of hair. This guy, though, he was clean shaven with a nice chin. His nose was sharp and his eyes were piercing, but his hair was well-groomed, trimmed and in some sort of a cross between a military buzz on the sides and a corporate comb-over on top.

The man had broad shoulders, but a slim body, emphasized by his dark blue three-piece herringbone suit completed with a bold red tie. He apparently had at least some semblance of manners, as he had his bowler cap off and under one arm.

Something about him made her heart race for a moment, which was strange enough to snap her out of it. After all, this man was easily twice her age, and that was definitely something she wasn't into.

... That and there was the whole fact that there were no emotions coming from him at all, which meant he was a construct summoned by the demon, not an actual person. Yeah, that was totally what was the bigger red flag and absolutely registered to her mind first.

And finally, what he called her clicked. "What?"

He looked right into her eyes, and her heart hopped again. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't place it, like a face she'd seen in an old movie years ago or something.

"You're no can house hoofer, kitten," he told her, and she really wished he had emotions for her to read, because his words were nonsense. "You don't need to be rushing out to shake your gams the moment a stage opens up." He firmly reasserted his grip on her shoulder. "You just sit down, put your dogs up, and I'll let you know when it's showtime, savvy?"

Well, at least she got one message loud and clear: He knew what she had been trying to do. Or at least suspected the bathroom was an excuse for something else. Constructs could be tricky like that. They could just be background NPCs, waffling around on oblivious autopilot, or they could be as intelligent as the demon that created them.

"Okay," she submitted, nodding as she eased back down into her seat.

"Good girl," he praised nonchalantly and headed on down the aisle.

"Wow, they're really going all out for this finale party," Haru's father marveled, rubbernecking to follow what was going on. "Those costumes are great! And did you hear the way he talked?"

Haru poked her head up over her seat again at that. Sure enough, he wasn't the only construct. There were three more, a small-framed Chinese martial artist with a cold stare, a cowboy straight from the wild west, and a bare-chested yakuza who would be topless if it weren't for his long coat.

Behind her, her mother wasn't nearly as impressed. "I don't like the way he was talking to Haru. He acted entirely too familiar!"

"Oh, it's just the act," her father reassured his wife. "That's how they talked back then! He's just engaging with passengers!"

Toward the back of the car, the yakuza was trying to get an old man to cooperate, but she could tell without even looking at him that he was the obstinate sort. This was made worse by the fact that the construct was apparently trying to relay what he wanted entirely through shoving and aggressive gestures.

... She had the feeling that fifty years ago, maybe the two of them wouldn't have been so different.

The struggle turned violent when the yakuza snapped and slammed his fist into the old man's chest. The impact sent him sprawling back into an old woman and a middle-aged woman that were probably his family.

The entire car was caught in a collective breath of stunned silence as everyone processed the shocking behavior. The old man gasped and coughed in the arms of his family. The yakuza exhaled.

The train rattled over a bump, shifting everyone within the car.

Shouts of outrage and indignation began welling up as men and an occasional woman pushed to their feet, fists balled and raised, but the constructs were faster. The cowboy pulled his revolver in an instant quick draw and put two .45s into an unoccupied seat cushion. The gangster wasn't far behind him with a 1911, but the uprising had already been put to the noose.

It was one thing to dogpile an unarmed man, but a lot fewer people were willing to risk being the first ones to get shot.

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The martial artist didn't draw any weapon, he just stood a little straighter and arched an eyebrow.

"You'll have to excuse my pal," the gangster finally said after the car's occupants had settled back into an uneasy silence. "He clams up pretty tight, but he goes off the track in a New York minute. Let's all avoid setting off the soup man, eh?"

He moved over to an empty seat where he could lift himself up and sit on the back while propping his foot up on the actual cushion, though he kept his pistol raised the whole time.

"Now, none of you want to be fitted for a wooden kimono, and none of us want to fill you with daylight, so I'm going to be straight with you maroons, right from the mill. These cats and I, we're just brunos for the big cheese up at the head of this rattler, but we're not hatchet men. Any dicks among you have probably puzzled out this ride's become a bit of a clip joint, and you've all been caught in the graft. Thing about a right graft, though, is it needs its saps."

He motioned with his gun toward the other constructs. "Think of us as bulls for the world's ritziest caboose. We're just here to make sure none of you chumps try and make beef. Dip the bill, light a butt, neck a chippy, whatever you need to do to relax and enjoy yourselves."

The gangster dug around inside his jacket until he came out with a pack of cigarettes and put one in his mouth. "Just keep your heads shut and this'll all be copacetic," he finished as he then patted down a lighter. With a puff, he concluded with, "That's about the crop, anyway."

He started to push himself off, but then paused. "Oh! Before I forget, in case any of you wise heads get it in your noodle that you can get the bulge on the squint-eyed daisy just because he's not packing heat," and he motioned over to the martial artist, "I hear he's a real swell pug."

Confusion bubbled from the crowd in the wake of the gangster's speech. At least Haru could take comfort in the fact that it clearly wasn't just her that couldn't understand what he was saying. She got the general idea, but it was like translating a foreign language.

The cowboy gave a put-upon sigh and holstered his revolver, then raised his voice to make himself clearly heard to the entire car. "He said we ain't here ta put you under, we're just here ta keep the peace. Everybody keep yer heads on straight an' nobody gets hurt. Ya get gruff, you eat gravel, simple as."

The gangster sighed, too, but tucked his gun back into his jacket as he came over. "That is not everything I said."

"'Was, too," he argued. "You just waggled yer jaw too long gettin' it out."

The gangster stomped away for a pace in frustration before turning back toward his fellow construct. He motioned powerfully with his hands, his middle fingers and thumbs touching in rings. "It's called style! Pizzazz! Presentation!"

"It's called caterwaulin'."

The cowboy had a point, but Haru thought she still liked the gangster better. Even if she couldn't sense their emotions, the gangster's eyes were hard, but focused. There was something darker in the eyes of the cowboy, and the martial artist, too. The yakuza's eyes were full of fire and only ranged from smoldering to inferno. In fact, they were a lot like Natsumi's eyes. But just the thought of coming face to face with whoever the cowboy or martial artist were based on sent a chill down her spine.

Apparently, their bickering gave some of the passengers the time to gather their wits, and Haru couldn't help but feel ice in her stomach as several of the men stood up and made their way toward what they thought were just normal people in costumes.

The constructs just watched them, only moving to line up opposite them.

The man at the front of the passengers looked behind him at those having his back, and then at the projections of demonic energy in front of him. "What if we don't? What if we decide we don't want to play whatever game you're up to?"

The cowboy rested his hand on his revolver again, which he'd reloaded during the gangster's speech. "Take a guess, slicker, an' then sit back down like you been told."

But the man scoffed. "What do you have, six bullets? Even if every shot kills one of us, which it won't, we're just going to rip you apart when you run out."

The cowboy chewed his tongue for a moment, like he was mulling the idea over, then pulled the revolver out and popped the cylinder, making a show of counting them. "Yup, boy's got a point. By my count, I've got four Smiths an' a couple Wesson's." He slapped his thigh dramatically as he raised his voice in faux excitement. "By dawg, that must be why they call it a six-shooter!"

He elbowed the gangster without looking at him. "How 'bout you?"

The gangster, too, makes a show of considering the crowd, running a hand across his chin. "Seven plus one, last I checked."

The look on the cowboy's face hung there stiffly for a moment before it really started to collapse, and he slowly turned his head toward his partner. "... Ya mean eight?"

The gangster looked back, then rolled his whole head as if put upon. "It's how bean shooters work now," he loudly declared as he threw his arms wide. He pulled the weapon out and popped the rectangle from the base. "Look, you've got your little spinny wheel, we've got these babies! Mine holds seven slugs, but you can leave one in the chamber so you're ready to plug some patsy on the quick." He slapped it back in. "You get an extra that way, too. So that's seven, and a plus one, you following now, chief?"

The cowboy gave a deep groan of frustration and annoyance with a slow shake of his head, and focused on the problem in front of him. "Eight. Now, I may not be a city slicker from the next century--"

The gangster cleared his throat. "Actually, pal, these boys are, uh ... They're two C's ahead of you."

If looks could kill, the cowboy wouldn't need a gun. "So help me, Yankee, if you don't shut that yap, I will plant you in the bone orchard myself!"

The martial artist finally opened his own mouth from behind the gunmen, both of whom stood a head taller than he did. His Chinese accent was strong, but his pronunciation was precise. "I believe what my companions are attempting to communicate is that you have miscounted. There are fourteen bullets before they will have to reload, and in the meantime, you will have to deal with us."

Behind him, the yakuza loomed intimidatingly without saying a word.

"Exactly," the cowboy agreed. "Thanks kindly, squinty." Then, back to the man at the front of the crowd, "That, an' I figure you boys are askin' the wrong question. See, if I was in yer shoes, I wouldn't be askin' how many of us have to die to lock horns with those low-down varmints."

He stepped a little closer, looking the leader of the men right in the eyes, an action that clearly unsettled the unarmed man. "I'd be askin' what're the odds I'm one'a 'em to bite it."

Haru didn't need to ask that question. She already knew the answer. They all would. None of them would be able to do anything to meaningfully harm the constructs, and she doubted their guns would perform normally, either.

She had to do something, or all of those brave people were going to die!

"Haru, no!"

"Please, honey, stay down!"

The moment she made to stand from her seat, her parents latched like barnacles to either of her arms. She looked down into their eyes and saw raw terror radiating back at her. She felt it from the whole car, now that she was paying attention, even from the men putting on a brave face and challenging the constructs.

At least now she actually knew what she needed to do.

Haru looked down at her parents, her face crestfallen. "I'm so sorry," she said to them.

Their faces filled with confusion, but she grabbed the wrists of their hands that gripped her and focused. She focused on drowsiness. Sleepiness. Exhaustion. The feeling of all emotional strength spent.

Her parents' gazes became cloudy and unfocused, and their anchorings to her grew weak. By the time their hands slipped past her own, the both of them were sound asleep in their chairs.

She looked down at them, sorrow filling her heart, but she knew it had to be done. Manipulating the emotions of those important to her was something she always told herself she'd never do. But she had also always known that was a lie. She'd do it the moment she had to do it, because it had to be done, to protect them.

Still, it had been such a precious lie, one she'd never again have the luxury of pretending over.

With no small amount of mental force, she shoved the personal drama aside and stood up in her seat so that everyone in the car could see her.

"Excuse me, everyone! Excuse me, please!"

The gangster saw her first and rolled his eyes, his expression clearly saying what he thought of the timing of her interruption. "Dollface, what're you doing?! I just told you--"

It was harder to influence emotions without physical contact. Much, much harder. It hurt her head in several locations. Behind her nose, under the top of her skull, at the base of her neck, above her ears. If she overdid it, her eyes would feel three sizes too big for their sockets.

But she could do it.

She focused on a wave of calm, disinterest and tranquility rolling out from her over the entire crowd, filling every corner of the train car. She focused with everything she had, on every flash of emotional light she could feel.

"There is nothing to worry about," she asserted, and was immediately grateful that her voice sounded far more steady than she feared it might. "There is nothing to fear. These men are here to protect us."

Haru wasn't convincing the passengers of these things. This wasn't some impassioned attempt at persuasion. She was telling them, implanting them as feelings in the hearts throughout the car. She couldn't control what people actually thought, but she wasn't sure she could have exercised that much control over so many, anyway.

"Your feet are tired. Return to your seats. You're looking forward to your trip, to getting to where you are going. Enjoy the company of your neighbor. Make small-talk."

The pressure was building rapidly inside her head. She had to wrap this up, she couldn't keep it up much longer.

"There is nothing to be concerned about. There is nothing out of place. Everything is the way it's supposed to be."

Finally, finally, the crowd began to disperse, and as they all started moving back to their seats and those already there settled down, she collapsed into her own, almost literally.

...

She wasn't surprised that the gangster came up to her once everything had fully settled down again. By the time he had, however, her face was pale and she was holding her head in her hands. Even they looked like they were going to give out.

He leaned against the aisle side of her father's seat, where the man still snoozed. "Wow. That was ... Kitten, that was ... something. You did that, didn't you? Made them scram like that. And not with your pipes, neither."

All she could really find the strength to answer with was a groan.

He glanced over and arched an eyebrow. "Hey, uh ... you okay, kitten? You're starting to look a little ... well, my gran would've said you look green in the gills, but that's giving your colors a bit too much credit."

"My head feels like a split melon ..."

He made a show of wincing. "Ouch. I'll have one of the gals bring you something."

There was a length of silence where Haru almost thought he'd left, but then his hand tentatively patted her shoulder.

"You, uh ... you did good, doll. I don't know what you did, but it saved lives. I won't pretend everyone cares about that, but a tomato like you should."

He started to walk away, and she didn't want to ask, but she couldn't stop herself.

"... Do you?"

The gangster stopped, hesitated for a long moment and fidgeted with the rim of his hat. Finally, he answered honestly, though he didn't look like he liked it. "... No. No, babe, I don't think I do. I think I could have popped every last one of those maroons if it meant all the rest stayed put. But I think ..." He hesitated again. "... I think it's good you do. I gotta blow. I'll make sure one of the skirts gets you an aspirin."

As he headed off, though, Haru's thoughts were deeper than just her headache, though that certainly dominated most of them. Past that, though, she couldn't help worrying about her decision. It had to be done to save lives, but ...

... But she'd used them to aid a demon attack in the process. Was that okay? Did it matter?

All she knew was that, while her head still pounded, those were questions that were completely beyond her ability to answer. But at least she'd bought them all more time. That was what she had to cling to for now.