Dirty Work: Volume 1

Red Rose - 5

I woke up with still an hour to kill. Realising I hadn't actually told my boss what I was doing or where I was going, I sent him a message and asked for any further advice on the matter. The last thing I wanted was for whoever was after the thing to jump me after tracking me onto the train, or as I was getting off it. Traps had been laid before, and something about the deliberately inconspicuous nature of the package's transportation gave me an uneasy feeling. It wasn't pleasant, I can assure you.

Down towards the front of the carriage a baby started crying, the mother bending over the child and beginning to coo to it. The baby didn't seem to be having any of it and kept bawling its eyes out regardless.

'Oi, lady. Can you shut your kid up?' yelled a voice from the other end of the carriage. 'Some of us have important work to do.'

'You think I want my baby crying?' she replied quietly. She had short blonde hair and a slim figure, though her arms were thick and strong. The kid was attached to a carrier that kept it close to her chest, its face nestled comfortably towards her. The guy with the rose on the jacket looked up at her from his seat, tearing his eyes from a headline that read 'BANK THEFT LEAVES TEN DEAD', and quickly lowered them again. I didn't blame him. Train etiquette is very simple. You keep quiet and keep to yourself.

We were passing through the main barriers into Region 24 now, the great walls of glistening light that separate the regions rising up like tidal waves before us. They reminded me, as they always did, of a picture my mother showed me when I was very young, of old Earth thousands of years ago, and the great tsunamis they had there that would destroy whole countries with but a single wash of water. That feeling of being overwhelmed had been captured with frightening honesty with the low angle, the wide-angle lens capturing the grand magnificence of something that was there to keep humanity in check. Sometimes I think that's what the Celestrian Regions are really; just a way to keep people in check, to categorise everything into easier chunks. Sometimes I don't give a damn if it is.

We passed through, the shimmering floating past the windows like a phantom of the natural world. A scream went through nature, and I tried to capture it, and I captured it in the form of rigidly defined lines and boundaries under the illusion of fluidity and grace. So spaketh the artist and the philosopher and more importantly the apathetic cynic. In the reflection of the luggage holder above me I see someone three seats down look at the border passing and then thrust their heads into a Halo-Core to someone on the other end, probably to let them know that they weren't far from home and that there would be sausages for dinner. The small child in the mother's arms had calmed down by now, and the train hummed along on its silken path as monotonously as always.

About five minutes later my Halo-Core went off. A message from Grasslea.

GET OFF NEXT STATION. MAKE OWN WAY TO VAULT. WEAPONS AT THE READY

Well if that wasn't ominous I couldn't guess what would be. A small knot tightened in my throat as I re-read the message to make sure I wasn't imagining things. My hand crept to the gun concealed inside, and under the guise of opening my coat slightly to slip the Halo-Core inside I primed the weapon, ready to disengage the safety and fire quickly should it be needed.

I looked up at the floating announcement board. A small stop in the UnderReed Suburbs in ten minutes time. Ten minutes of telling myself to be calm and trying to ignore the fact that I was beginning to feel the tingling, crawling sensation that comes as a warning before sweat on the skin.

I checked up and down the train, seeing nothing in particular. Everyone was all in their own amusements, be it in conversation, Halo-Core, working or snoozing with a pillow up against the window. It was nothing if not peaceful as we shuttled onwards. I exhaled to calm my nerves. Every turn of the head from someone across from me was a signal for assassination, every finger twitch a preparation for the gunslinger's draw.

Those ten minutes were the longest of my life. They stretched on towards the abyss, and as I continued to wait for the attack, the more I became convinced that the train would not be my final resting place, my coffin and casket. The air was denser yes, but maybe that was just 24's quirky nature. It was not, as many believe, a supernatural warning of impending doom. It was completely natural, I convinced myself. There was nothing in it. I hoped.