[2:20pm]

With wind and steam blowing against his face, Vincent stood atop the London Train. Two swift punches ripped through the obscuring cloud, failing to reach Zak. Zak countered by trying to sweep Vincent’s legs out from under him, but Vincent jumped backward, out of the way.

Both of them were in the middle of their melee encounter. Gut punch after gut punch, kick after kick, dodge after dodge, they wore each other down in a matter of a minute. Vincent felt no pain, but his body continued to stagger more and more. His breath was erratic and one of his eyes was bruised shut. However, Zak wasn’t doing much better.

If all of that wasn’t enough—even with them fighting in the middle of a steam cloud—their fight would constantly be interrupted by repeated sniper shots. They always came in pairs. None ever hit their mark, but some got dangerously close. In fact, one of them managed to graze Zak’s lip, cutting the bottom portion of it.

Two more bullets zipped through the steam between them. Vincent and Zak were unfazed. They both punched each other in the face at the same time, causing them to stumble back a few feet.

There was a brief moment of respite.

“Why aren't you using those voids of yours?” Zak taunted.

Vincent chuckled. “Same reason you’re not using your temperature-controlling power. It looks like both of our minds are spent.”

“True,” Zak agreed, wiping some blood from his mouth. “I’m surprised we’re both still standin’.”

“Yeah…”

The words trailed off his quivering, purple lips. It was hard to tell if their color change was from an injury or his arctic-like low body temperature. It didn’t matter. His entire body was wrecked beyond belief. Even his hollowed-out mind was struggling to stay together. He wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last.

He knew he had to end the fight quickly.

Just as he was about to charge back at Zak, a voice came through his earbud. It was Archard.

“There was been a change in the plan. Everyone on the train must listen to me immediately.”

Vincent focused half of his attention on the voice and half on Zak, making sure that he didn't take advantage of Vincent’s sudden distraction. However, Zak seemed to be just as focused as Vincent was. Could he hear the message?

“Intel has discovered that the bomb is NOT on the train. The train is a decoy while the bomb is at the C-Station...so you have to abandon the train now! I repeat: The bomb is NOT on the train. It has been discovered in the C-Station, which is rapidly approaching. All Libra members, abandon the train now!”

A boiling rage started to fester inside Vincent’s cold body. There was an anger that started to well within him. He couldn’t believe the audacity of Aries. How cruel of them to do this! How cruel of them to win! HOW CRUEL OF THEM TO—

And then he went dead calm. The moment his emotions reached a certain threshold, his mind wiped them away. It was like they never existed. It was almost like his mind created a void within itself, expelling all emotions.

Am I not allowed to feel? he thought to himself.

Regardless, he looked up with his unnaturally stoic eyes at Zak, and asked, “So what’s with the bomb?”

“The bomb?” Zak answered, his eyes narrowing and his eyebrows raising. “You mean the one asshole planted on the train?”

“No, I mean the one that’s actually at the C-Station.”

“C-Station…” Zak repeated.

His eyes then rapidly widened and he sharply inhaled. His mental waves shifted to that of pure anger. He didn't even bother to hide his emotions anymore.

“You fucker,” he said, seething. “I shoulda known you were up to somethin’. And here I thought you all couldn't stoop much lower.”

“I feel the same way toward you,” Vincent emotionlessly replied.

“Fuck you!” Zak yelled, blindly charging at Vincent.

Vincent could read every intention pouring out of Zak’s emotion-filled rage. His mind was an open book and Vincent had all the time in the world to read it. In that moment, Vincent, although he never realized it, felt a sense of superiority.

Just as Zak threw a punch at Vincent, Vincent effortlessly dodged out of the way, countering with a clothesline. He slammed Zak down on the roof of the train and jumped on top of him. Vincent’s arms latched themselves around Zak’s throat, attempting to squeeze the life out of him.

But Vincent had never taken a life before. It was the one thing he stood against with all his body and soul. If there was one rule he told himself he would never break, since the moment he could think, it was that he would never kill another person. And yet, here he was, strangling another man without a second thought. In fact, one could argue he had no thoughts at the moment. His mind was empty, after all.

How sad…how unfortunate.

Zak, in obvious distress, clawed at Vincent’s arms. With an iron grip, he held on tight. Vincent could see his arms heating up and sizzling, but he felt nothing—his body was completely numb.

“Burn me all you want,” Vincent said. “It’s the last thing you’ll do.”

“You son of a bitch!” Zak desperately yelled.

“Quiet,” Vincent said with an unnerving calmness. “Dead men don’t speak.”

While keeping one hand purchased on Zak’s throat, he raised his fist in the air and began to lower himself into a colder state. His body refused to dip any further down, but his void-like mind forced it too. He felt his waves resonate and congregate at his fist. He had just enough for one final starbreaker.

Just before he brought it down, he heard a loud, screeching noise coming from his left. This momentary pause gave the source of that sound just enough time to make it next to him.

Blasting through the steam, parting the clouds like Moses did with the sea, was a giant bird-like creature. It was the size of at least three men and it looked unlike anything he’d ever seen. The creature’s beak was jagged like a lightning bolt, opening to a nearly seventy-degree angle as it screeched. Its wings were long and billowing, giving it the width of a bus. Adorning the entirety of its body were feathers of extravagant colors. Blues, pinks, and whites made up the primary colors of the beast.

Instinctually, Vincent let go of Zak and jumped out of the way, barely dodging the creature. However, he soon realized that he was never the target.

The bird snatched Zak up in its massive claws and flew away. As its wings beat, gusts of wind blasted throughout the air, evaporating whatever was left of the steam clouds. Before Vincent could react anymore, the beast was already about a hundred feet away.

Just as it crested beyond his range, he noticed that above the beats, riding on its back, was a rotund woman. He couldn't see her face or any other features. What he could tell, however, was that her residual mental waves gave off the words “authenticity” and “joy”.

There was no one left around him. There he stood, alone on top of a speeding train. Had he failed or had he succeeded? He couldn't tell.

He looked down at the hand that was around Zak’s throat. Something wasn’t right, but he didn't know what. Did he want to cry? Did he want to yell? It was impossible to know; his mind refused to let him think. It refused to entertain a single human emotion.

“What’s wrong with me?” he wondered out loud.

His eyes made their way from his hand to the rapidly-approaching train station. There was probably only a minute or so left until he would arrive. He had to leave.

“I suppose it is what it is,” Vincent sighed.

With that, he jumped off the London Train.

***

[1:54pm]

The midday sun shone brightly against the stony, historic exterior of the C-Station. There were marks of time and fixed damages on the surface of the train station, but nothing that took away from its beauty. To the knowledge of the general masses, the fact that the London Train ran in such a divided time was a miracle in and of itself.

Although few remained, gangs ran amuck; laws were but a suggestion, enforced by the will of Archard and the people; and the economy ran out of necessity rather than practicality. And yet, this train stood as a symbol of hope, normality, and progress. It gave the scared citizens a sense of comfort. It allowed them to feel some familiarity of a time that could never be returned to. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to the general populace, that was soon to be a fleeting, vain hope.

Larry, along with a squad of lower-level Libra grunts, arrived at the front of the above-ground station. He did a quick scan of the perimeter, finding nothing obviously amiss. That being said, he had a suspicion that his presence at this place was not simply for Archard’s “insurance” and “ease of mind.” No, there was something important to this place that was unspoken.

Once inside, the interior seemed normal, albeit a bit sparse with passengers. Perhaps it was a time of the year when people needed less public transportation. Honesty, the reason didn't matter, but it was something that he thought about for a moment. He couldn't help but have his mind fixate on the smallest and usually most insignificant of details.

The lines for the various cars were short but rarely empty. Some of the lights flickered, while others were simply off. While it was great that the train ran, that came at a cost. Any unnecessary spending on electricity, according to Archard, had to be axed. He was a man of priorities—that was one of the few things Larry respected about him. He knew what had to be done, but never focused on what others wanted to be done.

One thing that seemed out of the ordinary was the number of guards that were around. Normally, one of the jobs that street-level mobsters worked was that of guards for the various public goods. A small amount was ever really needed and they were mainly placed there for a show of power. Even if there was some sort of assault by Aries, those lackeys would never stand a chance. So it was strange to see so many present and for them to be interacting so much with the civilians.

“Ay, Larry,” one of the mobsters called out, his accent thick and slurry. “I gots somethin’ for ya to look at.”

The man was leaning up against a stairwell that descended into the mechanical portion of the station—the part that kept the operation running. It was off-limits to the public. If there was anywhere for something to go wrong, it would be there.

“What do you have for me?” Larry asked, walking over to the guy. “Forget the key?”

“Nah, nah,” the guy said with a slight chuckle, waving his hands in hand in the air. “I thought I saw somethin’ dat seemed a bit weird. Now, I’m too dumb to get all dis machinery stuff, but I heard you were good at this, so I figured you were the man for the job.”

“You didn't think to call one of our mechanics?”

The guy shot a glance at a mobster next to Larry and then back at him. “I, uh, I think they’re are out today?”

Larry squinted his eyes. “Oh really? That’s the first I heard of that.”

“I mean, they didn't answer their phones when I called so I just assumed,” the man laughed, scratching the back of his head.

“I suppose that’s fair,” Larry mentioned. “They do have a track record of not picking up at the worst times.”

“Exactly, exactly.”

Larry subtly felt around his waist, ensuring that his gun, keys, and hidden trinkets were all in place. They were.

“So,” Larry started to say, “you just need my help in inspecting this “problem,” right?”

“Yep,” the mobster replied.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” he sighed. “I’ll leave the rest of my squad up here while we quickly look at this thing.”

“Are you sure you don't want them with you? What if you get attacked or somethin’ below there?”

“Why would that happen? The only people down there would be you and I, right?”

“Uh, yeah that’s right. Good point.”

They both proceeded to walk down the stairs, one foot at a time. The farther they descended, the more their steps echoed off of the cinderblock walls. Compared to the public-facing portion of the station, the basement felt archaic and from another time. It embodied the phrase “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

Once he made it to the floor of the basement, it seemed oddly quiet. Sure, there were pieces of machinery and engines running, but there was an eerieness that tingled the back of his head. It was like nothing seemed amiss, but there definitely was. He just couldn’t place what it was.

The two of them continued to walk down the various, cluttered corridors of the ever-beating basement. It smelled heavily of oil and age. The floor was littered with occasional slick and sticky spots, impossible to see with the naked eye. Dusted lingered in the pockets of air that went undisturbed for weeks. Interestingly, the path that they were on was one of the only ones that were relatively clean. There were other sections of the vast room where it seemed mechanics routinely followed, marked by forgotten tools and even a few food wrappers. The way that the mobster was leading, however, had none of those things. The only thing that singled traffic was the lack of dust.

As Larry continued to ponder this, they turned a corner. The mobster came to an abrupt stop. He didn't move and continued to look dead ahead.

“Are we here?” Larry asked, a bit on edge.

“Yeah,” the mobster calmly said, “yeah we are.”

He then slowly turned around, pointing his pistol directly at Larry. At the same time, a half-dozen more mobsters walked out from behind various carts and other miscellaneous devices, emerging from the shadows like a pack of wolves surrounding their prey.

“I’m sorry, Larry,” the mobster said, “it’s just business.”

Larry smiled and replied, “I knew it.”