Train to Somewhere
“Tickets, please!” the primped up peacock of a station attendant stands with his hand outstretched, white glove and everything. William adjusts his suit jacket, meeting the man’s eyes.
“Already given, my good man. We had to return to collect some luggage my servant here forgot, you know ‘ow it is,” eyes glimmering, William smiles and swings a hand gently towards Assassin, clad in her maid uniform beside him. She looks down shyly at the attendant’s dazed glance. A heavy-looking briefcase hangs from her hands. “If we could? Hate to lose me place.”
“Roight,” the man raises one finger, processing the falsehood in his head. “Roight choo are, guv’na. Must’ve slipped my mind,” the attendant waves them through. After moving out of view, William smirks to himself. His fingers flex, feeling the tingle of his gloves, as he dances a coin in and out of storage. A tiny feat of false- or maybe true- legerdemain, but it feels right. It feels like being at home in his own skin again. Funny how things work.
Trudging up the train, William walks his way right into the first-class carriages. If they’re slipping their way onto the train, might as well live it up in style. Passing through an empty hallway alongside the dining car, William subtly pulls a train attendant’s uniform out of his suit, laying it overtop like a second skin. It’s stuffy and uncomfortable, but he won’t need it for long. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a stored attendant’s hat from storage and sets it on his head. He hadn’t even needed to steal these recently. They’re an old acquisition among his disguises, the real thing. “Playful. Feeling bold, are we, Master?” Assassin comments from behind him.
“Take from the rich, give to ourselves,” he whispers to her over his shoulder.
The private cabins have hallways alongside the, doorways leading in. William glances into any of the door windows not covered, eventually picking one with a sole male occupant. He knocks on the door. Looking up with annoyance, the rich prick stands and straightens his suit, then opens the door. “Yes? Is my food finally ready?”
“Oh, course sir, it’ll be ready right away. Kitchen’s pipping right to it, see, get it pipping hot for you,” chuckling at himself and relishing in the look of disgust the wealthy man gives the ‘poor’ train attendant and his bizarrely alien low-town speech, William meets his eyes with a service industry smile. “Just need you to step back out and have a talk at the ticket office, sir.”
“Are you joking?” the man turns up his nose, and William does his best to maintain the eye contact. “The train is about to leave!”
“Only a small problem with the ticket, but the boss understands. You’re a frequent rider with us, reliable, yeah? The ticket master will clear it up ticketyboo, just wanted to speak to you himself, sir. I assure you, the train won’t leave without you. Much too valued a guest, sir.”
A glaring contest ensues. However much a nudge from these eyes might move someone to believe, belief and agreement are two different destinations. In the midst of the test of wills William finds himself gravitating towards calculations of how to be rid of the body, but the men finally puffs out a sigh. “I had best be getting free accommodations for this. And if my food is cold when I get back, it will be your hide, boy!” The man, who William isn’t even sure is older than him, bumps past him. A lecherous leer is thrown back at the accompanying maid, before he disappears back down the train.
“Easy pickings,” William holds the door open and waves Hassan inside, then steps in and closes it behind, shutting the curtains. His attendant’s uniform vanishes back into his suit as though it were a block of ice melting out of existence, and he reaches up to stow his hat.
Silent footsteps glide past, and when William turns around Hassan is already seated. “Impish- you are having too much fun with your Mystic Eyes, Master.”
“And my new suit and gloves,” he pats the chest pocket. “I owe you one for that. And I always pay my debts.” Quiet falls over the cabin as they wait for the train to leave, signaling the success of the con. When it lurches forward, William lets out a held breath alongside the screeching metal wheels. What they’re left with is a train ride to Oxford, and plenty of empty time. Could broach the subject of the unusual dreams, leaking over from Assassin’s mind. Then again, could not. William passes the buck to himself in the future, staring down at his gloves. He suspects the truth of the silence is that neither of them is very good at making small talk that doesn’t revolve around work.
A knock at the door interrupts William’s naval gazing. Hassan is at the door before he can look up, peering through the curtain. “Relaxed. An attendant bringing food, Master.” At a wave from him, she lets the attendant in. A woman this time, who rolls a metal cart up to the table. It’s loaded with platters and trays. Fresh loaves of bread, cheese wedges, sausages, fish, a whole ass chicken, small pastries, calorie upon calorie piled high. Beneath the cart she produces a bottle of wine alongside two glasses.
“The first course, Mr. Bernard. I hope everything is to your satisfaction,” bowing her head, the attendant steps back.
Staring into the feast, William licks his lips autonomically. “Right. How many courses again?”
“Four, sir. Your next will be…” her words trail off as William tries to wrap his head around four courses of this. For one man. No wonder the limey oligarchs are all so fat and misshapen their buttons are blowing out. Holding up a hand, he holds back whatever other words the attendant was spilling out.
“Make it just the two courses, if you would. Got a meeting and all that, appearances and all, can’t be too bloated,” the excuses send her away.
After they are alone again, William reaches for a chicken leg, then stops and looks at his glove. Taking them off and laying them protectively in his lap like the hoard of a greedy dragon, he grabs a drumstick and tears it away. “No wonder those rich Brits are such fat fucks,” he blurts out a grumble. “As if I could eat four of this without exploding.”
“Contemplative,” Assassin’s hand hovers near the food. Despite her protestations, William knows she’s got to be craving the experience. Permission isn’t what she’s asking, though. “Master could store what he cannot eat for later.” Shit, she’s right. Shouldn’t have cancelled those other two courses.
“Aw well,” looking at the drumstick, he offers it up to her. “Help yourself. Your magic gloves helped earn the spoils, after all.”
With incredible self-control, Hassan raises a hand and refuses the chicken. “Disgust. These faithless dogs of ‘Great’ Britain I am sure do not practice the proper and humane slaughtering of meat. Theirs’ is a society built upon the suffering of others. I will indulge only upon meat I have sourced and prayed over myself, Master.”
William shrugs and tears into the chicken leg. He remembers what Hassan mentioned about alcohol, so he doesn’t bother offering her a glass when he pours himself some wine. One quiet prayer and several minutes later, Hassan reaches for a loaf of bread instead, plucking it from the tray and tearing a piece off. The smell from inside fills the cabin, and Hassan takes a moment simply to breathe above its steaming innards. One glass and several minutes later, and the social lubrication loosens William’s tongue. “Is that why you’ve never eaten any of the kebabs you make? Could have just asked me to get haram meat.”
Slowly prying off a strip of crust from her current chunk of bread, Assassin comments, “Amused. It would be the opposite, Master. Haram is the forbidden. I am surprised that a man of Europe knows these words.” She slips the scrap under her mask.
Dismissing the notion with a wave, William shifts the subject, “Yeah. I suppose I’ll just get live animals for you to butcher next time,” it’s annoying, but when she’s doing the cooking William won’t complain. Too much. “I’m not sure what the difference actually is.”
Twirling a dagger out of thin air, Hassan raises it to her throat. William tenses up, feeling a sudden rush of fear as she draws it along her neck- a hair’s distance from contact. “Solemn. A single cut to the throat. The animal will lose blood flow to the head within moments. A nearly painless death. Humane and merciful.” With a flick of her fingers, she banishes the blade back into her own storage space. “Speculative. If you were to be slain for food, Master, would you wish it to be painless, or suffering? Cheeky. With the Fangers that have been growing in number, perhaps you should consider it.” Her head lowers. “Disgust. I have seen farmers take a curved blade and gut a still-living hog up the belly, squealing and writhing to get away, and...”
“I can imagine,” William looks down at his plate, wondering how the chicken had died. Wrung by the neck, probably. When it comes down to it, does he care enough to change his diet? Probably not. Not if it was just him. But he could understand why someone else might.
Might change the way he looks at farmers though.
“Reverent,” with the same cool tone as ever, Hassan adds, “It is also important to give thanks to God for the gifts in which we partake.”
Peeling away the last meat from the drumstick, William tosses the bone aside on an empty plate and wipes his hands brutishly on a napkin. His thoughts steer back towards the dreams, and the brutal training. When he thinks about the shadowy figures with their wooden rods, flickering visions start to play over themselves in his mind’s eye. It’s even less coherent than usual, pure thoughtplay running rampant through a dream that isn’t even his own. Moving limbs, twitching spiders, wooden clubs. “Use your teeth,” he concludes, with as much emotion in his voice as she has.
Someone says something from in another room.
“Tear open their Achilles tendon with your teeth,” he tells her, visualizing it. At their feet, vulnerable, then suddenly lunging and gnawing like a cornered rat. “Back of the head against the floor to stun them. Claw their eyes out. Dig until you reach the brain.”
Suddenly, a splash of cold strikes William in the face. He blinks and wipes stinging liquid away from his eyes, trying to look through a haze of wine and tears. “What?” The blurry image of Hassan holding a wine glass. On the table in front of William, he’d taken the body of the chicken and started throttling it while digging his thumbs into its flesh. That’s when sensation returns, and the heat of the freshly cooked meat sears his fingers, causing him to pull away. “Shit.”
Looking at him across the table, Hassan lowers the glass and sets it down sternly. William stares at his greasy hands and red thumbs. “Serious. Master, we need to talk about these… fugues.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess we do,” wiping his hands and face clean, William wills his suit to store the wine staining it. The dark splotches vanish inwards, as if absorbed by a sponge. Taking up a carving knife, he slices off part of the chicken and lays it on his plate, chopping it up to conceal the markings left by his attack. The fewer questions they need to answer to the attendants the better. Fork in hand, William picks at the pieces of meat. He can feel Assassin’s eyes on him. “It can happen when I’m presented with something, and think of it as a target or an enemy. I get lost in a fantasy of how to kill it, destroy it, get rid of it. I used to be able to keep it under control. Now, the more my,” he reaches up and waves his hands around his head, “The more my mana circuits store up, the worse it gets. And it feels like I’m getting a big stockpile back there.”
Hands folded in her lap, Hassan prompts, “Curious. Back where, Master?”
“A lonely place,” he says, quietly, sidestepping the question. “In any case,” trying to regain some of his dignity, William straightens his coat and takes up a piece of chicken to chew. For a moment he lets the mask of a British gentleman wash over him, prop him up with false confidence. After finishing its course, he resumes, “I have a plan for how to burn more power safely. Let me deal with that.” With the empty fork, he points loosely at his Servant. Still a strange title, but she looks the part now in her… maid attire. “The other thing I’m worried about is you,” turning it around shrugs some of the weight off of his shoulders, letting him square them again. “That last fugue, it was about a dream I had. A dream about you. Visions of your past.”
Stiffly, she asks simply, “Apprehensive. Which parts of my past have you seen, my Master?”
“I saw the beatings. The brutal training. It’s been sticking with me in here,” he cups his forehead. “That’s what set this last fugue off, I suppose. I was imagining how to kill the person doing the beatings- if I was you.”
To William’s surprise, Assassin’s shoulders relax. “Realization. This is nothing to worry about, Master. This is normal.” He raises a brow, plucking more chicken from his plate while he listens. “Relaxed. There is a powerful bond between Master and Servant. Though I do not truly sleep, if I were to do so I would see similar visions of your past.” That causes his brow to furrow, paranoid now about what she might witness. The same paranoia that stiffened her shoulders moments before. “I would not be surprised, given your unique mystical talent, that you would experience that bond more vividly than most. Reassuring. Master, these dreams are not something else wrong with you.”
“Well cheerio to that, what a relief, it’s just the usual shit wrong with me,” William sighs sarcastically. He leans back in his seat and looks out the window, where the English countryside flashes past. “Last night it was out in the snow, with the spiders and their cocoon,” he says, met with silence from across the table. He can see her follow his gaze in the periphery, looking out the window. Not many mountains out here. “I know the feeling. Things weren’t always easy between me and my brother. The one I’d come to call my brother. He started out as anything but.” Taking in a deep breath of the mixed aromas from their feast, William pours himself another glass of wine. “But we saved each other, too. And in the end it was the two of us, up against the worst odds. So. However complicated it might be.”
Raising his glass, William nods to Hassan. “To family.”
Slowly picking up the empty glass she’d used to splash him, Hassan clinks it against his full one. “Nostalgic. To family.”