Grace Monroe paradoxically shuns artifice, despite wearing a mask of her own. Nine years ago, she stepped off the face of the Earth, and she hasn't looked back since. While Grace never chose a life on the Train, she revels in her quest to rescue chi...
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warning: the following chapter contains brief dissociation, allusions to a past panic attack / self-destructive behavior, and mentions of blood / a past murder.
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i. concourse
"MÖBIUS strip; lemniscate... there's all sorts of names for it. But we know one thing for sure: this train is ruled by the sine wave, NOT Infinity." A pair of crystal-clear green eyes narrowed on the congregation of children like a viridescent laser. Obscured partially by a head of jaggedly cut-up blonde hair, a black slate board, vertically set upon an easel betwixt the Mall's twin escalators, bore the forbidden symbol—a figure 8 placed on its side—in vibrant green chalk dust. Stepping back up to the board, Simon lifted his right hand (also, ironically, sporting a couple green eights if you looked close enough) and pressed his palm to the black, and in one clean determinate stroke, eradicated its clear, perfect shape, reducing it to a meaningless blur.
"Infinity... is a construct. A mathematical theory and nothing more. Everything has a beginning and end; no machine—or person—is perpetual. The False Conductor will have you believe that the Train is immortal—infallible, but the Apex knows the truth." Simon took up the white piece of chalk and drew a vertical line on the board, then placed the stick at the top and brought it down in one unbroken curving stroke, like a letter S stretched thin. "Reality is rhythmic; everything rises and falls. As the Apex, we exist at the crux of this arc. Now, show of hands, how many of you recognize this shape?"
The concourse of kids before him was suddenly illuminated by the neon green glow of nearly forty eager hands. All emblazoned with numbers, earned through the pillage of denizen homes; the spillage of denizen blood. Simon couldn't help but squint, as the concourse of the Mall, on the other hand, was relatively dim, save for the gaudy sunlight that fluoresced from and haunted the skylights above. Along with the blotches which simmered in his retinas, the children's enthusiasm had burned into his mind even moreso than the glare of their numbers. He was beginning to understand his best friend's endless quest for a constant, captive audience.
"Just as I thought; now, can anybody tell me where you have seen this particular symbol?"
Hesitantly, some hands descended, while others wavered in elevation. One remained confidently raised, however: that of a girl with short dark brown hair and a patch over her left eye.
"Yes, Lucy?"
"It's on the doors. Of all the cars. It's golden."
"That's correct!" Simon said, and Lucy's neighboring friends gave her smiles, pats on the shoulder. Simon couldn't understand this part; their attention deterred made him feel almost sick.
"Eyes on me, please," he curtly instructed. The children did as they were told. There was that rush again: pure, unquestioning obedience. There was power in this, Simon thought; agency. In the intent gaze of his audience, he saw reflected the quavering green of a blonde-haired, abandoned child. Green which crystallized into confidence over time—confidence instilled by the truth of the Train. Confidence he was equipped to pass onto these kids. When I look at you, I see me...
