Chapter 27
LARS
This has not been the perfect day. He has not had time to dissect an insect amongst all the train heisting.
But he gets to dissect all the time, so he agreed with the Nomad’s assertion that he could probably give it up for a day.
(Only a day, though. His insects would miss him were he gone any longer.)
No, today has not been a perfect day. Still, it has been near-perfect.
It is not often that Lars gets to act. It has been years since he has secured a role worth mentioning in the local theater.
Lars blames the new director for this. The man is incapable of swallowing criticism, especially regarding his wife, whose roles would be better off given to a parrot.
Lars doesn’t regret informing the director of this, not one bit.
Lars admits to himself that his overinflated mood is likely thanks to his recent acting deprivation more than the success of his and Acel’s scene itself (it was rather sloppy). Even so, Lars has never been afforded the ability to act on a train.
Sure, he’s dreamed of such an occasion, but Lars is no dreamer. He has known for years that acting on a train is a dream more reasonably kept in one’s imagination, with no expectation of fulfillment in reality.
“Did you have to throw the hot tea on me?” asks Acel, as he and Lars sneak onto the next railcar.
“Yes,” says Lars. “My character’s life was in shambles because of your character’s irresponsibility. He was unable to feed his wife and children. To go for anything cooler than the tea would have been out of character.”
“And what about me?” says Acel. “What do you suspect my response to having scalding tea thrown on me should be?”
“You should have thrown me harder across the railcar. Or smashed a bottle over my head,” Lars says, glad that Acel is asking for the critique that Lars was planning on giving him anyway. After the heist, of course. No need to be impractical. But since Acel is asking…
“You could have seriously injured me,” says Acel.
“False. You’re wearing adamant armor underneath your shirt.”
Acel gives Lars a surprised look.
“It was gifted to you by the princess. Heat resistance that laughs in the face of hot tea. When you worked for the queen, did you have a habit of provoking others to throw their hot beverages at you?”
Acel blinks, then shakes his head and continues on their path.
Their job is to make their way to the train engine, overpower the conductor, and pull the brakes, causing the trains to cross the overpass at the same time and allowing the Nomad and the faerie enough time to jump from the passenger train to the freight train below.
Acel was assigned to this task due to his skill in bashing in skulls discreetly.
Lars does not like Acel, but even Lars can admit, this is a skill he personally does not possess, nor does he care to acquire it.
Lars had not been keen to be paired off with the bodyguard (Lars finds bodyguards, as a general rule, to be mindless and easily offended when corrected, which they often need to be).
But the Nomad had promised Lars that he could be the one to pull the train’s brakes.
Lars is not typically a man to be bought, but the Nomad has a predilection for knowing his asking price.
Even Lars has to admit, when the door to the railcar bursts open and in spills a host of guards wearing the Company insignia, it is a good thing Acel is here.
Lars perches on his tiptoes and steps to the side. He has no skills of use in this situation, and even if he did, it is not his assigned role, and Lars does not value altruism.
He watches as Acel does his various bashing, slamming, and choking.
He expects to be bored, but his recent scuffle with Acel in the breakfast car has him feeling self-conscious.
If anyone was watching carefully, they would see that Lars was letting Acel carry that part of the scene.
He does not consider Acel to be a talented actor, and the fact that Acel is better than him with respect to any aspect of performance is humiliating.
So he studies Acel. Even Lars has to admit there is a lithe grace about Acel’s movements that makes even the bashing pleasant to watch. Almost as if it were choreographed.
He regrets that he brought nothing with which to take notes. He should have swiped the faerie’s notepad when she wasn’t looking. It’s not as if it will serve her much use when she and the Nomad are soaring through the air from train to train.
Once the Company guards have been thoroughly dispatched, Acel glares up at Lars, heaving. “Thanks for the help.”
“I would have gotten in your way,” says Lars.
Acel does not disagree. How could he? Lars is not wrong.
Lars hops down from the crate upon which he has been perched, cross-legged, and follows Acel into the next railcar. No sooner have they stepped into the car than they hear voices on the other side of the door.
Before Lars can protest, Acel shoves him into a crate.
It is cramped inside the crate, and it smells faintly of body odor. Lars finds this curious, but in a way he does not wish to explore further.
Acel must have found his own crate, because the guards carry on their conversation as if there are not two train bandits aboard.
“Always thought these insignias were too feminine,” says a guard with a voice Lars finds grating. “Don’t love going around with a butterfly on my chest.”
Lars cannot help himself. Nor should he. “Actually, the insignia is of a set of faerie wings, which are more similar in composition to dragonfly wings, even if the shape is more akin to a butterfly’s. If we’re being technical, that is.” Which Lars is.
Footsteps halt. A moment later, and Lars is being pulled out of the crate by his collar.
The Company guard’s breath is horrid. Lars tells him as much. As a courtesy, really.
This earns Lars a kick to his nether regions.
Lars is not used to receiving kicks to his unmentionables. Punches to the jaw, sure. Slaps to the cheek, often.
Lars is not a fan.
He shrieks and, finding the sound of his own voice quite grating, sinks his teeth into the Company guard’s neck. This serves to both silence his own screams and incite the guard’s.
Apparently, the guard is not used to being bitten, because he releases his grip on Lars. Lars turns to stare at the nearest crate. Waits.
Acel appears, rolling his eyes, and punches the Company guard in the jaw. Lars thinks the guard has gotten off too easy, but he is too busy screaming, the shriek slinking up his throat at the pain in his groin, to say as much.
Acel turns to face the second guard.
By the time Lars and Acel make it to the engine, Acel is drenched in sweat.
Lars is not, which Acel seems to resent, judging by at least one embittered comment.
Lars thinks Acel should just be grateful. No one kicked him in the groin, after all.
It takes Acel little time to dispatch the engineer.
This pleases Lars, partially for the sake of the mission, partially because he has always considered train engineer to be a pleasing alternative career should insect dissector no longer work out, and he has wondered about whether being able to defend oneself is part of the qualifications.
It seems it is not. Although, as Lars stares down at the engineer, knocked out cold, his hat askew, he wonders if it should be.
“You’re kidding,” says Acel.
“I don’t make a habit of it,” says Lars.
“Not you,” says Acel, pointing out the window. Outside, the world races past them in a whirl of colors. They remind Lars of the layers of sediment. “We’re in Serorse.”
Serorse is past the bridge.
“We failed,” says Lars. He doesn’t particularly like the feeling, but he is pleased that he got to act on a train.
Acel puts a hand to his face and groans.
Lars pulls the brakes.
Lars does not understand why Acel is in such a foul mood with him.
Lars was promised the opportunity to pull the brakes on a train. A lifelong dream. What does it matter that pulling the brakes no longer benefited the heist? Lars is certain that if Acel had the chance to be with his princess, he would do so regardless of its impact on the heist.
“Come on. We need to go get Phoenix and Venus,” says Acel. “Before the Company guards at the station realize the train is late arriving.”
Ah, so that is why Acel is angry.
It is possible that Lars should have considered this. Not that he will admit such a thing aloud.
Suddenly, Lars feels the need to defend himself. “The deceleration will assist the Nomad and Tink in climbing back down to safety.”
Acel raises a brow at Lars. “That’s why you pulled the brakes? Because you were concerned about their safety?”
Lars pauses. He is fairly sure the correct response to this is yes. “Yes.”
Acel makes a noise with his lips closed.
They make the rest of the journey up the train in silence. It’s when they reach the car adjacent to the breakfast car that it becomes evident that something is wrong.
There’s screaming from the other side. Female. Lars cannot distinguish between Phoenix’s and Venus’s screams. Voices he could differentiate. Screams are another matter entirely.
Acel rips open the door.
Visual confirmation that it is Venus who is screaming. She’s struggling with a guard. Before Acel can intervene, the guard takes her by the throat and slams her against the window.
The shatter of glass scrapes against Lars’s ears. He resists the urge to cover them and instead blinks hard.
When he opens his eyes again, Venus is limp, still suspended by the guard’s arm.
Acel and Phoenix share a look. A moment later, Acel swings, his fist landing squarely on the guard’s temple. The guard’s legs drop from underneath him. Venus falls to the floor, but Phoenix is already there, ready to catch her.
By the way Venus’s body is already limp, Lars suspects that Phoenix’s catching her does not do much.
Phoenix, unlike her friend, is not a stupid girl. Her finger immediately goes to the crook underneath Venus’s jaw.
“Venus,” she whispers, her voice raspy and panicked. “Venus.” Progressively louder.
Acel kneels, trying to help.
Lars would help if he saw a point.
After several moments, Phoenix’s face goes blank. “There’s no pulse.” Her voice is flat. Lars waits for her to cry, to wail like the women did in his storybooks as a child.
She does not. She just stares. Lars wonders if she feels nothing. Perhaps they weren’t friends after all.
If Lars were in Phoenix’s position, he would not be sad that Venus was dead any more than he would be sad to discover he’d been cured of ringworm.
He leans down to check her pulse.
“I already checked,” Phoenix snaps. “You might be smarter than everyone else, but that doesn’t make the rest of us incompetent.”
Lars had been thinking that Phoenix might be incompetent at checking pulses, but he knows better than to say as much.
“The Nomad will want multiple witnesses that she’s dead,” Lars says.
Phoenix flinches at the word dead, but she moves her hand out of the way. Success.
Lars presses his fingers to Venus’s skin. Waits.
Nothing.
There is, however, a hint of purple coloring the seam between Venus’s lips. Interesting.
“We need to move,” says Acel, who is now standing and looking out the broken window.
Lars also stands. He has to close his left eye to get a better look out of his monocle. In the distance, he sees blurry figures. He doesn’t need to see their insignia. The bland navy of their uniforms tells him all he needs to know.
Phoenix does not move. She remains on the floor, cradling Venus, her eyes wide.
“Phoenix,” says Acel. “We can’t do anything for her.”
He helps Phoenix to her feet. She’s trembling.
Lars thinks it would be best to leave Phoenix behind if she can’t run. He almost says as much, but he also knows that he is more likely to be left behind than she is. And he cannot deny benefiting from Acel’s brawn.
None of them mention Tink and the Nomad.