Hatt

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The Fat Controller looked out from his office window, the smoke in the distance stretching high into the now cloudy, scarlet sky. A swarm of reporters had forced him to barricade inside his office. With the main source of coal up in flames, the shares in the stock market would likely plummet. He'd already seen both reports. The fire, and the message. What did it mean? Does this Chess Player really plan to run his railway into the ground? The Fat Controller looked over to where his top hat hung on its hook. To its left, a portrait of his grandfather, Sir Bertram Topham Hatt. The founder of the NWR. "What am I to do?" He asked the portrait, the painting only replied with silence. Though, Sir Stephen already knew. He'd meet this Chess Player, this 'Black King' head on. He wants to play a game, he'll get a damned game. Grabbing his Hat, he stepped outside his office.

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