𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 the night, a silver serpent slithering along the iron veins of the desolate landscape. Its speed defied the static stillness of the moonlit expanse, rendering fields and forests into blurs of darkness as the pale light of the moon's rays descended ever so slightly.

The rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks was relentless, almost as if it were some kind of twisted metallic lullaby; both soothing yet foreboding as if it attempted to serve as a testament to the true technological power of motion fuelled by sheer innovation.

Inside the train, the air was thick with unspoken tension, as Peacekeepers, clad in uniforms of luminescent white sat in pairs, illustrating row upon row of disciplined silence. Their faces were completely obscured by their shiny helmets, so glossy that the familiar translucent light might've been blinding for the average oncomer. It was nothing short of strange, really, as the only movement was the occasional shift of a shoulder, the adjustment of a rifle strap, and the silent acknowledgment of their comrades who all suffered from the same occupation. This was evidently not a place where words were exchanged, it was a crucible of duty and purpose, an ironclad vessel that aimed to simply transport them from one place to another with a type of forced organization that almost seemed formidable.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the ton, almost invisible in their stillness, sat two Victors, their presence an anomaly in the sea of uniformity. She was slender and poised – attempting to replicate to the best of her ability the essence of solemnity everyone else so perfectly emanated. It was harder than one expected, Khairiah realized, as her thoughts were a tangled skein of anger; each thread pulling tighter, threatening to choke her reason. Her mind was a rolling storm of bitter memories and raw findings that refused to heal.

𝐊𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐇 → f. odairWhere stories live. Discover now