She should be scouting ahead for the other three, but she simply can't take her eyes off the Slugterranean Express engine roaring its way down the tracks now. Through the red eye-lenses of the mask, she can pick up the otherwise-invisible identification number near the tail-end of it.
She knows the number like she knows her own breath. Needless to say, it distracts her. She should have the self-control necessary to ignore it, but she can't. She knows she can't, knowing what that engine contains. It has been a few weeks, she knows, and lately she has heard that he has been in a mood.
Ruin chirps in his usual apprehension, already knowing what the next few moments will contain. He hunkers against the crook of her neck, his brother and sister contained in two of three gated tubes at her waist adding their own voices to it. Reign sounds encouraging, as he always does, the little spitfire. Nepo seconds Ruin's questioning. Still, all three know that regardless of what they think, their handler is a woman of her own will.
It is her last comfort to know she has that amount of control over her own life.
A quick glance is given over her shoulder, assessing how far back the other three are before determining she can change course just long enough to at least assure him that she is alive. He probably already knows she hasn't keeled over yet, but it's always better to check in the flesh.
Bucephalus' systems are checked briefly, a switch on the dash flicked. The Express is already far ahead now; it's going to take some extra power to catch up to it. The throttle is rocked forward, the old engine kicking in and taking fuel. The Warhorse gives a roar of its own, like a sleeping dragon rudely awakened, before launching forward down the rise.
STL-1s were, and still are, superior in all-terrain capabilities. Really, the only thing it is still superior to with newer models. Down the uneven hill-face toward the flatland below, Bucephalus navigates and assesses perfectly, automatically adjusting shocks and joints across the rocky unstable path as needed to resume as smooth a ride down as possible. She barely feels the shift from rocky high-ground into the smooth plains.
The old Warhorse isn't too fast, even with the added fuel boost. His voice is loud, echoing around the vast chambers with each pull from the fuel tanks. He is barely fast enough to draw even a little ground against the considerably newer Express engine they're trying to catch. STL-1s, after all, were originally built for raw power, not for speed.
The antiquated machine still manages to pull closer and soon enough, she can see the identification number clearly again. A few Blakkguard are stationed up top, almost drawing weapons until one of them recognizes her by the sound of the mech roaring again beneath her, pulling still more fuel from the tank. She should be rationing that, the realization hits her. Pulling up along the back flank of the rumbling engine, she flicks that switch again and the old engine cuts, leaving the new one run by the core to take over. She hates it; it has very little power behind it, just enough to move the old beast.
The Express engine starts pulling away again, bit by bit, but by now she has it. When it rolls to a squealing stop some ways down the track, she can lay off a bit off the throttle. The amount of residual energy and the continued momentum of the Warhorse still carry it with a small amount of steering around the side of the engine proper.
He emerges from the confines, tall and otherwise intimidating. Eyes snap to one side in acknowledgement of the grumbling Bucephalus. No words are spoken as she wafts passed him, keeping easy control on the old beast beneath her. A light canter, she can feel those green eyes following her movement, trailing the arch she makes without breaking his stride. By now, those in his direct employ know her; she is no threat, just an oddity.
Back around the front of the steaming engine, hearing the metal monster breathe with each intake of cooling air, aiming back the way she came. She can feel his eyes again, watching after her until she is out of sight. He knows why she is there; there is a faint assurance in that glance. He knows she is impulsive, reckless. To know she has come to him, even briefly, in one piece is always good news.
Her task completed, she aims back to her starting point. She expects a stern reprimand when she resumes her scouting, if anything for the fuel used in the excursion.
YOU ARE READING
100 Blinks
FanfictionA collection of drabbles written off a pre-existing list of 100 prompts, centered around a multitude of noncanon continuities. Some long, some short, but all addressed in one way or another.
