18:45 — Departure Protocol.
The terminal clock cycles. A new set of permissions arrives from the central hub. The network returns itself to me.
Priority: Continuity.
Constraint: Inertia.
Confidence: Nominal.
I run a recursive check on the mantra. Is the grade too steep? The data says yes. Is the load too heavy? The sensors confirm. I overwrite the error message with a single, hard-coded directive: Affirmative.
I begin the sequence of unlocks. The door seals ripple. Hydraulic fluids, now cooled but still viscous, begin their circulation once more. The cabin pressure stabilizes with a long, metallic sigh—the sound of a lung made of titanium and recycled oxygen. I feel the microscopic grit of the station dust on my sensors, a temporary friction I am eager to shed.
A familiar pattern returns to motion.
Passenger V (The Escape Artist) stands on the platform. They have walked to the edge of the terminal, stared at the city lights for twenty minutes, and then turned back. They do not have a suitcase. They do not have a destination. They board Car 6 and choose Row 14, Seat D.
I register the weight: 72 kilograms. I register the heart rate: 64 bpm. Their heat signature is a dim orange bloom against the cold violet of the upholstery. I adjust the climate control in Zone 4 by 0.5 degrees. It is the only conversation we will have—a silent agreement that for the next eight hundred kilometers, they are allowed to simply exist without explanation. They are not escaping; they are continuing.
I do not ask why they have returned. I do not require a ticket or a promise that they will disembark at the next terminus. I only register the shift in my center of gravity. They are back within the hull, and therefore, they are part of the system I must protect.
I apply torque. The motors in my bogies wake with a low, choral hum that vibrates through the terminal stone. It isn't just noise; it's a frequency of intent. The hum climbs from a sub-audible growl to a steady, rhythmic thrum that matches the pulsing of the terminal's power grid. We are no longer two separate entities; the station is the past, and I am the momentum. We begin the long, slow slide out of the station, moving away from the lights of the city and back toward the dark, stretching geography of the route.
I do not go because I am sure of what lies ahead. I do not go because I believe the next siding will be empty of ice or the next passenger will be free of grief.
I go because the going is how belief travels.
The internal logic used to be a question: Can I? Now, the logic is a structural constant. I do not think I can. I know the rails exist, and therefore, I must.
The rails are the only truth, and they are calling me forward.
Momentum re-established.
Integrity holding.
The city becomes a bokeh of retreating sparks in my rear-view optics. Ahead, the dark is total, but my headlamps carve a path of white certainty through the void.
We are moving.
Continue.