The wooden door to the carriage swung open with an agonising cry, its oxidized bronze hinges overcompensating as it revealed to the cabin crew the number of guests that would be riding with them to their next destination. The narrow aisle—boldly declared a walkway by the engineers of The Oblivion— quickly became a warzone of inflated bags and egos pushing against each other all surveyed by the Ticketmaster.
One such ego was Paris.
Clad in a bold, rakish red, his arms strained with effort, threatening to break the seams of his threadbare uniform. Wandering eyes swiftly passed over him as if worried they would court his attention, or worse, call him over. His shoes were scuffed from labour, and his hair stuck awkwardly to his generous forehead, as if ashamed of the intelligent wily thoughts that hid beneath. All that was left of his uniform were sad copper buttons that hung on by snagged strings tangled in the rough jutting edges and limp, slices of wooden veneers that made up his epaulettes marking him as a porter.
A grunt pushed free of his lips as he hefted a rotund leather bag filled with several volumes of unpublished mystery novels and freshly pressed suit into the compartment above Mr. Wilkin's seat in his private cabin. The man the bag belonged to looked just as pruned as the leather, with a black bowler hat firmly stuck to the barren wasteland beneath.
"Stop blubbering about up there," the author scoffed.
Paris rolled his eyes as he continued to push and shove the generous size of the bag into the cubby. Sweat gathered in his unnecessarily thick gloves while he mentally took stock of the man.
Mr. Wilkins insisted on wearing a monocle showcasing the dignity all gentlemen should strive towards and because he fancied himself one of the literary greats. He held his tobacco pipe with his thumb at the belly of the bowl, and the rest curled below it because that is what he believed was befitting of high society genteel. Brown patches sat comfortably at his elbows while his corduroys threatened to eclipse his sumptuous stomach. When the howl of the whistle sounded, the train lurched forward soon after.
The zipper of the bag slid open just slightly. Paris was thrown forward. He always was. His knee bumped against Mr. Wilkin's and, like clockwork, those pudgy cheeks, round with scorn, bounced in his direction. Mr. Wilkin's wrist tipped forward with clear disdain pouring out of his smoke pipe like the physical manifestation of the words he would never tell Paris to his face. The ash soiled Paris's uniform from the shins down. His lips pursed tightly as his eyes took on a sharper pinch at the corner.
Since passing from the land of the living—conceited as he had been—Paris was condemned to repent in oblivion. A prisoner. Doomed to endure the same treatment he had once inflicted on others. Here, he was the lowest among the crew, invisible unless needed. But this sentence, he decided, would not endure forever.
He emerged from Mr. Wilkin's cabin, with a soft click of the latch. The rhythmic rumble of the tracks beneath the wheels signalled to him the beginning of the train's unerring circuit—and the time he had to gather what he needed.
A faint glint came from his sleeve as he slid the letter knife he had procured from Mr. Wilkin's cabin, with practiced ease, out of his pocket and into his waistband. His heart rumbled in time with the tracks. He managed to slip the cold steel from the geezer's luggage.
The corridors of The Oblivion stretched long and identical, each carriage a mirror of the last. Polished wood, dim lantern light, and the constant murmur of passengers who never quite seemed to arrive anywhere. Paris moved through them with practised ease, head lowered, steps measured. Invisible.
That was how they preferred him.
At the end of the carriage stood a door unlike the others—unmarked, unpolished. The metal handle was dark with use, though no passenger ever touched it. Paris slowed as he approached. He had seen others glance at it before, crew members mostly, but no one lingered. No one dare to enter the ticketmaster's cabin.
Until now.
The train shuddered slightly beneath him, as though aware.
Paris reached for the handle. It was colder than he expected, the chill biting through his glove. For a moment, his grip faltered. A flicker of memory surfaced—the sliver of life, of freedom he had peeked in the few seconds he had seen the Ticketmaster slip inside. His jaw tightened.
"Don't bother," they had told him.
He curled his fingers firmly around the handle and pulled.
The door resisted.
Behind him, the murmur of the train seemed to grow louder, the rhythm of the tracks quickening. His heart followed, pounding harder, faster. He slipped the letter knife free and wedged it into the seam of the door, forcing it open inch by inch. He huffed as he grinded the dull smooth edges further into the fault.
A sharp crack split the air. The door gave way.
Eyes slid to him. Silent and judging in silks and feathers. "Fools the lot of them," he lampooned to himself.
The hinges lamented in their unwillingness to give in under his persistent banging and kicking. "I'm so close," he hissed quietly. Then something snapped, the door yawned open.
There were no polished walls, no lanterns, no murmuring passengers. Only darkness—vast and endless—and a single step leading out into nothing. The tracks continued to stray into the the nothing, suspended in the void, stretching forward without destination.
Paris stared, in awe. "Careful, 24601."
Paris turned. The Ticketmaster stood a hairsbreadth away. His hand coming hard over the porter's shoulder, holding him in place. Paris's eyes narrowed as he jerked back to no avail, his free hand reaching back for the handle to his freedom. Behind him, The Oblivion screamed—a long, metallic shriek—as the door slammed shut. The train surged forward, bound once more to its endless circuit. He stumbled. He always did. Eyes constrained in anger as they pinched into ugly spheres of fire and distaste.
"No more of this, 24601. Get back to work."