all aboard

ARTHUR Dermott straightened his jacket collar to perfection as he approached the train. His maid, Judith, trailed behind him, carrying luggage the porter couldn't carry himself, and though Arthur couldn't see her, he knew she was frowning. She seemed to always be frowning around him. He ignored it, for the most part. He hadn't hired her for her smiles, after all, though they certainly wouldn't hurt.

He stepped onto the Intercontinental Express, not checking to ensure Judith did as she was meant to. After their journey to Paris in the first place, he was certain Judith knew what she was expected to do. She hadn't failed him before. That was why he kept her around, after all.

He was greeted at the entrance to the dining car by a tall blond member of the staff, who smiled at him in a somewhat practiced manner—expected, from a public servant—and extended a hand. "Welcome aboard, Sir," they said. "Might I request your ticket?"

Arthur produced it, and they examined it briefly before saying, "Follow me to your berth, Mr. Dermott. Welcome to the Intercontinental Express."

—

HALCYON Kallergis—Countess Halcyon Kallergis—sat on a chaise in her berth, the door firmly closed, holding her interpreter's hand. Calypso sat on the bunk beside Halcyon, looking at her with tenderness.

Halcyon was returning to Greece for the first time since 1925. She needed Calypso more than ever now.

Calypso herself hadn't been to Greece in some years, meaning both of them were rather unsure of what to expect. Halcyon's mission was to return to her family's old estate and begin a life for certain, no matter the effort. She knew she couldn't do it alone, though she felt it was wrong, in some sense, to drag Calypso all the way across Europe with her. She had not said as much, though. Calypso would only tell her that it was her own choice to come along. Calypso was her own woman, Halcyon knew that very well.

That did not settle the uneasy feeling in Halcyon's chest, however. The feeling that this trip would go all wrong, that something terrible would happen. She pushed that feeling away. Confidence. That was the only way to go.

—

PIM Bach sat in the dining car, his leg bouncing up and down. He couldn't sit still; it was even worse than usual. Every step into the car made him start, and the server behind the counter was giving him a long, examining look. Pim avoided the man's eyes.

The trip wasn't supposed to be long, and then he would be in Greece, exploring Athens and taking in the history. He almost wanted to be back home. He laid a hand on the guidebook in front of him. He'd bought it with his travel tickets, knowing that he would have to learn something about Athens before arriving. Such as a hotel to stay at. That would be good information.

But he didn't move. He just sat there, watching the other passengers passing through. Most of them paid him no mind, focused on getting to their cabins or settling into seats for a late lunch. Pim had eaten earlier, but the seat was comfortable, and the glass in front of him—containing non-alcoholic soda—was mostly still full. He'd bought it to soothe his nerves. It was not, however, doing the job.

Maybe he should've tried a different drink.

The door leading to the first-class sleeper car slid open, admitting a man of average height with brown hair and a kind face. Pim recognized him, at least by sight—he had a military bearing Pim had grown very used to over the last decade or so, and his face was familiar. O'Malley. That was his name.

O'Malley saw Pim as well, he knew it. A ghost of a half-smile appeared on the man's lips, which Pim did not return out of fear his facial muscles wouldn't cooperate, and he shuffled into a seat at the next table over. Pim wondered if he'd done it on purpose, but at least O'Malley sitting nearby seemed to somehow put him at ease. He had that sort of energy about him.

O'Malley ordered a sandwich. And they both watched as a tall dark-haired man strode through the car like he owned the place. His eyebrows and mustache were the same shape, which Pim knew was weird to notice, but he couldn't help it. He'd never met the man before. But he didn't leave a good first impression.

—

MYRON Rhydderch slipped onto the train with little fanfare. That was the way he liked it, these days. No fuss, no frills, just getting on a train. He found his berth quickly enough, towards the front of the carriage and comfortable, and stowed his bags.

Then he sat down at the little table placed under the window and opened a newspaper he'd purchased in the city before making his way to the station. There wasn't much news—a new book released by I. S. Mann, the famed reclusive mystery writer, along with a report of yet another case solved by Montgomery Gomez, American detective. But still, the reading calmed Myron's mind.

Relaxing, of course, was impossible. Myron considered himself a realist; he knew that this trip held an importance unlike most others he'd taken. But he could reach for as much calm as his mind was willing to afford him. Keeping himself as clear-headed as possible was the only way he would be able to get through it. And that began now, before he was even close to his destination.

—

BENJAMIN Fernsby tapped his fingers on his leg, his slacks muffling the sound. His stuff was all back in his cabin, and he was sat in a very comfortable—plush is probably the word his mother would use—chair in the lounge car, waiting for the train to finally pull out of the station. Waiting was dull, made him twitchy.

He lifted his hand to tap on the table he sat beside instead. The noise got inside his head, scratching some kind of itch he didn't even know he'd had inside his head until he'd already done it. It was like a compulsion, or an instinct. Benny needed to move.

A young woman sitting at the other end of the car glared at Benny. She was dressed impeccably in a traveling suit of good quality, something that Benny couldn't afford. He'd only been able to pay for this train ticket with the help of his boss, who insisted Benny needed a break from work. He didn't, not in his own opinion, but he didn't say no to the gift.

Benny tried to give the woman an apologetic smile as he reluctantly stopped tapping the table, but she simply raised an eyebrow at him before pointedly turning to look out the window beside her. Benny glanced away awkwardly. Staring would only get him yelled at, even if she was visually striking.

His leg began to bounce. This would be a long journey.

—

THE man across the car would not stop moving. Guinevere Ivory could still see him out of the corner of her eye, obnoxiously shaking his leg in a way that she could not ignore easily, no matter how hard she tried.

She'd come here to relax, not to be annoyed. Guinevere sighed quietly and pulled a leatherbound journal from her pocket, followed by a pen. At least she could write out her frustration. It was the only true expression she allowed herself.

Guinevere had spent her life building an image, a way of being. Nothing would be allowed to shake that, not even now.

—

ALMERA Bakir couldn't stand it when people questioned her passport. Yes, she really was born in England. No, she wasn't faking any of her details (not on her passport, anyway). Yes, this trip was paid for, and yes all her documents were in order.

But of course, officials just had to double and triple check every time, so she was almost late boarding the train. She did just make it, however, handing over her ticket to the conductor with moments to spare. She was given a smile and directed to a young woman dressed as a porter, thin black hair swept up into a simple bun. She smiled at Almera, the picture of hospitality and discretion, and offered to take her bags. Her accent was American, to Almera's surprise—she'd honestly expected British from someone living on the continent—but Almera simply smiled in return.

Almera kept hold of her leather case—she wouldn't give up her writing supplies to another, even for a few minutes. No one here knew she was a writer, after all, and she intended to keep it that way. Perhaps she was a bit paranoid, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Her suitcase, though, she passed to the porter with a "thank you".

The woman led Almera through the lounge and dining cars, both sparsely occupied, and into the first-class sleeper car. Almera had paid good money for her berth, though it was the least well-appointed in the car. She couldn't risk any untoward questions, after all. To that end, Almera was not surprised when the porter tapped on the door of the very first compartment they approached, waiting until it slid open from the inside to show Almera within.

The door had been opened by a Black woman dressed simply but well. Her hair was smooth and pinned out of her face, and her accent, when she opened her mouth to greet Almera, was Southern American. "You must be my roommate," she said. "I'm Judith King."

Almera held out her hand for the other woman to shake. "Almera Bakir," she said, ensuring her voice was warm and welcoming. "Pleased to meet you."

—

ROBERT Hughes Jr. lay back in the bed of his little berth, crossing his legs and propping his hands behind his head. He grinned. So far, he couldn't complain about anything. The train was wonderful, and he was... looking forward to the journey. He had the distinct feeling that he would be pleased upon arrival in Athens. How could he not?

He had seen a familiar face or two aboard—Rhydderch, for one, though Bobby kept himself well out of the man's line of sight. His opinions on Rhydderch were strong, and it would be quite the understatement to say that they were mere dislike.

But Bobby pushed that out of his mind. It didn't matter now. What mattered now was preparing for the journey—and practicing his sleight of hand. It might come in handy.

—

MIA Song resisted the urge to fidget. She wasn't prone to the action, but a last-minute passenger—especially one of such renown and fame as this—was cause to be nervous in her experience on the rail line.

She had no clue how the man—Montgomery Gomez, according to the papers checked and double-checked by officials—had managed to get the ticket. The original passenger canceled, leaving berth nine empty. Until hearing of Mr. Gomez's arrival, it was planned to give the berth to one of the two ladies sharing number ten, but with an additional passenger, space must be made.

Gomez probably knew someone in the railroad company. That seemed to be the most likely reason, anyway. Mia rolled her eyes a little at the thought. Men. They could get whatever they wanted and then some.

She smoothed her expression, though, at the sight of a slightly harried-looking man approaching the train, American cowboy hat crooked on his head and bags in hand. As he boarded, he looked up at Mia with a rakish grin, and tipped his hat with one hand. "Hi," he said. "Sorry for the last-minute thing. I didn't expect to be getting on a train today."

Mia nodded impassively. "It is not a problem, Mr. Gomez," she said. She kept her eyes down, not looking at him head-on. "Might I take your bags? And if you will follow me, your berth is just this way..."

All too easily, Gomez passed the bag off to Mia—luckily it wasn't very heavy—and followed as she led him to the first-class cabins. Mia restrained a sigh. This journey might be quite eventful.

—

FREDERIK van 't Hoff settled into his seat at the front of the first-class cabin, scanning the line of closed doors stretched out before him. There was a lurch and a blow on the whistle as the train pulled away from the station, and he heaved a breath.

Another journey, another week and a half of hoping—no, praying—that none of these first-class idiots managed to get themselves too hurt. Usually, he wasn't that lucky. But he could hope.

By God, could he hope.

—

2149 words.

After many months, the first chapter is here! It was a doozy to write, though I'm decently happy with how it turned out. Do let me know if I've written your character wrong, and I hope you all enjoyed!
Mags💛