Crazy Cosmic Gals and Neon Robotics

 His eyes trail towards the DeLorean. It sits undisturbed at the town square next to covered crates of tools. The wind picks up and flutters the tarp that hides his tools and cables. Doubt swirls in his stomach, “Are you sure about this storm?”

 Hunter is finishing his coffee and a stack of eggs and bacon. His last meal in the past and before the plan. Diggins let him borrow an old scarlet and gold tuxedo and frilly white dress shirt for the dance. White and navy blue dress shoes that were only half a size too big and had to be laced tightly so that he wouldn’t slip in them. Also his shredded hat that Hunter swore he would make sure would be buried with him one unfortunate day, “When could weathermen predict the weather, let alone the future?”

 Dr. Diggins pulls his eyes away from the window and gives Hunter a warm smile. He folds both his arms atop of the table, “You know, Hunter, I'm going be very sad to see you go.”

 The bluenette across from him halts from biting into one of his last bits of scrambled egg, “Really?”

 “Yes,” Diggins nods. “You've really made a difference in my life. You've given me something to shoot for. Just knowing that I'm gonna be around to see 1985, that I'm gonna succeed in this.”

 Hunter’s lips twitch. Gunshots in a parking lot in the future.

 “That I'm gonna have a chance to travel through time. It's going to be really hard waiting thirty years before I could talk to you about everything that's happened in the past few days. I'm really gonna miss you, Hunter.”

 That classic knowing smile of Diggins makes his chest hurt. In a few hours he’ll be back in that dark parking lot and this is the last time he’ll see his friend smile. Hunter gives him a smile back, “I'm really gonna miss you. Doc, about the future-”

 “No, Hunter,” Diggins is quick to hold a hand up and duck his head away from the teen. “We've already agreed that having information about the future could be extremely dangerous. Even if your intentions are good, they could backfire drastically. Whatever you've got to tell me I'll find out through the natural course of time.”

 “But Doc-”

 “Hup bup bup! No,” Diggins slides out of the booth and picks up his tool case. He adjusts his lab coat and places a rain hat above his head, “Get your mother to the dance and make sure not to be late. I have to get started. Don’t be late!”

 “Uh- Bye, Diggins!” Hunter sits in place and watches his friend leave. He then sighs and looks into his plate once the door closes.

 Numbly, Hunter gets back to eating. Don’t be late. More like, don’t be early. Heh…

 …who was he kidding.

 He finishes and scoots the plate back to give himself some space. Hunter then produces a paper and pen from his inner jacket pockets. Taking a deep breathe, the bluenette begins to write…

 ‘Dear Doctor Diggins… On the night that I go back in time, you will be shot by terrorists. Please take whatever precautions are necessary to prevent this terrible disaster. Your friend, Hunter.’

 If a man is in charge of his own destiny then at least Hunter could hope the letter could have some sway.

 The lights inside the diner turn off right as Hunter drives away in the car the good doctor let him borrow. He goes down the street that leads towards the high school and disappears.

 Dr. Diggins sees him off before getting back to work. He pulls the long soldered rod and starts to attach it to the back of the DeLorean, adjusting and straightening it to make sure it would hit the cable just right.

 “Evening, Doctor Brown, what's with the wire?”

 Startled by a passing cop, Diggins nearly jumps a foot in the air. He swiftly turns to them and, with the experience of swift protestation and guerrilla experiments, drops his shoulders and gestures at the wires and cables, “Oh, just a little weather experiment.”

 The cop isn’t sold, eyeing the DeLoreen with its cover half off, “What you got under here?”

 “Oh no, don't touch that,” quickly, the good doctor puts himself between the officer and DeLorean. “That's some new specialized weather-sensing equipment.”

 This makes the cop narrow his eyes, “You got a permit for that?”

 Diggins sweats, starting to rummage in his many pockets, “Of course I do. Just a second, let's see if I could find it.”

 Meanwhile, Hunter eases into the high school parking lot. The good doctor’s car is easy to maneuver and gets them to a spot under a large oak tree. Shade under the dark of night, hidden from the clouded moonbeams and excited chatter and music of the dance nearby.

 Hunter’s hands are dripping with sweat as he shifts the convertible’s gear into park. Lorraine is in a pretty pink dress and her hair done with loose counterclockwise curls that are like the ocean’s waves. She’s beautiful. And her son is a nervous wreck.

 “Do you mind if we park for a while?” The blue-haired boy lets out a shaky breath, side-eyeing his future mother.

 “That's a great idea,” Lorraine gives a gentle smile, squaring her shoulders together cutely. “I'd love to park.”

 Hunter blinks, now fully facing her, “Huh?”

 “Well, Hunter, I'm almost eighteen years old. It's not like I've never parked before.”

 Her cutie patootie fluttering eyelashes bounce off of Hunter, “What?”

 She scoots closer to him, attention fixated on her white clutch. Lorraine unclasps it and searches, “Hunter you seem so nervous, is something wrong?”

 Everything is wrong. He waves a shaky hand, regardless, “No, no. Lorraine-“

 A small eight ounce bottle of liquor is pulled from her clutch. It’s half-empty already.

 Hunter’s blood runs cold. Face paler, “Lorraine, what are you doing?”

 Lorraine giggles, hiding her mouth with one hand cutely, “I swiped it from the old lady's liquor cabinet.”

 She then uncorks the small bottle and takes a swig. In the darkness of the car, she looks just like her future self.

 Hunter’s face twists. His knuckles tighten over the steering wheel, “Yeah, well, you shouldn't drink.”

 “Why not?” She focuses on him again, unfazed.  

 “Because… You might regret it later in life.”

 Afternoons back in elementary school when he was the last kid left to be picked up due to his mother passing out on the couch at home. Witnessing fights in middle school between his brother and mother about finances for college but don’t you ever dare suggest she should cut back on the bottles of cheap wine. Finally able to be of age to get a job only for his own mother to start pestering him to drive her places when she is hammered or to run her to the store for her to select a ‘little’ something for the weekend.

 “Hunter, don't be such a square,” she rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Everybody who's anybody drinks.”

 Lorraine then puts away the liquor and fetches an unlit cigarette. As she also takes out a lighter, Hunter does a spit take, “Jesus, Fossil Gods, and Guhnashful-?! You smoke too?”

 She groans loudly in response, “Hunter, you're beginning to sound just like my mother.”

 Inside, the music dies down. The lead vocalist announces to the high schooler audience about the band going on a break. Chatter erupts.

 Lorraine’s eyebrows knit together, “Hunter, why are you so nervous?”

 The eggs and bacon roll in his stomach. There’s some grim hope from Hunter that maybe he can vomit all over his future mother instead of going with the original plan.

 So he takes a deep breathe and decides to focus his gaze out the windshield. His eyes focus on the many cars that are hip or fashionable for this time as words slowly roll off his tongue, “Lorraine… Have you ever, uh, been in a situation where you know you had to act a certain way but when you got there you didn't know if you could go through with it?”

 She instantly relaxes, “Oh, you mean how you're supposed to act on a first date.”

 No. “Ah well, sort of.”

 A beat of silence follows. Hunter gulps, looking down at his hands clasped together, “…maybe not. I don’t know if I’m ever going to act ‘normal’ like the rest of my class. I didn’t think I’d even get a date or ask anyone out. I feel fine. But everyone likes to talk about dating and… I don’t know if I’ll ever get there.”

 She digests Hunter’s thoughts and softly speaks up, “I think I know exactly what you mean.”

 Hunter looks up at her, “You do?”

 “You know what I do in those situations?”

 He can’t help but lean in as her voice grows softer, “What?”

 “I don't worry,” Lorraine then leans forward and kisses him hard.

 Hunter instantly shrieks and pulls away. His back and arms glued to the driver’s side and face aghast.

 She too stops and pulls back. Lorraine searches Hunter’s face and finds him shocked stiff, “This is all wrong. I don't know what it is, but when I kiss you it's like kissing my brother. I guess that doesn't make any sense, does it?”

 Hunter gives her the most dead-eyed stare that he will ever be capable of for the rest of his days. As if he was watching someone relentlessly shoot the good doctor five hundred more times.

 “Well…” Somehow, he finds his voice again. Hunter slowly peels himself away from the driver’s side door. He never once breaks eye contact with her, “You mean… It makes perfect sense.”

 Before the sass-filled thought of ‘Close but no cigar!’ can even enter his head, the convertible’s door opens up behind him.

 “You cost three-hundred buck damage to my car, you son-of-a-bitch.”

 It was Bulloworth dressed to the nines for the dance tonight. Freshly washed and red-faced. His cronies match his energy on either side before Hunter or Lorraine can react.

 “And I'm gonna take it out of your ass!” A thick finger is shoved directly into the future boy’s face. “Hold him!”

 Hunter yipes as he’s grabbed and thrown into the parking lot. Lorraine shrieks, “Let him go, Bart! You're drunk.”

 Bart staggers closer to the car, leaning over the driver’s side and leering into Lorraine’s personal space. The neurons firing in his head are slow but piece together an awful thought. He sneers, “Well, lookie what we have here.”

 Lorraine tries to shove past him to get out but Bart’s sheer bulk blocks her like a sauropod against a lone raptor, “No, no, no. You're stayin’ right here with me.”

 “Stop it!” She weakly punches his shoulder but this does nothing.

 “Leave her alone!” Hunter shouts from the pavement before he’s kicked in the stomach and pulled away for another kick. “Leave her alone! You bastard!”

 Bart growls and gestures towards his friends, “You guys, take him in back and I'll be right there.”

 Future Boy gets dragged out of the parking lot, away from the scene. Hunter doesn’t go quietly; he kicks and screams as violently as he can. No one comes running.

 They go behind the school where a classic blue car’s trunk is popped open. It’s in clear view of the open auditorium’s backstage doors as slow music murmurs on through it’s soothing melodic notes. Hunter coughs and thrashes throughout. Spittle escaping the corners of his mouth and his borrowed tux needing more than dry clean and hem job done to fix. His shredded hat clings to him and his tussled hair as if it were a part of his soul.

 The skinnier of the two bullies starts for the car’s trunk, “Let's put him in there.”

 “Yeah,” his friend follows his lead.

 Hunter gets thrown into the open trunk, back first. He groans out in pain and tries to get the world to stop spinning by counting how many limbs he has through the pain. The bluenette doesn’t get far before pain erupts from his face with a sickening ‘SMACK!’

 “That's for messing up my hair,” one of the bullies shakes their wrist as Hunter once more doubles over in pain. His friend shuts the trunk close.

 Pain and darkness consumes Hunter. He hisses and groans, holding himself in the cramped space. It takes him a moment to make out that the laughing outside is from Bart’s cronies.

 FUCK- Bart!

 Everything had been going alright (albeit some awful moments between himself and future mother) and then Bartholomew FUCKING Bullworth just had to barge in and mess everything up. He had to get out of the car and back to Dr. Diggin’s convertible before George grew that shining steel spine to become his father. Lorraine was in trouble and someone had to do something!!!!!!

 He starts to claw at the claw and hisses, finding it locked, “Damn it!”

 No mom and dad getting together. No Diggins not dying in a parking lot.

 His breathing gets faster.

 No brother or sister. No friends or band.

 Hunter’s hands are shaking as he pats around the trunk’s floor and finds a ring of metal. It makes a distinct jingling noise when disturbed. He lets out a whimper and holds onto the ring of keys he had just found.

 Something outside is occurring. Shouts? Arguments? There’s an exchange of angry words.

 “The hell you doin’ to my car?” Someone with a baritone voice addresses the teens from the building.

 They get closer to the car as both of Bart’s friends start to exchange insults with the newcomer. The guy with the baritone voice doesn’t seem to be alone, judging by the amount of dress shoes scuffing against cement and pavement. It doesn’t take long for one of the teens to say the wrong thing for the umpteenth time and there’s fast movement that follows. Yelling and whooping as the two are scared off, no doubt with their tails between their legs.

 At the right quiet moment, Hunter thumps a fist against the roof of the trunk, “Hey! Hey! Help me out here!”

 This gets whoever’s attention outside. Baritone guy leans in really close to the trunk, right next to the lock, “What’s goin’ on? You got locked in there or something?”

 “Yes!” Hunter shouts as loud as he can, “Please! Let me out!”

 “Alright, alright, cool your jets,” he pulls away and starts patting himself down. His friends do the same.

 Hunter thumps a few more times on the roof of the trunk, “C'mon, open up! Let me out of here- C’MON!”

 “Lorenzo, where're your keys?”

 The bluenette groans, clutching the keyring, “The keys are in the trunk.”

 “Say that again.”

 “Good,” he gives her a sharp grin. “If you can understand the make of a punch then you can try an’ surprise ‘em by hiding the wind-up.”

 The setting sun beats down their backs as they continue their practice session. They had wheeled through laps around the empty training field, coupling up and getting a taste for how they fit together with diesel-fueled speeds and making sure their brakes were in tip-top condition. Like all cars, Dinah didn’t have a set of fast brakes and thus had to get used to her racing partner taking surprise stops. Wide turns had become shorter, tighter. Dinah’s wheels had begun to ache.

 Now they just needed to go over punching and dodging.

 “The trains are gonna to be meaner than me,” the locomotive gives a slow punch to highlight his action. His fist lands on Dinah’s upper arm, “They’ll either aim for my face or try to knock you off ta distract me. I can dodge pretty well due to practice but even I got my blind spots.”

 Dinah watches his fist come back, “I can yell if I spot anythin’.”

 “Knew you’d catch on,” Greaseball crosses his arms loosely over his chest. “We’ll have helmets so our heads’ll be protected. They’ll be aiming mostly for our arms and legs.”

 “But aiming below the waist is against the rules!”

 “Oh and they know it,” he rolls his eyes and growls as if remembering a bad dish from a subpar restaurant. “They will get a slap on the wrist or disqualified if caught, but their thoughts are ‘if I can take ‘em out, I’ll do it.’ They’ll even do it if they consider you a threat to their career and damage yer legs or wheels just ta not see ya in the next one.”

 “Ugh!” Her hands curl into fists at her side, “That’s horrible!”

 “And it’s my job to make sure you don’t lose ‘em tomorrow,” Greaseball’s tone becomes serious. “If I watch out for you, I need you lookin’ out for me too.”

 Anyone could slide in and take out her or Greaseball in just a second. That’s all it takes.

 Doubt swirls in her chest compartment. Her fuel filters unevenly. Maybe that part is just her having not refueled in a hot moment. She steels her nerves and looks him right in the eye, “I can manage.”

 This time, while Greaseball runs a few laps around the course and Dinah is coupled up to him, she throws punches into the air. Left punch makes her skid and swivel. Right hook makes her hop on one wheel. Her race partner just softly grunts as he adjusts their weight and balances the both of them.

 When she’s able to throw about five punches without lurching onto her knees or slowing the diesel down too much is when they decide to call it a day. The sun is already dipping below the horizon. Slivers of red, yellow, and purple escape its last wink across the Earth.

 There’s free food at the cafeteria for all the working and visiting trains. It’s bustling during this time of day as many trains clocking out are shoveling as much hot food as they can onto their plate while those working the midnight shift are coming in for their ‘midnight breakfast’ of pulled pork and vegetables. Far cry from the comfort of diner food but with friendly company it was more than filling.

 The dining cars serving even make sure everyone’s company is welcome. Two of them even spot Dinah as she and Greaseball move down the line in their sweaty practice gear and giggle.

 “Evenin’ sweets,” Sloan, a dining car of Dinah’s same make and model with a loose ponytail, greets her. There’s a playful air to her as she serves them creamed greens, “Haven’t seen you in a while. Punch anymore cabooses?”

 “Evenin’ Sloan,” the blonde gives her a flat stare. Mood ruined.

 Next to Sloan is Burnadette, a smaller dining who has always had a smug face. She’s just as snide as she always is as she hands out cornbread, “Punched the new guy yet?”

 “She did. Multiple times,” Greaseball says as he takes five more pieces of cornbread. The three dining cars stare at him.

 Before the servers can say anything, Dinah bursts into laughter, “HAH! Sure did! I pack a mean punch, and you best not forget it!”

 Both trains laugh as they continue down the line and collect their dinner. They sit at the end of one table as the chatter around them continues. Dinah across from Greaseball as he clambers into the wooden bench and table like a tiger trying to curl up into a small cat bed. He snorts, “Those part of yer train?”

 “Same line and factory, yep,” a fork goes into her spinach and she twirls it like spaghetti. “Not my siblings.”

 The diesel across from her starts pulling apart the pork on his plate even further. He stares at her with a half-smile as if to say, ‘I can tell.’

 “How about you?” Dinah quickly changes the subject, “Any family back home?”

 “Used to have a grandpa,” Greaseball chews. “Called ‘im Pa.”

 This is the first time Dinah had heard a fellow train refer to a member of their family as the human equivalent of grandparents. It was such a rarity, “Grandpa?”

 “Yeah… He was the Yard Master when I first arrived to my yard,” his voice grows faint, eyes drawn towards behind his racing partner. “Cared for the lot of us before he moved on. New Yard Master wasn’t tha same. We kinda had to make do and help one another out. Be a team.”

 Dinah hums, “I’m sorry.”

 “Don’t worry about it,” he waves a hand and tucks back into his dinner. “He probably retired or somethin’. Not around loud diesel locos anymore and getting some sleep, or at least that’s what he would wish aloud in front of us.”

 She giggles. Greaseball smiles.

 Halfway through eating his plate, Greaseball looks out at the crowd. It’s noisy but warm. Chatter of the day he and Dinah are unfamiliar with due to their current objectives. A lone Union Pacific surrounded by CSXs, BNSFs and a few Amtraks. Clearly a pitstop for many visiting trains on the payroll.

 He gestures behind him with his thumb, “You see anyone, besides me, comin’ from the south? Or is it all freight and commuter runs here in the middle east?”

 Dinah shrugs, “Rarely racers like you come through. Sometimes it’s a train who switched lines. I don’t really pay attention to the hubbub of locomotive news.”

 “And I guess I don’t know much of tha world of humans or cars,” Greaseball’s focus goes to his metal cup of water. “Life of a train is fast. You go up, down, east, west for a good bit of time and next thing ya know your human engineers have white hair.”

 It’s a sad topic. One that Dinah wants to burst into tears over people she had never met. Dinah holds herself up well. She doesn’t even try counting. For some reason, she doesn’t want to be an explosion of feelings are Greaseball. The new friend she’s made doesn’t know about how her brain is broken or how big her tears get and ruin her makeup. She doesn’t want that. Something tight in her chest curls up into a ball and pulls itself together. Tighter and tighter. No numbers getting bigger, just inner thoughts of, ‘Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.’

 She hums a sad note and too looks down into her cup, “I guess it’s similar for us cars. You greet and smile at the same guests year after year and take the same order. But there come’s a day when you look at their faces and see wrinkles.”

 It’s a somber thought to have amidst a crowd of joyful trains. Greaseball is keen to keep up with that fact, choking down his whole cup, “Well! Enough of that!”

 He then gives her a toothy grin, “Don’t’cha know any spots around here for a change of scenery?”

 Dinah can’t help a small smile tug at her blue lips, “Why, in fact, I do…”

 She takes him to her favored picnic spot. With the sun set, all the trains and humans are gone. Trees branches and leaves sway in the wind. The benches and wheel tracks used by fellow trains are cold.

 Greaseball and Dinah find a bench under the stars. Cloud coverage is low for the night. Blue and silver stars twinkle above.

 “I used to come here after work, years ago,” the dining car shares as her eyes adjust to the bright night sky. “No one hangs around here in the open once it gets dark.”

 “I see…” He follows her gaze, “Do you… Believe in the Starlight Express?”

 “Not really. Do you?”

 “I, uh, not really,” Greaseball awkwardly coughs into one fist before lowering it near Dinah’s. Their fingers touch and he’s quick to pull away, “Ah, sorry!”

 “S- Sorry too,” her fingers are yanked back at the same time from surprise. Under the cover of darkness, they couldn’t tell that the other as blushing.

 They settle back into comfortable sitting positions. Greaseball keeps his hand a good distance from her’s. His eyes on the sky full of its glimmering stars, “Back in Texas, there’s always races. Races in the yard, races by the highways, races by the fields. You don’t have ta go far if yer lookin’ for a race.”

 Dinah too keeps her eyes on the stars, trying to spot constellations, “And you often looked for them?”

 “I was actually always challenged to them,” the locomotive shrugs. “It’s just normal there. The other locomotives loved ta race to blow off steam. Usually one-on-one, but sometimes a freight car or two would be pulled along. A hot day was easy to forget if you could feel the wind ripping through your hair.”

 She laughs, glancing at him, “And you won a lot?”

 “After I got more comfortable in my adult build, yes,” he catches her eye, giving a slight smile. “I started winning almost every race I was in. I decided to try winnin’ for keeps instead of waiting for my checks.”

 “That’s funny, Sunstinger would say that too about how he started racin’.”

 “Who?”

 “My mentor’s partner.”

 “Oh, I see. Ain’t nothing wrong with earning a little extra through talent.”

 “Of course,” she goes to look back up at the stars.

 “Where did Sunstinger go?”

 “Away, northwest,” her tone changes to something bittersweet. “Abigail left with ‘im. They race the Canadian locomotives and I get a post card every now and then.”

 “Must be nice.”

 “It is.”

 Awkward silence falls for a few minutes. The clouds revolve with the world, but the stars are stationary.

 That tight ball in Dinah’s chest uncurls, but only slightly. She sighs, “I’m scared, for tomorrow’s race.”

 “I, uh, I promise it’s not gonna be so bad,” Greaseball tries to give her a smile. “Just imagine ‘em all as that one caboose you punched.”

 Her mood plumets. Now she’s thinking about that incident and the upcoming race, “I’d rather not.”

 The diesel grows quiet, brain working overtime as to what to say. There’s not a lot that’s coming to mind so he tells the truth, “…tomorrow is my first ever two-train race.”

 Her eyes grow wide and she sharply turns to Greaseball. That tight ball in her chest unfurls, “WHAT?!”

 “As a solo racer, I wanna break into tha big leagues,” he’s jostled by her outburst but Greaseball continues. “I have to do partnership regionals. Tomorrow is the first time I race with a real partner.”

 “And you decided to find a partner the day before?!”

 He flinches, “I was hopin’ someone would come over ta me at the day of the race but…”

 Dinah’s face is set in disbelief before his words start to sink in, “But…?”

 “…I was impressed a whole lot by you.”

 She blinks in surprise. The two trains just stare at one another for a bit of time, “Really?”

 “I meant every word the night before,” slowly, the diesel adjusts himself. “I… You really hold yourself up well in a stressful environment. You know about the races. Dinah, I like your reflexes.”

 Pause.

 “NOT LIKE THAT!” Greaseball shouts aloud, honking.

 Dinah’s eyebrows set themselves into a line, “You… You’re being honest? Swear to tha Starlight and everything?”

 He puts a hand to his chest, “Honest, Dinah. I really wanna race with you.”

 Her eyes travel down, away from Greaseball. That ball in her chest curls and uncurls. Her fists want to punch, her eyes want to water, and her fueling system wants her to vomit. Is she in too deep now? Is it too late to back out?

 She only has one chance.

 “I’ll race with you,” her blue eyes find Greaseball’s glowing yellows in the dark. “Just this once, and then we’ll go from there.”

 Relief floods the locomotive and he sits up straight, “Thank you, Dinah. Thank you! I promise you, I’ll do everythin’ in my power to protect ya on the tracks.”

 His begging is kind of cute. She can’t help by smile, “Then put your money where yer mouth is.

 Her gloomy demeaner isn’t lost on her coworkers. Some give her a wide berth and ask from time to time if she needs a fifteen or a breather. Susan is the only one to take direct action after an hour of seeing her lost in her own thoughts.

 She approaches Dinah as she prepares fresh coffee, “Okay. What’s goin’ on with you?”

 The blonde just softly shakes her head, “I dunno. I guess I just miss being on tha rails.”

 Huffing, the older woman crosses her arms, “And not about that new friend of yours that didn’t come in fer breakfast?”

 “He didn’t?” Dinah turns to her, raising an eyebrow.

 “Nope,” Susan smirks before leaning against the bar. “What’s with you and ‘im? Did he put the moves on you or somethin’ or is he just ignorin’ ya?”

 “No, no,” the dining car sighs and decides that- Fuck it. She grabs an empty mug and pours herself a cup of coffee. A bit of skim milk and brown sugar too. Dinah takes a sip as Susan patiently watches her, “He’s been nice. Real nice. He chased off a creep last night on my way back.”

 “Oh! How chivalrous.”

 She gives a faint chuckle and takes another sip, “Yeah… He’s a train too and we talk about races here and there. He’s been good company.”

 The sandy-haired woman gives her a nod, “Good on you, makin’ a new friend.”

 Another chuckle, “Yeah. I kind of miss him.”

 “Then why you mopin’ around?”

 She shakes her head, “It’s nothin’. Just that loco askin’ me to race with him tomorrow. Like I don’t have my own needs to pay for.”

 Like an extra poofy mattress for her bed back at the yard. Dinah was sure to make the rest of the dining cars extra jealous of having a nice princess-like bed. They’d probably all demand for Dinah’s bed to host the next sleepover. Or some new extra special perfume that wasn’t too flowery and would be great to wear on future dates.

 Susan piles used mugs into her dirty dish bin to take back to the dish washing sink, “Girl. How long have you worked here? Three years?”

 “Plus six months.”

 “And what have you done with that time? Go and run off to practice for that race!”

 “What?!” Dinah snaps at attention back towards her as Susan gets back to work, “Su- Have ya lost yer mind?”

 “Nuh-uh, have you lost yours?” She whips back towards her, “Dinah, do you honestly not racing? Do you wanna be off the rails for the rest of yer life?”

 “You know I’m not workin’ my passenger shifts for another month.”

 “But you love watchin’ the races on TV and spouting facts ta us,” Susan stacks some more dirty dishes from a table nearby. She then yells over the counter, “Hey! Roger!”

 His head appears out from the serving area, “What?”

 “Tell Dinah she’s bein’ an idiot.”

 Roger looks towards Dinah, “What happened?”

 Dinah rolls her eyes, “I got asked to race-”

 “Her new friend asked her to race but she declined,” Susan interrupts.

 “WHAT?!” Roger stands up straight, putting his hands on his hips, “You gotta get ready for that race.”

 “I’m not going.”

 “Dinah,” Susan sets down the dirty dish bin and holds one of Dinah’s empty hands. “I’m all for supportin’ ya but are you really happy working here?”

 The blonde’s lips twist. She looks Susan in the eye, “…only the breakfast shift.”

 “And ya miss being on the rails?”

 She nods, “I’ve kind of wanted to race too, for awhile now.”

 “And when will that be?”

 Dinah is quiet. Her eyes go to the window with their slim blinds semi-closed. The sun was shining and the sky was so blue.

 …what had she been passionate about? Dinah has to think about it for a second. All dining cars knew how to cook and bake and she had found enjoyment in that. Some pride, even. The nostalgia of being with Sweet Abigail and Sunstinger on the tracks was strong, but she would be lying if the call to have the wind rush through your hair and cross the finish line with trains you care about wasn’t hard to ignore. Being in root form in a train was one thing, but allowing your wheels to get you to fly down the tracks and out speed the competition?

 Susan takes Dinah’s silence as doubt, sighing, “Dinah, I don’t wanna force you into anythin’. But how about you try takin’ the day off and deciding what you want?”

 The dining car blinks at her, “I can do that?”

 “Yeah. Screw it,” she let’s go of Dinah’s hand to get back to work. “I can punch you out. Go out and practice racing or chase after your man. Just give it some thought, yeah?”

 Dinah nods, “Yeah. Actually, I think I should.”

 “Alright!” Roger cheers before dipping back to his station in the kitchen, “Chase your dreams, Di!”

 The dining car laughs before finishing her coffee. Susan dips back to the dishwashing station to drop off her dirty dishes and to punch Dinah out. She adjusts her apron and takes her exit after shouting goodbyes to her coworkers.

 Dinah takes a jog around the trainyard as the midday shift. Human and train workers bustling around as freight trains prepare themselves for nightly runs and Control belts out orders from the old speakers. She quickly dodges around the busy bees and gets back to her true train car form before merging back into her comfortable two-wheeled form.

 It’s comforting being in this form, her wheels charging her right along the commuting path for trains as the wind whips through her hair and skirts. She has enough energy and time to ponder what she should do for the rest of the day.

 The trail leads her right back to the picnic area where trains and humans alike are eating their packed lunches or catching up with one another. It’s not her scene to get acquainted with at the moment so she goes around the edges and keeps to the grassy area.

 She looks up onto the sky and spots a sparse amount of clouds. Thin and weak, not a hint of rain. Dinah sighs as her eyes trace the roofs in the yard against the sky.

 ‘…that cage you call a diner.’

 The yard feels like one too, sometimes.

 Dinah huffs, raising her hand up to look at them. Fingerless white gloves meant to grip trays and catch her falls. Grip couplers in a train. Sweet Abigail had the same ones.

 That’s right, her mentor had gone off with Sunstinger ages ago. They were in another yard on the other side of the country, racing away their days. It had been a tearful goodbye, but Abigail had told her she was loved and ready to face the world.

 So far, her world had only been serving humans and trying hard not to explode with emotion.

 When she looks up at the sun through slitted eyes, Dinah swears it’s so bright it’s almost not yellow anymore. A bright yellow eye in the blue sky.

 “Greaseball!”

 That familiar cry halts the locomotive in his tracks. Upon the dusty gravel of the training field, he swivels on one wheel to meet the source.

 Dinah the dining car runs towards him in an old pair of denim overalls and a white button-up with puffy sleeves. Her wheels bounce against the dusty trail with practiced ease as if she were born to run. Blonde hair kept in a tighter bun and her facial markings of winged blue eyeliner and soft baby blue blush is more vibrant that usual.

 A smile grows on his lips and he laughs aloud, “Changed yer mind?”

 She grins back and slows to a stop to meet him, “Maybe I needed a bit o’ convincin’.”

 “Yer work don’t mind you bein’ out?”

 Dinah waves her hand, giving a half smile, “I think they’ll manage. I got coverage, just in case.”

 Greaseball nods in approval, “Well… It’s afternoon so we don’t have much time. Think you can hook up ta me and keep up?”

 “Welcome back!” Dinah calls out to him as she replenishes a table’s drinks and takes any dishes that are complete. “Take a seat anywhere.”

 Greaseball sits himself at an empty spot at the bar and Susan hands him a menu, “Coffee?”

 “Please, with a side of milk.”

 Susan hums and obliges. After she serves him his milk, she goes to another table to take their order. He glances at the menu, his mind already made up to have the same as yesterday. Behind his shades, those yellow eyes drift around the diner and notice that the other servers and employees are very orderly despite the chaos of the breakfast rush. Bussers hurry back to the employees only area with their boxes of dirty dishes held aloft and away from moving bodies. Servers memorize orders to notepad while taking note of their customers and surroundings. Even the chefs line up orders in a neat file that servers are able to keep track of.

 “Kept ya waiting?” Dinah slides behind the bar to inspect the coffee maker and cold drink pitchers before turning to him. Her blue eyeshadow is neater today, less smokey as it had been the day before.

 “You’re right on time, actually,” Greaseball gives a half-smile in response, putting his copy of the menu down. “I was about to order the same as yester-”

 “SHIT!!”

 On Greaseball’s left, one customer forgot they had a coffee mug near their elbow as they quickly adjusted themselves in their seat. The mug slides quickly off the bar and down to the floor below-

 But Dinah is able to catch it with one hand.

 She put the empty mug upright back onto the bar with a cheerful smile, “Here ya go!”

 “Thanks, miss,” the guest breathes a sigh of relief and takes the mug back.

 Greaseball keeps his eyes on Dinah, astonished. First she was standing before him, lax, as they talked. The next thing he knew, Dinah had grabbed the mug out of the air. It was as if she had been blue lightning in that single moment.

 “So, those breakfast platters again?” Dinah turns to him with her notepad as if nothing had happened.

 “R- Right,” he delivers the same order as yesterday but with the addition of extra maple syrup.

 As Dinah leaves, Greaseball watches her back for a moment before taking a long sip from his coffee. His head rolls together many thoughts into an idea as the chatter and noise of the diner continues on.

 Disappointedly, Dinah doesn’t get the breakfast shift tomorrow. She instead has the late night dinner crowd with its bigger menu and fussy guests. Breakfast for one table. Only coffee for one person. Steak and lamb chops or a whole train of disguised cars as celebration for a job well done. It’s these shifts that Dinah misses being on the rails surrounded by other trains the most.

 Many of the customers who order alcohol eye her as if she were one of the juicy steak platters too. It makes her sick to her stomach.

 There’s only so many times she can make fresh coffee and count to eighty. No fists need to fly tonight.

 So she does her best to smile, greet the guests, take their orders, and make sure the coffee is nice and hot. Just in case it needs to be poured elsewhere.

 Soon enough, she’s saying her goodbyes to her coworkers and making sure her timesheet is punched out correctly. Check payments are always given on Fridays and Dinah is holding out mixed excitement because her payments are just two days away. She’s doing the math for her hourly rates as she starts her trek towards the rails her true form is parked on.

 The yard has old yellow lights that flicker over the walkways and rails. Only larger buildings, businesses, and train sheds had lights attached to the sides to illuminate themselves as destinations. Cranes, water towers, and other suspicious shadows jut out from the darkness. Abigail had tried to instill the habit of having a flashlight on hand at night but after misplacing five of them Dinah had given up.

 She sighs, following the lights that lead to her destination. Another shift she didn’t like soon to be followed up by a lunch shift wherein she wouldn’t be getting much sleep. It was nights like these she missed working only morning shifts three times a week to balance out her railway duties.

  Just five more weeks, Dinah. Five more weeks.

 Her moping is interrupted by the cloud of smoke up ahead in the lights along the pathway. She slows, her eyes trailing the smoke towards its source.

 A man in engineering overalls smokes his cigarette in peace while leaning against the lamppost. His face is mostly obscured by his thick helmet that’s been scratched a few times.

 Dinah keeps walking, keeping her eyes forward and senses alert.

 He notices her through the smoke, “Heya baby, why the long face?”

 Count to eighty, Dinah. Keep walking.

 She does so, ignoring him. Her fingers start to curl.

 “C’mon, don’t leave me in the cold,” he adjusts himself, no longer leaning against the post. His boots scuff against the pavement and the false heart in Dinah’s chest races at the sound.

 Dinah continues to look ahead. She just needs to turn a corner and find her body. If anything dire happens, she can just poof out of her disguise and wake up on the rails. It would suck and hurt a bunch but at least she could dash away faster on wheels.

 It doesn’t get better as she tries to make distance from him. He follows, “You got a great body… I’d be happy to do anything with that.”

 She doesn’t make it thirty. Dinah spins around to snap at him, “What is your problem?! Can’t you see I’m tryin’ to go home?!”

 He stalls, almost surprised, “Why are you mad? I just gave you a compliment.”

 “It was NOT a compliment! You sad gross things about me! You have no RIGHT to be that mean and gross!”

 “And I guess you can’t take a compliment, eh? What? You taken or somethin’?”

 “I ain’t. And I wouldn’t be smitten by you! You gross cre-”

 “You bitch!” He raises his hand and aims for her-

 -only for a thick leather gloved hand to grab ahold of his arm and growl in warning, “That’s enough outta you.”

 Scared, both the worker and Dinah turn to see this newcomer appear out of the darkness. Yellow eyes narrowed in disgust, triangular teeth clenched together.

 Wheels clack over cement and the yellow rectangular lines on his cheek give it away: Greaseball the diesel locomotive had arrived on the scene. Engine rumbling dangerously, heat escaping his hidden vents.

 The diesel locomotive clenches the man’s wrist and growls, “Did your mama never teach ya to lay a hand on a woman or somthin’?”

 With a few twists and pulls, the engineer is allowed to escape his grip. He growls back at the train, “Can’t you see I’m having a conversation-”

 “The only thing I’m seein’ is you leaving,” Greaseball takes a step forward, now under the light. Shadows obscure the top half of his face, his eyes glowing, “Now git.”

 Not one to be on the receiving end of a locomotive’s wrath, the man turns on his tail and flees. He disappears into the dark.

 Dinah gives it a minute before breathing out a sigh of relief, “Thank you, Greaseball.”

 He relaxes, eyes softening as he gazes at her, “Anythin’ for you, Dinah. Just being a decent train.”

 “Right…” She stares at the concrete beneath her white lace-up boots. Dinah had smelled like grease and coffee grounds while leaving work but now the air is filled with nicotine and diesel exhaust.

 Greaseball is worried by her silence, “Hey, you alright there? He didn’t actually lay a hand on you?”

 “No. Look, I’m just tired,” the blonde gives him a small smile that’s strained. “You helped me out and it’s been a long day. I wish I could offer you some free coffee or somethin’ but it’s late and my mind is fried.”

 “Hey, hey. None taken,” he waves a hand. “Is your root form at least nearby? Don’t want you zippin’ off in your state.”

 “Yeah, I’m nearby. Goin’ straight to my shed after that.”

 “Good.”

 “And you?”

 “Pardon?”

 “Why are you here late at night?”

 Greaseball crosses his arms over his chest and leans back, “I… I was passin’ by tonight. I finished having dinner with my manager and wanted to have a midnight run through here. Best place ta run is always quiet tracks.”

 A genuine smile tugs at the corner of her lips, “Yeah… I guess so.”

 “I missed you at breakfast this morning.”

 “Right. I had the dinner shift tonight.”

 “Oh.”

 There’s an awkward silence that follows. A quiet breeze flows through the yard and gently ruffles the few trees in the giant yard. Some loose strands of Dinah’s blonde hair escape from her loose bun to brush against her face. Greaseball’s fingers twitch.

 If this were to happen with any other stranger, Dinah would give her thanks and be on her way home. But this is Greaseball. He wasn’t much of a stranger anymore and she liked being around him so far.

 But she doesn’t have to think of what to do next, as Greaseball is the one to start, “Uh, you know that regional race happening this weekend? I wanted to ask you somethin’ about it this morning.”

 Both of her hands find each other and Dinah interlaces her fingers together, “Yes?”

 “Would you like to be my partner for it?”

 This stuns Dinah. She stares at him, face falling, “Huh?”

 “I was wonderin’ if you’d like to partner up with me for the race?”

 Dinah is silent once more before looking anywhere but Greaseball, “Greaseball, I- I’m honored but I’ve never raced before.”

 “It’s okay. We got a whole day before the race so there’s time to get you ready. All you gotta do is stay behind me and I can keep ya safe from the other trains.”

 “That- That’s not really reassuring.”

 “Dinah, I’ve seen you work at your job. You’re great at managing chaos.”

 “But I don’t know you!” She blurts out, fists clenched at her sides, “Yer askin’ a total stranger to race with you.”

 Their eyes lock and the locomotive gives her a moment before continuing, “Yeah. I know we barely know one another, but I would be honored if you helped me out.”

 “Why?” ‘I should’ve known he just wanted me for somethin’. Man or train or both, rarely any of them are this nice…’

 “Because you have a talent,” unfurling his arms, Greaseball gestures softly with his hands. “And I like talkin’ with you. Like I said, I respect how you manage yourself and others at yer job. You’d be wonderful on the rails.”

 “I punched a train,” she tells him. “A few of them. I’m not allowed to work on the rails for a while.”

 “Then you’re already rearing for a race,” he shows his sharp teeth in a grin. “I bet you can punch us into first place.”

 “You-!” Flustered, Dinah wrings her hands in front of her and groans, “Greaseball! I’m tellin’ ya, I don’t think this is a grand idea!”

 “But would you ever wanna race?”

 “Yes!” Dinah blurts it out faster than she can process, “No- I- I need time!”

 “Okay, doll-”

 “Dinah.”

 “Okay, Dinah,” his lips twist. “You got about twenty-four hours to make up yer mind. Race is in two days and I’m not puttin’ you on tha tracks without some proper training.”

 Her gaze goes to the dirt track below. A new pressure growing on her shoulders, “I’ll think about it.”

 That’s how it should end. Greaseball doesn’t move his legs nor unclicks his wheels. Instead, he sighs, “I would like to race with you. I really would. You’ve got clear talent and it makes me sad knowing you’re in that cage called a diner.”

 She sits outside under the giant oak tree and feels the summer wind hug her frame. Her wheels touch the grass and gravel. The picnic area she and other trains would visit for lunch and dinner throughout the day is alit with all the stars in the midnight sea and beyond. Her arms are folded under her as she sits at the picnic table as her chin rested on one fist and her spare hand was placed against her shoulder.

 Once upon a time, she would sit here in the late evenings with Sweet Abigail and Sunstinger after a long day of race practice. Her mentor had been Sunstinger’s racing partner and she would get to watch the dining car and BNSF locomotive perform tight turns and accelerated tricks. At the end of it, she would be allowed to hitch up behind Abigail as they returned to the yard. There were even times when she got to cling to Sunstinger’s couplers and he’d race her around the dirt tracks with glee.

 Sometimes she reads in a book about how a human family performs their homely rituals of love and compares it to what it had been like when Abigail and Sting were still around. Thoughts like these make her chest hurt.

 Many times they would come to this picnic area at the end of a busy workday and find a crowd of fellow trains and human workers sharing food and stories. Sunstinger would trade friendly locomotive greetings and Abigail would catch up on the gossip and going ons from her fellow cars. Dinah would even catch up with her younger friends and a few locomotives would tease her to spill Sting’s secrets or for embarrassing dirt on him all in good fun.

 Few times they would come back and there would be no one here. It would be a peaceful evening with just those three. On one such occasion where Abigail was preparing food for an outdoor meal, Sunstinger and Dinah sat next to one another to watch the sunset. A summer wind just like this very night would brush between them.

 Sting gently placed an arm around her shoulders and pointed towards the setting sun. His dark orange nail scraping the darkened horizon as the red hot sun was absorbed into it. The diesel locomotive’s voice was clear as a bell still to this day, “Dinah, the world was made with wind in mind. We trains were made for speed in order to chase it.”

 Closing her eyes, Dinah felt the wind. She imagined trains beside her all racing for a blue horizon. Fuel pumping in their lines, wheels flying down the track. Her hands gripping tightly onto couplers of a train she trusted above all else.

 When she opens her eyes, she’s back in the present

 All blondes and dark brunettes and dazzling diamond smiles, the D-Class 53 were stainless steel with blue and white paints. Known for their warm customer care and knowledge on dietary needs. They were usually sold in pairs to railways and rarely built masculine. Most were efficient and quick to spot and fix mistakes and balance orders while others…

 “Hey!” Susan they lead waitress behind the bar glares at the balding old man, “Leave poor Dinah alone! She’s trying her best, smartass.”

 “Mm sowry…” Dinah sniffles and dribbles as the coffee pot she’s holding pours a waterfall into the angry customer’s porcelain mug. The medium roast was way past the comfortable lightness and now into black territory. Not to mention, creating a tremendous puddle on the bar’s surface.

 …others were like Dinah.

 You see, no one knew how Dinah had become Dinah. She was along the assembly line like all of her sisters and brothers and yet when she had woken up she had been the smallest and most emotional of the lot. ‘Little Di’ is what they would tease her until she would start throwing her fists with steam bursting from her ears.

 Dinah, on all accounts, was a perfectly working dining car. She was perhaps one of the best examples of her build. The only issue was that the wires or processing in her brain were crossed or perhaps too wound up. Or perhaps she had a stronger charge in her system. Or maybe it was that her circuits were too fast to zap the correct emotional response. Her poor mentor, Sweet Abigail the dining car of a generation before Dinah’s, had taken her to a larger repair shed to get a proper look at and the male technician had concluded her condition with two words:

 ‘Too emotional.’

 She mops up the mess with a rag and then the rest on the floor with the mop long after the disgruntled customer had left. Sighing, the dining car’s shoulders slump.

 “Oh, cheer up,” Susan collects plates and mugs left behind from other guests to be taken to the sink in the back. She balances all the dirty dishes in one hand with ease, “He’s never coming back. And if he does return, we’ll refuse service.”

 “Yeah…” Dinah still sniffles even if all the coffee she had spilled had been cleaned up. A dark thought drips out of her dry eyes that maybe she or her sensitive thoughts should just melt into a puddle so that too could be cleansed from the Earth.

 Roger, the human chef in the back, rings the bell, “Order up! Dinah- Hey! Don’t look so down. Need me to whip you up a side of fries?”

 “Ugh! Give her some yogurt for once,” Susan collects the plates of French toast for a booth near the southwest side of the restaurant.

 “I want fries…” Dinah packs away the mop towards an Employee’s Only area. “And a fried egg on top, please.”

 Roger, her savior, does just that. He even adds some pepper and hot sauce for her for flavoring. Who knew crying burns calories. At least her coworkers were nice and allowed her to eat her ‘lite snack’ on an early break before the owner was to arrive to collect the money from the drawers and make a stop at the bank.

 Enjoying her second breakfast as less and less customers arrived, Dinah looks up at one of the television sets resting on a shelf at the northmost wall. Its screen was tiny and connection to the powerlines faulty at times but it got the job done. Currently, it was set for one of the local races. Trains in their wheeled forms racing around a wide bend. Each partnerless and some taking swipes at their empty couplers to slow the competition down.

 Dinah rolls her eyes and finishes, feeling much better. She collects her dirty basket and used utensils before making it back behind the counter ready for duty once more. With her dirty dishes returned and hands washed, Dinah starts to brew a fresh batch of coffee.

 Like every other time the door opens and the bell above the frame announces the newcomer or leaving customer with a jingle, Dinah peaks over her shoulder to greet them with a, “Hi! Welcome to the Sunflower! We’ll be with you in a moment.”

 Some bulky man with his dark hair slicked back gives a half-hearted wave in greeting and takes a seat at one of the barstools, “Thanks, doll.”

 It’s only been about thirty minutes since her last emotional outburst but that nickname of ‘doll’ plants a tiny nick of annoyance into her. Deep breaths, Dinah. Just greet him, take his order, try not to explode.

 She keeps the mantra going through her head as she selects a menu and a pitcher of cold ice water to take to the customer. Dinah slides towards him, mimicking any fellow disguised train without their wheels, “Welcome, welcome! My name is Dinah and today I’ll be your server. Do you need a moment to look at the menu?”

 He barely casts Dinah a second look, gingerly taking the menu and giving it a glance, “Eh… Do you serve coffee all day?”

 Dinah was still all perfect smiles and practiced customer service. She hums, filling his glass full of water, “Of course. Breakfast and coffee are served all day. Our lunch and dinner menus are served from ten AM until midnight.”

 “I see…” His thick fingers pinch the bridge of his nose as his eyebrows crease, “Guess I’ll have a coffee. Just a side of milk with it.”

 “No sugar?”

 “Please.”

 She obliges, fetching her latest guest his desired coffee and pitcher of milk. Dinah makes sure to check up on other patrons in her section of the diner to give him time to look over the menu.

 As she is taking the early lunch order from another guest, the newcomer lifts his gaze from the menu and towards the tiny television set. His expression is unreadable behind his thick wireframe shades buts unmistakable how focused he is on the racing trains.

 The trains swerve around each other and continue to throw swipes but no progress is made within the race. It’s clearly a bore and the commentators throw disappointed jabs through the muffled speakers.

 Gritting his teeth, the newcomer clenches his fist, “They just let anyone race these days…”

 A fellow man sitting just a seat over on his left noses up at the television set and grunts in agreement, “Not even one punch or tricky maneuver. I’d rather watch a partnered race.”

 He’s given a glance and a nod, “You’d think all that hype over locomotive races an’ fighting would bring more of what was advertised.”

 “Darn straight,” the engineer in a trucker hat leans back to raise his voice at the server nearest the TV. “Ey! Susan! Know of any other races today?”

 “No need ta shout, Maurice,” Susan is indifferent as she pockets her notebook and pencil to surf through the local channels. She flips through them for about a minute before Maurice and the newcomer make pleased noises at spotting partnered trains zooming down a narrow track. Diesel locomotives with cars or freight attached to their couplers.

 The two and the rest of the customers who were interested are sated by the new race. This peace doesn’t last for long as the duo in the lead are pulled back five places. Maurice and the newcomer belt out noises of disbelief at the partner slipping on their own wheels and yanking their locomotive by their couplers via proxy. Even the commentators voice their displeasure via half-censored jabs through the speakers.

 “What in the world?!” Maurice has half a mind to spit on the floor (but last time he did he was barred from buying fresh slices of pie for a week).

 “Sabotage!” The newcomer growls as other customers boo.

 He shakes his head and decides to drown another growl by taking a long sip of coffee. Grumbling into his cup, he barely notices Dinah coming back around the bar to refill drinks.

 Maurice adjusts his trucker hat and finishes his stack of pancakes and eggs, “No one can get away with that kind of act on tha rails. Where is that damn ref.”

 “Wonderin’ that too,” setting his coffee down, the dark-haired stranger huffs.

 “Their partner’s wheels are too thin to be racing.”

 He slowly turns to Dinah as she fills up an engineer’s plastic cup of water, “Beg your pardon?”

 Dinah juts her chin up at the television set as she puts away the pitcher, “His partner is one of those new tiny cars that can go on and off the track. They might’ve been chosen since less size is more speed but their root form has two sets of thinner wheels. Not good for racin’.”

 His gaze rest on her for a moment longer before he turns back to the TV to observe. Sure enough, he spots the slim bi-modal railcar mover with their thin wheels having a hard time adjusting to the changing tracks. He smirks and gives a light chuckle, “Well… What do ya know…”

 Dinah rolls through some paper receipts, back turned to the guests, “He must’ve been pullin’ his partner along into first place until he tripped up.”

 Humming faintly, the newcomer turns back to his seat. He crosses his arms and rests onto the bar, “You into train races?”

 “I know a few things,” she wraps up her tasks and turns back to him, a wry smile ghosting its way across her face. “My mentor was a racer's partner, once upon a time.”

 “They win anything?”

 “A few races. Mostly in state. Got invited out to a few regionals.”

 “Seen any up close?”

 “Not really.”

 “What?” He’s genuinely surprised, both of his eyebrows lifting away from his shades, “Not even in the yard?”

 “It’s so big here that as soon as I here two trains squarin’ off that by the time I get there the race is over,” she gives him a faint chuckle.

 “What about the regionals happening this week, just a yard away? You gonna see that one?”

 “Pssh,” she dismisses him with a wave of her hand, looking to the side in case another customer or coworker was flagging her down. “I don’t think I’ll have time off to go see that.”

 This is where many men on the other side of the counter would give her a smirk and act charismatic before asking her out on a date. They would think this is their great hook, line, and sinker moment of bagging a girl to hang off their arm and show off. Dinah already had her excuse of work ready to use again.

 But this dark-haired man doesn’t do so. He shrugs his shoulders and looks down at the breakfast menu, “Darn shame. What do you recommend?”

 Dinah stares at him for a moment before that smile blooms into a real one, “We got some heavy platter dishes if yer real hungry, but you might wanna save room for pie.”

 “Pie for breakfast?”

 “Only here, sweetie.”

 So he does order a platter. He orders at least three platters of eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, grits, and waffles. All topped with maple syrup. Thank goodness there’s no one sitting next to him as he tucks in. Much of the other customers take their leave as the workday has begun. Dinah helps cleaning up tables, making fresh coffee, refilling mugs and glasses, and recording paper receipts in between serving guests.

 “So, you live nearby?” The newcomer asks halfway through his meal.

 “In the yard, yes,” Dinah takes some plates back to the employee’s only area to be dropped off at the dishwashing sink before returning. “Born and raised.”

 “Ah. Like it here?”

 “It’s cozy,” she gives a half-smile, leaning against the bar. “You visiting?”

 “Just passin’ through. Got a race to win.”

 This surprises her. Dinah slowly raises one eyebrow, tilting her head to the side in thought, “Train race?”

 “Wouldn’t be in any other,” he sets his fork down to lift his shades down a tad. His eyes are a beautiful set of canary yellow with darker brown nearest the irises. Two oily pools. A diesel train.

 Dinah grins, “Oh shucks, guess I thought wrong about you.”

 “Don’t worry about it,” he winks and puts his shades back up before tucking right back into his stack of sausages. “I’d prefer to go out on the town while I’m in the shed. Better here than stuck in the repair shed sleepin’ as they inspect me.”

 Ah, so he was projecting his human disguise while his true body was at the repair shed. Like Dinah, whose train car body was resting at a set of tracks nearby while she worked. “Inspection?”

 “Well ya can’t race if yer not in tip-top shape,” his gestures with his utensils.

 “Then I bet you’re in good hands with Dr. Yusef and Fiona. They’re the yard’s top repair technicians.”

 “Hm. How do you know ‘em?”

 “Well, the two treat me very well when I need ta visit or an inspection,” she checks the coffee and feels the guest’s eyes on her back. “I don’t really trust any other repair shed in tha world.”

 “Ah. Pardon me, didn’t know you were also a train.”

 “None taken,” Dinah turns around to give him another smile, although faint. “No one really notices when it comes to me.”

 “You have a lovely projection. I didn’t even notice.”

 “Thank you!” Flustered, Dinah tries to pretend to scan the other guests in case she is needed. Business has slowed to a crawl, and everyone seated was nursing their coffee or beverages. Damn why did all the late breakfast havers need to be quiet of all times? “I- Uh, I don’t like serving on wheels here so no one really notices.”

 “I bet the breakfast rush isn’t easier if you have to weave around hungry customers.”

 Dinah laughs, “Hah! Sometimes I wish I could come in as is and do a whole routine of servin’ everyone with speedy service. I’m no fool, though. One crash on wheels in here and it’s gonna be a whole mess.”

 The two share a laugh. Was it just Dinah or did the sun become brighter outside?

 “Where are my manners,” he sets down his silverware and shades, outstretching a hand. “The name’s Greaseball. United Pacific.”

 “Greaseball, eh?” Dinah leans in closer to him before taking his hand.

 “Manufactured with that name, eyup. Go ahead and get some laughs in while you can.”

 She shakes his hand instead, “Dinah. Dining car.”