Darkness was all there was at first. Then a spotlight on the killer, Ms. Fenna Van Daalen. She stared straight ahead into the shadows, where the barest edge of light caught something or someone standing there--
"Mother?"
For a split second, Fenna believed it. That distant silhouette with its curly hair and limber frame, and that voice... But it couldn't be, right? She'd f-cked it all up. She'd killed a woman. The train was just mocking her now. And yet...
In the distance, framed by the entryway, was a solid black cardboard cutout. A crude facsimile of her son, for whom she'd done the unthinkable, just to see him one more time. How did they know his voice? She laughed, but her own voice rasped with pain.
"I shoulda f-ckin' guessed, huh?"
She turned away and found herself at the bar, bottles and glasses strewn about after a long night's work for other people's play. The motion was automatic-- a relatively clean glass appeared in her hand, a bottle of wine in the other, and she poured. She watched silently as the dark liquid swirled and the earthy aroma filled the air. As good a last supper as any.
There was a spark, then a flicker, then a blaze. The shadow of her son lit up like a torch, and became the tinder that would soon engulf the room in flame.
She had regretted everything, of course, from the moment she'd pulled the trigger. Even without realizing that escape would bring punishment upon everyone else, well, it was still murder. Atsuko was a person like the rest of them, and Fenna had no right to decide her fate. The only winning move was not to play... and that wasn't much of a victory if she could never leave, when her son was in danger. Not that it mattered now.
The fire was raging now-- it had spread so quickly that the fire extinguisher behind the bar wouldn't have made a dent. Fenna would die, and the killing game would continue. All for naught in the end, like so many things in her life.
One last act of defiance remained to her.
Sweat dripping down her face, she raised her glass to the survivors. A toast to the living, with all their myriad problems and budding friendships-- may they get over their bullsh-t, end this terrible killing game, and escape the Infinity Train. She downed the beverage in record time and poured another. A toast to the dead, to a little match girl and a smiley-faced loner... and a washed-up bartender that would soon join them.
The flames drew closer all the while, disintegrating the sunflower carpet, feasting on turn-of-the-century wood and alcohol. Fenna Van Daalen raised her glass one last time, facing death with a smile...
All of her bravado evaporated in a second as she truly caught on fire. She burned like her victim, and her home burned with her, leaving nothing but a scorched husk of a building and the echoes of her screams.
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The door opened again to a view of the wasteland, and you weren't so keen to stick around this time. Especially not with someone actually guiding you on ahead. Though Neko-Neko still couldn't open the next door themselves... They still proudly led you inside once you turned the handle, though.
While this newest world wasn't so cold temperature-wise as the last, it still felt cold in its own way. The inside of a bright big top mixed with bleached-out greys, off-kilter arcade games with no one to play them. Empty posters plastering the walls stirred in a draft carrying the faintest smell of grease.
Neko-Neko didn't seem to mind the odd air of the place, though. They strutted proudly before pouncing onto an air hockey table, where you could all more easily see them.
"Attentionnnn, Passengers!"
"Welcome aboard my train! It may look a little small at the moment, but there's nothing but adventure ahead! As promised, we'll happily cough up the details for you now."
They nodded to themselves.
"First, I should probably explain what a few of you have already noticed: your numbers."
"We're not in charge of those, unfortunately. They're just between you and the Infinity Train itself."
"All of the numbers on your palms are a little different. Think of 'em as a sorta, what, level indicator? We don't play video games, don't ask us. They'll change as you change, all along your grand trip here!"
"The bad news is, they can also go down. And if your number hits zero? You're finished. Game over."
"But, but!! The Train getting to decide when you're no longer worthy of living here seems awfully mean to me, so I've put together something better for you all! I can find a way home for each of you."
"All you need to do is play a little game."
Something... felt wrong, but you weren't sure what. Maybe it was just the way the decorations twisted in the air just then. Maybe it wasn't.
"Let's cut straight to the chase now!"
"It's a killing game. If you wanna see home again, you're gonna have to kill another of the Passengers right here to do it."
"I-I wish there was an easier way to get you home, but it's hard to go against the Train, nya..."
"So we're putting the dirty work on your shoulders, since it is your problem—sorry not sorry!"
"But just... um... Killing each other. Right, just that wouldn't be any good as a game, right? So I'm at least adding a few extra rules! I wouldn't just want some kind of terrible slaughter..."
"Yeah, we'd hate for it to be over so soon! Nyaha! So, long story short, you'll need to kill another Passenger in the game—And you're all in the game! I wouldn't leave anyone out!—and get away with it. If the surviving Passengers figure out it was you, then it's game over. You're dead. Way more exciting, right?"
"Some other Denizens will help me out with that part, but...! As your stationmaster, I'll ensure you all make it home!"
"In a box, possibly. But if you do get away with murder, we'll be able to send you back where you wanna be, no problem. Aren't we just the nicest?"
"In fact!"
They pushed open an arcade cabinet door with some difficulty and gestured to the small area inside. Fourteen notepads, it looked like, and presumably the same number of right-handed long gloves.
"I've prepared a special notepad for each of you to use! By 'special,' we mean... absolutely nothing, honestly. Your names aren't even on them."
"But they do have a little guide on the inside cover! And you'll probably want a way to keep track of things, right?"
"Especially when we get to the murder investigation! Or just the murder, if you're that bad at planning in your own head."
"So please, take a notepad and pencil, and a glove if you don’t wanna declare your number to the world, and then you can enjoy your time in this car!"
