#eeopen

‘After all, you might be talking to the only person on this train who’s still willing to hear you out.’

The doctor was dead now, and the truth of his words felt twice as heavy. This was not the outcome Fennec had wanted, and the sting of disappointment still lingered as passengers filed out of the lounge. There was no sorrow in Fennec’s heart for Sawbones or his family, or even his own loneliness—there was only bitter dissatisfaction, and the unmistakable sensation of standing on thin ice. The butler stood in the centre of his bedroom with a carving knife, sweeping it out of his pocket over and over again.

The disdain for his circumstances, the wish for a different result, the regret that he had not reached the answer sooner—by morning, those things were unnecessary. Like sand through his fingers, Fennec let them go. The sun had just barely begun to peak over the mountaintops by the time Fennec left his cabin with a smile that seemed part of the uniform. He tossed two caffeine pills into his mouth, smoothed his jacket and moved towards the lounge. 

When Fennec’s hand caught the wall and the ground swam beneath him, he thought the train must have lurched to a stop. The butler looked up and saw that the world had become hazy—he could hear the wheels rolling dutifully along the track, but it sounded somehow far away. With a forefinger and thumb, he rubbed at his eyes while the other hand moved to the knife in his blazer pocket. His heartbeat was rapid in his chest, his breath shallow.

“…”

Fennec knew then that he had reached his limit. He had gone too many nights without a restful sleep, and fatigue was finally taking its toll.

Not here.

Fennec pushed himself up and pulled open the door to the lounge—it was impossibly heavy. He hurried through to the next car, the kitchen, but he could not stop there. Fennec borrowed a dish towel from one of the drawers and carried on, wading through a thick fog of exhaustion until he reached the church. It was empty, quiet. An imposing cross loomed high at the end of the room, boasting of a higher power.

“. . . God,” he greeted dryly. “Are you up there?” Fennec’s voice echoed through the church, and then there was silence.

“No,” he said, splaying out his hands as he tipped his head back and stared up past the ceiling. “I already know. What’s up there is . . .”

A bout of self-awareness hit him then—he envisioned himself standing alone in the dark room, arms spread wide, finishing that sentence. Laughter erupted from his gut, and he wondered with some humour if he was already delirious. Stifling his outburst, Fennec knelt by one of the pews and folded his dishtowel four times over. With one last look at the door, he slipped under the pew and made a bed of the floor. It was hard and cold, but a small price to pay in order to survive. With the carving knife tucked beneath his makeshift pillow, Fennec let himself sleep.

Since the previous Macabre Theatre, many things had changed. Notably, the rules and since then, he had to do some thinking. His own punishment might not have been tricky for literally anyone else to accomplish, but for him, seemed like the end of the world. But there were ways around it, so he thought, and found himself in the library, book at his side as he sat at the desk, busying himself with the type-writer for the time being until he could concoct the proper solution for his predicament. 

However, he was not alone. 

Without so much as looking as a passenger strolled in, and all while fiddling with the keys and attempting to make them work, he spoke out to the stranger, in his usual, very overly theatrical voice.

“Heya! Looking for something?” He paused, biting his tongue as he was about to ask something else. “I’m getting used to Dot acting differently at this point, but the new rules were... a bit much, even for me. And I’d say I’m usually pretty adaptable!” A laugh, though a sad one. “How’re you holding up, if you don’t mind me asking? What about your-...”

He paused and held his hand over his mouth.

“Whoops. That was a question, my bad. This will take some getting used to, I think. But I’m trying to think of it positively, I guess. Even if the curiosity is killing me. Anyway, do you need to sit here? Am I s--” A pause. “Nope! Nonono, Neo, no doing that.” 

Fennec never lingered on failures. When Mrs. Volkov came to him with her satin gown and glimmering pearls and told him of his future—not as her son, but as her staff—he swallowed his resentment and pressed on. Somewhere in that towering paradise there was a broken, battered boy who needed his guidance if he wanted to become a perfect copy.  

After fifteen years, Jackal had discarded that perfection. He had chosen to self-destruct and let Fennec burn with him, and as the theatre-goers filed out of the lounge with their backs to the butler, those flames were still eating away.  Fennec had failed, and the path ahead had shifted at his feet. He saw this one with clarity, just as he had seen all the rest. There was more to be done.

“ . . .” The butler looked down at the contents of his desk drawer—jagged, broken bits of plate had been laid out by size, tucked away since the very first night when he had let that tray slip from his fingers. A missing knife would have been noticed—perhaps even searched for—but there was no longer a need for such secrecy.  When Fennec stepped into the casino with a tray of shrimp cocktail, the kitchen’s carving knife was just beneath its surface, secured by the flat of his palm. It took only a cursory glance of the room to realize that he was not alone, and gliding steps carried him towards his fellow passenger. At either side of him, slot machines whirred and pinged. He summoned his butler’s smile.

The notion of a grand ball was a heartening one—Fennec had attended so many parties in his lifetime that he should have felt at home stepping into the ballroom amidst all of the decorated passengers, but there was a certain strain about his smile, an uncertainty in his steps. From the moment he had discovered the parcel in his room, the laws of this world had been shattered; just as a cat never masqueraded as a dog, a butler never dressed up as a guest.

“…”

Fennec clasped his ungloved hands in front of him, only allowing himself to stand in the doorway for a moment before he retreated to the sidelines. As the guests mingled, Fennec stood, pin-straight, beside the refreshments table. Discreet but attentive—that was the way of the butler. The crisp white tuxedo he had been assigned to would not change him so easily. When he noticed one of the passengers approaching, the butler’s shoulders tensed; it was as if he was embarrassed to be seen. With a genial smile, he offered them a shallow bow. His voice was gentle—almost shy.

The ball was the last place Neo wanted to be, but given Dot seemed to mean business when she said she wanted everyone to attend, he didn’t have much of a choice. As such, he made his way when the announcement went live, but his clothing remained the same. He didn’t see need to change, and he didn’t feel altogether comfortable without his jacket- as of right now, it served as a means of protection in his mind, at least. 

Nevertheless, as he made him way inside, he smiled and waved to the crowd as he was so prone to doing. Everyone else, it seemed, looked way nicer, and he felt a pang of self-consciousness in his heart. Where was Sunny anyway? Though he hadn’t formally asked, they were inseparable these days, and he had assumed. Was that wrong to do? 

In any case, after making his short introduction with a simple gesture, he made his way over to the concessions where others had gathered. 

“Hey, nice seeing you,” he said as he grabbed the designated glass of alcohol that was lying on the table nearby. Despite his words, it really wasn’t all that nice to see anyone these days. Nevertheless, he took a sip- a long one- and decided at least he could pretend to have fun for the night. 

“Say, what’s with the party get-up anyway? I know Dot likes extravagant stuff, but it’s usually more along the lines of games. And usually there’s some incentive, I think. Uhm, anywhoo, how’re you holding up? I think everyone looks pretty nice, really. How about you? Thoughts, opinions? Ever been to something like this before? Actually, in all honesty I don’t know how to dance that well.”

He bit his lip. 

“Sorry, you don’t have to answer all that. It’s a force of habit. Like everyone says, so many questions at once don’t really get any answers- just annoyance from others.”

The only difference between this time after the theatre and the last was that Neo felt immensely tired. 

He was tired of waiting for someone to die, tired of expecting it to be him. Most importantly, he was tired of people dropping like flies with no information leading to who they were-... and that bothered him. He half-wondered if he’d end up a mystery, too, when he was to be offed, but at very least, he’d written down his name in his journal when it was to happen. But, if everyone else was left anonymous, then he didn’t understand why he would be any different.

Leaving the pessimistic thoughts behind, he figured he needed a new approach if he wanted to change anything. He’d been silent most of the theatre, reasonably so, and all that he felt like asking in regards to Theo was why. 

And he, more or less, got his answer... and he got a name, too.

Neo shook his head and sat in the ballroom at a table, head resting comfortably in the palm of his hand. He looked massively uninterested for once, and after attempting to clear his mind of the Macabre Theatre that burdened him, he focused on Dot.

Boy, was she different.

It seemed after every murder, she changed a bit more. Oh wait-... there he was thinking about murder again. This was his sad, sorry life now, and he shuffled a bit in his chair at the pictures of dead Pix and dead Chamomile plaguing his mind. 

Luckily, he heard someone enter the room. He waved them down, but didn’t stand up or greet them with his typical Neo enthusiasm, as usual. Instead, he called out for them, his voice low and raspy. He was feeling quite under the weather, and it showed. Damn hangovers after yet another night with Sunny. As it turned out, she was both the best and the worst coping mechanism. 

“Hey! Care to take a seat? I have some questions, but don’t worry. It won’t be like my usual ones.”

Cue a sigh as he readjusted his notebook in front of him. Too many of the pages had already been filled out, and the one that currently lay before him had a fairly bad scribble of Harley, alongside the boy’s real name, and some very vague information gathered from earlier. Perhaps, he thought, if he did make it out, a quick google search would merit some answers. But that was wishful thinking at best.

Macabre Theatre left much to think about, but little to be said—perhaps that was why the following morning seemed quieter than usual. A spotlight had been turned on Fennec, and its heat was tangible as he professed his innocence to an audience that would not believe him. Was there something he could have said to quell their suspicion? Surely the right combination of words existed. The butler had failed to find those perfect words, and that sense of failure left a bitter taste in his mouth.

In the end, his own face looked back at him from the slot machine, a gaudy announcement of the room’s distrust. Chamomile’s murderer had escaped notice, and dozens of questions were left unanswered, but one thing had been made certain—Fennec was not the culprit. By the end of the night, the butler had gained something precious; affirmation of his innocence. The same could not be said for most of the other passengers. Slowly, the bitter taste in Fennec’s mouth dissolved to nothing.

In Dot’s absence, Fennec had doubled his service; he poured drinks, opened doors, and served hors d’oeuvres in the lounge when Jackal had no need of him. When Dot returned—or was this a new arrival?—she brought with her access to three new rooms.

At Jackal’s behest, Fennec joined his master in the hot springs. On the bridge beside them Fennec had laid out pairs of folded robes and towels, and next to those were cards fanned out in sets of four. Though Jackal had chosen the game—Go Fish—he was losing, as evidenced by Fennec’s considerably more crowded pile.

A butler was a creature of routine. Much like the train did not deviate from its tracks, Fennec followed a precise schedule—at night, he ironed and folded Jackal’s clothes for the following day. In the morning, he woke early to prepare Jackal’s breakfast—sausage and waffles with berries—and once his master had left the cabin, Fennec made his bed. 

Less than forty-eight hours had passed since Macabre Theatre. Not long ago, Pix had been dining at Neptune’s Grotto, and Mattheo Lovett had not been a murderer. Such little time had passed since Harley dropped into the fire that some might still expect to see him mingling in the lobby, but the truth was cruel; Harley and Pix were gone, and they had left twelve passengers behind. The way Fennec glided through the train with an easy smile, it was as if he had forgotten.  On the way to the newly opened car, the butler had happened upon other passengers, but he did not greet them—to impose upon the silence would be impertinent for someone of his stature, and so he offered them a humble nod as he passed by. Only after ensuring no one had need of him did Fennec retire to the quiet of the library. 

The mood of the room struck him the moment he shut the door—it was no smaller than the other cars, but there was a certain cozy air of privacy that must have been inherent to places surrounded by books. He checked his pocket watch—two hours until Jackal would be needing his lunch. Fennec spent half of that time combing the bookshelves. He had even alphabetized a small section as if by reflex. To his surprise, his exploration of the library had gone uninterrupted, but he knew it would not stay that way for long. Fennec took a seat at the desk and poised his fingers over the typewriter. His eyes hardened. He had not forgotten a thing. With a glance towards the door, Fennec began to put words onto the page. 

‘S.O.S I am one of fifteen passengers to have boarded the Echo Express. We have been trapped here for several days and made to play a dangerous game by our host, who summoned us to this train with invitations that boasted a first-class party. Three of us have died, and I fear that more may follow. If this message finds someone, pl’ The butler stood when he heard the door open. With a tall bookshelf between them, he could not see who had entered—he imagined the the passenger was similarly unaware of him.