Orvendral is often a central harbour for many coming and going. To most, it settles the seeking of opportunities, the growth of assertive traits and careers, and routes crafted to pave the way for newer generations while offering comfort to seasoned folk. Everyone plays a part needed to keep not just the ecosystem of modern life going, but also to retain humanity in the ever-blossoming tree of bustling society.

Passing by the smaller towns of Verondal, the twins embark on their routine journey, seeking shortcuts threading across gravel-cemented brick pavements to smooth along concrete walling, squeezing through the overcrowded press of packed working-class folk much like themselves, just to reach the stairway leading up to their transportation company’s local public locomotive railway.

As the two sturdy briefcases drop on both ends of the older sibling, the peering eye of the younger one approaches the nearby steel post board. The bold, retro fonts of the worn, jagged poster on the bulletin board scream silent attention. The pair’s eyes widen at seeing a very familiar figure printed: Illusia. Their older cousin, legal guardian, and their only close related family left, is to be hosting a grand annual show event the second hour Cynida gets right back home.

“Crude my red, ain’t that a kicking coincidence.”

“Should probably consider stopping by when we can, don’t you agree?”

“We may consider if the timing fits right, AND if it doesn’t clash with our ladies’ weekend plans. We still promised each other that monthly sister night out,” Cynida laments. Maybe she is genuinely hellbent on having this evening with her sibling in rare company, or perhaps a faint nodding feeling hints at the absence of seeking closeness. With a simple shrug, she pulls herself and Celina along to the waiting platform area, bounded by tall, barricaded walls for the safety of many fools. One of them could even be easy to point at.

DING, DONG.

“Arrival of FSE: Rapid Loco-mode to rail. Please mind the platform gap and allow passengers to step out of the cabin door before boarding.”

As the speeding steam-railed train slowly halts in a screeching metallic pause, a sprinkler of sparks flashes briefly against the marvellous mass of the cabin just inches away from the secured safety gates. The smooth shine of the train door panels glides apart, almost in reflective sync with the twins, each set sliding swiftly to the side to allow the sea of diversity to pour itself out. Regardless of age, background, or type, there is never a shortage of wonders in the frequent appearance of interesting folk wandering out in departure or boarding upon arrival.

The twins split from each other’s sides. One begins making clear steps toward the arriving locomotive gates. Right above the glowing neon announcement screen, the designated stop reads: Aelstria.

In her palms, sweat gathers as coldness fills Celina with overstimulation. Her senses heighten, veins run chill, and her skin erupts with sudden tingles of unmistakable signs. Anxiety clings to her back like a parasite to its host, organic and insistent, feeding along the spine until her body threatens to collapse into paralysis.

For a brief moment, the upper curve of her left shoulder blade opens beneath a secretly well-sewn, hidden slit of overlapped flaps, immediately visible from afar, unveiling a few pitch-black, vine-like tentacular forms. They loom exposed and bare under emotional pressure, steeped in indescribable vulnerability. All she desires in that moment is to scream. To let the fear-ridden guilt consume her, to break down and shame herself if only it would make the sensation stop.

But Celina stands. Still. Somehow, she controls it, though the gloomy looms grip her as the tentacular limbs curl inward, clinging to her own arm for support. They stiffen, pulled taut against their anchor point, yet that anchor keeps Celina grounded against paranoia and the dread of another overwhelming work week beginning.

As the ticket puncher gestures permission for the neatly lined passengers to board, a hug is suddenly given, tight and grounding, by Cynida. Celina exhales into the still exasperating silence of footsteps and self-indulgent murmurs. Cynida has seen it. A single tangible limb slips free between the flaps of her hidden dress slit at the vague middle of her torso to hold, to pull her younger sibling close, to reassure.

“You are alright, Celina. Easy now.”

Siblings come in many variants. Some cling close like superglue by choice; others are bound apart by trauma, separation, or an inability to grasp understanding. But for the twins, it is a whole cup of infused brew, and whether steeped too long or poured seconds short, it remains a confused cacophony of aches, feels, and tragedies blended into a singular, overpowering flavour.

Something between them feels heavy with naked uncertainty. Quiet, lingering. Even within a simple hug. In the midst of spiralling burdens, one may choose solitude, while the other drags the weight along by force. Yet even that processed irk fades like inky blood in water, vaporising into mist before cooling into something solid again someday.

For now, all that matters is concealment. Tuck the sensorial limbs back beneath the fabric. Rationalise. Feel your weight. Align. A low hum of buzzing peace settles despite the crowd’s refusal to thin. Even with bright lamps and the chortle of steam-enginery hissing, all is, and will be, calm.

“Don’t earn yourself another felony, Cynida.”

“You know I’ll do it all over again in a blink for my family.”

“Of course you'd fucking do that, sis. No doubts.”

Small fits of uncontainable snickers muffle their teasing bickering as they pull apart, foreheads touching as they once did as children. It isn’t the overwork or the piled assignments. It is the silent, unspoken reassurance that, despite all, they still have each other. Better to cherish this grey normalcy than regret it during some future, colourful mayhem.

“Again, you know I care about you, sis. I implore you, do not suffer in silence, yeah? Always know I’m a ring away on the telecoms.”

“You always say that. Don’t forget yourself, likewise.”

A marginal deferral, a subtle sigh, and Cynida brushes the fleeting uncertainty away with an encouraging nod. Her eye darts with undue rapidity, betraying visible apprehension, but she refuses to let the circumambient light catch her wavering frailty.

“No doubts.”

The whistle of the steam locomotive howls. Above its hissing pitch, the sound climbs iron girders to strike the high vaulted ceilings, a piercing cry that shatters the murmurs of the crowd.

“Hurry on, sis. Don’t lose a heel chasing your seat to hell.”

Even at departure, Cynida cannot help herself. One last punchy joke. Perhaps reassurance disguised as humour. Either way, worth it.

Great plumes of white-grey vapour belch from the undercarriage, fogging against concrete as if the train itself is impatient to devour the miles ahead. The air thickens with hot metal and ozone, cloaking the sisters’ separation in a brief, protected disconnection. Within the mist, the safety gates begin their rhythmic mechanical chime. Celina offers one last wave from inside.

Then the entry seals fit tight. Red taillights bleed into the distance. Cynida stands within a stolen pocket of time as the connection severs, leaving only mist and a widening gap. Not forever, but enough to leave a toll of quiet moroseness.

She lingers in the ghost of the hug, the warmth of her sister’s forehead still tingling faintly against her own. For these minutes, she breathes the mist. Her shoulders sit heavily. Her breath turns shallow, rising from her abdomen in a foggy exhale. In her eye rests the fragile weight of silent sacrifice. It is the only vacation she allows herself. A few seconds of being just a sister.

But the grand station clock does not stop for melancholy.

A dramatic growl of steamy hydraulics announces the arrival of the next beast, the real deal that counters the sister Loco-mode system.

The Forestar Express.

As the previous conductor steps onto the platform to swap shifts, Cynida begins her mental ritual of the Front.

Her shoulders roll back, locking with industrial precision. Apprehension buries itself beneath professional flint, polished and practised to perfection. Adjusting her lapels, she smooths away the creases where Celina had held her, erasing evidence of humanity for the sake of picture-posh service, luxurious and precise.

She strolls past the greeting staff as a bob of blobs trails behind, easing weight as her placed luggage rolls along the mini on-board concierge trolley. The tiny jellyfish-like feys float through the high-ceilinged main cabin cars, bodies emitting a subtle glow of mana, the essence required to power the intergalactic Forestar locomotive. That, Cynida is stepping on that very thing, the insides of it.

Good. They’re in a good emotional state. We’re off to a good start.

By the time she reaches the cabin door to greet boarding passengers, the mask seals tight. Doubts flicker and tuck beneath her golden cape hems, replaced by the rhythmic, muscle-memorised script of a host. And with a deep breath, she exhales,

“Welcome aboard the Forestar Express,” she says, voice chiming with natural professionalism and artificial grace. “Please, mind the gap!”