“Goodddd, morning!”

Cynida knows one thing about getting people’s attention in the bright morning on the Forestar Express: the gesture of greeting. The courtesy of service and most importantly: Always give them what they paid for. Unfortunately, today’s a tough crowd. Tired folks, left to right, up the aisle and down the hallway as they scurry along into their designated suites. Cynida’s thoughts aligned, righteously, with this mental sentiment, as she already sees the troubles to come for her sooner or later. Messy baggage courtesy of self-aware lacking folks, or maybe the inconsiderate couple and their mindlessly chaotic younglings scurrying around the cabin halls, fully unaware of the trip hazards coming in their way of probable demise of cries and pain soon. Great.

This is going to be a long two weeks…

The minocyclis sighs heavily from the soul, wincing at the sightful chaos she has to endure for this train ride onwards. Two weeks. That’s all, it just is. The mild cool of the air conditioning in the train cabin breezes, blowing on her golden work cape as she threads her path through the flock of huddling folks, ever so cheery-like as she briefs each of them into their allocated spaces. The stubborn, the ignorant, the disorganised, the airhead. All steadily in a slow ticking pace, eventually cleared out from the aid provided by the now mentally drained lady in red. And it’s barely close to lunch break.

When is lunch time?

But at least, the space is cleared out for staff to be able to finally move out for their services. After all, they weren’t hired for the roles of being statured and posing. Scrambling along pass the red-dressed Cynida came along similarly attired staff in range and unison, appropriately coloured and coded. Marching forward in synchronised motions, staff start to disperse into pairings as they approach each suite door front with rhythmic knocks, smiley-pitched tones and energy that plumps this radiance that one just couldn’t put their fingers around. But whose to put that into judgment? Any positive reinforced attitude can spin worlds’ muteness out and around, and away.

Are we ready yet?

The cycloptic lady blinks her singular eyeball ever so slowly as the staff, as fast as they could feasibly do with the type of folks they are handling, try to hurdle and bring the passengers out of their suites for the mandatory briefing. But like the baggage situation, these fuckers can’t move for jackshit even if there was urgency to evacuate from some hijacking. And these are not all mindless cluelessness; most are just too privileged and sheltered from safety and service. Cynida’s head tilts with her eyeball narrowing by the lids ever so painfully from the chaotic sight, before slowly glancing to the side, where a few hovering blobs would be looking at her with a lightly but equally disapproving look to each other.

“You seeing this shit?”

“Coo.”

“Yep, glad I am not being unreasonably grumpy this morning. I’ll give it 10 minutes. I need another coffee for this pit hell. Come, I’ll give you some toffees.”

“Coo!”

If impatience is painted from word of mouth, any visual picture would have the same message, regardless of the visualisation differences, one of them would be a scene of urgent foot tapping echoing across the room, with long waits of coffee that tortuously pours slowly from the liquid dispensing machine. It drips its energy boosting fluids, its content being soaked through the ground coffee beans and seeped in hot, boiling water that whistles furiously in a fury’ works. And yet, unbeknownst to Cyndia herself, she was already out-filling her own mug of coffee as it leaked and in her own unconscious morning state? It made the hot liquid spill over her somewhat burnt skin as she stood there, with the scalding contents coming splashing down to the train carpet flooring, staining the dark red with its brown hues and shifting it into a dirty murk of ashy filth reds.

Maybe this dipsomaniac of a one-eyed freak doesn’t realise the horrific outlook it’s appearing as, but with a reddened, swollen gripping palm holding down a feverish hot mug of overspilled coffee and standing like a literal stoned statue? Yeah, that’s called for some darn concern right about now for the blobs as they are already long gone out and floating back into the room with a more verbal speaking person to help assist this dire situation.

And amongst all organic folks, they knew they had to bring someone of unconventional reliance.

Grease, vial, gold.

Clink.

Blue, cracks, burn.

FOOSH.

Porcelain, glass, heart… *Remember…?-

SCRIT’H!*

Lyrical howls of music scratch out from the hollowed vinyl record’s grooves, the burning stench of heavy oily smog mixed into the huge, enclosed engine room. Gold glistens from the individual joints’ region, helping to bend the humanish appendicular digits to grip as they tighten around the metal rod holding onto a lumpy bead of molten glass. Glossily close to dripping its pivoting gravity point, the body of the lady turns with ease and calm as she pulls it out from one of the many huge engines’ furnaces, bring the heavy mass to fall gracefully onto a lifted pedestal before grabbing the lingering hot remnants that clung onto the rod’s end and push it out onto the spinning plate without a nerve struck from the amber hot temperature.

The perks of being a construct.

The porcelain woman hums in her subconscious state of mind as she steps on the pedal connected to the pedestal’s plate, letting the molten glass naturally cool down from the heightened speed of the spinning down from its hot amber orange to a much neutralised red as her fingers start to press down against the surface in shaping the smooth surface as if it was just warm wet clay. Glass pottery as one staff laments once to others as they stumble upon the very intimate sight of the doll’s usual well-preserved privacy.

“Smokey?”

The deep tonal husk of hers, uncannily organic-like, that could almost be considered human, vibrates out as she calls for her familiar. Following with a responding feline chirp as its smokey misty paws come skittering down from the ceiling, tall parts of the engine pipes. The elementally living cat tilts its head with attention as the eyes of the woman dart ever so nonchalantly with her silent motions of smooth elegance, and almost in an instant’s clockwork, a gushing shot of strong fire blows directly onto the spun, hardening glass back to a decent molten fluid state. Before she could raise her hand to motion, the cat purrs a stop as it returns from flames back to its passive smoke-built body.

“Good kitty.”

Spoken too soon. Before she could reach her hand out to the feline to pat out her praises, within the blink of an eye, it was now eating the other unfinished half-bitten sandwich. Mouth drips in food grease and bits of crumb-covered meat, it just swallows without a care, not a sight of slight nervousness or anxious-ridden change in its body language. He, Smokey, was just relaxed as ever.

“Mreow.”

“You… are the worst.” The construct insults aloud for the feline to hear, but her almost pitchy voice makes it sound as if it was more mockingly than actual frustration. Come to think of it, even if he was made out of his mana-driven elemental magic, Smokey still is no different than any other creature, or cat, as a matter of fact. It’s just more of an annoyance that he has to steal from her plate than eat from his own bowl. Whether from experience or adaptation, her unpredicted emotional reactions, her body slouches as opposed to a stiff, upright perfection. It definitely goes against her physical appeal and the usual expected order.

Suddenly, a mint-ish blue blob pops right through the door’s keyhole, struggling a little due to its plump, shapeless nature, before eventually getting free from the tight restraints and floating its way through the air towards the sat porcelain, and now inquisitive, doll.

“… Charity? What are you waltzing in here so urgent about?”

“Wa!”

Urgency.

The remedic blob, usually caring and joyously content with just floating and spinning in space, using more verbal-like mannerisms far from its regular cooing speech…

“… Her?”

This perks the lady into an immediate stance as she carefully, but quickly, gets up, her golden heels clicking behind her as she turns the knob outwards to leave the now almost-empty train engine room. While still carrying heavy purpose in its steam-mana potential, running machinery and noise, it was void of the crucial component that breathes something close to organic life.