Let’s Not [Obliterate]

The “little rabbit” was trapped.

Montaparte had heard that denomination plenty of times by now. Little rabbit, bunny, Bun Bun. Now, she finally met the critter, being lovey-dovey with the demoness inside the Lavish. Montaparte decided to give them time. She wouldn’t butt in, wouldn’t interrupt. She needed the Sun to be relaxed, to not become suspicious. 

Over the past two days, Montaparte had come to realise that Dema was either an expert masquerader and conspirer, or had nothing to do with the murder. But, in Montaparte’s experience, expert masqueraders were usually in the business of profit, and this crime seemed to be one of passion; there was nothing Dema appeared to gain from the current state of affairs.

Be that as it may, figuring out the psychology of a woman merely adjacent to the murder would barely help advance the case.

Montaparte wanted the Sun. 

And so, when they had finished their business and Dema came out to rejoin her and move on, Montaparte stood firm. Dema tilted her head and scratched it, then began humming a song, all the while Theora was sitting there watching the tree girl sew clothing. When she believed to have found a good time, Montaparte raised her voice. “Theora the Sun?”

The woman in question turned her head and looked down. “Yes?”

“You and I. We need to talk. Do you have a moment?”

Montaparte braced herself. She had, of course, given up the idea that the Sun would actually be willing to talk by now, the evasions had been too well-planned, too carefully executed. But the way in which she would reject the request would potentially reveal information.

Theora turned her head toward the dryad, and they spoke in low voices for a moment. The dryad shrugged. Then Theora turned back around. “Sure,” she said. “Here?”

Ah. She agreed? Curious. But Montaparte needed her in a more confined space. “The lounge.”

Theora nodded. “We’ll pack up.”

With a dizzying blast of a spell, the dryad changed the proportions of the objects in the world. A limestone pillar grew to the size of a tree while grass stalks and dry leaves that were towering above their heads shrank all the way back down to form the ground. The dryad herself was the only person affected by the spell and shrank down to fit inside the palm of a hand. The Sun picked up the pot and hopped down the huge limestone pillar, and left the Lavish as Montaparte made way for them to pass through. 

A piano stood at the end of the lounge, with a little table surrounded by couches right next to it. Montaparte had conducted quite a few interviews here — she did not care too much about being overheard, cared more about making the interviewee feel reassured and secure. This time, it went both ways. Montaparte could defend herself, of course, but mayhaps not against a beacon quite so bright.

They made themselves comfortable, with Dema spreading across almost the entire length of the couch on the wall, while Theora sat at the very edge of it to serve her lap as a cushion. They had planted Treeka on the couch too, with Dema holding her pot in her arms. Montaparte herself was seated on a large chair furthest away from the Sun. She was holding her umbrella gently in her hands in hopes of not tipping her own nerves. She realised too late that it made her posture stilted.

Montaparte cleared her throat. “As you are aware, I am currently investigating the death of Fentanyle of Thalassia with the suspicion of foul play. I need to get everyone’s accounts from that day to make sure everything lines up. Would you be alright with sharing your perspective with me?”

Theora gave a nod. She was absent-mindedly stroking Dema’s hair, apparently without even noticing.

Montaparte tried not to arch her eyebrow. This was curious — initially, she’d considered the possibility that Theora might be suffering from some form of anxiety, considering how little time she spent among groups, but she seemed to feel fully at ease here, despite staffers and passengers filling the rest of the carriage. 

“I was asleep until Bell woke up,” Theora responded. “I don’t know the exact time, but Dema had already left. Bell and I talked for an hour or two, and then we returned to bed.”

“I received that account from Belliandra as well. According to her, you met up a few hours before the murder. So, you are saying that afterwards, you slept through the entire night?”

Theora nodded, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. “I find that difficult to believe as well.”

“Oh?” This time, Montaparte did arch an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

“Well, because a murder happened.”

“You are saying that you shouldn’t have slept through the night on account of a murder happening? Could you help me connect the dots? I’m not sure I follow.”

Theora’s grey eyes found Montaparte’s. Theora hesitated — did she slip? Her hand even stopped caressing Dema’s cheek for a moment. But then Dema let out a dissatisfied grumble, and Theora continued. Without any other movement, she said, “It’s impolite. I shouldn’t have slept through it. I should have helped.”

Montaparte found these answers progressively vexing. Something wasn’t working out here, was it? “Are you saying you knew that a murder would happen?”

That question got quite the reaction. The usually calm and serene face contorted into the slightest frown. Like Theora had just heard something unspeakable. She said: “If I had known, I would hardly have slept.”

“Em!” Dema let out, giggling. “You’re gonna make her pouty.” She turned to look up at Theora and added, “Don’t mind her, Bun Bun, she just thinks in weird ways sometimes. You gotta be patient with her.”

Montaparte decided to pivot. “What was your relationship to Fentanyle?”

“I wanted to spar with her.”

“That’s it?”

“I had only seen her once before. In the dining carriage. She was arguing with Log. The next time I saw her was in the Lavish, but of course, that was only her body.”

“‘Only her body,’” Montaparte repeated in a low voice. “You made insinuations like that before… would you mind sharing with me your perspective of how Fentanyle died?”

Theora looked a little conflicted. She squeezed her eyes, wagging her head from side to side ever so slightly. “Well, I’m still investigating the issue together with Bell, but my thoughts are that reality split apart, and we are currently occupying one where it looks like Fentanyle was murdered.”

“Wha!” Dema shot up from Theora’s lap, staring at her wide-eyed. “Really?!”

“Ah, yes. Forgot to mention that to you… or rather, we didn’t have the time.”

“Oh yeah,” Dema answered and snapped her fingers. “Reminds me there’s also something I gotta tell ya — I gave Rita—”

“Excuse me,” Montaparte chimed in, “just one moment, you can proceed with your conversation soon. But I have to make sure I understand that correctly. Theora the Sun, it is your testimony that Fentanyle of Thalassia is still alive?”

Theora opened her mouth to respond, but hesitated. She scratched her head again, then shrugged. “I’m not sure if she’s still alive… rather, I find it unlikely that she would have died. Ah, that reminds me. Was there anything else you wanted us to talk about? There is something I have to ask the staff before I forget.”

Montaparte was forced to pause. A tremendous headache was forming in her frontal lobe.

Her brain couldn’t provide her with any more questions to ask, so she reluctantly made a gesture to allow Theora to leave. At the same time, she let go of her umbrella, and sank deep into the chair, closing her eyes.

Theora’s testimony was painting a view. A view into the mind of a person who couldn’t possibly be correct, and was therefore either lying in pursuit of a deception, or had their head far up in the clouds. 

Montaparte listened to the sounds of Theora leaving and of Dema shuffling about on the couch, coming closer.

“Got any clues?” her raspy voice resounded. “Wanna brainstorm?”

A divide was forming between Dema and Montaparte. This was not something to be freely discussed between the two. But Montaparte could not let that slip. She would need to perform, would need to act. “She’s exonerated herself and you,” Montaparte lied. “It makes sense. I admit I had my suspicions of her before — that’s why I requested this conversation.”

“Wait, really? But she has an alibi?”

“Being asleep is not an alibi.”

“But she had no motive…”

“The truth is — most passengers, in one way or another, have benefitted from the train ride being delayed. Few of these serve as actual motives — you, for example, wanted the train ride to last longer to get to know more people. Poxie, Log and Omi wanted to spend more time together before they’ll have to separate again. Rita benefits from being on the train because it prolongs her life.”

“But she’s in a coma!”

“Yes, but her entourage is not,” Montaparte said curtly. “Belliandra, as per her testimony, is trying to learn a new Skill and feels her best chance to do so is during this journey. Qyy is on this train to find all locations the Lavish will give her, as she is looking for a long-lost place. Plink and Ulber… Well, I’m not sure what’s going on between them exactly, but every passenger is affected by one simple truth: their ticket only brings them to a certain stop. Once it is reached, they have to leave. But few of them actually want to.”

Montaparte sighed. This was probably good enough a distraction to throw Dema off the scent, even though most of the information was completely unrelated to their actual conversation. But the demoness was scatterbrained enough for something like this to work. 

“Oh, really?” Dema asked and hummed. “I mean I guess you’re right, I would love to stay here longer and all just ’cause I wanna get to know everyone better. But! Bun Bun and I need to get off soon because, like, we wanna get to the next Fragment of Time! I mean nothing really stops her from just obliterating the fabric of reality to get to another one, assuming this train is a different world, but oh! Yeah she wasn’t gonna use that Skill again, was she… Did we remember to bring the SCISSoRs?”

Dema’s ramble, of which Montaparte had now heard several, deteriorated into something impossible to follow very quickly. When Montaparte was confident enough that it had nothing to do with anything of substance, she spaced out to sort her thoughts properly.

Perhaps Theora was actually telling the truth. Perhaps she really was merely on a butterfly chase, ignoring the evidence they’d produced of this world being real. There was still one last storage compartment left unsearched — Dema and Montaparte had spent the last few days combing through the ones in carriages one through four. 

In addition, they’d searched all luggage and found no magical devices powerful enough to help in the endeavour of killing a Pillar of Reality, nor had they found the means to conceal one. Dema, with her abilities to sense faint presences, would have noticed magical devices like that, even on this train, magically polluted as it was due to its own sheer power. 

Now, there was a chance Dema wasn’t reliable, but Montaparte had the suspicion that if that was the case, Dema would have begun to show cracks by now. Little mistakes, even just inaccuracies.

Montaparte had searched through the sheets on her own again, hours spent, had even received a secret page — Poxie Paloxie, the lifesize puppet, had a fault she didn’t want anyone else to know about, so she had submitted the sheet with elevated security. Raquina had only shared that page after both Montaparte having promised secrecy, and Poxie Paloxie having given consent.

But even that secret page turned into a dead-end. The fault — Poxie Paloxie herself called it a curse — consisted of a weakened spot on her body in the fabric of her being, its location not known to even herself. If touched on that very spot, she would unmake. She knew some areas on her body which were safe, from having survived being touched there before. Tragic but simple, irrelevant to the case.

Perhaps, instead of trying to figure out Theora who was likely yet another dead-end, Montaparte had to focus on the storage compartments instead. If there was an answer to the mystery on the train that did not involve the Sun, it would have to be there. The thought relaxed Montaparte ever so slightly. For behind the alternative lay a terrifying thought—

If Theora had done the deed, how would Montaparte even proceed? What could be done? If her ability sheet was to be believed, Theora was a terrible power beyond comprehension. She wasn’t almighty; she could apparently [Obliterate] at a distance, but it would have left residue unlike the one found on Fentanyle’s body.

No, the prospect of Theora being involved was bone-shaking, a horror. Montaparte was slowly collecting her wits, ready to move on, to drag Dema into the next storage compartment and finally solve this mystery. That is, until Theora’s voice cut deep into her consciousness from over at the bar.

“What happens if someone doesn’t declare their full abilities on their sheet?”

Her tone was curious and innocent. Montaparte’s blood ran cold. She opened her eyes, carefully observing.

“Hm?” Ulber scratched the side of her head, giving Theora a confused look. “I mean, I don’t know. But, probably something bad? You should ask one of the other staffers… Hey, Entrichia!” Ulber waved the woman over from the other side of the carriage.

“Yes? What is it?”

“These two here” — only now did Montaparte notice that Belliandra had joined Theora at her side — “want to know what happens if you don’t disclose all your abilities before entering the train.”

“Ah?” Entrichia gave a confused look as well. “Why do you want to know that?”

“Curiosity,” Belliandra chimed in.

“I mean…” Entrichia hummed. “I’m just the resident cook, I’m not sure. Why would anyone not declare their sheet properly?”

Theora shrugged. “For example, what if they forget?”

“I see…” Entrichia took a spoon and clanked it against the ladder leading down into the infirmary. A few moments later, Dr. Alp came up. 

“Yes?”

“These two here want to know what happens if someone forgets to include an ability before entering the train.”

Dr. Alp raked his fingers through his beard. “I mean… from a physiological perspective? The train creates reality based on what is provided in the data. If you forget to declare that you’re able to do a certain thing, that makes it impossible to do here. The consequences will be only yours to bear… and mine, because I will have to try and fix what it does to your body.”

“So then that means,” Belliandra started, “that there isn’t any safeguard preventing someone from misdeclaring their own abilities? Let’s say they are resilient and can withstand such issues, the staff wouldn’t mind?”

“I don’t think anyone here would mind,” Raquina said after stepping to the bar. “It’s as Dr. Alp says — you make your own life harder, that’s it. I mentioned this to you when you entered, right? You, or parts of you, become impossible. It’s for your own safety, is all.”

Except that answer didn’t seem to fully satisfy Theora. She hesitated a bit, an almost imperceptible movement of her head betraying her reluctance to accept these answers. Then she asked: “What if a passenger does the impossible?”

Raquina stared at Theora as if she’d just made a bad joke. A sharp bang resounded — the engine caretaker had whammed his thick glass on the counter. “Ah, this question again. I don’t want to hear such pointless things on this train!” he snapped. 

Belliandra took a step back, looking slightly embarrassed.

“What?” Theora asked, seemingly oblivious. “It’s quite important, I believe.”

The engine caretaker was frothing, but Raquina gave him a look and answered Theora instead. “Well, let’s just put it this way: the engine wouldn’t be happy.”

“Wouldn’t be happy?” Theora asked, unperturbed by the atmosphere her questions were creating.

“I told you. The short answer is — it’s not possible. The long answer? You don’t want to find out.”

Bell tugged at Theora’s sleeve with a tendril. “Let’s go, Theora. We found out what we need to know.”

Montaparte tried to calm down. The Sun had just walked up to a bar and asked what would happen if someone did the impossible. A creature who herself had forgotten to declare important parts of her sheet!

“Damn, that guy’s gotta sort out his feelings,” Dema said, not trying to lower her voice. Everyone in the train had likely heard her. “Not very well adjusted,” she murmured. “You know, I met a guy like that once! He stole my heart.” She shrugged. “But it grew back.”

Montaparte rose to her feet, on autopilot more than by power of will. It was fear that kept her going, but she couldn’t let Dema know. It was time to act.

She paced toward the bar, leisurely taking a seat next to the engine caretaker. He was old, with grey hair and a beanie on his head, wearing a uniform in the same crimson colour as Raquina’s. He had a little pocket watch dangling in front of his chest, and was grumbling unintelligibly to himself.

Without looking, Montaparte gently tapped the stool on her other side to give Dema notice to sit down with her. Then she tapped her fingers over the marble counter. “Say,” she started, “when I began my investigation, you mentioned you would lend your aid and resources to me. Is this still accurate?”

“What? Of course.” He waved his hand, as if it was obvious. “The sooner we can get this debacle behind us the better. And we care about Omi, naturally.”

“Right. Well, I have run into a bit of an impasse, and would like to discuss a matter.”

“What is it?” Ulber had pushed herself into Montaparte’s view, polishing a glass. “We’re glad to help!”

“Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I found Dema to be the culprit in my investigation.” I gestured to her, and shot her an indulgent smile.

Dema let out a mock-gasp. “I told you it wasn’t me!”

“I’m speaking in hypotheticals, of course. But you’re quite strong, right?”

“Why, yeah. I can be trouble.”

“Exactly.” Montaparte nodded and crossed her legs, squeezing them in the tight space under the counter. “So, let’s say whoever I find out to be the culprit turned out to be trouble. Would the train have a way to deal with that?”

Montaparte looked around, and by now, Raquina had found her way to the little gathering too, her dress all straightened out and prim. Suddenly, the engine caretaker pushed himself up from his seat, and shook his head.

“What’s with all these ridiculous questions today? I’ll let you all handle it.” He waved to the remaining staffers and left through the teleporter. Soon, Montaparte found a gentle hand resting on her wrist. She looked up — it was Raquina.

Raquina gave a reassuring smile. One of the more believable ones Montaparte had seen to date. Ulber was looking quite confident too, having switched to a new glass to polish.

“Don’t worry,” Raquina said, voice calm. “Both our Verisimilitude and generalised defenses are well-maintained. On this train, staff decrees are absolute.”