southern royalties – d10, train.

The train shoots through the dark night like a bullet intent on a wound.

Ten has been left behind in a blur and everything else had remained with it: his family, his garage studio, his second life.

Onward they run, this train of ghosts and once-carousers. Before Andal would have wondered at the lavish furniture and admired the craftsmanship of the vehicle, but now all he could hold in his head was Flynn’s scared face, the color of Emerson’s hair, and that wretch Garcia standing near Hank, and Flynn, Flynn, Flynn.

The chorus of a foretold tragedy.

Andal enters the carriage with his two tributes once the shell-shock has simmered down to a sense of begrudging acceptance for everyone involved.

He tries a smile at the two boys, waving softly with his eternally gloved hand. “Howdy.” His other gloved hand sets down a pitcher of tea in front of the pair. “It sort of became my tradition to spoil the new folks who get on this train with food but, uh, kinda forgot this time.” He chuckles, then slumps down into the cushion facing the two.

His eyes, brown as fields of barley, study the both of them for a moment before he nods.

“Right.” Andal steeples his fingers, feeling the leather between each one. “So, Emerson, your name already grants you a copious amount of sponsors – no surprise there – and that means we gas you up, Hank. What makes you you?”

Andal’s own selling point to the masses had been the modern southern boy during his games, country drawl replaced by the smooth-sounding syllables the capitol prefer, and he was interested to hear what Hank’s was.

And yet, out of the corners of his eyes, he stole a glance at Emerson. The golden boy with the spotlight stolen from him, how would he fare?