Lead Lungs
Malcolm caught the train back at 1:35 in the morning. Despite the time, the station was still buzzing. Europa was a city of the night. It almost seemed to thrive more in darkness, than it did in light. The train produced sounds of the air being sliced; akin to wind whipping past you on the edge of a misty cliff. Rain pelted the windows, scraping against them near horizontal. The train twisted and turned through the high-rise buildings around it, the tracks carefully carving through the skyline. The speed made every twist and turn barely noticeable, although his stomach would occasionally flip at the thought of travelling 250 miles per hour into a concrete wall. He felt in his pocket for the comforting outline of his Singer .45 Pistol. The feeling of simple safety. At least the Eclipse don’t steal. One of the few merits he could give them.
