The train ride was a touch of pure nostalgia, especially for someone like Shining Turtle, who had ridden on the old railroads in the United States. If one ignored the rumbling and growling half century old diesel locomotive, one could believe that they were back in those old days. The coaches were seemingly dropped in from that era, complete with oversprung coaches and hard bench seats.

Of course, the illusion wasn't simply visual. As the trip progressed, the sun on the enclosed coaches caused the interiors to become filled with the aromas of humanity. Sweat and minimal personal hygiene were soon overwhelmed by fetid breath and flatulence. Shining Turtle closed his eyes and ignored it. He'd withstood worse, this was merely an annoyance.

He was surprised by the sudden appearance of armed men. No, not men, boys. Beyond the drab uniforms and pristine helmet liners, these were children. Shining Turtle guessed that most of these youths were no more than fourteen. In the days of his youth, an age of adulthood. In this day and age, well, most societies considered the age to be still in adolescence. Here, there were allowed to work in dangerous professions, marry, and carry fully automatic weapons. Weapons like the one that was currently in his line of sight, an assault rifle of Belgian make, it's finish marred by scuffs and rust, the fire selector lever firmly pointed to "Auto". Thomas carefully arranged himself so that he remained out of the line of fire, should an accident happen.

The journey was twelve hours long, with two brief stops along the way. Two hours into the first leg of the trip, the novelty began to wear off. His tail was forcibly numbed by the wooden bench, his breath was alternately taken away by the stench of the coach, and the diesel fumes from outside. An attempt to stretch his legs and relieve his bladder earned him only the knowledge that the ancient toilet had long since been removed, leaving a hole in the rotting floor boards. The return to his seat had been quick enough to catch a roving hand trying to pilfer his backpack. He'd snapped a quick punch that caught the arm just below the elbow and cracked the fingers and hand against the wooden bench. He chose to ignore the fact that the arm was clad in neatly woven olive drab, the type of cloth that the army children wore, instead allowing the arm to withdraw.

Two hours later the train had eased into a town that was essentially obscured behind the so-called station. Before the wheels were completely stilled, vendors had pressed themselves onto the coaches, and were hawking their wares. He considered some of the local clothing and talismans, but passed on them. A waved dollar bill caught plenty of attention with the food vendors, and he soon had a lapful of food wrapped in newspaper and bottles of mineral water. He trusted his enhanced physiology to keep him from any ill effects of the food, and ate what he felt comfortable with, stowing the rest in his pack.

Food and the train's motion had their toll, and he drifted off, lost in the flow of memory and dream...

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"Bucky, we're not playing Rock, Paper, Scratches." - Get Fuzzy.