the locomotive moves steadily across the tracks, puffing thick black smog into the air, never a whine until you pull the breaks.

the great rolling beast carries its prey, flaming fauna displaced from their rocky habitats, that wait to be swallowed up and converted to new life.

the procession of metal bodies traverses across worlds, taking its indomitable wheels into the tundra, the prairie, the urban jungle, at speeds unknown to lesser beings— or even the creators themselves.

but the mighty locomotive does not just conquer mountains and valleys, cities and forests alike.

it takes friends, partners, clients on the journey.

the smallest ones fall into slumber and breathe soundly, blending with the giant’s hum.

as the client’s size increases, their alert eyes dart across the land as the train rips through gravel, rock, and earth; a pasture of horses may be seen and addressed accordingly.

the full grown passenger opens their notebook, jotting down thoughts, identification numbers, budgets, letters, and the like.

they are often the assumed leaders within the belly of the beast, but the train knows of the true captain’s identity.

the final friends to name, the eldest in the cars.

they know the locomotive, being the on its quest across continents, possessing a gentle care with the resting of a hand upon the velvet organs of the beast.

the old ones know the displaced embers, rusted iron bones, cracked glass eyelids, and slowing wheels that come with conquered continents.

so, when the great train creaks to a stop, the elders exist their trusty cars, leave a tip for the porter, and whisper a quiet “thank you” to the train before stepping cautiously onto the oak platform below.

from the locomotive, never a whine, not even to beckon its favorite patrons farewell.