Story: Final Fantasy VII: Cold Train
Author: Nocturne
Written: June 1st, 2020
Genre: Angst/Suspense
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I do not own The Final Fantasy IP, but the ideas for alternate stories I do.

{One-Shot}

I see it shortly before I reach the train station. My train. Silver-grey, getting smaller by the second: it's departing - without me.

I curse and can barely stop myself from kicking the wall in frustration. It's dark, it's cold, I'm tired and I want to go home.

The world is becoming more and more dangerous...these bombings and acts of terrorism in an already despot and corrupt Midgar...what more could go wrong in my life?

On the platform. Before doing anything else, I look at the schedule. Looks like I'll be waiting at least forty minutes before the arrival of the next train.

Only after this I realize that I'm alone in this double-tracked wasteland.

I'm standing next to the wind-sheltered seats, my bag between my feet, in a wide stance, as if I wanted to defend it, even if there's no one in sight. I haven't put down my backpack, the realization that I'll be standing here for quite some time hasn't sunken in yet.

Only when my shoulders start hurting do I finally sit down - feels like surrendering.

Time passes.

The clock isn't normal. Or maybe time follows different rules here.

As I arrived, I'm sure it showed ten minutes past two. It's nighttime alright, but it can't possibly be that late. The clock is wrong.

I try to keep busy, reading for a bit. As my fingers get too cold to turn the pages I stop, bury my hands deep in my coat's pockets, look at the clock again. Two minutes to eight.

A movement behind me startles me, it's an elderly man who climbs the stairs to the platform. Two people in this place - that's one too many, or one too few.

I take another look at the clock - ten past nine. Something's wrong here.

The old guy has disappeared. I try concentrating on something else to keep from turning around, looking for him. If he's still here, I don't want him knowing that his presence is unsettling me, if he's watching me it should seem to him as if I didn't even know he's there. I decide counting the passing cars down on the street at the far end of the slope, after one hundred and twelve I feel my thoughts becoming sluggish, after one hundred and fifty-three I almost fall asleep.

I open my eyes wide, shivering, my eyes watering with the cold night air. I have no idea how late it is - the clock shows half past eleven - or how long I've been sitting here, waiting for that damn train.

I stand up again, take another look at the schedule.

Forty minutes - shouldn't they be long over by now?

Time's trickling away, though I just saw out of the corner of my eye how the short hand did a quarter turn - in the wrong direction.

My gaze is wandering all by itself, over the street, the schedule, my hands, none of them interesting enough to hold my attention for long.

I'm still alone on the platform, but I hear noises. Noises that don't come from the road, that can't be attributed to the wind.

I hear steps, from the darker part of the platform, away from the stairs, the exit. But as soon as I turn my head and strain my eyes to penetrate the darkness all is quiet again.

As I stare into the darkness I realize all of a sudden that I, in contrast, am very easy to see due to the illumination around me, that even my facial expression is perfectly visible for anyone standing further away.

Again I hear the noises, steps, this time from the other direction. Echoing, as if it was more than one person, and at the same time subdued, as if they were making an effort to move silently, without being heard, without being noticed by me.

The man that steps on the platform wears a dark cloak and hood that conceals his face, the collar turned up against the wind and the rain. He stands a few steps away from me without looking at me, so I try not looking at him with the curiosity (or more accurately, the mistrust) that I feel.

The man IS looking at me. Anytime he thinks I can't see him he turns his head, only a little bit, only by a nuance, to get a better look at me.

What's he waiting for, I ask myself, as I keep contracting and relaxing my muscles. It's only now that I notice that I'm really cold, and that my legs have gone stiff. And what if I had to run? How far would I get before he caught up with me?

To the underpass? Surely not to the station forecourt.

That's when the train pulls into the station, the glaring headlights illuminating the platform. I turn to the side reflexively and I catch a glimpse of the man standing next to me. Am I imagining it, or was there a trace of disapproval on his face, a flicker of disappointment before he got his features under control again?

In the train I sit with my back against the wall, facing the door.

I become aware that I'm using way more force than necessary for holding my bag, that my hands have cramped around the handle. As I let go it only takes a few seconds before my fingers start acting on their own in nervous disquiet, wringing my hands, closing to fists, relaxing only with difficulty.

I see the man again, the one who has been standing next to me on the platform, no, not only standing there, but observing me.

He sits down a few rows away from me, but even so I feel as if he had sat down right in front of me. He takes a newspaper out of his bag, holds it in front of his face, pretends to read, but I know what he's really doing. He's looking at me, through the newspaper, maybe he's cut holes in it, or maybe he doesn't even need holes to see me through the thin paper. I know he's waiting for the moment my awareness diminishes, but that won't happen.

For a short while I get the urge to stare right back at him, then I think about how strange it would seem to look at the back of his newspaper, and I turn to look outside, into the darkness.

From the crimson-illuminated interior of the train the platform looks even darker than it did while I was still standing on it.
Now I can see the old man from before. He stands next to the schedule, I can't see his face, it's too dark for that. But even if I can't see his features I get the impression as if he's struggling with himself while he's looking at the closed doors of the train. As if he's thinking about boarding, or maybe prefers to keep waiting, another forty minutes of waiting for the next person who misses this train, who might be less vigilant.

The train starts moving, and I let out an involuntary sigh. I wasn't aware that I had been holding my breath, and now that I've become conscious of my breathing it has become difficult, nearly impossible to let it go, to breathe automatically again. The thought of having to suffocate if I stop thinking about how to breathe tries to get a hold in my head, and I nearly fail in dispersing it.

Someone's clearing their throat, it's the man opposite me. He has lowered his newspaper, our gazes cross, he smiles, no, smirks at me. Not because he's being nice - that smirk is pure mockery. He senses my fear, he doesn't even have to look into my eyes to sense it, he's savoring his triumph over my nerves.

Then, slowly, with pleasure, he turns the page, lifts the newspaper back in front of his face. And still I feel his eyes on me.

I can't take this, I have to do something to calm down, to wake up. Am I only imagining these things?

I pinch my forearm, at least the pain is definitely real. Maybe I should splash some cold water in my face, maybe all of these are only symptoms of my fatigue?

I stand up, shoulder my backpack and my bag. To reach the train's restroom I have to pass the newspaper reader who's not reading his newspaper. I walk fast, my gaze fixed in front of me. He's sniggering softly, scarcely audible as I rush past him. I don't stop, I don't turn around to him. Need to get away from here.

The clicking of the lock promises safety, but I don't want to stay longer than strictly necessary at this place. This train has obviously been going for some time, and the lack of decent air conditioning is even more evident here than it was back at the compartment.

I look in the mirror. I almost fail to recognize myself. Fear contorts my features, creates a mask of panic and defense, and the eyes dart from side to side in the desperate attempt to keep all corners in view at the same time. I decide that a face-makeover is even more essential for me right now than cold water and start forcing the corners of my mouth into a half-friendly position, calming my eyes, in short, creating a camouflage that I can hide behind until I'm safe again.
Just as I'm satisfied with the result I hear that noise again.

Before I've dismissed it as being part of the normal train travelling sounds, background noise, but now, as it keeps occurring, I'm not so sure anymore.

It sounds as if there was someone standing on the other side of the door, someone who kept bumping into it at every turn of the train, accompanied by a metallic clink, not unlike a metal buckle. As if that someone had trouble keeping his balance, maybe because he couldn't hold on to something. Maybe because he's already holding something else. Like a newspaper.

I swallow, look in the mirror again. My previous efforts are erased, and this time it takes me significantly longer to get my face under control again. But finally I manage it - even if there's still a treacherous look in my eyes that could also be interpreted as suppressed aggression. So not at all bad for keeping the others away from me.

With a jerk of my wrist I open the lock and push the door wide open - if there's someone standing in front of it, I'll hit him squarely in the face, I'm thinking, I won't go down without a fight.

The door opens wide, the corridor is empty, not a soul in sight.

I hesitate for a short while, then I go back to where I came from - at least I can keep an eye on the newspaper reader, I think to myself. Better than having him at my back.

My old place is unoccupied - as is the place of the newspaper reader.

I force myself to walk on, to sit down, focusing on my facial expression. Don't lose your composure now, even if you seem to be all alone - you never know if they're still here, hidden better than before.

The train stops again. I look at the ghosts the night spits into the neon light of the train's innards, and as their eyes meet mine I force my lips into something resembling a smile.

They reciprocate the expression, it's as if I was watching a time-delayed mirror.

They don't see through my cover, but I, I know exactly who they are, what's hidden behind their deceptively human-looking masks.

I'm ever-vigilant - they won't get me.

I will not become of 'them'.

Please review, your feedback is most appreciative! We will write more one-shots if reader response is great enough. Also please enjoy our extended collection of stories on this site.