The Railroad - Terminus - 6.1
Imported from SF2 with no description.
Based on the data that 74258 copied from Hunter's terminal, we arrived at the largest free imperial city in the Earl of Ontario's territory—the trade capital, Ottawa. There's a major base of operations for the railway organization here. All we need to do is find a way to contact them. Though, truthfully, we have no idea where to start. We'll likely begin our search with those in the liquor business. In a trade hub of this size, it shouldn't be difficult to find a broker willing to sell us information.
From this point onward, we'll be entering the territory of the Labrador branch family, but that doesn't mean we can afford to relax—the collar on my neck constantly reminds me of that. 74258 isn't sure how much more time the fake signal can buy us; at best, every passing second is a stroke of luck.
“...If there's more, I'd be happy to take it," said a scar-faced Doberman. He put the chromatography test paper and handheld mass spectrometer back on the table and tapped on his terminal, gesturing for his companion to accept the tomatoes we brought.
With his menacing face and an eyepatch covering his right eye, he really did look like some kind of outlaw.
But hey, who am I to judge? I'm an outlaw myself.
“Sorry, this is a one-time deal. We only brought this much," I answered cautiously, trying not to draw any further interest while checking my terminal to confirm that I'd received the files.
The Doberman and his companion exchanged glances. The latter shrugged, and the Doberman tilted his head slightly before getting up.
“Oh, by the way, consider this a little bonus," he stopped abruptly, as if remembering something, and cast a glance at 74258. “I don't care how you got your hands on that thing, but you'd better get rid of it soon. Tossing it in the river would do." 74258 flinched instinctively, his hand moving to his waist, which only made the Doberman laugh. “It's obvious you picked it up."
“Would you be willing to take it?" I was originally going to throw in some tough talk to clarify how we got the gun, but I decided to stay practical and focus on solving the issue. The Doberman's response was to laugh even harder.
“I don't want to get into that kind of trouble," he sneered, baring one of his canines at us in a grim smile. “Only idiots who think they can handle Adamanium alloy never live long enough to spend that kind of credit."
After the Doberman and his crew left for some time, 74258 sat down in the chair across from me.
“What do you think? How should we handle it?" I had no idea what Adamanium alloy was, but I could tell that the gun wasn't a typical model.
“Tossing it in the river sounds like a good idea, but we should probably wait until nightfall to avoid drawing attention," 74258 muttered. “If we find the railway's base by then, they might be willing to take it off our hands."
That made sense to me, so I nodded in agreement.
“Next..." 74258 placed his terminal on the table, pointing to a location marked with a pin. “With the information 'Scarface' provided to corroborate, I'm fairly certain this is the place we're looking for."
“How do you know?" I wasn't questioning the fox's intelligence—just genuinely curious.
“Inconsistent shipping documentation, long-term financial imbalances, security systems too sophisticated for an ordinary tavern, and occasional sightings of suspicious figures disappearing without a trace," he didn't need to stress it for me to understand; these were individuals like us—“suspicious figures." “And most importantly—prime numbers."
“What do you mean?" I checked the name of the marked location—Smarandache & Wellin's Tavern.
“The tavern is on Sixth Avenue," 74258 scratched his cheek and wrote down a sequence of numbers. “'This is the path I must walk until I see you again.'"
“Wouldn't that be too obvious? There's no way none of the pedigree could have picked up on the connection, right?" I'd love to believe that pedigrees are all idiots, but the world doesn't work like that.
“'Untouchable.'" 74258 swiped through his terminal and tapped on a red marker. “The files have a special note regarding this location, but there's no further explanation. I can only guess it's some sort of code for a place under powerful protection." The fox sighed, leaning back in his chair. “But all this really does is give us more solid motivation. Even if the tavern is a carefully concealed trap, we don't have any alternative. We have no choice but to walk right in."
Indeed, our options were so limited there wasn't even a need to consider them.
All because of this damned collar that won't come off!
The worst variable is not knowing how much time we have left. Remaining in this constant state of despair, waiting for an unseen enemy to catch up, will eventually drive us insane.
In truth, I know there's another solution to this problem—one that would completely eliminate the danger. All 74258 has to do is abandon me, and he'd be safe.
But I didn't want to insult the fox by saying that out loud, so I just nodded, accepting his decision.
“So that's settled."
It's hard not to be persuaded when 74258 speaks with such conviction.
74258 once again demonstrated his power of persuasion.
“I'd rather we both hang together than find myself helplessly watching from a distance, unable to do anything," those olive-colored eyes left no room for refusal.
At least, though, he agreed that we could enter the tavern separately.
The sliding door scanned the forged ID on my terminal, and it opened to reveal a spacious interior.
It wasn't quite the dingy place I had expected. Clean windows and ample lighting made it look like the kind of place you could curl up and relax in all day—definitely not the kind of bar where you'd worry about stepping into a puddle of someone else's vomit.
Perhaps because it was still early, the bar was practically empty, with only a yellow Labrador, who didn't seem particularly purebred, sitting in a corner. He glanced at me as I entered but quickly lost interest, turning his attention back to his terminal.
“Excuse me," I took a seat at the bar and addressed the bartender, who was wiping down a glass. “Do you have any Green Katydid?"
“Which vintage?" The bartender was an incredibly muscular and towering female brown bear. Her accent was thick, but I could just barely understand her. Even just a casual glance from her amber eyes was enough to remind me of how insignificant I was. I'd always thought bears were supposed to live in the autonomous kingdom of Northern Europe.
“Uh… last Friday?" After discussing it with 74258, I decided to take a more direct approach and hope for clear information. Worst-case scenario, she'd just find the question confusing.
“Is that fox outside your friend?" the bartender placed the glass aside and met my gaze. Rationalism witness, I felt like I might have a heart attack if this kept up.
“What?" I tried my best to give her my brightest smile, tilting my head and scratching my ear in an attempt to feign ignorance. I'm not very good at this kind of thing, but I didn't expect her response to be pointing a shotgun with a barrel bigger than my head at me.
The shock froze me in place, and I nearly fell off my chair.
“Put those emerald fairy eyes away, Fox. I don't like skinny one," fairy eyes? “I'll ask you one more time. Is that fox snooping around outside your friend?"
If that thing went off, I'd lose my entire upper half. The pressure of the moment caused me to answer before realizing it was a trick question.
“No." Damn it! The right answer should have been, “What fox?"
The brown bear let out a thick snort through her nose. I wasn't sure what it meant.
“I have serious doubts about that," she muttered, prodding my neck with the gun barrel before sighing and placing the shotgun back on the bar. “You were supposed to say the code!" The bear's body language showed signs of frustration, and I noticed she had pushed aside my coat collar earlier.
“What code?" I adjusted my posture, trying to calm myself down. Anyone who claims size doesn't matter has never had their nose shoved into a shotgun barrel—this was on a whole different level compared to Hunter's threats.
“You barged in without knowing anything? Very bold, very lucky," the bartender eyed me up and down, her frown deepening in disbelief. “And very stupid."
“Mostly desperate, I'd say," I admitted with a sigh, flipping my collar to fully reveal the collar around my neck.
“That too," the bartender made a few gestures, and I followed her gaze to see the Labrador from earlier standing up and heading for the door. “If Bert hadn't noticed the collar on your neck, I would have blown your brains out. Bringing a 'Hunter' anywhere near a council-protected area—well, that's pretty provocative. You're probably the first to do so since this tavern was built."
“Uh... thank you?" I wasn't sure what else to say, but I figured expressing gratitude for not getting shot couldn't be wrong.
But... “Hunter"?
"You picked a really bad time to come. The Railroad's been dealing with some tricky business lately." The bartender glanced out the window, surprisingly looking a bit nervous. I didn't really want to know what could make such a burly brown bear nervous. "But don't worry, Burt will assist you. He's very capable."
After saying that, the bartender tapped a few more times on their terminal before starting to clean up, as if they were getting ready to close up shop.
So, were they waiting for us, or...?
I heard the sliding door open and close, and saw that yellow dog from earlier leading 74258 inside.
"Thank you, ma'am," I said to the bartender, standing up and heading toward the one I guessed must be the very capable Burt.
"I keep telling you, fox, I don't like skinny one." She flashed me a toothy smile. "Put on some weight, will ya!"
Not wanting to delay the brown bear any further, I turned and walked away, all the while reassessing my own figure.