REVENGE - a mystery applyfic

ONE

But he didn't move. He just sat there, watching the other passengers passing through. Most of them paid him no mind, focused on getting to their cabins or settling into seats for a late lunch. Pim had eaten earlier, but the seat was comfortable, and the glass in front of him—containing non-alcoholic soda—was mostly still full. He'd bought it to soothe his nerves. It was not, however, doing the job.

Maybe he should've tried a different drink.

The door leading to the first-class sleeper car slid open, admitting a man of average height with brown hair and a kind face. Pim recognized him, at least by sight—he had a military bearing Pim had grown very used to over the last decade or so, and his face was familiar. O'Malley. That was his name.

O'Malley saw Pim as well, he knew it. A ghost of a half-smile appeared on the man's lips, which Pim did not return out of fear his facial muscles wouldn't cooperate, and he shuffled into a seat at the next table over. Pim wondered if he'd done it on purpose, but at least O'Malley sitting nearby seemed to somehow put him at ease. He had that sort of energy about him.

O'Malley ordered a sandwich. And they both watched as a tall dark-haired man strode through the car like he owned the place. His eyebrows and mustache were the same shape, which Pim knew was weird to notice, but he couldn't help it. He'd never met the man before. But he didn't leave a good first impression.

—

MYRON Rhydderch slipped onto the train with little fanfare. That was the way he liked it, these days. No fuss, no frills, just getting on a train. He found his berth quickly enough, towards the front of the carriage and comfortable, and stowed his bags.

Then he sat down at the little table placed under the window and opened a newspaper he'd purchased in the city before making his way to the station. There wasn't much news—a new book released by I. S. Mann, the famed reclusive mystery writer, along with a report of yet another case solved by Montgomery Gomez, American detective. But still, the reading calmed Myron's mind.

Relaxing, of course, was impossible. Myron considered himself a realist; he knew that this trip held an importance unlike most others he'd taken. But he could reach for as much calm as his mind was willing to afford him. Keeping himself as clear-headed as possible was the only way he would be able to get through it. And that began now, before he was even close to his destination.

—

BENJAMIN Fernsby tapped his fingers on his leg, his slacks muffling the sound. His stuff was all back in his cabin, and he was sat in a very comfortable—plush is probably the word his mother would use—chair in the lounge car, waiting for the train to finally pull out of the station. Waiting was dull, made him twitchy.

He lifted his hand to tap on the table he sat beside instead. The noise got inside his head, scratching some kind of itch he didn't even know he'd had inside his head until he'd already done it. It was like a compulsion, or an instinct. Benny needed to move.

A young woman sitting at the other end of the car glared at Benny. She was dressed impeccably in a traveling suit of good quality, something that Benny couldn't afford. He'd only been able to pay for this train ticket with the help of his boss, who insisted Benny needed a break from work. He didn't, not in his own opinion, but he didn't say no to the gift.

Benny tried to give the woman an apologetic smile as he reluctantly stopped tapping the table, but she simply raised an eyebrow at him before pointedly turning to look out the window beside her. Benny glanced away awkwardly. Staring would only get him yelled at, even if she was visually striking.

His leg began to bounce. This would be a long journey.

—

THE man across the car would not stop moving. Guinevere Ivory could still see him out of the corner of her eye, obnoxiously shaking his leg in a way that she could not ignore easily, no matter how hard she tried.