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theonlyqualitytrash · 2 months ago

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Have you ever watched the show Infinity Train? It's on YouTube if you haven't seen it. Anyway, what do you think would happen if some of the bsd cast got stuck on the train?

Hello there! ^^ Thank you so much for your ask! I had such a great time brainstorming and imagining different scenarios for it.

Honestly, I feel like every character in the BSD cast could benefit from some therapy, so I just kept adding more and more characters—couldn’t help myself! (I really need a stop button.) When I first got your ask, I hadn’t yet watched Infinity Train, so I’m sorry for the delay in getting back to you. But I hope the length of this post shows just how much I loved your idea.

In this post, I’ll dive into what each character needs to work on, share some of my headcanons, explore their fate, and talk about their relationships with The Cat.

Just a heads up: this post is pretty long and does contain spoilers for Infinity Train, so if you’re not caught up yet, proceed with caution!

Atsushi

Atsushi struggles with his self worth, the right to keep living and making decisions on his own; He is strong under someone's guidance, but gets crippled by his anxiety if he does not have that support.

First encounter with the cat:

"Oh mon Dieu, a shapeshifter? And not just any shapeshifter—a tiger? How utterly marvelous!" She says as she circles around him, her tail flicking, already plotting something. "You simply must let me borrow you for just a tiny favor. Nothing too difficult—just a little distraction while I, shall we say, acquire something of importance~?" Atsushi, deadpan: "Absolutely not." They end up being the most reluctant duo ever. Atsushi is exasperated and The Cat is entertained. He does not trust her, but she still manages to get him involved in her schemes. She even ends up helping him lower his number without meaning to—by forcing him to think on his feet, make his own decisions, and challenge his instincts to always do what he’s told.

General headcanons:

He would most likely run away from ghoms, as they are unfamiliar and dangerous. Atsushi is not the type to fight first, especially not against something he doesn’t understand, like ghoms. He’d probably panic, try to run, and only fight if there was absolutely no other choice—but even then, he’d aim to disable rather than destroy.

He genuinely cares about the denizens of the train, treating them with kindness and respect, as he views them as people.

He is surprisingly good at solving puzzles. Despite his struggles with decision-making and self-doubt, Atsushi is good at problem-solving when he puts his mind to it.

Over time, Atsushi becomes a quiet but steady source of hope for other passengers he encounters. He would probably try to help others get off the train, even if he himself hasn’t figured it out yet.

The Chrome Car:

Atsushi’s biggest enemy has always been his own mind, so facing a version of himself that sees him as weak? That would be brutal. Chrome!Atsushi is more aggressive, assertive, and confident—likely from observing Atsushi’s struggles and self-directed pep talks in the mirror. He calls Atsushi out for hesitating, doubting himself, and constantly relying on others for direction. With an exasperated sigh, he rolls his eyes and scoffs, “I don’t understand how we’re the same person. You have all this power, and you waste it.” His voice hardens. “You’re always waiting for someone to tell you what to do. No wonder people keep using you.” And the worst part? Atsushi agrees. At first, he doesn’t argue—because deep down, he believes Chrome!Atsushi is right. He’s spent so long questioning his own worth that hearing his doubts reflected back at him makes them feel even more undeniable. When he finally tries to push back, insisting that kindness isn’t weakness, Chrome!Atsushi doesn’t buy it. Their confrontation would mirror (no pun intended) Tulip’s struggle with her Chrome counterpart. His number drops slightly after the encounter, a small step forward, but he still has a long journey ahead.

Fate on the train:

He’s the type to question every lesson, every experience, and hesitate before fully accepting his growth. I see him getting close to the exit multiple times—his number almost dropping to zero, only to go back up. But eventually, he will leave—with a new sense of self and a little more faith in his own choices.

Akutagawa

Akutagawa, like Atsushi, struggles with his self-worth and his right to exist, rooted in his survival-of-the-fittest mentality. His greatest obstacle is his relentless need to prove himself, driven by a deep-seated inferiority complex. He ties his value to external success and recognition rather than any intrinsic sense of self-worth, making him emotionally volatile and desperate for validation. His number would only start to drop once he begins to understand that his worth isn’t dependent on being "useful" but on simply being.

First Encounter with the cat:

The moment she starts her usual playful, smug attitude, Akutagawa would be done with her. He wouldn’t even give her time to talk—he’d activate Rashōmon immediately, ready to shred her into ribbons. The moment Akutagawa activates Rashōmon, The Cat would hiss, leap backward, and immediately rethink her life choices. She knows a bad deal when she sees one, and this angry, coughing, trench-coat murder machine is not worth the trouble. She’d dart away and watch from a safe distance, silently judging. "Ah. A rabid dog. How… unfortunate." The Cat would not push her luck with Akutagawa. She’d observe, make a few remarks, and keep her distance. Akutagawa, in turn, would ignore her completely—unless she somehow proved useful. I would see no real conflict, just mutual avoidance and silent judgment.

General headcanons:

Akutagawa got stuck in the Cross-Eye Duck Car for an embarrassingly long time.

He tried to cut tthrough the Train with Rashomon—Was Met with the Void™.

The number on his palm is a cruel, constant reminder of his stagnation. He stares at it often, too often.

Debutant ball car:

A lavish golden ballroom stretches before him, glittering with refinement. Overhead, a massive talking chandelier twinkles, greeting him with theatrical flair. Akutagawa is not having it. He has no patience for such nonsense and immediately turns to leave—only to find the doors locked. The chandelier descends with exaggerated grace. “To leave, you must learn to dance and make your proper debut.” “I refuse.” “Your refusal is noted. But you will dance.” Cue a montage of extreme frustration. Akutagawa is stiff, rigid, and painfully awkward. He tries to force his way through the steps with sheer willpower, but that is not how dancing works. The movements require something foreign to him—grace, patience, trust. At first, he brushes it all off as pointless. But slowly, something shifts. The repetition of the steps, the steady rhythm of the music—it’s… oddly calming. No one is attacking him, and no one is demanding he prove his worth through strength or violence. For the first time in a long time, Akutagawa is simply existing. When the moment for his official debut arrives, he moves through the waltz effortlessly. The octopus people applaud. The chandelier proclaims him an honored debutant. And at last, the exit door unlocks. His number drops—not by much, but enough. He doesn’t fully understand what he’s learned, but he feels different.

Fate on the train:

Akutagawa's epiphany moment would happen when someone calls him strong—but not for his power, not for Rashomon, not for winning a fight. Maybe he helps someone in a way that isn’t violent.

Maybe he shows restraint, compassion, or understanding—something small, but deeply uncharacteristic of the Akutagawa that first stepped onto the train. When he finally reaches zero he doesn’t feel triumphant or victorious—just… at peace. The exit door appears, and he steps through without hesitation.

Ango

Ango drowns himself in work, using it as a way to numb the guilt he refuses to let go of. He has betrayed so many for the "greater good" that he fully believes he deserves the hate—especially from Dazai. Even so, he still helps Dazai whenever he can, not for Dazai’s sake, but for Oda’s. He wasn’t directly responsible for Oda’s death, but that doesn’t matter—he still feels like he owes him. Ango doesn’t seek forgiveness, nor does he expect it. But what he truly needs is to learn that self-inflicted suffering is not atonement. Also, he depersonalizes himself but refuses to let others be forgotten. He doesn’t see himself as someone worth grieving over, but for others? He painstakingly records their names, their lives, their deaths, because they mattered. He won’t let them become just another casualty in a report. Maybe it’s his way of trying make up for the fact that he has to make choices—choices that cost lives.

First encounter with the cat:

Ango steps into the cluttered, treasure-filled car, immediately feeling the weight of the disarray surrounding him. The chaos of old antiques and forgotten objects piles up around him like a maze. The Cat, ever observant, watches him closely. Noticing the subtle glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, she smiles with an almost knowing amusement. "Good taste," she comments playfully, her tone light but teasing. Ango doesn’t react immediately but can’t help but acknowledge the compliment in his own quiet way. There's a strange understanding between them—an appreciation for old, lost things, the stories that linger in the forgotten corners. As they speak, Ango can’t hold back his question about the number on his palm, the mark that seems to follow him, burdening him with unknown meaning. The Cat’s response is as cryptic as ever, her words teasing at the edges of something deeper but never fully revealing it. She seems to enjoy the back-and-forth, her eyes dancing with mischief as she observes his attempt to untangle her riddles. Though he doesn't fully trust her, there’s something about the interaction that keeps him on edge, and yet oddly intrigued. He can't quite shake the feeling that she knows more about him than she's letting on—and that, perhaps, they’re more alike than either of them would admit.

General headcanons:

He keeps a small journal during his time on the train, documenting his thoughts, his progress, and any notable things he encounters. Writing down his feelings might help him process what’s going on, though he’d rarely share it with anyone.

He would overwork himself even here: He treats self-improvement like a job, pushing himself relentlessly to figure out what he needs to “fix” so he can get off the train. He takes mental notes on his own behavior, trying to measure progress as if personal growth is something that can be quantified.

Ango and his tape:

Ango stumbles upon the tape by accident, and before he knows it, he’s pulled into it. He finds himself reliving his memories, the moments spent with Dazai and Oda. The overwhelming weight of his guilt, his choices, and his constant self-punishment fades away. In the tape, he feels lighter—calmer—like he’s finally at peace. Oda is alive, laughing and talking with him as if nothing ever happened. They share an easy conversation, perhaps discussing life or just being in each other's presence. What matters most is that, for the first time in so long, Ango doesn’t feel the crushing burden of his decisions. The weight of his responsibilities lifts, and he can almost convince himself that everything is as it once was. But then, reality crashes in. That’s not how it happened. Oda’s dead. Dazai’s harsh words echo in his mind, telling him never to show his face at Lupin again. The false serenity shatters, the illusion crumbling to the ground and leaving Ango to suddenly realize that it is all a lie. The life he’s been reliving is a curated version of the past—artificial and unattainable. His chest tightens as the truth settles in. This was never his reality. It never could have been. When he pulls himself away from the tape, he feels physically sick. His mind is disoriented, as if it’s still clinging to the illusion, struggling to reconcile the peaceful image he just experienced with the bitter truth of his life.

Fate on the train:

I think it would take for him a very very long time to get off the train, guilt is not an easy thing to get over.

Ango will realize at some point that his past mistakes won’t disappear, but he can learn to live alongside them without constantly being consumed by them. Perhaps he learns to forgive himself bit by bit—understanding that he doesn’t have to live in perpetual atonement to be worthy of peace.

Chuuya

He has always been defined by others—first by the Sheep, then the Mafia, and later by his connection to Dazai. His existence has never truly been his own, shaped instead by the expectations of those around him. Even his immense power isn’t something he chose but something that was forced upon him as Arahabaki’s vessel. Whether as the Sheep’s leader, the Port Mafia’s strongest fighter, or Dazai’s partner, he has always been seen as a tool, never just as himself. Deeply loyal yet hesitant to open up, he craves genuine human connection, but years of betrayal and being used have made him wary, leaving him caught between longing and distrust.

First interaction with the cat:

“Monsieur! A distinguished gentleman such as yourself!” The Cat purrs as she presents her latest creation with a dramatic flourish. “You have arrived just in time for my most exquisite product yet!” She pulls out… a hat with a hole punched straight through the middle. "...What the hell is that?” The Cat smirks. “A donut, of course!” He squints. It is, very clearly, just a ruined hat. “That’s a hat with a hole in it,” he deadpans. “Non, non, non! It was a hat. But with the revolutionary Donut Holer™��” she gestures proudly to a rusty metal pipe sitting next to a pile of equally destroyed hats, “—I have transformed it into a fine delicacy! A donut, as you humans call it.” Chuuya exhales slowly, pressing his fingers to his temple. After this interaction he actively avoids The Cat whenever possible. He has neither the time nor the patience for her ridiculous schemes, and every encounter with her leaves him feeling one step closer to a migraine. Still, he isn’t naive. If The Cat has something useful—a shortcut, information about the train, anything that might actually help him get off—he’ll work with her. He doesn’t trust her, but he knows she can be resourceful. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

General headcanons:

The first thing he did after escaping his first car was try to fly off the train. Naturally, the train—being a pocket dimension with invisible barriers—did not care. He got flung right back to the train, cursed loudly, and spent a solid minute pacing in frustration before admitting defeat.

For some reason, most denizens end up loving him. He doesn’t try to be particularly friendly, but something about his no-nonsense attitude and unexpected patience makes him weirdly well-liked.

He takes care of people without thinking about it. If someone looks lost or overwhelmed, he’ll wordlessly toss them a piece of advice or physically drag them out of a bad situation. He pretends it didn’t happen immediately after.

Mediterranean Republic Car

The train doors open, and Chuuya finds himself in a sun-drenched countryside. Rolling green hills, warm stone houses, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of salt and wine. The denizens? Flower people, living simple lives. They run vineyards, tend to gardens, and speak in soft, content voices. No fights. No schemes. No need to prove himself. He keeps waiting for the catch—a hidden enemy, a test, something. But nothing comes. The denizens simply welcome him, offer him wine, and ask about his journey. Slowly, Chuuya lets himself relax. He drinks the wine, listens to the laughter of the denizens, and walks the peaceful roads in quiet contemplation. This is the life Verlaine wanted for him. The life he never got. He feels human here. Not a gravity-manipulating experiment, not a Mafia executive. The flower denizens never question his existence. To them, he is simply Chuuya, no strings attached. Slowly, it dawns on him—they don’t see a monster, a test subject, a weapon. Just a man.

Fate on the train:

Spending time in the Mediterranean Republic Car is the turning point for Chuuya. For once, he isn’t a weapon or Arahabaki’s vessel. The flower people treat him like anyone else, not as something to be controlled or feared. It’s disorienting at first, but slowly, it settles into something almost… comforting. He doesn’t immediately recognize how much it changes him. When he finally leaves the train, he knows truly, that his past does not define his humanity.

Dazai

I, like many others, went through all seven stages of grief with Dazai’s character. At first, I loved him. Then I started questioning why I even liked him. Then I hated him. And now?

Trying to dissect Dazai would take an entire essay—he's a walking contradiction, layered and impossible to pin down. At his core, he wrestles with the conflict between his desire for death and his search for meaning in life. Beneath his humor and carefree façade lies a deep-seated self-loathing and existential despair, carefully hidden from those around him. This duality fuels his self-destructive tendencies—he believes himself unworthy of happiness, even as he tries, in his own way, to be better.

First interaction with the cat:

Dazai finds The Cat’s antics entertaining but doesn’t fully trust her. He plays along with her schemes, but internally, he’s always analyzing her motives. He eggs her on just to see how far she’ll take things; playing dumb when she tries to con him, acting as if he’s about to fall for it. He keeps things lighthearted and playful but never lets her get the upper hand. He’s not an easy mark, and The Cat might find him frustratingly unreadable, since he constantly plays mind games back at her. Would they be friends? Not really. Would they tolerate each other? Yes, but with a lot of playful suspicion.

General headcanons:

Dazai would find the Chess Car intriguing at first, but then he realizes none of it makes sense. The game follows rules that feel like an AI’s warped interpretation of chess—it was a headache to get out of that car.

Between cars, he hesitated. Just one step, and it’d be over. But then the thought passed, it would be too painful and messy—and no beautiful lady to do it with.

He would also develop a strange tolerance for the denizens. He’d initially treat them as just part of the train’s weird mechanics—nothing interesting, but over time, he’d start engaging with them more, slipping into casual conversation as if they were just ordinary people.

Not having done any progress in some days, he would start rolling around on the floor out of stress.

The crystal car:

Dazai steps into the Crystal Car, greeted by an endless, glittering landscape. But his usual flippant attitude fades when he realizes the exit is locked—and the only way forward is through something deeply personal. When Greige mimes the challenge—"Sing from the heart" Dazai shrugs. "That’s it? What an easy game." He confidently places his hand on the resonance crystal and begins singing. "You can't do... a double suicide all on your own...". He barely gets through the first verse before… Nothing. The crystals don’t react. He blinks, slightly confused. Why didn’t that work? He tries again, voice smooth and carefree. "Boom, boom, it takes two who don't wanna die all alone!" Still no response. Dazai leans against a crystal, quiet for a moment. His mind drifts—not to suicide, not to tragedy, but to something… softer. The low crackle of an old radio in Bar Lupin. The warmth of cigarette smoke, cheap whiskey, and laughter. Oda leaning back in his seat, Ango taking a quiet sip of his drink. And a song—an old, forgotten tune—playing in the background. Almost without thinking, he starts humming it. The moment the tune leaves his lips, the crystals stir. Dazai doesn’t smile, doesn’t joke—for the first time in a long time, he just exists in the moment. The crystal giant appears, unlocking the door. A strange tightness sits in his chest, something unfamiliar. He exhales, glancing at his hand—his number has dropped slightly.

Fate on the train:

It’s harder to face your emotions than to simply pretend they don’t exist—mask them with humor and bury them deep. “What does this metal box even want from me? I have changed!” Despite his resistance, the train does its job, forcing Dazai to confront his issues. When he finally steps off, he’s a little lighter, but still undeniably annoyed.

Fukuzawa-Fukuchi

Fukuzawa’s Struggle

Fukuzawa holds himself to an unrealistic standard because so many depend on him, believing that if he falters, those under him will suffer. He carries the burden of being a protector, founding the Agency to shield the gifted from abuse—but he still questions if he is doing enough. Unlike Fukuchi, he’s always been cautious and restrained, but deep down, he compares himself to his old friend, wondering if he should have acted more boldly. His greatest regret is losing Fukuchi to the path he walks now, and he still wonders if there was something he could have done differently to prevent it.

Fukuchi’s Struggle

Fukuchi believes he is the only one who can fix the world, burdened by the failures of others. In his eyes, Fukuzawa abandoned him, leaving him with no one to share the weight of his mission. His noble intentions became corrupted by manipulation, pushed further by Fyodor’s lies. Despite his arrogance, he still cares deeply about Fukuzawa’s opinion—but he would rather die than admit it. His anger masks the wounded loyalty still buried beneath.

First encounter with the cat:

Fukuzawa immediately likes her. He’s always had a soft spot for felines, and the fact that this one talks and hoards trinkets only makes her more endearing. They get along quite well—Fukuzawa respects her autonomy, and The Cat enjoys his quiet, cat-loving energy. Fukuchi, seeing Fukuzawa instantly warm up to the Cat, scoffs. "You're really bonding with a talking cat?" The Cat, unimpressed, side-eyes him. "You're really not?" She doesn’t trust Fukuchi—something about him rubs her the wrong way. Maybe it’s the warlord energy. Maybe it’s the smugness. Either way, she keeps her distance. Fukuchi, in turn, thinks she’s just another obnoxious denizen wasting his time. Fukuzawa and The Cat are instant friends. Whereas Fukuchi and The Cat trade passive-aggressive comments. She will actively roast Fukuchi whenever given the chance.

General headcanons:

They would have synced numbers because their issues stem from each other—Fukuzawa’s regret over losing Fukuchi, and Fukuchi’s resentment toward Fukuzawa.

In a peaceful car, they end up sharing drinks, sitting in silence. Neither directly acknowledges it, but it’s the closest they’ve felt to how things used to be.

The Spa car:

Steam curls through the air. The only sounds are the distant trickle of water and the occasional shift of heated stones. It was Fukuchi’s idea to stop, to take a moment—he hadn’t been in a sauna in ages. For a long while, they sit in silence, the heat sinking into tired muscles, the quiet settling deep into their bones. Then, finally, Fukuzawa speaks, his voice low, measured. "I don't hate you. You did what you thought was right." Here, in the stillness, without war or duty hanging over them, the words come easier. No accusations, no justifications—just the simple truth. Two old friends, stripped of everything but themselves. And in the end, there is nothing left to do but acknowledge the weight of it all. A quiet embrace, a moment of understanding neither of them asks for but both accept. After a beat, Fukuchi huffs a laugh. "Is it weird that we're only in towels?" Fukuzawa exhales, shaking his head in mock exasperation. But there’s the barest hint of a smile on his lips.

Fate on the train:

They would get out rather quickly. With nothing left to focus on but their own respective problems—and because they’re grown men—they’d make progress faster than expected.

Fyodor

Oh boy—now let's see... distorted worldview, savior complex, deep-set loneliness, and isolation. In essence, Fyodor's biggest struggle is that he is a man who believes he must save the world, pushing past the cost of doing so—the loss of his own humanity and the destruction of those around him. His savior complex becomes a self-destructive cycle, where the more he strives to "fix" the world, the more he isolates himself from the one thing he truly needs to feel fulfilled: human connection and compassion. He will only escape the train when he realizes that he does not need to fix anything—but find peace for himself and a bit of compassion from others.

First encounter with the cat:

The Cat, with her usual charm, would approach Fyodor, offering something absurd or quirky. Her exuberance would be in stark contrast to Fyodor’s controlled demeanor. "How quaint… a creature like you, playing with such childish nonsense." He’d humor her with a brief glance or nod, but remain emotionally distant. The Cat would immediately sense something off about him but wouldn’t push too hard, used to the complicated personalities of the passages. Fyodor, though amused, wouldn’t trust her due to her unpredictability. He’d see her as just another curiosity on the train, politely distant but not threatened. Over time, The Cat would continue trailing him, intrigued by his calm, enigmatic demeanor. Fyodor would acknowledge her presence with polite indifference, not revealing anything deeper, but perhaps with a flicker of amusement. Despite his efforts to avoid her though, The Cat would grow increasingly fascinated by him, sensing potential beneath his stoic exterior. Over time, their relationship would remain cordial, with him offering polite dismissals and her continuing to probe his calm exterior.

General headcanons:

I do not want to think about the implications of Fyodor being killed by a ghome. Even if his ability worked, it could trap him in a warped, unstable existence—something non-human, something he couldn’t control.

He does find the train interesting—an engaging distraction where each car presents a new challenge.

Will absolutely kick the toad no problem but will politely apologize afterward.

Genuinely enjoyed the crossword car.

Crossed paths with Amelia once. They were both a little too sharp-tongued for their own good.

Scoffs at the idea of the train being "therapy," dismissing it as a crude, artificial attempt at forced change. But the thought lingers. If manipulation won’t get him off the train, then true change might be the only way—and that thought unsettles him more than he’d like to admit.

Not a headcanon but an interesting tidbit of information: the denizen in the cube car and himself share the same name.

Iceberg car:

Snow, endless snow, and the quiet blanket of ice. Fyodor wouldn’t rush to leave this place. Instead, he’d linger for a moment, his guard never fully down, but for once, he lets the cold air fill his lungs—sharp, familiar, a strange comfort. Home... He’d scoop up some snow, watching it settle in his palm before slowly crushing it between his fingers. How long has it been since he last set foot in his homeland? The weight of the question lingers, unspoken, but the answer is irrelevant. For now, in this moment, he allows himself the indulgence of remembering.

Fate on the train:

Fyodor is incredibly self-aware and blind at the same time, meaning he would recognize his flaws, but accepting change is another story entirely. He sees himself as above worldly attachments, and breaking that mindset would be nearly impossible.

If he ever did change, it would be slow, begrudging, and almost accidental. He wouldn’t have a grand revelation—rather, something small and human would unsettle him, forcing him to question himself in a way he can't ignore.

Ultimately, whether he gets off the train depends on one thing: Can he accept that he is just a man, not a savior?

Kyouka

Kyouka's biggest struggle is self-worth. She has always been defined by her past as a weapon and the trauma that came with it, especially under the influence of the Port Mafia. For so long, she’s been told that her value lies in her ability to serve someone else's cause, this leaving her with a deep fear of not being able to stand on her own and questioning if she’s capable of being more than the person she was forced to be. She struggles with finding her identity outside of the trauma and the expectations placed on her. Additionally, there's a sense of guilt over her past actions—having hurt others, even if she didn’t want to.

First encounter with the cat:

Of course the Cat would be talking a mile a minute, completely unfazed by Kyouka's calm demeanor. Kyouka, on the other hand, would probably blink a few times, a little confused by the oddity of the situation. She's not easily rattled, but she might tilt her head slightly, observing the Cat's antics with quiet curiosity. She might even give a small, polite smile, but it would be a little awkward, like she's not entirely sure what to do with someone like The Cat. Kyouka would likely try to keep her distance, not quite used to The Cat’s overly forward nature. She'd probably be too polite to outright reject whatever the Cat was offering, but there would be a gentle refusal: "No, thank you..." Her voice would be soft and controlled, with an air of caution as she tries to figure out the Cat’s intentions. In the end, their interaction would be more about observation than anything else. Kyouka might not fully understand The Cat, but she'd respect her space. The Cat would, of course, find her intriguing but wouldn’t push too hard. They wouldn’t be close friends right off the bat, but the foundations of a relatively peaceful relationship would be set.

General headcanons:

Kyouka actually enjoys the "boring" cars on the train, finding comfort in their quiet simplicity. It’s a rare opportunity for her to relax without the usual chaos.

She has a habit of collecting small trinkets from the different cars—stones, seashells, and flowers. They’re little, personal reminders of her journey.

Once, while lost in thought on a puzzle, she was startled by a denizen behind her, drawing her knife instinctively. The denizen fell back in surprise, and Kyouka, apologized awkwardly.

Though she keeps her distance, Kyouka observes others closely, intrigued by how people form bonds and handle their struggles, even if she doesn’t engage herself.

When The Apex tried to recruit her, she politely declined, preferring to stay independent and navigate the train on her own terms.

Doily car:

Kyouka would step into the Doily Car, immediately taken aback by how soft and delicate everything is. This one feels… safe. Warm. Almost like stepping into a quiet dream. The Crochet People welcome her gently, noticing her reserved nature. At first, Kyouka simply watches them go about their lives, particularly intrigued by the way they craft small plush figures. Their precise, rhythmic movements captivate her. Eventually, they hand her a crochet hook and some yarn, silently encouraging her to try. Though hesitant at first, Kyouka gives it a go, her fingers moving carefully, focused on getting it right. It’s calming in a way she didn’t expect. By the time she’s ready to leave, one of the crochet people hands her a small bunny doll they made just for her. She doesn’t say much, but she clutches it tightly as she leaves. It’s soft. Familiar. Something she can hold onto when things get difficult. And for that, she’s grateful.

Fate on the train:

Kyouka would likely spend a long time on the train, not because she refuses to change, but because she struggles to understand what change even means for her. She’s already trying to be a better person, already walking the path toward self-discovery—so what else is there? What is she still missing? Her journey wouldn’t be one of rebellion or outright denial but quiet contemplation. She would go from car to car, learning, watching, collecting small mementos without really knowing why. It’s not until she realizes that she gets to decide what kind of future she wants—not just following orders, not just atoning, but truly living—that her number finally reaches zero.

Kenji

Kenji’s main struggle isn’t deep internal conflict, but rather the balance between his overwhelming kindness and the destructive power he possesses. While he has the potential for immense destruction, especially if he's consumed by strong emotions like rage or sadness, Kenji has an extraordinary ability to keep his emotions in check. His kindness and compassion allow him to navigate a violent world without giving in to the darker sides of himself.

First encounter with the cat:

The Cat would see Kenji and immediately be reminded of Simon—his youth, blond hair, and cheerful nature striking an old, buried chord in her. Unlike her usual playful or mischievous approach with passengers, she would treat Kenji with a quiet, almost motherly warmth, as if trying to make amends for what happened with Simon. She wouldn’t openly acknowledge this, of course, but her actions would speak for themselves—she would actively stay by Kenji’s side, a rare departure from how she usually interacts with passengers. Whether consciously or not, she would gravitate toward him, walking alongside him through different cars, engaging him in conversation, and offering small tokens or words of advice. Kenji, in turn, would accept her presence with a bright smile and an open heart, never questioning why she stuck around—just happy to have a companion, unaware of the guilt and quiet sorrow driving it.

General headcanons:

His number would be ridiculously low, probably around 6. He adapts quickly, and doesn’t struggle with deep-seated personal conflict like most passengers. If anything, the train might struggle to find things for him to “fix.”

He would unintentionally speedrun the train. Puzzle cars? Solved in minutes. Emotional breakthroughs? Already had them before stepping onto the train. The only thing slowing him down is that he keeps stopping to help others.

Denizens adore him.

At some point, he casually punches through a door. Not out of frustration—just because he thought that was how to open it.

Family tree car:

Kenji accidentally and effortlessly steps into the role of family therapist, resolving disputes in record time. He listens to everyone's grievances with genuine patience and warmth, treating the feuding Gillicutys and Trundleshanks like familiar neighbors from his village. Rather than arguing, he shares heartwarming stories of his hometown—tales of cooperation, understanding, and the importance of letting go of old grudges. His words resonate so deeply that the portraits pause, reflect, and slowly begin to reconsider their feuds. By the time he's finished, both families are exchanging apologies, their long-standing resentment fading into reconciliation.

Fate on the train:

Kenji's fate on the train would be a quick exit. The cat would watch him leave, feeling a bittersweet sense of pride. She would be sad to see him go, but also proud, because in helping Kenji, she’d feel like she finally did something right after her failure with Simon. It would be a quiet, emotional goodbye, as Kenji’s innocence and goodness had made an impression on her.

Lovecraft

Lovecraft isn’t exactly human in the way the others are, so he doesn’t really have the same kind of emotional struggles or deep-seated trauma that the train usually forces passengers to work through. He’s more of an entity than a person—his problems, if he even has them, wouldn’t be about personal growth but more about… cosmic weirdness? If anything, his biggest "struggle" might just be existing in a world that isn't built for beings like him. He doesn’t seem particularly invested in human affairs, nor does he seem to have personal desires beyond idly going along with whatever’s happening. He doesn’t care about power, morality, or even survival in the way most beings do.

First encounter with the cat:

She approaches like she does with everyone, but the moment she gets close, her entire demeanor shifts. Her fur stands on end. Her tail puffs up. There’s no reason for it—Lovecraft hasn’t moved, hasn’t even looked at her, he is the perfect picture of calmness, maybe boredom—but something in her gut is screaming NO. Lovecraft, meanwhile, barely reacts. Maybe he blinks one eye open lazily, yawns, and mumbles something like, "Mm… you smell funny." Before closing his eyes again, already drifting back into whatever half-sleep state he exists in. The Cat, who rarely gets rattled, never gets spooked, immediately decides: Nope. No thank you. Not dealing with that. She just backs away, slow and careful, and makes a mental note to stay as far away from him as possible. She doesn’t even try to mess with him after that. He’s the only passenger she doesn’t attempt to pry into. Whatever he is… she wants nothing to do with it.

General headcanons:

People mistake him for a denizen; He barely reacts to most things, doesn’t seem concerned about getting off the train, and just exists in a way that’s eerily similar to the background elements of the train.

His number is broken anyway—It flickers, shifts, and just doesn’t exist in a way that makes sense. Someone tried to look at it, and it was just...eldritch runes? The train tried, but it doesn’t know what to do with him.

He doesn’t really understand the train either. Not in a confused way, but more in a detached way. When someone tried to explain the whole “self-improvement” thing, he just blinked slowly and went, “Mm… sounds like a lot.”

The beach car:

Lovecraft sees the ocean, shrugs, and just walks in without hesitation. No reaction, no sense of urgency—he just disappears beneath the waves like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He ends up in Randall Town, completely unfazed by the fact that it's underwater. The inhabitants take one look at this unbothered, eldritch-looking guy who strolls into their city and immediately assume he's some kind of deity. A religion forms around him almost overnight. Randall Town starts treating him like an honored guest, bringing him offerings—chocolates, ice cream, maybe even a little seashell necklace. Lovecraft, still half-asleep, just accepts it all with a sleepy, "Mm… thanks." He does not correct them. Not out of malice, just pure apathy. If they want to worship him, that’s their business. He ends up napping in some grand coral temple they build for him, completely unaware of how much of a cultural shift he’s caused.

Fate on the train:

He settles in Randall Town because it’s comfortable, quiet, and most importantly, full of people willing to bring him food. Randall starts worshiping him as some kind of deep-sea deity. He doesn’t encourage it, but he also doesn’t stop it—because, well, why would he?

He takes the offerings without a word. If they bow or chant strange prayers? Whatever. Not his problem.

He doesn’t even rule the town or anything—he’s just… there. A permanent, immovable fixture of Randall Town.

The Cat, from a very safe distance, watches this unfold with growing horror. Of course he ended up with a cult. Of course Randall started worshiping him. She refuses to go anywhere near Randall Town ever again. Lovecraft, meanwhile, remains completely unbothered. He has food, a comfy place to nap, and a bunch of weird little water people who adore him. He’s never leaving.

Lucy

Lucy struggles with abandonment issues, fear of rejection, and a deep need for control. Her harsh upbringing in the orphanage left her with scars—both physical and emotional—teaching her that mistakes lead to punishment and that love is conditional. Her ability was her only refuge, but it also made her an outcast, reinforcing her loneliness. Beneath her fiery attitude and sharp tongue, Lucy hides a deep fear of rejection and a desperate need for security. Her "mean girl" demeanor served as armor, keeping others at a distance so they can’t see just how much she longs for acceptance—a place where she won’t be left behind.

First encounter with the cat:

Their first meeting would be a rollercoaster of emotions—mostly on Lucy’s end. At first, she’d be delighted. "Oh, a kitty!" She crouches slightly, reaching out as if to pet The Cat. Then The Cat speaks. "My, my, aren’t you a lively one?" Lucy freezes. Her expression drops. “…What.” The Cat smiles, sitting down and curling her tail around her paws. “What, have you never seen a talking cat before?” Lucy straightens up, arms crossing as she glares. “You’re creepy.” The Cat tilts her head. “Rude.” She is genuinely confused by Lucy’s hostility. She flicks her tail with exaggerated offense. “I see, I am clearly not wanted here.” Lucy’s heart stutters in her chest. There’s a familiar, unwelcome pang in her gut—the creeping sensation of being left alone. Again. Even if The Cat is weird, even if she gets under her skin, she’s still someone. Before she can think it through, she blurts out, “I never said that.” Not quite an apology, not quite an invitation. The Cat pauses, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ohhh, so now you want me around?” Lucy groans, rolling her eyes. “Shut up.” But she doesn’t tell The Cat to leave. And The Cat, thoroughly entertained, decides to stick around.

General headcanons:

She acts like the train is the biggest inconvenience in the world, but deep down, she loves the mystery and drama of it all.

She keeps getting into arguments with denizens.

Her number confuses and frustrates her. She checks it constantly, scowls at it, and even tries yelling at it to change faster.

Acts like she doesn’t care about The Cat, but secretly relies on her. She’ll roll her eyes and sass back, but if she disappears for too long, Lucy will start looking for her.

Origami car:

The delicate, folded world reminds her of Anne’s room—not in appearance, but in feeling. Both spaces feel like places where a child could finally feel safe. And for the first time, Lucy’s inner child does. In a world where she’s been forced to suppress her emotions and put up walls to survive, the peaceful atmosphere of the Origami Car provides Lucy with an opportunity to reflect and engage with her own feelings. She is alone in the car, but not lonely, not afraid of being alone. The Origami Car teaches Lucy to form a connection, not with others, but with herself. Her number would drop significantly in this car.

Fate on the train:

Lucy would leave the train, but not quickly. She’d resist at first, clinging to her usual habits—pushing people away, trying to prove she doesn’t need anyone, acting like none of this affects her. But the train, of course, isn't fooled. Lucy will leave the train when she learns to cope with her fear of abandonment and rejection—not by erasing it, but by understanding it doesn’t have to control her.

Musitaro

Mushitaro’s biggest struggle is his deep-seated loneliness and guilt. He presents himself as smug, theatrical, and self-assured, but it’s all a front to mask how lost he feels without Yokomizo. His entire life revolved around his best friend, and after losing him, he’s left without a real purpose. He tells himself he’s fine alone, that he doesn’t need anyone, but the truth is, he’s terrified of connection—because to him, getting close to someone means risking the pain of losing them.

First encounter with the cat:

The Cat, ever the opportunist, takes one look at Mushitaro and sees potential. His refined dress, his carefully groomed demeanor—surely, someone of his presentation would be well-received in matters of business. And so, she approaches, eyes gleaming with the promise of opportunity. “You carry yourself with an air of distinction,” she muses, circling him like a merchant appraising fine wares. “Tell me, have you ever considered expanding your considerable talents into the realm of commerce? I find myself in need of a partner—one with charm, poise, and an appreciation for the finer things in life.” Mushitaro’s brow twitches. “You cannot be serious.” “Quite the contrary. You, monsieur, possess all the makings of a most successful businessman. A mind such as yours should not be wasted.” She offers a knowing smile. “Think of it—wealth, influence, the admiration of those beneath you. All within reach, should you simply seize the opportunity.” Mushitaro exhales sharply through his nose, adjusting his cuffs as if to shake off the absurdity of the conversation. “If you believe I would stoop to peddling whatever charlatanry you are involved in, you are gravely mistaken. I am a man of literature, of refinement. I do not ‘sell.’” The Cat watches him for a moment, tail flicking. Then, with a slow, measured nod, she steps aside. “C'est la vie. I had hoped you would recognize the brilliance of this endeavor. But alas, not all minds are suited for vision.” Mushitaro scoffs, turning on his heel, coat flaring with the motion. “Good day.” He strides off, determined to leave this nonsense behind. And yet, much to his dismay, it is not the last he sees of her. No, the Cat has taken an interest in him now—and once she does, she is not so easily dissuaded.

General headcanons:

Mushitaro treats the train like an elaborate personal inconvenience. He complains about the absurdity of it all but still begrudgingly plays along because what choice does he have?

Any car requiring physical exertion is his personal nightmare. If forced into an obstacle course car or something equally undignified, he will gripe the entire way through.

Runway car:

Mushitaro would step into the Fashion Show car with a dramatic sigh, muttering under his breath about how utterly ridiculous the entire idea is. He’d roll his eyes at the flashy décor and extravagant setup, but there’s no hiding the flicker of genuine interest in his eyes when he sees the finely tailored outfits displayed on mannequins. He quietly admires the clothes while pretending to be above it all. As Sashay, the flamboyant host, rushes forward with over-the-top enthusiasm, Mushitaro would maintain his cool, offering nothing more than a bored glance. Despite his attempts to stay unimpressed, his mind would be working overtime, mentally critiquing the designs and subtly rearranging the outfits in his head to meet his standards. Sloppiness is simply not an option. Walking across the runway with effortless grace, Mushitaro would exude a practiced, almost blasé confidence in his appearance. As he passes Sashay, he’d give a polite but distant nod, trying to downplay how much he’s secretly enjoying the attention. His face would remain cool, but the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips would betray his true feelings. When it’s time for feedback, the judges would shower him with praise, gushing over his elegance and impeccable style. Mushitaro would wave it off dismissively, muttering something about “not needing to be treated like a spectacle.” Yet, if anyone paid close enough attention, they’d notice the faint blush on his cheeks, a small but undeniable flicker of pride. He may not want to admit it, but he can't hide the satisfaction of knowing he nailed it. Though he’d leave the car with a final, exaggerated scoff about the absurdity of it all, there’s a spark of amusement in his eyes that he can’t quite suppress. Deep down, he’s satisfied with the experience.

Fate on the train:

Getting over guilt is hard. Acceptance is hard. His stubborn and stuck-up nature only deflects, pushing everything away, unwilling to face what lies beneath. Progress is slow, painfully slow, but eventually, he would get out.

Nikolai

(An oversimplification of Nikolai's problem.) I think Nikolai's problem lies in his deep fear of being overwhelmed—and ultimately controlled—by his emotions. He experiences feelings with intense depth, and this depth scares people away, so rather than embracing his emotions, he tries to escape, seeing emotions as burdens that limit his freedom. He longs to be free from the messiness of being human, believing that if he suppresses or rejects his emotions, he can transcend them. But this constant repression only breeds internal turmoil, for no matter how hard he tries, he cannot escape the fact that emotions are an inseparable part of who he is.

First encounter with the cat:

"Ah! Good sir!" the cat called out, her tail flicking with excitement. "You look like the type of man who knows his way around people. How would you like to join forces with me?" He tilted his head slightly, his playful smirk widening. "Join forces, huh? What exactly are we... joining forces for?" It was obvious he was about to be roped into something strange—not that he minded. The cat beamed. "It’s simple! I have a vision, and I need someone with your skills to help me. A partnership, mon cher! You’ll be my right-hand man, handling the big things while I... take care of the rest!" She winked with a smile. Nikolai chuckled softly. "A right-hand man, you say? That sounds delightful. What exactly would I be doing in this grand venture of yours?" "Oh, all sorts of things!" she said eagerly. "We’ll make big moves—gather resources, meet the right people. It’s a partnership for the ages!" Nikolai’s grin widened. "Big moves, huh? And I assume this will be... completely above board?" He teased, amused by the idea. "Of course! All perfectly legitimate!" she said with complete sincerity. "We’ll be the most successful duo this train has ever seen! We’ll both be rich—très riche!" Nikolai laughed, clearly just playing along with the absurdity of the situation. "Rich? I do like the sound of that. Alright, I’m in, let’s see where this goes, partner." He extended his hand with a flourish. The cat eagerly shook his hand, not realizing that Nikolai was simply along for the ride, enjoying the unpredictable journey ahead. After all, he did not have anything better to do. And his number was not going down any time soon.

General headcanons:

Because Nikolai wears gloves, he doesn’t notice his number until another passenger asks about it. When he takes off his gloves, he’s confused to find it reaching his wrist. After inspecting it further, he realizes it extends up to his shoulder. "Is it supposed to do that?" he mutters, puzzled. It’s just another thing weighing him down, though he quickly brushes it off with a smirk.

His number grows steadily, not because he's doing anything that directly causes it to increase, but because he actively avoids acknowledging it. The more he avoids it, the more it grows—like a stubborn part of his reality he refuses to confront. But that’s exactly how he copes, by pretending it doesn’t matter, while hoping he can somehow outrun it altogether.

Nikolai and Lake both crave freedom, though for different reasons. And I think they would end up understanding each other's need for release if they ended up interacting.

Lucky cat car:

Nikolai steps into the Lucky Cat Car with a bemused look on his face, already feeling a bit like he's stepped into some twisted version of reality. The flashing lights, carnival games, and the raccoon denizens bustling around the various booths catch his attention, but he’s already tired of hearing The Cat talk about her “business opportunity.” He’d expected a quick diversion, maybe some nonsense to pass the time, but somehow—somehow—he ends up running a magic show. The magic show quickly becomes a hit. It’s the perfect setup for him to strut his stuff without showing too much of his true self. The raccoon denizens are an enthusiastic audience, easily impressed by his sleight-of-hand tricks and the way he uses his portal ability to pull objects out of thin air or make things disappear in an instant. The tricks feel effortless to him, and he takes quiet satisfaction in the wonder he elicits, even though he’d never admit to enjoying the attention. What Nikolai doesn’t expect, though, is how well this “business opportunity” keeps him distracted from his growing number. As the days go on, the number on his hand continues to rise, but he does his best to ignore it. It’s just another annoying detail in the back of his mind—one he can’t control.

Fate on the train:

Ultimately, his fate is in his hands: if he can embrace his humanity, his vulnerability and stop running, he might find peace and finally escape the train. But if he can’t confront the very things that make him who he is, the train will keep him in its grip until he does. It’s about whether he chooses to face the fear of rejection and vulnerability that has held him back all his life.

Rampo

Ranpo struggles with self-worth, shaped by a childhood where he felt misunderstood—his way of seeing the world set him apart, leaving him isolated. To cope, he convinced himself he had a special ability, a comforting lie that made him feel unique and valued, but beneath his confidence, he craves recognition and approval, seeking reassurance that he truly matters.

First encounter with the cat:

The Cat saunters up to him with her usual flair, ready to rope him into some elaborate scheme, only for him to cut her off immediately with a flat, “Not interested.” Unfazed, she tries again—spinning a tale about an exclusive opportunity or some “once-in-a-lifetime” deal—but Ranpo just blinks at her, unimpressed, “That sounds like a scam. You’re bad at this.” The Cat, for once, is thrown off, tail flicking in mild irritation. “Well, aren’t you a rude little man?” But Ranpo is already walking away, just waving over his shoulder. “Yep!”

General headcanons:

Ranpo actually feels confused about how he ended up on a train—because if there’s one thing he and public transportation have in common, it’s that they absolutely should not mix.

Spends too much time in the cars that have snacks and candy.

He’s one of the few passengers who openly dislikes the denizens, especially The Cat, finding her more annoying than amusing.

Ironically, he figures out the train’s purpose almost immediately but refuses to openly admit his own faults out of sheer stubbornness.

Unfinished car:

The Unfinished Car would be one of the few places on the train to genuinely make Ranpo stop in his tracks and stare. Half-built structures jut out at odd angles, entire walls are just missing, and gravity itself seems to have no real rules. And yet, despite the sheer absurdity, the turtle people move through their daily lives with complete ease—delivering mail, running businesses, hanging their clothes to dry on floating debris like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Ranpo, who typically dismisses the denizens as nothing more than background noise, actually finds himself fascinated. Not because he suddenly respects them, but because he cannot wrap his head around how this bizarre, nonsensical world actually functions. It shouldn’t work, and yet it does. He watches in thinly veiled disbelief as turtles casually slide on the road using purple goo as transportation. "Huh," he mutters to himself, adjusting his glasses. "That weird." Ranpo dislikes common sense, and the more he observes, the more he wants to understand it. He seeks out Aloysius, the so-called emperor of this strange land, not out of politeness, but because he needs answers. He expects to find some clueless, puffed-up ruler, but instead, he meets someone who is polite and friendly. Aloysius speaks proudly of his kingdom and its achievements. And Ranpo just listens. It’s not out of respect, exactly, but out of genuine curiosity. The Unfinished Car defies reason, and Ranpo, despite himself, needs to know why.

Fate on the train:

"Oh, it’s therapy," he says with a sigh, unimpressed. "Great. How annoying."

And yet, despite knowing exactly what he needs to do, he doesn't do it. Because self-awareness and action are two very different things. He knows he has to confront his insecurities, but actually admitting his faults? Out loud? Where people can hear? Ugh. No thanks. So he drifts from car to car, solving mysteries for fun, poking holes in the train’s logic, and being generally insufferable about how quickly he’s figured everything out. But deep down, he knows he’s just stalling. When he does finally decide to face himself, his number drops fast. In just a few days, he’s at zero. He steps through with a dramatic yawn, acting like the whole thing was so tedious. But, if anyone were watching closely, they’d notice—he walks away just a little lighter.

Sigma

Sigma’s problem is rooted in his deep uncertainty about his identity and the past. His amnesia leaves him with a gaping hole where his memories should be, leaving him unsure of who he truly is or where he belongs. He doesn’t remember where he came from or what his purpose is, and that creates a pervasive feeling of emptiness. On top of that, he doesn’t feel like he has anything to his name—no accomplishments, no past to look back on, nothing to cling to for a sense of self-worth. What he truly craves is a place where he can belong, not as a tool or as someone to be used, but just for who he is. He longs for a sense of permanence and acceptance—people who see him not as someone broken or incomplete, but as someone worthy of love, care, and support. Sigma is looking for a home, somewhere he can feel safe and valued without the need to prove his worth or utility to others.

First encounter with the cat:

"Ah! You! Yes, you!" she exclaims, bouncing toward him with unnatural enthusiasm. Sigma doesn’t flinch, but he feels a slight tightening in his chest. Another one, he thinks. Another person who’s going to try to take something from me. “Come, come, mon cher! I have the perfect business opportunity for you!” she continues, her accent thick and overly sweet as she pulls out some pamphlets, likely full of nonsense. He doesn’t even glance at them, his voice flat. “I’m not interested.” She presses on, relentless. “But you must be! Think of what you could gain—belonging, importance!” Sigma’s mask remains tight. Sigma’s patience wears thin. He’s seen this before. The promises of belonging, of importance—but it’s always a game, always manipulation. He’s been used too many times in his life to let it happen again. “I don’t have time for this.” With that, he turns to walk away, not sparing her another glance. He’s not interested in anyone who sees him as a tool for their own gains. She might be different, but he’s not taking any chances. The Cat watches him leave, her enthusiasm slightly dimming as she realizes she’s been brushed off. Sigma, however, doesn’t look back.

General headcanons:

Even in the quietest, safest cars, he keeps moving. Standing still feels too much like being trapped.

The denizens unsettle him. Not because they’re strange, but because they seem content with their existence. He can’t understand it.

Sleep does not come easily. He’s not sure if it’s the train or just him, but he’s constantly restless.

Mega maze car:

Sigma finds the maze and sighs softly. “Great…” Another obstacle. Another delay. He’s tired, but he doesn’t hesitate—placing a hand on the right wall, he starts walking. It’s a simple trick, but it keeps him moving forward. That’s all that matters. The maze twists and turns, but he doesn’t let frustration take root. He focuses, methodical and precise. One foot in front of the other. There’s no point in stopping, no point in lingering. When he finally reaches the castle, he expects another trial, another puzzle to solve before he can move on. Instead, he’s met with silence. The halls stretch, filled with ornate furniture, rich carpets, and chandeliers that glow softly despite the emptiness; There are also no footprints in the dust because there is no dust—everything is perfectly preserved, perfectly still. It feels lived-in but abandoned all at once, as if waiting for something. Or someone. Then, a voice fills the air. Morgan speaks, her tone warm yet hesitant, filled with a kind of loneliness that Sigma knows too well. He stiffens instinctively, expecting some hidden demand, some expectation disguised as kindness. But Morgan only talks—soft, wistful words drifting through the grand halls as she welcomes him. And so, Sigma listens. He doesn’t feel the urge to run or keep his guard up. There is no debt to repay, no fear of being discarded once he’s outlived his usefulness. Morgan wants nothing from him but conversation, and that simple, unspoken understanding settles something deep within him. Days pass. He walks the halls, straightens picture frames, folds blankets, repairs what little has worn down over time. He’s not asked to do any of it, but he does it anyway. The stillness of the castle no longer feels suffocating; it feels comfortable. Familiar.

Fate on the train:

Sigma’s number reaches zero, but he doesn’t feel relief. There’s no rush of victory, no overwhelming sense of accomplishment. Just… emptiness.

Morgan has seen this before too many times. She doesn’t beg him to stay, doesn’t try to convince him, no, not this time. She’s learned that passengers always leave in the end. So when the door appears, she only says, “It’s time, isn’t it?” Her voice is steady, but the walls of the castle seem to shift—just slightly, just enough to betray the sorrow she won’t say out loud.

Sigma stands before the exit, but he doesn’t move.

Where would he go? The casino? The battlefield that nearly killed him? There’s nothing waiting for him on the other side. No home, no future that isn’t built on uncertainty.

But here, in Morgan’s halls, he has purpose. He’s not a tool, not a means to an end. Just someone existing in a place that doesn’t ask for more than he’s willing to give.

“I don’t want to leave.” His voice is quiet, but firm.

Dividers: saradika-graphics

So there you have it! :> I really hope I did your ask justice, my dear Sandshrew stranger. I did consider adding more characters like Q, Louisa, Teruko, and some of the flags, but the list was getting so long, and this post might’ve ended up taking me three months to finish, haha.

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