The Little Engine That Could [Railway Finale]

Removed from the auction proper by about one or two kilometers sat an old HD300 shunting locomotive. It was an old but robust beast of steel which ran on pure torque and pulled cars upon cars of heavy merchandise all through the ports of Japan. The country relied heavily on its port infrastructure, and as such it wasn't uncommon to see railway tracks running between warehouse and unloading areas and perpendicular to the steel rails of amovible cranes, which stacked the containers retrieved from the ship for them to be carried to their strange purposes all over Japan, fueling the ogre of industry.

And on the shoulder of the ogre of industry was perched the imp of crime. It was a nasty, bloodsucking thing borne of corruption and lawlessness, entertaining a seemingly symbiotic but ultimately parastic relationship with its hosts. At first it was relatively harmless, selling drugs and shoplifting and jaywalking. It even proved itself useful as hired muscle to disperse striking workers. But soon and inevitably it grew into a tumor, draining the life-blood of its host. And in the worst of cases, it dipped its grubby paws into the business of death and assorted weaponry.

The cranes were working tirelessly to load the last containers as the last of the auction was conducted. The train driver was smoking a cigarette with his co-driver, the two men laying against their engine and watching the distant auction taking place under cover of the night. "Hey," said the first one. "What do you think it is this time?" He had worked as a shunting engine driver on the docks for many years, and he had learned that while asking questions was dangerous business, there was no harm in speculative guesses. "I don't know," replied the other one. "Looks like there's a bunch of rich assholes. So, probably drugs." The first one chuckled and drew on his cigarette. It made him feel like the main character of a film noir, and it made him forget that he was just an old boring train driver to whom nothing incredible happened and who always saw things from a distance. Some nights he wished something would happen so he'd have a cool story to tell his grandchildren on his deathbed. he was forty and childless.

The co-driver was a younger man and didn't care for any sort of action. He cared for a paycheck and the night shift paid more, and then he cared for the impressive collection of anime figurines he had at home and which he would never even dare mention to the other dockers. All he wanted was to get home, go to sleep and wake up to the package he was expecting any day now -- a 1/144 Real Grade 00 Raiser gunpla.



"All units on standby. Operation Sea Shepherd is a go in 0005. Team Thomas is to keep a watch on the shunting engine. We have confirmation that merchandise from the auction is being loaded on board. Exercise caution and restraint: high chance of civilian personnel on board. Do not engage before Operation Sea Shepherd is a go. I repeat: Caution and restraint. High chance of civilian personnel in the area. Do not engage before Operation Sea Sheperd is a go..."

The orders crrsh'd and crrrk'd over the earpieces of police and heroes alike, assembled in a special task force under the authority of the JNRSF -- Japanese National Railway Security Force. Most of the officiers present were from the force themselves; all had extensive experience in urban assault and specialized training against railway terrorism. They were clad in thick, padded, Kevlar-reinforced gear from head to toe and carried snub-nosed submachineguns. Behind their balaclavas and ballistic goggles and gas masks, they wore the expression of stone lions: impassible, dignified, relaxed yet menacing. Few were on foot; more waited in idling vans and shut-down helicopters, ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

And among them, of course, pro heroes. This was the first time such a large-scale operation was undertaken with the cooperation of these newly minted professionals and there was uneasiness on both sides. The JNSRF officers shot them furtive looks and spoke to each other in whispers and murmurs about these men -- these superhumans -- they were supposed to cooperate with tonight. They wore the same earpieces they did, but would they listen to orders the same as them? Were they able to deal with hostage situations the same as them? Did they have the training and discipline they had spent years and years drilling into themselves?

‘Only time would tell’, lesser men would have said, but Lieutenant Yamatori Masao was no lesser man. Figuratively and literally: he towered at a good 195cm, which by Japanese standards was NBA size or Joestar size, depending on how much of a nerd you were. Despite being the highest-ranked among the boots on the ground, he was also the newest member of the JNSRF present tonight -- yet none of the veterans second-guessed his appointment. He had transferred into the force after resigning from the army a year ago; his last achievement with the JSDF had been to lead and protect a bunch of UA kids in the Semper Fi debacle. That’s what made him resign.

He was built like a tree trunk or like an American war movie hero, tall and broad of shoulders and with a brow like a brick wall. The submachinegun looked like a toy between his enormous hands. Even in whisper his voice boomed like a mortar, as he extended a firm handshake towards the heroes. “Lieutenant Yamatori Masao, Japanese National Railway Security Force. I’m in charge of our little here boarding party. I hear you guys are more r’ less outside the chain of command, but that ain’t gonna be a problem if we all act like men, ain’t it?” His smile was broad and his teeth misaligned, but he was smiling with his eyes. “If all goes well we won’t have to do nothin’ and the boys over there will shut down this lil’ operation and we’ll all be posin’ for the papers tomorrow. But if there’s somethin’ years of army have taught me, it’s that nothin’ ever goes well. Ain’t that right, boys?”

Emboldened some by their leader, the boys in black murmured agreement, but the wariness did not leave their eyes. Only Lieutenant Yamatori’s were free of such emotions. So far in his career, he had only ever been shot at by non-quirkers.

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