#silt the sea-swallowed engine

[railwaycreature]

Another OC I've not introduced to you all yet:

Beatrice the Haunted Engine!

Beatrice (She/Her) is a Stanier 8F Class locomotive, quite a gentle, pleasant lass despite her strength, and a very diligent hard worker. She's a trans woman, and owing to her busy life she doesn't often get chances to shave, leading to her having a bit of scruffy facial hair. She's quite fond of it, though :)

You may be wondering about her title, haunted how? Well, in real life, a handful of Stanier 8Fs were involved in peculiar accidents, in which they fell off of boats and were lost at sea. Spending so long underwater, one of those 8Fs began to change... and so was born

Silt the Sea-Swallowed Engine!

They're a... strange being, to say the least. They don't have a permanent physical form, and can only hold one for a short amount of time. By default, they are ghostly and they often reside within Beatrice, resting in her consciousness and scarcely ever revealing themself. Silt haunts Beatrice and is linked to her physical form, using her as a sort of host since they can't sustain a form themselves. They can take full control of her at will, which has caused Beatrice's social life to take a nosedive because under Silt's control, she just... stares, and moves strangely, and mumbles non-words or unsettling ominous sentences

Beatrice feels very conflicted about Silt. She feels very sympathetic towards them owing to the terrible accident that caused them to gain this form, but she does really dislike being used as a puppet, and how it's affected her relationships with others

[teratocrat]

hundreds of miles offshore, pouring rain, the setting sun just barely gilding the edge of the western horizon through the clouds, a ship is reading the depths of the seafloor. it is a research ship, ostensibly, but the mania its captain and crew have been seized by is far beyond ‘research’, resting on the bleeding edge between science and madness - here. they have found the mid-ocean ridge, where the raw bleeding flesh of the earth billows up and cools into new skin before being drawn away from the still-open wound. hours away, just offshore, that same oceanic floor, laden with millions of years of rich silt, buckles and subducts under the continental plate, stirring forth wonderful terrible geocatastrophe. but here, out in the middle of the ocean, the world holds its breath. the chief engineer has prepared the payload for the crane arm to pick up - dangle over the water - lower - release, and the thing dives, swallowed up by the black of the water as it yearns to fulfill its purpose. then there is little left to do but wait. the crew cluster around the screens, waiting one hour, two, three. the instruments of the payload tell them that it is now closing on a particular section of the seam between the two oceanic plates, a sacred spot avoided by oceanographers for generations, and then it vanishes. two tons of plutonium and its delivery mechanism, snatched out of the depths by the jaws of some ancient creature who now awakens from her aeons-long slumber. the oceanfloor bulges, cracks, is sloughed off. she shakes life into her nether regions and the hot magma clinging to her scales is flung off, cooling into pillow basalt. sapphire and amethyst light flares along her body, nose to tailtip, searing and blinding the deep-sea inhabitants who have let their curiosity drawn them to her awakening, and she pushes off with a mighty heave of her hindlegs to make her way to the surface. she is the Sun-Swallower, the Admiral Without Equal, the Sower-of-Derelicts. she is the Divine Tyrant, the Hoard Eater, the jealous god who claims sovereignty over all she surveys. she is the Alchemical Source and the Great Work, the Empress of Light, the arbiter of all grace and beauty in the world. her tail raises mountains and rends valleys, her scales are unbreachable treasures that dazzle the eyes, her jaws swallow fleets of ironclads and flocks of warplanes, her breath destroys and purifies and sublimates and transforms.

she is the Dragongirl, and she is awake once more.

[eulerami]

Not Quite Old Times: Saints Row 2 Fic Troy x M!Boss, (Ignacio.) [Song Inspiration]

        It was always raining in Stilwater. 

          Every time he looked, it seemed the waves would swell a bit more, swallowing some of the coastline, sinking a chunk of road or silted bank, until another piece broke off and took the better part of a block with it. The plains were eradicated, the fields muddy ditches, now rebranded as summertime getaways for unbeatable prices. Finally Stilwater became an island, isolated, alone--paradisaical, with all undesirable at the bottom of the lake. Yet all anyone complained about were their shoes getting wet.

It was ironic, perhaps a little disgusting-- yet there he sat, seat reclined, watching from a parking lot. The Arena District; way out here, across town. He’d come to watch the coast, same as every evening after a long day of doing the right thing.

The ignition was off, rain battered the windshield, and a few rogue droplets still managed to find their way through a cracked window. His fingers flicked the nub of a cigarette while he saw the waves ebb and flow, crashing mere feet from the sophisticated aesthetic, yet technologically useless, dams.

Across the canal was where it happened. The lights of the refurbished bridge shone foggy in the storm. It brought a grunt, as he turned his eyes down to check the contents of the Styrofoam cup in hand, lukewarm coffee halfway drained. It wasn’t that good anyway.

The quiet was welcome. A day of ringing phones and paperwork left his ears still ringing, and he found it pathetic in its own right that he was sore from it. He barely left that gilded office, only to find reprieve in a sketchy parking lot full of dumpsters and sputtering barrel-fires. Smirking, he took a long drag, exhaling through his nose slowly.

Yeah, that felt like home—at least for a few minutes.

He pushed his neck against the headrest, annoyed--despite the generous budget of their glowing benefactors, Ultor still couldn’t supply a car with substantial headspace, let alone leg room. He missed the days of low-rider muscle cars and midnights spent on the hood, watching the stars half-baked and rambling about the future. A dream or a facade, it didn’t matter.  

In the passenger seat, a box of paperwork waited where someone wanting to spend the night with him used to be. Had six years really gone by so fast? The years piled on after a while, and then they were gone.  

As he sighed again, tapping his knee against the door, he let his eyes fall closed to stifle the special sort of exhausted frustration he felt these days. To his left, however, somewhere out there in the storm, the shrill revving of a motorcycle grew louder. He cocked a brow, opening an eye only to peek through the windshield.

As quickly as he had, a motorcyclist shot by, body arched, head low in the night. Sitting upright, he grimaced, squinting through the dark. The cyclist spun out in the barren street,  foot coming to catch, thick back tire skidding with a squeal.

They drove up to the parking lot, a long, methodical pace this time, before rolling to a stop. They seemed to lock gazes with him, out there at the edge of the street, from a face cast in hooded shadow. Overhead lights of closed businesses illuminated their silhouette in warm light, but they were still anonymous. Their hand flexed, the bike responded with a piercing roar of its engine, smoke kicking up behind the tire. “...a’ite, hotshot,” he muttered, sitting upright in his seat. He watched the cyclist, brow knitted, evidence that his souring mood would end up even more bitter before he got a chance to find his couch for the night. The figure in the distance goaded him, revving the gas, coming to burnout but stopping just short with a squeal of the tires. Finally, their hand went to the pocket of a thick sweatshirt, and brandished a pistol.

“Shit--!” Troy ducked under the dash, as a bullet pierced the hood of the car. Once, twice, two pops fired ringing in the night, deafened by the storm--an all-too familiar sound. He hissed between his teeth, raising tired eyes to the ignition, and turning the key. The red-blue lights blared on the cab, siren sounding. The cyclist revved again, foot forcing the sportbike into a circle before speeding off in the other direction.

His foot slammed the gas and the cruiser sped after the other, turning a corner into the empty highway. He accelerated, but the rain painted the other’s tail light as little more than a dull orb to follow. He squinted, the wipers doing jack to mitigate the storm, but he knew this town before the streetlights and levies, and no self-respecting race car had wipers. The sportbike bucked as it hit the dirt, the rider relying on their leg to steer it through the mud, as they crashed through a locked gate. Troy locked his jaw, now gaining ground, as his vehicle fared better than a motorcycle in the mud. Somehow, the cyclist still managed to go speeding up the dirt road through the mountain pass, twisting when needed to force a sharp turn through junk and soggy leaves.

“Where you goin’?!” He yelled to no-one, eyes never leaving the other, as trees and tall dynamited cliff walls blurred by. He was dragged out to the woods, spiraling around the bluff of Mt. Claflin. He nearly rammed the cyclist over the bumps of dirt road, as the bike ahead sped only to come to a slowing halt in the clearing.

Troy sat there, engine idling, white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. A crash of thunder roared overhead, rain heavy and unrelenting, wipers in full speed. He waited a moment, turning off his siren but not the lights, and they flashed and shone over the wet bark of the surrounding forestry. The cyclist leaned over, kick-stand propped, as they dismounted. They turned to stare at him, yet again—soaked to the bone.

Troy reached for the radio, but didn’t dial. Instead his other hand found the gun at his belt, and without taking his eyes from the other, he opened the car door.

Several beeps, interior light, red and blue flashing. The pounding rain soaked his jacket in moments, cascading over the brim of his hat. He raised his chin—structured, disciplined.

“Put your hands where I can see ‘em,” he called, but his voice lacked conviction; those words meant little. He didn’t want to shoot this idiot, for no other reason than he wanted to be home. Hand resting over the gun, still standing behind the car door, he unclasped the snap. When the other didn’t move, hands lazily in their sweatshirt pocket, stance loose, he gritted his teeth. Pulling the gun, he aimed, one-handed and irritated.

“I said ‘hands up,’ shithead!”  The other’s shoulders moved, as if they’d chuckled.

“¡Tanto tiempo sin verte, güero!”

He froze, eyes widening slightly. He squinted again to get a better look through the rain, confusion spreading across his face as his mouth twisted, “...Nacho?”

“That any way to say hello?” A coy, taunting head tilt in his direction brought Troy to exhale, his arm slowly lowering. Scowling now, he shuffled slightly, arm to his side.

He stood there, disgruntled, before exasperation laced his demand, “whataya want?”

“Just wanna’ talk; you don’t seem to know how to pick up a phone, so.”

Troy stared, indignant-- “You shot at me!”

“Got your attention.”

He scoffed, shaking his head, letting it hang. He re-holstered his gun, eyes settled in the mud. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he took a steady breath, before gesturing with annoyed urgency.

“Get’n the car.”

“Más vale que sea digno de mi tiempo--”

“Just shut up and do it, will ya?” He half-barked, voice cracking, twinge of desperation betraying the anger. Ignacio raised his hands in mock defense, but he did as he asked and closed the distance between them. Troy watched him go to the door, moving his box of paperwork to the backseat, muttering, “it’s open.”

Two car doors slammed, and silence.

Ignacio sat in the passenger seat with relaxed indifference, green eyes set ahead to the overlooking cliffs. He raised thick brows, turning his head to look at the other’s profile as he removed his hat, tossing it on the dashboard. The only sound was that of water dripping from their clothes onto the leather interior.

“...You look good.”

“Ha-ha, very funny.” Troy quipped, teeming with reproachful sarcasm, smoothing his hair back.

“I’m serious,” he said convincingly, but Troy still hissed between his teeth. “Never thought I’d see you in blue.”

“Yeah and I never thought I’d see your ass walkin’ again,” he retorted, “...let alone talkin’.”

“I guess I have you to thank for that, don’t I?”

Troy pulled a crumpled pack of smokes from his breast pocket, shaking his head lightly to himself again as he took one in his mouth. Finding the cheap lighter, he flicked it a few times, aggravated when it sparked uselessly. He opted instead for the dashboard lighter, Ignacio looking on in tense silence. “So…” he began, voice trailing off into rasp, patting his knees in fidgeting rhythm, “why’d you do it?”

“Do what?” Troy snapped, finally lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag. Ignacio shrugged, quiet, before looking up at him with genuine eyes.

“Save my life.”

Troy paused, seeing him there with his peripherals, face still obscured by the hooded sweatshirt. He exhaled, smoke wafting in the car’s cab, before he cracked a window and waved it away.

“...Why else?” He asked finally, incredulously, voice breaking again. “Call it habit, maybe. Whataya think I am, huh?”

“I’m not so sure what I think you are,” Ignacio responded coolly, slowly, expression calm and unwavering. “A liar, first-off.”

Turning to him, he got his first good look at the other since he last saw him lying there in a hospice bed. Scarred face from chemical burns, scarred neck from a 6-year-long tracheostomy. His eyes were unchanged, fiercer, but the same as he remembered. He felt his own fierceness soften.

“Yeah, alright.” Troy answered with a defeated tone, turning away again. He continued to puff on his cigarette, before squinting angrily at nothing. “You here to kill me? You wanna’ try that? Ask Gat how that went.”

“No need to get touchy,” Ignacio shook his head, “Just here to talk.”

“About what?”

“What I asked you. Why’d you do it, seeing as you and Julius wanted me dead and all—“

“That isn’t true,” Troy slapped his hand down on the center console, turning to him abruptly. Pointing, cigarette in hand, “I had nothing to do with that—I was pissed and terrified, Nacho, what the fuck do you think—“

“So it isn’t true, then.” He interrupted loudly, tone skeptic and taunting. “You weren’t in on it? You didn’t know how he planned to disassemble the Saints and sell us out? You probably didn’t know about the bomb either, right?”

“Correct.” He replied slowly, sternly, with a locked jaw.

Ignacio chuckled dryly, looking at the floor before glancing at him again. “Should’ve stayed a Saint, Troy; you’re a shitty cop.”

“Any other pearls of wisdom?”

Ignacio said nothing, simply blinking before tilting his head.

Troy’s lips formed a line, thoroughly exhausted, frustrated, and hurt all at once. He wanted to scream at him, he wanted to punch him too, probably, but he also was overcome with the worst of all--relief.

“You want answers? Fine,” he muttered, returning to his slumped position in his seat. Knees apart, head reclined, he smoked for a moment in silence while he tried to lower his blood pressure. “Don’t pretend that I don’t know why you brought me out here, a’ite? I remember this place. It’s yesterday for you, but it’s yesterday for me too. And I was awake the last six years.”

Ignacio remained quiet, simply raising his eyebrows as he reached to lower his hood, patting down his dampened hair. “It’s true that I knew Julius planned to disband the Saints, that was the plan from the get. What I didn’t know is that he planned for you to be the fall-guy for it, so he could fuck off to who knows where.”

“You don’t know where Julius is now?”

Troy shook his head, exhaling more smoke. He closed his eyes for a few moments, before continuing. “You took the fall for Julius, but here I was in the same proverbial boat for Monroe. Lucky for me, you got him before that could happen.”

“He what-now?” “Yeah, you missed all that. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

Ignacio stared ahead, calculatingly a moment, before Troy interrupted the thought. “Point is, I thought I’d just have to arrest you. I didn’t want to do it, especially not after...we, well. You can believe that if you want, but it’s the truth. Julius took it further, knowing you’d never stop.”

“Damn right.”

He inhaled deeply again. “It was a real mess.”

Ignacio watched his face, before looking out at the storm again. He really couldn’t remember much, not even pain.

“I remember you visiting. TV on, you talkin’. Don’t remember what you were sayin’, though.” “Huh?”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Yeah, it’s weird.” His shoulders slumped, and he reached for the seat lever, adjusting it and reclining. He stared at the interior light, looking over at Troy, who looked back in confusion. Ignacio outstretched his arm, and plucked the cigarette from his lips, bringing it to his own. It was Troy’s turn to chuckle dryly, shaking his head and looking at the roof of the car too.

“...I knew you’d wake up.” He murmured. “The first year...was the hardest.”

“You’re right about one thing; it is still all yesterday for me. Even sitting out here, even with that eyesore.”  

Troy turned his head, glancing at him, and then to the Ultor Pyramid in the distance, bright as ever. “Real weird hearin’ you say that.”

“I got a lot to say.”

“I couldn’t even get a peep outta’ you back then, now you won’t shut up.”

Ignacio smirked a bit, scratching his beard. “Depended on the situation.”

“A-ha, yeah, don’t get cute.”

“What was this, anyway?” He gestured between them, “A way to pass the time?”

“Jesus, Nacho—“

“I get it, at least be fuckin’ honest about it.”

“What do I have to do to prove myself at this point, huh? What do you want from me? You really think all the stunts you get away with are all on your own merit? I keep my guys, the FBI, the news, off your nuts on a daily basis. And here you are asking me if—if it was—uh,” he searched for the word in his frustration, “...real.”

“That’s right.”

“Christ,” he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Why’s it so hard to say?”

“Because I don’t know, alright? I don’t know. I was under a lot of fuckin’ pressure, walking a fuckin’ tightrope—“

“That tends to happen when you lie.”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“Of course you did, and you’ve made them. So have I.”

Ignacio sat up, taking another drag of the cigarette before holding it between his lips. He started to raise his hood again, as Troy watched him with conflicted eyes.

“I ain’t gonna bother you. But, don’t fuck with me, or my Saints.” He reached for the door handle, as Troy sat up quickly.

“Wait a minute—“

“We’re done here.”

Troy grabbed his sleeve abruptly, forcing him to turn. Ignacio tensed, fists balled, but Troy took hold of his face, yanking him forward, before gripping the back of his neck sharply, pulling him somewhat over the center console.

Still stronger than he looked. “I watched you lay in a bed for six years, with everyone in my ear tellin’ me you were done for, a waste of time, a waste of money. I dragged your bloody-fuckin’-body out of the water when half’ur face was hangin’ off. I had to sit there with the life drainin’ out of you on the fucking cement, you get me?!”

Ignacio’s lips parted to speak, but Troy’s fingers flexed angrily, “shut the fuck up a minute, huh? You have no idea what I’ve been through to keep you breathin’. You have no idea what it did to me  to see you like that. You think I wanted any of this? Someone has to take responsibility and abide the red tape, otherwise, all of it was--...was for nothin’.”

Ignacio stared into his eyes, dark and tired, but the spark of who he remembered still clear behind them. He dipped his chin slightly, eyebrows furrowed, eyes piercing and challenging.

“You really want to play this game?”

“No,” he spat, voice tight. “no I don’t.”  His eyes darted between each of his, brow quivering, before he lowered his head. His grip loosened, as Ignacio’s shoulders relaxed, but only slightly. A long shuddering breath left his nose, as he closed his eyes, feeling the familiar sting. “I don’t care what you do.” His hands left him, trembling, unsure if it was rage or...something else. “It’s over for me. It ain’t for you.” “Estas son chingaderas--” “Eh, ha—I have no idea what that means.”

“Fine.” A gloved hand rose, flicking the stolen cigarette out the window. He took hold of his jaw, Troy opening his eyes, startled. “Good thing I don’t believe that.”

He leaned forward, lids heavy, before pressing his lips to his. A sense of familiarity washed over him, for the first time since he awoke to find his home a reformed metropolis. Everyone in it had changed, moved on, forgotten him and what he was—what he stood for, what so many had bled for. This was his city--it was free under him and his Saints. Even Johnny was oddly...domesticated, matured. The whiplash lingered, an obscure vertigo only he knew.

All save for one.

Troy’s fingertips found his arms, as he tilted his head, deepening their kiss with exhausted reprieve. Nostalgia seared his heart, and brought a lump to his throat he couldn’t force down. Yet, he was overtaken in the smell of rain and smoke, and for a moment, reclaimed his youth he’d left behind.

They parted only for breath, some odd suspension of time. Ignacio felt his forehead press against the other’s, and with a light inhale, his fingers toyed with his hair, and stroked the nape of his neck. A semblance of reality, something present to remind him it wasn’t all a dream.

Troy’s eyes squeezed shut again, before he opened them, glossy and pained.

“I...missed you,” he finally managed, choking out his words. “You don’t know how...how damn hard it’s been, I—“

“It’s all gonna’ change now,” Ignacio told him quietly, “I’m gonna’ retake this city and make it right.”

Troy exhaled slowly, breath catching in his throat before he leaned away slightly. “You can’t go around so carelessly, Nacho, these people, Ultor, they’re bad news man—“

“I ain’t scared.” He told him, thumb coming to stroke his cheekbone. “I don’t want you worryin’ about it right now.”

He let out a heavy sigh, hand raising to rest atop the other’s, before meeting his gaze again.

Ignacio’s lips formed a slight grin, eyes peaceful, yet an undertone of mischief. “...Y’know, this ain’t my Bootlegger. Not much room in here.”

“Yeah,” Troy half-sniggered, letting his head hang, and press into Ignacio’s shoulder, “tell me about it; I bang my head on the door all the time.”

“We could...go someplace?”

“You actually have a house these days? Your car’s gotta’ feel so betrayed.”

“As a matter of fact,” he muttered proudly, brow quirking. “I don’t think you’d wanna’ be seen out that way, though.”

“I happen to have an apartment in Barrio.”

“Really?” He looked at the other in playful disbelief, a brow raising. “Chief of police lives in the Barrio?”

“Yeah, wanted to uh...well, be nearby, I guess. Your hospice was down the road a bit. ...That, and the food’s great.”

Ignacio silently laughed once,“...I guess I owe you an apology.”

Troy leaned up, returning to his seat, peering at him with a somewhat sheepish expression before looking away.

“Eh,” he waved it off, “make it up to me.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

He exhaled through an embarrassed smirk, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing rogue strands out of his eyes. “What uh—what about your bike?”

Ignacio reclined in his seat, bringing his arms behind his head and relaxing. “I’ll call somebody to pick it up.”

Troy glanced at him, before nodding a bit, clearing his throat. “Well, alright then.” He turned the key, starting the car.

He pulled forward, before backing up and leaving down the dirt road. The downpour continued, darkening the night in pounding rain. Still, as they drove and they talked, crossing the bridge, reminiscing in hesitant, short sentences, the air was calm--despite the inevitable storm to come.

[kenora-pizza]

EYYYYYYY!! Old lady and Ocean Creechur

Another OC I've not introduced to you all yet:

Beatrice the Haunted Engine!

Beatrice (She/Her) is a Stanier 8F Class locomotive, quite a gentle, pleasant lass despite her strength, and a very diligent hard worker. She's a trans woman, and owing to her busy life she doesn't often get chances to shave, leading to her having a bit of scruffy facial hair. She's quite fond of it, though :)

You may be wondering about her title, haunted how? Well, in real life, a handful of Stanier 8Fs were involved in peculiar accidents, in which they fell off of boats and were lost at sea. Spending so long underwater, one of those 8Fs began to change... and so was born

Silt the Sea-Swallowed Engine!

They're a... strange being, to say the least. They don't have a permanent physical form, and can only hold one for a short amount of time. By default, they are ghostly and they often reside within Beatrice, resting in her consciousness and scarcely ever revealing themself. Silt haunts Beatrice and is linked to her physical form, using her as a sort of host since they can't sustain a form themselves. They can take full control of her at will, which has caused Beatrice's social life to take a nosedive because under Silt's control, she just... stares, and moves strangely, and mumbles non-words or unsettling ominous sentences

Beatrice feels very conflicted about Silt. She feels very sympathetic towards them owing to the terrible accident that caused them to gain this form, but she does really dislike being used as a puppet, and how it's affected her relationships with others