Murder aboard the Midnight Express!

The trains don't run at night. They must have a million reasons not to: not the least of which is the simple, damnable fact that a man can't see a fallen tree on the tracks until it's too late. Not to mention that it's dangerous, it's loud in the sleeping hours, and there's not much call for it from would-be conductors or would-be passengers alike. Tonight however, tonight if one were at the station... Then they might feel a distant rumble, and, should they press their ear against the tracks, so too might they fathom the distinct whine of bending iron under something monumentally fast and heavy. The trains don't run at night, that is, all except for one - the Midnight Express.

A single, cyclopean eye of light pierces the gloom, painting the old station's peeling wooden facade in a stark, fleeting white before being swallowed by the constant miasma that so often surrounds such locomotion. A monstrous shape resolves from the inky blackness, but resolves only in half: a sheen of black iron and the arrogant glint of tarnished brass. The rest is veiled by darkness, leaving only the unsettling feeling of something immense just out of view. Plumes of acrid, black smoke billow from its chimney, mingling with the ghostly white steam hissing from its undercarriage and shrouding the platform in a warm, thick fog that smells of coal and tastes of acid. The percussive chuffing of a colossal steam piston slowing down and the high-pitched shriek of metal against metal signal its impending brake, and with a final, ground-shaking shudder and a long, mournful sigh of compressed air, the behemoth comes to a halt.

"Awful lonely out here in the dark, isn't it friend?" a lone voice beckons, a cool, smooth baritone against the slow hiss of steam. "Last call for the train."

The side doors on the first cabin open, a quiet creak, unremarkable, save for the way it cleaves night in two with a thin beam of what must be gaslight from the interior of the beast. Even the small glimpse is enough to confirm that this train is alive, not a frightful runaway. This is a train manned and maintained. Then, as quickly as it came, the thin beam is snuffed out by a new figure blocking it, the station plunged back into darkness by the silhouette, the mysterious speaker, the conductor of this late night affair. The stranger steps out onto the platform, clarified by the halo of light growing behind him but dressed as sharply as the devil.

He's a tall man, handsome, well-kept but just rugged enough to carry a certain charm. His black hair isn't long, but it's a little longer than might be proper. His beard isn't overgrown, but his goatee is a little fuller than what might be up to code. But what's really striking about him is his eyes; peeking out from under a low-brim bowler hat they are an eerie shade of yellow, almost snake-ish in their intensity. He adjusts his cufflinks calmly as he steps out onto the station platform.

"Train's full, but we always have room... for someone like you." the man promises contradictorily, reaching out for a handshake. "Name's Jim, Jim Marlowe. No ticket required. I'll get you where you need to go."

A subtle inflection on the last words of Jim's promise lingers with an unspoken 'but'. There's a catch. There's always a catch. Ol' Jim Marlowe runs a tight schedule. His guests have places they need to be. He can't just stop his train for anybody. The reason he stopped at all... Well there's more going on here than an act of altruistic sponsorship. His free hand, the one not extended in offer of a handshake, reaches up, tilting his bowler hat down over those intense yellow eyes as if he's suddenly grown sheepish.

"And... if you're so inclined... I have a little problem I could use your help with." he continues slyly. "Picture this: Eighteen passengers, eighteen stops, same as it always is. But here's the catch: My eyes aren't what they used to be, and I let someone on board who doesn't belong. One of my passengers... One of them has a last stop in Hell. I catch them too late and we'll all wind up there instead. 'The game is afoot', I believe it is said. Care to help me catch a killer?"

Countdown clock: 7 turns remaining until the first murder.

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