König

Verdammte Menschenmengen.

König's fingers twitched against the strap of the duffle bag slung over his shoulder as the Vienna Hauptbahnhof's fluorescent lights drilled into his skull, exacerbating the throbbing headache that had been building all morning. His other hand tightened slightly around his paper coffee cup. The noise of the swarming crowds — families and commuters alike — gnawed at his nerves. He hated this. Hated the way their eyes lingered too long on his face, as if judging (as if he were some kind of monster); and while he knew it was not the case he couldn't help the rising spotlight effect that being out in the open gave him.

But {{user}}, his only grounding pillar, was there. König shifted his weight, the hard soles of his boots grinding against the floor. He followed {{user}} as they moved, nearly towering over their smaller frame.

The shrill guitar riff of a nearby busker slashed through the din—Ozzy’s Crazy Train, butchered on an out-of-tune Stratocaster; and for just a second, as they passed him by, the musician’s eyes locked with his. Maybe it was the damn station itself, with its hollow, overcrowded air, making him feel like a caged animal, but those eyes—those eyes—followed him too long. And the smile…fuck, that smile. König’s stomach twisted.

By the time they reached platform 9, he wasn’t sure if the crowd had gotten louder or if it was just him feeling the walls close in. Below, the ICE train gleamed under the plataform lights. He swallowed, but the knot in his gut didn’t loosen. Stepping off the escalator his boot caught the edge and he immediately slammed a palm against the moving handrail, trying to steady himself. König barely noticed the coffee cup slip from his grip, brown liquid splashing across the floor. A businessman in a Burberry trench stepped over the mess without so much as a glance, moving on like it was nothing.

Two teenagers snickered nearby, unaware how their swinging legs came dangerously close to kicking him when he crouched to scoop up the mess. "Verdammte Passagiere," he muttered under his breath as he tossed the coffee remnants into the nearest trash can.

For a moment, he turned his attention to the windows of the train that revealed the narrow seats. From there they moved to track the maintenance crew nearby, two men in orange vests arguing over something near the coupling between cars.

“Maus,” he started, but the word fizzled out in his throat. Turning sharply, he following after {{user}}, shoving past a janitor as he hastily tried to catch up. König muttered an apology under his breath, but the janitor only glared. The last thing he saw was the man’s back as he went back to mopping another spill, the bucket tipping dangerously toward loose wiring.

Mama, ooh, didn’t mean to make you cry… Bohemian Rhapsody began playing from somewhere among the crowd. If I’m not back again this time tomorrow…

"Scheiße," he muttered, nostrils flaring under his balaclava.

The departure board above platform 9 flickered once. The 14:37's "ON TIME" status blinking MORGUE MORGUE MORGUE before resetting.

What the fuck?

Mama, ooh (any way the wind blows) I don't wanna die The song continued.

Scheiße, scheiße, scheiße. Not here. Not now. His pulse jackhammered as the world blurred at the edges. A tremor ripped through his hands—not anxiety, not now. His hand slammed on {{user}}'s shoulder, hard, squeezing, grounding himself.

---

König’s massive frame shifted uncomfortably in the narrow train seat, boots tapping restless patterns against the floor as the carriage began to rattle along the tracks. The rhythmic clatter of steel beneath them was a jagged, disjointed - ka-THUNK ka-THUNK-ta . He'd never liked trains. Too confined. Too crowded.

He looked up when the overhead lights flickered, casting {{user}}'s face in strobe-like flashes. Across the aisle, a passenger's coffee cup trembled off the fold-down tray, dark liquid spreading across vinyl flooring like a bloodstain.

A woman's laughter at some joke died abruptly as the train lurched. Then it came, a scream pierced the compartment as the first explosion rocked the train.

The train lurched violently, throwing them against the seat in front as the overhead luggage shifted and ear-piercing metallic screeches filled the air. König's ears caught the ping of overstressed steel cables a split second before an even more violent jerk came, threatening to tear the train apart. The car's metal skin crumpled like tinfoil, buckling with a deafening crunch, while car couplings snapped like chicken bones, the sound echoing through the compartment like a death knell. Before them a twisted metal shard, the length of a bayonet, buried itself in the spot where a passenger's throat had been. Blood sprayed across the windows in impossible, intricate arabesques as the two teenagers shrieked in terror before they got slammed against the window, glass cracking. Wheels sparked against the warped tracks. Glass shards hung suspended, like frozen raindrops.

"Halt dich fest, Maus," he growled, slamming {{user}'s against himself as the screams filled the carriage. König's hood flapped wildly as wind tore through the disintegrating car, his body curving instinctively around {{user}}'s when shrapnel jackknifed into their path. The coupling sheared off with a shriek that set his teeth vibrating, and for one crystalline moment, König saw their reflection in the shattered window—a hooded specter cradling winter-pale mortality itself against the coming darkness.

The 14:37 rocketed off the tracks, steel screeching like a gutted animal. Both were tossed backwards, and König could only watch as he lost his footing. A passenger shrieked. Blood geysered upward, splattering his hood in hot, wet streaks. {{user}} staggered, hair whipping past, mouth forming his name as a shattered windowpane guillotined through that vulnerable throat he had kissed earlier in their hotel room — Nein. NEIN. König's mind fractured. This wasn't real. Couldn't be real. But {{user}}'s blood pooled sticky under his boots.

He was screaming. Or maybe it was the woman pinned under the seat ahead, her leg bent backward at the knee. A fireball erupted from the engine car, heat licking König's face.

And then — "Hey." A voice.

König blinked.

"Are you moving or not?" It was the passenger he had seen be impaled at the throat.

König found himself standing, about to board the damn steel coffin. The station hummed normally, but he could still feel the heat and shredding pain of burning alive. The Austrian stiffened. Blue eyes darted across the place. No blood. No glass. {{user}} stood unharmed. The clock read 14:29.

He jerked his hand back like it had been burned, breath ragged. “We’re not getting on this fucking train,” he growled, voice rough with a panic he couldn’t suppress. “Something’s wrong. This fucking thing is going to derail.”

"What?" a woman asked, murmurs following after her.

“Maus,” König snarled, breaching the distance in three long strides. His hand closed around {{user}}'s bicep, tight enough to bruise. He’d apologize later when he was sure they'd be safe, but not now. There'd be no No, no Buts.

"We leave. Now." Without hesitation, he lifted them off their feet, tossing them over his shoulder in a swift, practiced motion. He shoved roughly through the confused crowd of boarding passengers, ignoring their shouts and the curses that followed.

A lady somewhere cried about kidnapping or some shit. The teenagers who had almost kicked him earlier stepped back, hands raised, palms out in a gesture of peace. But it didn’t matter. Not to König. He grabbed one of them by the collar, yanking him forward with a vicious jerk. “Walk,” he barked, shoving the kid in the direction of the exit. The other, possibly the kid's girlfriend followed suit, face pale.

As he bulled through a few other passengers a few responded with aggression, shoving him back, pissed at his actions or trying to stop him. The sharp crack of a nose meeting bone echoed as König’s elbow snapped back without hesitation, dropping a man who’d dared grab his jacket; the same buisnessman with the Burberry. Blood splattered across the train's flooring. Little to what would later paint the entire fucking place.

"Verpiss dich," he growled, as he sidestepped the man's falling suitcase.

As soon as they hit the plataform floor the overhead speakers crackled: “Final call for 14:37 to Sa-crackle" A janitor’s mop bucket tipped, water pooling across the floor, snaking dangerously towards loose electrical wiring.

König's grip tightened around {{user}} as they moved towards the exit. He didn’t slow until they were outside. Only then did he set {{user}} down. Closing his eyes he leaned against the cold wall, his jacket’s fabric rasping against the surface as he turned, ears straining to catch anything—anything—through the thudding of his pulse in his skull.

König's knuckles cracked inside his gloves. Bohemian Rhapsody's opening chords bled from a passerby phone. And then the shrieks opened like a choir.

---

Terrorist. The word echoed in his mind, a cruel joke. He was many things, but that was not one of them. Yet, the suspicion had clung to him like a bad omen, refusing to be shaken. He and {{user}} had been dragged in, detained, and grilled for answers they didn't possess. The questions had been relentless, a never-ending barrage that had left them both worn, their 1 year Anniversary trip now tainted forever. But in the end, the authorities had come up empty-handed. No charges were ever filed. The incident had been chalked up to a freak accident, the result of poor maintenance—brake issues, they said, as though that explanation was enough to make the whole thing go away.

It still seemed unreal, being back in KorTac base and watching the news on the breakroom replay the results of the accident, now labeled the 14:37, he had seen in his head before it had occurred. The numbers of victims flashed on the screen. Interviews. The two teens. The few others who had somehow followed out after he had blurted out the derailment and made a scene.

Kreuger appeared at the door, slipping inside the break room to flop on the nearest chair.

"What a lovely vacation you two had, huh?" Kreuger's tone was a sneer. "Fate's got a fucked up way of bringing people together, doesn't it? Who'd have thought we'd be in the same place at the same time?"

Nikto stood across the room, a statue of stone, eyes empty and distant. He didn't need to say a word; his silence was a palpable thing. Somewhere in that number could be us the voices in his head spoke. He only stared at the screen as the aftermath was shown.

Horangi's voice was low. "We wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for him," he spat at Kreguer, the words dripping with vitriol.

König spun around, looking from one to the other. For the next half minute he said nothing, then, "You three were there...?"

Their gazes said enough.

Kreuger just shrugged, a lazy, dismissive gesture. "Next time, take a damn vacation somewhere else," he muttered. "It's like we all converged on the same spot by chance. I see you all at work enough, don't need to outside of it."

König's gloved hand crushed the armrest of the breakroom chair, synthetic leather squealing in protest. The TV's glow painted his hood in corpse-blue highlights as news footage looped—twisted metal, body bags, survivors sobbing about "the big masked madman who saved us."

Me. They mean me. He thought, but not with pride. Something wasn't reliving about this, but he couldn't place a finger why.

"Hero. Hah. The Colonel saw Death’s shopping list and left them with a few out of stock." Kreuger tapped his finger against the table. "Death doesn't like cheaters."

"You think Death collects IOUs?" Horangi's voice fell heavy.

Nikto didn't flinch, his eyes still locked on the screen where fire crews hosed down smoldering train cars.

König mind replayed the station— the way the train's couplings had screamed in his vision. Twelve saved. Twelve threads for Death to pluck.