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"Hey train, is there anything to drink?" You pipe up.

"I don't know. Maybe there's something in the crew cabin. It's in the electrical tender, just down the ladder."

Thinking that the fuse box, being a large panel of push-in-pull-out button switches probably would be just a dangerous way to make the train annoyed, you head South to the ladder. You peek inside the cubby in an idle glance, just to see what's inside.

Amongst a few files and a clipboard, there's a keycard and an empty thermos.

You take both, since there doesn't seem to be anyone around to otherwise use them or protest, and head through the car connector from the locomotive to the eletrical tender.

You recall the train was wider than the room in the tender, leading you to think that on either side of the room just behind the wall is some very large (and probably very heavy) electrical thing. The crew cabin has a Mini-fridge, a Sink and a smallish Table. On the EAST wall is a corkboard, on the WEST wall is a map that looks similar to the one in the Locomotive, but its paper. To the SOUTH is the door out of the tender and presumably to the rest of the train. NORTH is the ladder behind you, back up to the driver cab.

The room is comfortably warm and coupled with the droning hum of the magnetic motors under the floor, there doesn't really seem to be any threat present. The air smells like someone didn't open a can of soda pop properly over a carpet yesterday.

A robotic crab on the table has perked up and started walking around, occasionally glancing at you.

This is a nice metric server. No imperial dimensions, please.

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Say "Hi" to robo-crab, then look in mini-fridge.

Don't insult me. I have trained professionals to do that.

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You gesticulate in a friendly manner to the robotic crab on the table, while bending over to look into the mini-fridge.

"You're not Bart, are you?" asks the crab.

"No, I'm Gordon."

"Oh. 'kay." replies the crab.

In the mini-fridge you see a pack of pop-tarts, a bottle of jino-brand soda water, a sandwich that looks like it was prepared by either a sentient pile of steel shavings or a slovenly middle-aged man several months ago, a bottle of picked pearl onions with distant future expiry date and a small box of chocolate covered rasins.

There are some cans of beer at the bottom, but they're opened and empty.

"If Bart's not gonna come back soon, you might want to do something about his lunch. I don't want it to start smelling." pirked the crab.

This is a nice metric server. No imperial dimensions, please.

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Ask the crab if it has a name

"That which you do not know, is not a moral charge against you; but that which you refuse to know, is an account of infamy growing in your soul. Make every allowance for errors of knowledge; do not forgive or accept any breach of morality."

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Ask the crab if it has a name

...while throwing away the sandwich.

Don't insult me. I have trained professionals to do that.

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You pick up the sandwich, thankfully still in a plastic wrapper and begin moving towards a small trash can beside the sink. Its texture resembles more of a grainy play-dough than the rigid rye it appeared to be, undisturbed.

"I don't believe I caught your name."

"I don't believe I dropped it." replied the crab whimsically. "Call me Earl."

The sandwich makes a rather unnerving "splutch" in the can.

"Are you the new conductor?"

"Nope."

"Well I've got nothing better to do than to scuttle around. Would you mind putting me on the floor?"

You pick up Earl and place him on the floor. He weighs a bit more than you anticipated. Earl quickly skittered over to the still-open mini-fridge and began tearing off a portion of one of the beer cans and nibbling on it, before placing another on top of his shell and walking away down the cabin.

This is a nice metric server. No imperial dimensions, please.

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The carbonated water tastes rather snappy and bitter, but with a subtle sweet aftertaste. It's a godsend to have changed the lingering flavor in your mouth- even though it was a while ago, you still had the smell of that tentacle lingering in your nose.

Refreshed, you crush the cap in your hand, shove it through the opening in the bottle and place it beside the trash can, hoping someone else will come along that recycles.

This is a nice metric server. No imperial dimensions, please.

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"Rainbow flavor Nyan-tarts" most definitively sounds like something both artificial and full of sweetners. Apart from the pickled onions and chocolate covered raisins, there's not much else choice to go on for in terms of foods with sustenance, but you're not one to complain. Unless it's lunchtime, which it is not.

The strawberry-ish flavor tastes like it gave you diabetes. How many ounces per inch did they saturate this pastry with sugar?

This is a nice metric server. No imperial dimensions, please.

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Read wrapper to find out.

I don't like writer's block, I prefer to call it writer's parry.

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You move the wrapper infront of your eyes. It is hard to read, both because it is torn, and you don't have your glasses. However, you eventually focus it enough to read it. It clearly states "OVER NINE THOUSSAAAAAAAAAAANNNDDD!!!" You wonder about how unneccessary that meme is. It gets you thinking about other internet memes, which gets you thinking about aliens.

 

Obvious exits have not changed.

"Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls, and asks the ghosts if honour matters! The silence is your answer." -Javik, Mass Effect 3

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Go see if Earl knows of a way to replace your glasses.

Don't insult me. I have trained professionals to do that.

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"Hey Earl, you wouldn't happen to know anything about eyeglasses, would you?"

"I don't, but Mercury might. She's in the tail locomotive last I checked." replies Earl, starting to crawl onto the wall. "At the opposite end of the train."

This is a nice metric server. No imperial dimensions, please.

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Walk to the tail locomotive, while thinking aloud about how much you want some damn pancakes.

"Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls, and asks the ghosts if honour matters! The silence is your answer." -Javik, Mass Effect 3

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The train of thought doesn't carry you as far as it used to because you're no longer halluciinating by the power of starvation. Earl looks curiously at you as you stop hovering.

You use the keycard from the cubby and open the next car in the train. There's a drastic difference in sound between being inside the electrical tender and the bridge clamp between cars.

The first freight car looks like it's holding heavy machinery of some kind, covered by tarps and held down by thick straps. The sound is still not all that different from the transition between cars, even though the sheet metal of this box car entirely cover the machinery and their tarps.

You ask Earl a question, but it doesn't seem that he heard you over the noise of the wind and the rumble of the magnetic motors. You continue walking, Earl keeping pace.

The second freight car seems to be very similar to the first, carrying some more machinery, but the curved tubing suggests it might be pumping equipment.

A giant enemy crab robot has leaped out from behind one of the machines in front of you, about six feet tall and armed with a chainsaw seemingly built into one of its claws. Earl has skittered away in fear.

Obvious exits are to run back to the First freight car NORTH, try to climb onto the smooth (almost slippery-looking) tarps EAST, Dive off the train towards the quickly-zooming-past arch supports on the tunnel wall WEST, or fight the new crab robot SOUTH.

This is a nice metric server. No imperial dimensions, please.

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Shoot at the rivets holding the crab together.

I don't like writer's block, I prefer to call it writer's parry.

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The sugar rush of the Nyan-Tarts has helped your aim!

You whip out your pistol and rattle off 10 shots at the torso and arm of the enemy robot crab. Some of the bullets glance off the plating, but several of them punch the rivets inside the plating. The torso of the crustaceanbot now looks like it's bleeding oil. It's dazed and the non-chainsaw claw has gone limp, but still standing.

This is a nice metric server. No imperial dimensions, please.

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