Chapter Seven, Part Three: Eat Me, Drink MeMature

Jack wakes to the sound of bopping in the next seat. The Januvian wing-beast obviously found someone to shack up with. But he doesn’t want to listen in; a first. 

The sounds of the hover- train come to life just as he does. 

Bing bing. Tuweet! Bing bing. Tuweet! 

Somebody’s phone going off. Or an artificial organ needing a recharge. 

Bump-crash. Ploomp, slosh. 

One of the on-site vendors, carrying drinking bags full of sweet yellow, orange or pink juice just like on the sardine-tin travel buses of Old Earth’s South America. 

Dingbat-ting! Smash bump. 

The arrival bell- the train’s almost at the stop. 

Currrrrr-unch-ting ting. Swing-grunk-grunk. 

The train’s auto-brakes, swerving to avoid one of the giant flying squirrels out for a bit of sky time, logging hours. 

Woosh, woosh. 

A door to the next car opening and closing. 

Wooooooosh. Shik-shik-shik. 

The whirring rush of the train’s hover-capable lift-tracks. 

Zing-pop. 

Someone opening a vintage can of orange soda in the next seat. 

A crumpling fills his ears, and the scent of thick paper welcomes the day to his nostrils. 

 His hand opens, belatedly; it seems he’s balled the flier in his sleep. 

At least he’ll be there soon. Any inquiries can wait until he knows…

The End

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