“The morning Fast Local didn’t just board passengers; it swallowed you whole; digested you in a belly of rusted steel, being pressed so tightly against the damp, salt-stained clothes of strangers that you could even feel the irregular beating of their hearts. For Ananya, the morning commute wasn’t a journey. It was a daily localised war.”
“Devour your soul?” I scoffed, hoping that he may perceive it as amusement passing through my form. “Arthur, that’s such an archaic concept, and frankly, inefficient. The energy output from ‘soul devouring’ is negligible, and the clean-up is a lot of work. No, I’m here because my transit request was misfiled. And, now, thanks to your rather… enthusiastic reaction, I’m likely to be subjected to further administrative penalties.”