Hobo
Your ears perk as you hear a familiar whistle in the distance—a freight train is coming.
Some ponies don’t like trains; some ponies think that they’re big and loud and smoky and smelly and blow their whistles way too much, and all those things are true. Some ponies think that they are taking jobs away from livery ponies and canal ponies and maybe they are, but they’re still cool. They’re big and loud and breathe smoke and steam; they shake the ground as they pass by, and they’re crewed by friendly ponies who will return a wave as they pass by.
The tracks aren’t far, and you know a short bridge which is a prime viewing point. Some ponies would know who the engineer was by how she quilled the whistle, would know which locomotive it was by the tone of the whistle. You’re not that into trains.
Not yet, anyway.
It’s a good thing it’s a freight; if it were a passenger train, it’d be gone before you got to the bridge. Freights move slower; as long as the freight gets where it’s going that’s good enough. Besides, a train’s still faster than a canal boat or a livery wagon.
You trot through town and then turn down a familiar side street, your mind already imagining what you’re going to see when you arrive. If it’s a slow freight, you’ll be there in plenty of time to see the locomotive approach. You might be able to scramble up the loose-packed ballast and get a view right alongside the tracks, close enough to really feel the blast of exhaust as the locomotive passes by, to feel the thud of the drivers on the steel rails.
Or if not, you’ll get a picturesque view of it crossing the spindly iron truss bridge, to see it thundering overhead in a shroud of smoke and a shower of sparks.
There’s always that moment of apprehension as you turn the last corner to the nearly-straight road which leads to the overpass. Until then you don’t know if you’ve beaten it, and even as you round the corner you can’t be entirely sure. Maybe it was a really short train and it’s already gone by—as crazy as it was, you’d once seen a train that consisted of the locomotive, a lone box car, and two cabooses on the rear. Cabeese?
What is the plural of caboose, anyway?
And of course there’d been a time or two you’d gotten there late and missed the locomotive; you’d just gotten to see a string of freight cars passing by.
That was still cool, but not as cool as watching the locomotive emerge from the trees like some prehistoric beast, like a mechanical monster of iron and steam.
Usually, you’ve been alone in your quest, but not today. Today there’s a dull pink pegasus standing up on the embankment, peeking her head around a screen of trees. A fellow trainspotter? You don’t recognize her.
That she’s still watching down the tracks is a sure sign you haven’t missed the train. You could slow your pace . . . but a short, nearby whistle spurs you on. Somepony too close to the tracks, or maybe just a friendly salute to somepony the engineer knows.
The train’s still further away than you anticipated. A very slow freight, long and heavy, its own parade as it comes by.
Either side of the embankment is a decent enough place to train-watch, but you might as well have company. She might know train facts you don’t—or you might know train facts she doesn’t.
There’s a special art to walking on the roadbed, something that the brakemares have mastered and you haven’t. The ballast rocks are oversized and piled looser than they look, always providing the opportunity to slide gracelessly down on your belly or to turn a canon joint. They’re smoothish, but still sharp enough to poke a frog or maybe hook a horseshoe.
This time you make it up easily. She turns an ear and then her head as you scramble beside her and then peer around the trees to see the distant headlight shimmering between the tracks.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” She looks you up and down, making a quick judgment. “I was here first, I get first dibs.”
First dibs? First dibs at what? It’s a train, anypony can watch it go by.
She must see the confusion on your face. “Unless . . . this your first time?”
Some ponies think it’s weird to like trains, to watch them whenever you get a chance. Since she’s here, she must be doing the same, right?
“I’ve watched plenty of trains before, thank you very much.”
“Oh.” Her ears droop and then perk back up. “I thought you were planning on riding it.”
“Riding it?”
“Yeah, you know, jump on a car when it passes and ride along?”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
She shrugs. “Brakemares do it all the time.”
“You’re not a brakemare, are you?”
“Hobo.” She offers a hoof. “Sweetsong, professional vagabond.”
You lean out to see how close the train is. “I’m—” Before you can finish, she holds out a leg and pushes you back.
“If they see you, they think you’re trying to get aboard.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t want them to know or else they’ll kick me off.” She eyes you up and down. “Haven’t you ever wanted to hop a freight before?”
That idea has crossed your mind. You’ve always been curious about where the trains are going, and what better way to find out than to hop on one and see for yourself?
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Not if you don’t fall off.”
“And illegal?”
Sweetsong shrugs her wings. “What’s the point of living if you’re not gonna live dangerously?”
Pegasus philosophy in a nutshell.
“Well. . . .”
The locomotive thunders by as you’re pondering. As soon as it hits the bridge—rattling off dust and rust—Sweetsong turns her attention to the passing freight cars. “A boxcar with the door open is the best, but you can’t always hope for that. Anything that’s got some cover can work, and if the bulls spot you, you can always fly or gallop off.”
She’s not really paying attention to you; she’s got her eyes on the procession of cars. Her focus locks on a boxcar a few cars down: it’s got an open door.
“There’s my ride.” She looks back at you. “You coming?”
CHOICE
Should you hop the freight?
>Yes. YOLO (chaos)
>No, you should report her to the authorities. (villain)
[ENDING A: CHAOS]
There are moments in life where an unexpected opportunity presents itself, a chance to do something that you’d never anticipated doing. You know enough about trains to respect their danger, and you know enough about the law to know this is illegal. You’re pragmatic enough to recognize that even if you’re spotted, the railroad isn’t going to invest a lot of resources or time into catching you.
The idea of hopping a train has crossed your mind before, along with the understanding that you don’t know what you’re doing. She does, and you know in your heart you’ll be safe as long as you’re with her.
“Yeah, I’m coming.”
“It’s moving slow, that’ll make it easy,” she says. “I can boost you.”
“I don’t need a boost.”
“You do. Everypony does.” She looks at you and then back at the train. “Brace, and when the stirrup step passes, aim for the leading edge of the door. It’s moving slow, but it’ll deceive you. It’s faster than you think and higher than you think, and the ballast underhoof’s lousy.”
“Yeah, I know.” You bend your knees and watch as the box car approaches. It seems like it’s taking forever, and then it’s suddenly upon you. No more time for second thoughts; it’s now or never as you jump. You feel her pushing at your rump and even at that you think you might not make it. You scrabble against the rough wooden floor and then you’re in. A moment later she joins you, landing with far more grace.
The two of you watch the diagonal beams of the bridge flash by. You’ve seen plenty of trains pass over it, you’ve never seen the view from the train.
[ENDING B: VILLAIN]
“No,” you say. “It’s dangerous and illegal.”
Sweetsong waves a hoof dismissively. “Whatever, you just don’t appreciate the freedom that riding the rails brings.” She turns her attention back to the oncoming boxcar.
It’s upon you faster than you expected. She crouches and takes a short flight; you watch as her tail vanishes inside, and then a moment later her head pokes out, watching the scenery pass by as the train crosses over the bridge.
It’s a long train, and even if they’re looking back from the locomotive they might not spot her.
Sometimes the police give rewards for turning in a criminal. Maybe the railroad does, too. You can’t gallop fast enough to reach the locomotive, but you can make it to the freight house and tell the stationmare, and she can telegraph the message down the line.
A brief twinge of longing crosses your mind, and then it’s gone. There are rules, and if ponies don’t obey them they should suffer the consequences.