The day before, morning arrived in the town of Brindlemark with all the subtlety of a polite cough.
Steam drifted lazily between crooked rooftops, pipes gave their usual hissle-hassle complaints, and the market square stirred to life in a slow, familiar tickle-tockle rhythm. Brass signs creaked. Wheels clattered. Someone, somewhere, was already shouting about prices with unnecessary conviction.
At the edge of it all stood Shoremont Moreau, carefully arranging sweet potatoes as if the fate of the world depended on their alignment.
"…no, you go here," he murmured, nudging one slightly to the left. "You're clearly a front-row specimen."
The potato did not argue, which Sho appreciated.
He stepped back, hands on hips, inspecting his stall. A modest setup, wooden planks, a cloth that had seen better decades, and a collection of sweet potatoes that ranged from "respectable" to "philosophically questionable."
Sho nodded.
"Yes. Dignified."
"Dignified?" scoffed the vendor next to him, a broad man with a voice like a broken boiler. "They're roots, lad."
"They are sweet roots," Sho corrected gently. "There's a difference."
The man snorted. "You're a strange one, Moreau."
"I've been told," Sho said, not entirely bothered.
Around them, the market thickened with noise and motion. Steam-carts rolled past in clankle-clonk protest, their brass fittings gleaming through soot. A pair of women argued loudly over the price of fabric.
"You crook-cogged price butcher!"
"Madam, I am a businesswoman, not a charity!"
Sho smiled faintly, adjusting a small handwritten sign:
FRESH SWEET POTATOES - FAIR PRICE
A child approached, eyeing the stall with cautious curiosity. "Are they good?" the child asked.
Sho crouched slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a serious secret. "These," he said, picking up a particularly round specimen, "are excellent listeners!"
The child blinked. "…what?"
"They absorb worries," Sho added, nodding once. "Very reliable!"
The child considered this deeply, then nodded back with equal seriousness. "I'll… take one."
A transaction of great importance was completed.
Sho straightened, dusting his hands, as the market carried on in its usual, slightly chaotic harmony. Overhead, a long pipe rattled with a disgruntled whirr-splutter, releasing a puff of steam that drifted across the square like a lazy ghost.
Somewhere beyond the buildings, something louder echoed. Not quite part of the market. A distant clatterblast.
Sho paused. "…bit loud today," he muttered.
A small patrol of soldiers marched past shortly after, boots striking the cobblestones in a steady, disciplined rhythm. Their uniforms bore the insignia of the Cogbound Legion, brass emblems dulled by soot and use.
People noticed. Voices dipped. Movements slowed. Then, just as quickly, everything resumed. Because markets had a stubborn way of pretending the world wasn't ending, even when it very obviously was.
Sho watched the soldiers pass, head tilting slightly.
"…busy fellows, those are," he said.
"War is coming," the vendor beside him grunted. "Or something close enough."
Sho nodded, as if that explained everything. He turned back to his stall. There were still potatoes to arrange.
The disruption did not arrive politely. It arrived with a growl that shook the air and rattled every loose object into temporary rebellion.
Sho flinched, dropping a potato.
Wind tore through the market in a sudden, chaotic rush, sending papers and posters flying in all directions. Sheets of ink and urgency scattered like startled birds, slapping against walls, skidding across the ground, catching on boots and crates.
People shouted.
"Evacuation orders!"
"Move, you gear-grubbing fools!"
"Leave the carts!"
Sho blinked as one of the papers smacked directly into his chest and slid down. He picked it up.
"…oh."
The page was dense with diagrams and bold, alarming words.
MANDATORY EVACUATION
REPORT TO DESIGNATED TRANSIT UNITS
ORDER OF THE COGBOUND LEGION
There were illustrations too. Strange machinery, outlines of human figures in neat, unsettling rows.
Sho frowned. Another gust of wind nearly stole the paper from his hands. He held onto it, eyes scanning the text with increasing confusion.
"Identity… breach… containment…" He took a step forward, then another, and another, still reading.
Around him, the market dissolved into motion. Stalls abandoned. Goods forgotten. People rushing toward the far end of the square where transport lines waited. Steam trains, civilian carts, anything that could carry them away from whatever was coming.
Sho followed. Not because he decided to. Just… because he was walking. And reading. "…'all civilians are to…' mm, yes, that seems important…" He stepped over a fallen crate without looking. Turned slightly to avoid someone running past him. Adjusted his grip on the paper. And walked directly toward the largest, loudest, most aggressively non-civilian carriage in the area.
The Juggernauts loomed at the edge of the street, their iron-banded frame shuddering with contained energy. Brass pipes hissed along its sides, and soldiers hurried around them, loading crates, shouting orders, doing very soldier-like things.
Sho did not notice. He climbed aboard. No one stopped him.
Because in the grand chaos of war preparation, a mildly confused man holding a piece of paper and a sack of potatoes ranked extremely low on the list of immediate concerns.
Inside, the carriage was dim and rattling, filled with bolted crates and the sharp scent of oil and metal. Sho stepped in, finally lowering the paper.
"…wait a minute," he said. "something isn't right."
He looked around.
"… I'm alone in this cart. Sweet!"
A reasonable conclusion. He thought he was in one of the public transit unit.
He adjusted his sack of sweet potatoes, setting it down carefully on the stack of crates right above his head. One by one, he checked them, counting softly under his breath.
"…one, two, three… yes, all accounted for." He nodded, reassured.
Outside, voices shouted. Boots thundered. The world moved quickly, urgently. Sho sat down against a crate, the wood cool against his back.
He glanced at the paper again, then at his potatoes, then back at the paper.
He leaned his head back, still holding both the paper and a particularly dependable potato. The carriage hadn't moved yet. The noise outside felt distant enough. His eyes drifted shut.
Somewhere above him, the doors slammed shut with a heavy, final THUNK. The Juggernaut shuddered. Deep within its boiler, something roared to life. Chuffspatter and splutter. The entire carriage lurched forward with enthusiastic violence.
Sho shifted slightly in his sleep. The paper slipped from his fingers.