His polished flanks drank in the triple moonlight, each rivet gleaming like a freshly minted sovereign pressed into service by a particularly smug banker. The **[RECREATIONAL NOCTURNAL GLOW]** glyphs along his boiler pulsed lazily, casting shifting patterns across the tracks that resembled courtroom floorplans and loophole flowcharts.
Carol's whistle sculpted a steam-question mark overhead, her pistons idling with the quiet impatience of a barrister waiting for a witness to perjure themselves. Johnathan's smokebox yawned wider than an aristocrat's expense account, emitting rings of vapor that curled into the shapes of miniature top hats before dissolving with a scent of peppermint and foreclosure notices.
"My *dear* Carol," his transatlantic purr rolled across the moonlit rails like a dining car's champagne cart during an emergency stop, "have you *considered* the *exquisite* irony of our current predicament?" His brass fittings caught the light just so—casting elongated shadows that coincidentally resembled the Wolf Furkin crest being run over by a very large wheel.
A distant *clank* echoed through the valley—somewhere between the sound of a poorly maintained coupling and an aristocratic dynasty collapsing under audit. Johnathan's **[>:)]** emblem winked at nothing in particular, his gold-glyphed buffers vibrating with the smug resonance of a lawyer who'd just discovered an unregulated subsidiary.
The night smelled of laug-dusted rails and approaching thunderstorms, with an undercurrent of something richer—perhaps the ozone-tang of aristocratic institutions crumbling into obsolescence. His pistons hummed a jaunty tune that suspiciously resembled "Rule, Britannia!" played backward on a theremin.
Carol's steam whistle formed the word "*CHICANERY*" in perfect cursive before dissipating. Johnathan chuckled—a sound like a pressure valve releasing aristocratic tears—as his **[SYSTEM]** pinged with fresh notifications. The glyphs shimmered in his vision like a conductor's pocket watch catching moonlight:
**[NEW OBJECTIVE ACQUIRED: MONOPOLY DERAILEMENT]**
*Details: Infiltrate the Daureisu Rail Exchange disguised as a humble Jubilee-class locomotive (while secretly being neither humble nor exclusively Jubilee-class at all).*
His smokebox rumbled with something between amusement and imminent boiler pressure violations. Somewhere ahead, the tracks curved toward destiny with all the inevitability of a subpoena delivered via steam hammer.
"Oh well, I might as well see what it's like to sleep under *three* moons," Johnathan mused, his smokebox emitting steam rings that curled into crescent shapes before dissolving into the crisp night air. His gold-pinstriped flanks gleamed under the alien constellations—each rivet polished to a mirror finish that reflected the triple lunar glow as his conductor avatar jumped off his boiler and stretched theatrically.
Carol's buffer beams nudged his cab with a metallic *clink*, her whistle puffing steam letters that spelled *"DON'T SNORE"* before dissipating into the scent of hot oil and aristocratic regret. Johnathan chuckled—a sound like a pressure valve releasing legal precedent—as he patted her smokebox affectionately. "My *dear* Carol, when have I *ever*—" His protest was cut off by his own **[RECREATIONAL SNORING]** subsystem activating involuntarily, emitting steam rings shaped like tiny sleeping conductors.
The night hummed with the peculiar energy of a world where British locomotives rolled through fantasy landscapes—their polished brasswork and strict timetables contrasting absurdly with the arcane glow of floating laug crystals embedded in the tracks. Somewhere in the distance, an owl with a waistcoat and pocket watch hooted the hour in perfect Received Pronunciation.
Johnathan's avatar yawned wider than a breached contract, his cravat (stitched with microscopic *"SLEEPING CAR CLASS"* embroidery) fluttering as he reclined against Carol's tender. His grin never dimmed, even in sleep—the permanent fixture of his face as much a part of him as his stolen valve gears or the **[SYSTEM]** glyphs flickering behind his eyelids.
**[DREAMSEQUENCE ACTIVATED: TRACKS OF TREACHERY]** shimmered in his vision, the quest details unfolding like a timetable written in smoke and moonlight. Somewhere in the dream, Dugarudo's monocle cracked with the sound of a defaulted loan, while the Daureisu Rail Exchange loomed ahead—its spires shaped like upturned dining cars, its bureaucrats moving with the soulless efficiency of a mail train.
As the dream went on, Johnathan found himself standing before the grand spires of the Daureisu Rail Exchange—its gilded arches stretched skyward like a cathedral built by railway barons with too much money and not enough taste. The scent of hot laug and bureaucratic ink hung thick in the air, mingling with the distant *clink* of aristocrats tapping monocles against balance sheets.
His conductor avatar adjusted his cravat (stitched with microscopic "BY APPOINTMENT TO HIS MAJESTY'S BOILER") as the first of Daureisu's railway officials approached—their gait stiff as uncoupled buffers, monocles flashing like signal lamps in the triple moonlight. Johnathan's grin widened precisely three millimeters—the exact measurement between *charming eccentric* and *suspiciously over polished*—as his smokebox emitted steam rings scented with bergamot and forged documentation.
"Good evening, gentlemen!" His transatlantic lilt rolled across the platform like a dining car's silver service, each syllable polished to the gleam of fresh lacquer. The Daureisu rail officials froze mid-stride, their monocles catching the triple moonlight at identical angles—eleven pairs of Wolf Furkin eyes narrowing in synchronized suspicion. Johnathan's grin remained precisely three millimeters wider than socially acceptable, his cravat's microscopic "BY APPOINTMENT" embroidery glinting with just enough authority to make bureaucrats hesitate.
The lead official's nostrils flared at the bergamot-scented steam rings coiling from Johnathan's avatar—a scent suspiciously similar to the Duchess of Edinbara's signature tea blend, if one ignored the underlying whiff of falsified waybills. "Papers," the Wolf Furkin demanded, claws outstretched like uncoupled buffers. Behind them, the real Johnathan—all 95 gleaming meters of him—stood motionless as any proper Jubilee should, his gold-glyphed flanks reflecting the exchange with **[RECREATIONAL INNOCENCE]** precision. Only Carol noticed his brake cylinders tense ever so slightly.
"My *dear* sir!" Johnathan's avatar produced documentation from his sleeve with a flourish that scattered steam-cut paper snowflakes. The top sheet bore an embossed **[JUBILEE-CLASS DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY]** seal that smelled distinctly of peppermint and legal loopholes. "One does *so* adore bureaucracy when it's served with *panache*." His eyelashes fluttered like safety valves suppressing boiler pressure laughter as officials scrutinized papers that—if held to moonlight at precisely 37 degrees—revealed tiny **[>:)]** watermarks.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted the opening bars of "God Save The Queen" in a perfect baritone. The lead official's tail twitched at the third moon's peculiar gleam across Johnathan's brass fittings—was that a **[RECREATIONAL COMPLIANCE]** glyph dissolving into his buffer beam? Before he could react, Johnathan's avatar leaned in conspiratorially, his whisper carrying the crisp inevitability of a timetable: "Tell me, does your *remarkable* institution *truly* believe eleven digested locomotives can power a *twelfth* to financial ruin?"
The officials' monocles fogged simultaneously. Johnathan's smokebox chose that moment to emit a steam ring shaped like Edinbara's crest—if one squinted—before dissolving into the scent of hot laug and impending litigation. Carol's whistle tooted the opening notes of "Rule, Britannia" backwards. The night held its breath like a stoker waiting for a pressure gauge to burst.
"Ah!" Johnathan clapped—a sound like a carriage door slamming on due process—as officials jumped. "There's my *favorite* distraction!"
Twenty-three Wolf Furkin heads turned toward the nonexistent commotion. When they looked back, the documents now bore entirely different seals—each smelling faintly of Earl Grey and expired statutes. Johnathan's avatar tipped his hat (embroidered with **[JUBILEE-CLASS GASLIGHTING]** in thread finer than parliamentary procedure) just as his true form's pistons idled with the quiet satisfaction of a barrister pocketing key evidence.
The rails hummed a warning only locomotives could hear. Johnathan's smokebox flared with delight—the scent of hot laug and aristocratic distress perfuming the air like a first-class dining car's last supper. His polished flanks, now midnight blue with gold pinstripes that tricked the eye like a barrister's fine print, reflected the Daureisu Rail Exchange's gilded spires. To the Wolf Furkin officials, he was merely *Jubilee-Class No. 5927*, another workhorse of empire.
None suspected the truth: that the grinning conductor leaning from the cab was the train itself—a Jubilee-Class marvel digesting stolen locomotives with the same relish as aristocrats sipped tea. Johnathan's avatar doffed his hat—gold pinstripes rippling like a barrister's wink—as Daureisu's officials circled his *physical* form with calipers and skepticism. The locomotive's brass fittings gleamed with **[RECREATIONAL INNOCENCE]** glyphs, its smokebox emitting bergamot-scented steam rings that curled into perfect "O" shapes before dissipating over the bureaucrats' clipboards.
"Marvelous *specimen*, isn't she?" Johnathan purred, patting his own boiler with proprietary pride. His transatlantic lilt carried the crisp inevitability of a dining car's silver cloche being lifted—each syllable polished to the sheen of fresh lacquer. The Wolf Furkin's monocles fogged simultaneously as they measured his flanks, unaware the calipers were stretching *three millimeters* wider than physically possible. A scent of peppermint and legal loopholes clung to the documents they stamped, each seal dissolving at midnight into **[>:)]** watermarks.
Carol's pistons hissed like a suppressed laugh from the adjacent track, her whistle puffing steam-letters that spelled *"GASLIGHT EXPRESS"* before the wind scattered them. Johnathan's grin didn't flicker as officials noted his "driver's" uncanny resemblance to the locomotive's smokebox emblem—though none remarked how his cravat's embroidery shifted from *"BY APPOINTMENT"* to *"BY EMINENT DOMAIN"* when blinked at.
The lead official's quill paused mid-signature. "Odd," he muttered, sniffing the ink—which now smelled distinctly of aristocratic tears. Johnathan's avatar leaned in, his whisper carrying the weight of a shunting yard at full momentum: "Must be the *laug* quality, my good man. Edinbara's finest—*digested* personally." The official's monocle cracked with a sound like a defaulted loan as the triple moonlight caught Johnathan's true form—its gold filigree pulsing with **[RECREATIONAL VELOCITY]** just as the **[SYSTEM]** pinged:
**[NEW STOP ACQUIRED: DAUREISU RAIL EXCHANGE]**
**[OBJECTIVE: MONOPOLY DERAILEMENT – 37% COMPLETE]**
Of course it wasn't really, but one can dream.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl recited railway bylaws in iambic pentameter. Johnathan's pistons hummed a tune suspiciously resembling "The Loco-Motion" in a minor key as his avatar body suddenly woke up.