Two kids out by the tracks at dawn, in that dubious hour where the birds are realizing that the sun's rising once again but most people'd rather roll over and put morning and jobs and what-have-you off another hour. Taller one, walking, is still inwardly debating himself - doesn't like rising this early, really, but you gotta be there first if you're gonna ride for free, 'cause the grown-ups don't look kindly on that. Nice to be there 'fore the others get there, too, because he doesn't get along with most, but looks today like he's just out of luck. Some guy's sprawled out in one of the open cars, already, hanging half out the sliding door, upside-down and drawing. Who does that? first kid snorts with all the scorn of a sixteen-year-old, but he approaches nonetheless.

Artist must see him coming, but he doesn't look over, just keeps his eyes there on the stub of bright blue chalk in his hand. There's a circle of color growing on the rust-brown metal of the boxcar's side, between the ridges where the plates join - a planet, he guesses. Hell of a crazy thing to draw on a train, and he tells Artist so.

"Think so?" The kid twists around to look at him from mild blue eyes, blond bangs falling over his face until he shakes his head back like the dog Walker remembers having once. "What'd you draw, then?"

"Graffiti's illegal," Walker points out, covering quickly 'cause he hasn't actually got a good answer. Artist merely shrugs, unperturbed.

"Maybe. So's riding free, though - bet they'll get me for that before just drawing, anyone ever does decide to complain. I'm not even depriving them of money, with this -"

"Still defacing property." Walker's self-righteous.

"Please. Beautifying." Artist flashes him a quick smile. "You've got to admit it's an improvement."

Walker doesn't feel like being agreeable; he merely shrugs and slouches against the car. The metal's cool on his bare arms, even through his shirt, not an unwelcome contrast - air's muggy for all that it's early, and already the sun's vowing that it's going to be hot. "Still think it's weird. Why you want to draw that?"

"Because it's beautiful." Artist is matter-of-fact, looking at Walker like that should have been obvious. "Don't you think so?"

"Hn." Which is as large a concession as Walker's going to make, though he can see that the kid does got some talent. "S'posed to be Earth? You think this planet's pretty?"

Artist flashes him a look as sad as it is strange, just shakes his head. "I draw what I see."

"You got problems, then. Or bad eyes." He's being deliberately insulting but maybe the kid's too stupid to notice. Finally, he plops down right in Artist's car, long legs stretching out, just daring Artist to kick him out - that's what he'd do, given half the reason.

But this crazy kid doesn't, though Walker hangs around just waiting and waiting and waiting until finally even when he's defeated by his own silent admission, it'd be too awkward to get up and leave. So he's forced to just sit there staring, and Artist says nothing, no arguments, nothing at all, just keeps drawing like it actually means something.

And Walker's still sitting there when the engine wakes with a whistling scream and roars defiance at inertia until they're moving, moving, and gone.

Even when the train's moving too fast for safety Artist withdraws only barely, scootching his body back until he lies sprawled out across the width of the car but his head still by the open door, bangs ruffled and flying like a dog's fur or something, one arm still hanging out like he'd try to touch the gravel flying past like time. And he stays like this, precarious but unaware or just uncaring until Walker's just about ready to give up on him in disgust - but then just when Walker looks away in disinterest the kid turns back, pulling himself up to sit leaning against the inner wall, knees drawn up to his chest. And watches, which Walker finds just a little unnerving - he's used to being the one watching and usually smirking.

But there's no amused superiority in this kid's eyes, just something strange - quiet interest. Watches with those calm blue eyes until Walker's just about ready to scream at him, and speaks then, still cool and conversational: "I'm Chiore."

He doesn't continue, doesn't add the question, but it's hanging there, obvious, until Walker finally grunts "Tahran," looking down, kinda sullen and not bothering to sound otherwise. And Chiore nods, just nods and smiles like it's the coolest thing he's heard all week - might just be true, considering the astounding lack of a normal idea of 'life' he's shown thus far.

"Tahran," kid repeats, testing, and pushes further - "Why are you here?"

Tahran just looks at him nonplussed for a moment - stupid question, no answer that any sane person wouldn't see right away. "What else is there?" he shoots back, finally." And then, kid thinks he's so smart - "What about you?"

Chiore shrugs but keeps that permenant, annoying smile. "Just getting away. I got tired of it all." Pause, like he's trying to organize his thoughts. "Tired of people thinking they know it all, thinking they're the ones just special enough to solve everyone's problems. But you know - they try the same thing every time, and it never works - so they can't be all so right, or there'd be more green and less fighting. And it's not like that."

Tahran frowns at him but more at what he said. "Yeah. I guess. Just let them all go kill each other off, we'd be all set."

Chiore's looking wide-eyed, looking disturbed. "We? Who?"

"Us!" Tahran taps his chest fiercely. "Obviously us. We'd win, and it'd get run our way." And wouldn't have to live like this, could have a house and a pool and - they could work for them, all those losers who'd lost, serve them right. His imagination runs out there, cause he hasn't had stuff like that, barely even seen it - so he doesn't voice that. "That'd be better, yeah," he finishes, and pauses so Chiore's got time to be awed.

But the kid - Chiore's just looking kinda sad. "You think so?" he murmurs, but doesn't wait for an answer, doesn't expect one. "I didn't think you were one of them.

There's nothing in his voice that speaks of contempt; maybe it's just in Tahran's ears. He flares up fast, insulted even if he's not quite sure how. "Them? I'm not!"

"Sorry." And god, kid even looks it. "It sounded like that. Like you thought like them - that guns can solve everything."

"Well, they do. If you've got the best, you do whatever you want and no one sees you, no one cares..."

"No one comments." He's not sure whether that's an addition or a correction.

"Whatever. But you can do anything."

"Most people," Chiore agrees, "will do anything if they're scared."

"You scared?" Tahran accuses, annoyed.

"Yeah." He's quiet. "Yes, I am. Scared and sad all the world will be gone."

"Not happening," Tahran scoffs. "Stupid. Right?"

And the kid looks at him for a long, long time before he answers. "I don't know. I don't know, Tahran. I hope you're right, but I don't see that. I've been talking to people, talking about the green and the peace and hoping - that's another part of the why I'm here, I guess. But... I don't see it working."

Tahran's got an uncomfortable feeling he just lost, right there, and he doesn't like it. "They used to have a word for people like you," he remarks, almost casual. "A word - I don't remember. Thought you guys were all gone, and they don't need words for people once they're dead."

"Hippie," Chiore suggests real quiet, and most of the meaning's gone out of his smile. "Yes, I suppose you're right, Tahran."

Well, that's good, right? - but the kid's just turning back away, doesn't seem like victory. He just watches as Chiore turns back to watch the tall grass rush past in a heat-hazed blur, on and on like forever.

Tall brown grass, he realizes, looking. Dry as the air growing ever hotter, brown and touched with sky-grey - and in sight, nothing green.

Hour later or so, Chiore starts looking restless - not full-blown nervousness, no, just that he's staring outside a little harder, looking like he's expecting something. Tahran tilts his head, curious, but has no comment; he's not sure, anyway, that kid'd talk to him. And it's not like it's his business, not like he cares, really...

And yet when the land rushing by them slows to a screeching, clattering halt and Chiore slides lightly out of the car, Tahran's just behind him - and fine, he does care what this crazy kid's doing jumping off here with no town in sight and no telling when the next train stops. Chiore ignores him, following; he's scanning the tall grass sea that reaches off to the horizon, looking for something definitely.

So he's got to ask the question, finally - Chiore can be nosy, so can he. "Where you headed?" he says, speeding up to walk by Chiore, and the kid looks at him with brows raised, smiling just slightly, amused-secretive.

"Just here, for now. Eventually... Well, that takes explaining."

"Yeah?"

"Ah... I don't know, exactly. I met them a while ago, and she said they'd be back, if I wanted to go world-hopping with them, just meet them... I could. So I don't know, but... not here."

They - she? But he doesn't ask that. Frowns instead, watching Chiore, still confused but feeling like he's getting it. "Leaving here - the planet?"

Chiore nods, once, decidedly. There's wonder in his eyes.

Tahran can't suppress harsh laughter. "Skipping out? I thought you were all about saving the planet? Huh?"

Blue eyes hold his, river-cool, quiet. "You didn't know me, then."

"So you were scared." Chiore's starting I told you that but Tahran doesn't let him finish. "Giving up? Really. You got no right to tell us how to run the world. We stay, we get to handle it. You don't matter."

And infuriately, Chiore's nodding. "I know. But it's always been like that, Tahran. The people willing to fight will have what they want. But argue and I'm on their level - it won't work. They can do what they want, and I'll mourn when they blow themselves up, but I won't be with them." Pause, and those blue eyes entreat believe me. "If we all die fighting, no one grieves."

He folds himself up Indian style in the grass, eyes skyward, while Tahran's still looking unsuccessfully for an answer.

"Tahran?" Chiore glances over at him some time later. "You could come, I think. If you wanted to. Ematseth could take both of us, I bet..."

"Come!" Tahran's shocked into laughter. "Me? You just finished telling me, kid, why I'm completely wrong about - everything. And now you want..."

"I think we want the same thing," Chiore corrects mildly. "It'd be free not just for me - you could have the freedom to be wrong, if you want." There's humor definitely present in his voice now. "Your freedom, Tahran, not that of the people with the guns."

He's not as shocked as he probably should be when the blue-black dragon comes. After all, he's just found himself agreeing with some crazy kid who draws idealistic planets and talks of peace...

No, he's got no second thoughts at all as he takes the rider-girl's hand - just interest and curiousity still lingering. And why - why would Chiore be smiling?