Coffee & Cogs

The scent of burnt coffee lingered in the air, twinned with the ever-present miasma of coal smoke and sweat. Miles wiped his brow with the corner of his apron and leaned against the counter of his tiny coffee stand, nestled between one of the roaring engine rooms and the rust-stained barracks of the Titania’s lower deck. 

His stand wasn’t much - just a battered iron cart welded in place, with a sputtering boiler and a dented tin sign that read Miles’ Brews: Strong as Steel. It was the only place workers could get a cup of coffee before dragging themselves to the furnace rooms. 

A line had already formed, weary men and women clutching battered mugs, their faces smeared with soot. Miles worked quickly, filling cups with thick bitter sludge. 

“Three cogs,” he grunted, holding out his hand.

A man with grease-streaked arms glared at him for a moment, before fishing in his pockets and slapped the brass coins into his palm. Miles barely looked up as he filled the mans mug.

The train shuddered violently beneath them, sending ripples through the coffee pots. The Titania was old, older than any of them, and though the captain promised they would reach their destination soon, Miles had long stopped believing in fairy tales. 

The thought even made him laugh. The Titania had been rolling for over a century, cutting across an already dead world. Some believed there was a city waiting at the end of the tracks - a place where the air was warm, the streets were paved with copper, and people lived without care. At least, that's what was preached by the priests. Miles had seen men die chasing that dream.

The line dwindled as piercing work whistles rang out through the carriages. Soon, it was just him and a young woman lingering at the edge of the stand, staring at the stall like she was afraid of it. 

She didn’t belong here. 

Her clothes - fine, though travel-worn - marked her as someone from the upper carriages. Maybe she had stolen them, but Miles doubted it. Her hands were too clean, her posture too stiff, like a person who had never carried a burden heavier than a silver spoon. 

She lifted her chin. “Do you have tea?”

Miles barked a laugh. “Do I look like I have tea?”

The woman hesitated, then pulled out a small handful of silver cogs - more than enough to buy every cup of coffee in the pot. Miles narrowed his eyes. 

“Strange place for a brassneck to get her morning fix,” he muttered, pouring a cup.

She didn’t respond, just took the coffee with both hands, as if warming herself against the cold. 

Miles let the silence stretch. He wasn’t the sort to pry. People came to his cart for two things: coffee and the unspoken promise that he wouldn’t ask questions.

But the Titania wasn’t kind to out-of-place people, especially nobles. And whatever trouble this woman was in, she had found the worst place in the train to hide. 

“You running from someone?” he asked finally.

She flinched. “No.”

“Lying’s a skill, y’know. You should practice more.”

She sighed, shifting on her feet. “I’m looking for someone.”

Miles frowned. “Can’t imagine who.”

The girl took a careful sip of coffee and winced. “How do you drink this? It’s like drinking coal.”

“Then you fit right in.”

The train let out a piercing shriek as it hit a turn, metal screeching in protest. Steam hissed through the pipes, and for a moment, the floor beneath them trembled like something alive. Miles steadied the cups with one hand out of habit. 

The girl, however, staggered, grabbing the edge of his stall.

That was when he saw the brand on her wrist, causing his stomach to clench.

The sigil of House Cindral. If wealth was a competition, they came in first. 

She caught him looking and quickly yanked her sleeve down. 

“That’s real stupid of you,” he muttered, turning away to pack up the stall. “Flashing that mark round here.”

She hesitated. “I didn’t mean…”

“Means you’re worth a ransom.” Miles glanced around. None of the passers-by seemed to have noticed, but it wouldn’t be long before one did.

She exhaled sharply. “Please. I just need to find someone.”

“Who?”

“A man named Solas. He worked in the engine rooms. A long time ago.”

Miles furrowed his brow. “Never heard of him.”

Her face fell.

Miles considered it for a long moment.

Then, with a sigh, he reached under the counter and pulled out an old, oil-stained ledger. It was nothing official - just a list of customers who owed him money, mixed with a few notable workers who had passed through over the years. He flipped through the pages, searching.

Solas.

The name was there. But it had been crossed out.

Dead. 

Miles exhaled through his nose. “He’s gone.”

The girl closed her eyes. Just for a second. 

Then she nodded, as if she had expected it. 

She set her half-empty cup down, placed a silver cog on the counter, and turned to leave. 

Miles sighed, rubbing a hand through his beard. 

He wasn’t a good man. Never had been. He sold bitter coffee to broken people and kept his head down. 

But he had a sister once. 

“...Wait,” he called. 

She turned. 

He tapped the counter. “If he’s dead, then you’re fresh out of luck. But, I’d rather you didn’t end up the same way.”

She swallowed. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Miles exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath. Then reached under the cart, pulled out an old worker’s coat, and tossed it at her.

“Put that on. You look like a damn porcelain doll in that getup.”

She hesitated, then wrapped the coat around herself, the fabric swallowing her frame. 

Miles poured another cup of coffee and pushed it toward her. 

She took it, more careful this time. 

“You can stay till I’m packed,” he muttered. “Then head two cars down, to Madam Glask’s Parlour. Don’t say who sent you and she might be able to help.”

Outside, the train’s whistle howled like a dying beast, steam hissing into the endless dark.

The Titania rumbled forward. 

And the girl stayed, for now.