@Taran
Arty hates this car. She hates it. It feels demeaning, and as the youngest here, it also feels targeted. If she has to participate in a mandatory naptime, she’s going to throw a fit. No, not a TANTRUM, a fit. It’s different.
What would already be bad enough if it were vacant is made so much creepier by its occupants. Arty is staying as far away from both her corresponding Kid and Nun-Atsuko as physically possible, eventually retreating to the break room and deciding not to come out until she absolutely has to. (There was no way that could actually be Atsuko, not with the state her body was found in… but who knows with this train? What if they have her memories? She’s not taking chances.)
Alas, she’s not alone for long… no, Kid Arty has to get curious. She can’t say that’s particularly surprising, but when that little head peeks through the door, she groans. The resemblance between them is striking. Then again, they’re closer in age to each other than any other pair: only a longer haircut, a set of overalls, and about a decade separates Arty from her “kid self.”
“You’re me, right?” the kid declares—the last word is just a formality—gazing at her with those big round eyes.
Arty squints at her. “No. I’m not. I’m a person and you’re a bag of flour a magical train programmed to act like me.” Her voice is laced with annoyance, tightly coiled, like one wrong move and she’s going to lash out.
“Oh. But…” Flour!Arty cocks flour head to the side. “But if I’m made after you, why aren’t I the same? If we’re the same personality and looks and stuff.”
“What? It’s not the same at all.” Was she really this annoying when she was five? “I’ve lived an actual life. It’s mine. Not yours. Go away.” Arty’s starting to raise her voice now, not realizing it can be clearly heard from outside the room. Maybe not the best look to be berating a kid, even a flour one.
