There wasn't much to be seen in Amersham station at any given time, let alone at the present. From the few patrons brave or desperate enough to be about the underground, whispers regarding the terrorist group allegedly terrorizing the city could be overheard if one was eavesdropping well enough. In spite of the recent mania, the place looks much the same as ever, lit by the pallid bulbs of the platform. Most of the kiosks had closed, though nobody save for the staff could explain whether it was due to safety concerns or lack of business. Even the station performers are nowhere in sight. Out of the hundreds of frequent patrons that could be found boarding or exiting a train at Amersham station in a given hour, there are maybe fifty people there at the moment. Drunks mostly and a peppering of businessmen and women who seem to be in a perpetual state of agitation that the train is late even though it isn’t due for another few minutes. The only truly peculiar sight is the lack of law enforcement or investigative personnel or yellow tape. For a suspected terrorist attack site, there is little to be seen in the way of anyone taking any of this terrorism business seriously.<br/><br/>The main light source of the entrance to the station, down that long flight of stairs, is the sun that is caught in an eternal battle of hide and seek behind the cloud cover. Many of the lights that line the corners of the ceiling are out, have been out for some months. Every few minutes the sun vanishes behind thick dark grey and the station takes a notably dark turn for a matter of seconds, even up to a minute or two, before reappearing for a similar amount of time. It isn’t until after almost twenty minutes that the sunlight vanishes for longer than before and doesn’t seem to be returning.<br/><br/>The hiss of metal on metal fills the surroundings and a bright light tears the veil of the dark tunnel to the far left of the platform. The gearous whine of the breaks cut into the grim silence roughly and abruptly as a train pulls into Amersham. The twelve fifty five, the cross-town train of the afternoon. The train looks to be no different to its brothers in arms, a dirty chrome colossus tugging tons upon tons of metal cars, each lit no better than the station that surrounds it. The sides of the car are covered in grime and paint, the odd tag visible on its armour like an artist’s badge of honor.<br/><br/>Slowly but surely, the patrons catching their train to wherever shamble towards its doors. Of the slightly over four dozen waiting for the thing, the only thing that seems off are random strangers who wander towards the cars and slowly, subtly walk away from their initial destination and converge on one car in particular. The car third from the front attracts no less than six of the people catching the train. By any normal stretch it doesn’t look like anything odd. Perhaps the other cars have a smell to them or are filled with homeless who would be woken and kicked off once the train reaches its last stop.<br/><br/>Whatever the reason, the third car seems to be attractive to these few.<br/><br/>Those among the station with an astute sense for the supernatural might feel the air grow denser with the arrival of the train. Something lingers here. It smells old and sweet, like pomegranate that’s just a bit too ripe. There is one criteria which some in the station may recognize instantly. It is the scent of death. Anybody among the bystanders who have spent time close to death could probably pick up on this particular aroma quicker than others.<br/><br/>Two minutes before the last train finishes boarding, an additional four individuals board the third car, aware or not of the weighted aura it projects.<br/><br/>The train is more than welcoming of the many passengers who board it, a disproportionate amount of them choosing the same car. At first impression the train seems relatively normal, lit by the same lights as its comrades, and feels more or less like taking the train any other day. The only difference is in the atmosphere. The lingering heaviness and not quite tangible smell and taste are a little thicker here, though not alarmingly so. As the men and women enter the train, there is a short pause before anything happens, maybe a minute at most. The doors, all at once and across every car, hiss and close, signalling that it is ready to depart. By now, any aware individual would know that if anything were going to happen on the twelve fifty five, it was much too late to get out of dodge.<br/><br/>With a screech the train begins to lumber forward, slowly at first but picking up speed as it dashes into the deep blackness between stations.