A Most Unfortunate Arrival
George had never felt more out of place in his life.
The train station—if one could even call it that—was little more than a wooden platform, battered by time and neglect. There was no grand station house, no tiled floors, no distant hum of a city thrumming beyond its doors. In fact, there were no doors at all. Just emptiness stretching out in all directions, an expanse so vast and unbroken it made George’s stomach turn.
The platform itself creaked under his shoes as he shifted his weight, as if protesting the presence of anyone foolish enough to set foot upon it. A single, rusted bench slumped off to one side, its wood splintered and gray with age. Nearby, a signpost tilted at a precarious angle, its peeling paint barely managing to display the name of whatever primeforsaken place this was.
There was no station master. No baggage handlers. No newspaper stands selling the morning’s headlines. Just the whispering wind, curling through the tall, untamed grass like fingers reaching for something unseen. Somewhere in the distance, a cicada droned, the only sound in an otherwise stifling silence.
George swallowed, adjusting his collar. He glanced up at the sky—a brilliant, endless blue with not a single skyscraper or rooftop to break the horizon. Surely, there was WiFi?
He pulled out his phone, tilting the screen against the sun’s glare. Nothing. Not even a flicker of a signal. No bars. No networks. No hope.
A lump formed in his throat, but he forced himself to remain composed. Panic was unbecoming.
Then, footsteps. Heavy ones.
George straightened immediately, forcing himself to adopt a posture of ease and confidence. He turned to see a man approaching—a large man, with broad shoulders and an expression as unreadable as the barren landscape around them. He moved with a certain steadiness, the kind of deliberate pace that spoke of a life accustomed to patience, to solitude.
His clothing was simple and practical: a loose cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark trousers tucked into scuffed boots. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and his hair—longer than any man George had ever seen in London—was tied into a thick braid that rested over his shoulder. He looked as though he had stepped out of a different century altogether.
He stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. "You George?"
The man’s voice was deep, quiet. Unimpressed. George nodded once, polite and formal. "Yes, sir. And you must be Technoblade."
There was a pause. Then, a slow blink. "...Just Techno."
"Ah." George resisted the urge to fidget. "Very well. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Techno said nothing. The silence stretched. George cleared his throat, trying to suppress the unease creeping up his spine. "Might I trouble you for a ride to my uncle’s estate?"
Another blink. Then, finally, Techno nodded, turning on his heel and walking away. George exhaled, relieved. That was easy enough. He reached for his suitcase, only for it to be plucked effortlessly from his grasp.
"Allow me," Techno said flatly, barely acknowledging George’s stunned expression as he carried the heavy trunk as if it weighed nothing. George followed, hurrying to keep pace, his shoes crunching against the dry earth. "That’s very kind of you. I—"
He stopped. Staring. There was no car.
No automobile, no truck, not even a rickety old wagon. Nothing but an open stretch of dirt road and—waiting patiently at the edge of the platform—a horse.
A horse.
George stared at it. Then at Techno. Then at the horse again.
"...I beg your pardon," he said carefully. "Is this…our mode of transport?"
Techno secured the suitcase onto the saddle. "Yep."
George’s lips parted, but he quickly pressed them shut again. Proper gentlemen do not gape.
"...Lovely," he said instead, voice strained.
Techno swung himself onto the horse with ease before extending a hand. "C’mon."
George hesitated. He had never ridden a horse before. Not once in his perfectly civilized London upbringing. But he was nothing if not adaptable.
With great dignity, he accepted Techno’s help, seating himself behind him as gracefully as one could in a suit.
And then the horse moved.
George clamped down on a yelp, hands flying to grasp the only thing available—Techno’s shirt.
Techno barely reacted.
George, on the other hand, was acutely aware that his entire fate now rested in the hands of a man who barely looked concerned that they were riding a live animal at what felt like breakneck speeds. The rhythm of the horse’s hooves echoed through the emptiness, punctuating the vast silence that surrounded them.
The landscape rolled past—wooden fences, sprawling fields, windmills turning lazily in the sun. Every now and then, a lone tree stood against the horizon, its gnarled branches reaching toward the sky like a silent, forgotten sentinel.
And then.
He saw it.
Or rather, he didn’t see it.
There were no power lines.
No poles stretching across the land. No cables. No sign of electricity.
George swallowed thickly.
Perhaps…perhaps they had some sort of underground system? Yes, that was it. Surely.
He straightened his cuffs, forcing his expression into one of perfect neutrality.
There was nothing to worry about.
Right?