Calamity Djinn had clearly heard enough. “Come on out, boys!” she barked. “Let’s show this lot how we do business! Sound off!”

From the far end of the car the doorway burst open and a hulking figure walked in. Orc-sized, it was dressed in a shapeless mass of robes, from which it withdrew a scattergun and a small but clearly enchanted aegis. “Brutus Andronicus!” the figure said, with a surprisingly feminine voice.

The baggage door behind Calamity slipped open again, revealing an elf who would have been intimidatingly dressed in sharp black and silver if there hadn’t been bits of lingerie still clinging to him from the steamer trunk in which he had been loaded, concealed. “Doc Points!” he cried, his ebony walking stick wreathed with menacing magical flames.

“Missiles O’Houlihan!” One of the passengers in the middle of the car stood up. Dressed in incredibly fine but poorly-maintained clothes, she crossed her hands in front of her and tickled a set of ten mean-looking orbs of purple energy into being. One exploded outward, popping noisily against the ceiling in a spray of cinders. Vyrim thought he heard Muntz muttering at this display, but it might have just been his imagination.

The final gang member was also hidden among the passengers, folding a fan and casting back a veil to reveal a fleshless skeleton in a melodramatic wig and corset. She (?) silently produced a long sword bayonet from within her ribcage.

A significant pause followed, but the skeleton did not shout out its name as the others had. “Come on, Skeletonia, announce yourself,” Calamity Djinn said. “If we’re going to do it, we ALL have to do it, or the rest of us look stupid.”

“Oh yes,” the skeleton rumbled in a feminine trill. “You look stupid because I didn’t shout out my own name like this was a vaudeville stage. Yes, that’s certainly it.”

Vyrim made use of his only hand, laying it across his face.

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