One of the reasons I like taking the underground railroad station is because the tickets there are pretty cheap. The conductors also don't mind using your monster hunting license as a train pass — just as long as you renew them before you get your butt in your seat.

Although taking a trip on an underwater train is fun, you can quickly get deported or arrested in this place.

You see, while Giuliani is cleaning up New York with his bullshit propaganda, Clinton's trying to crack down on immigration for God knows how long.

The bill he signed, the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act, makes it a massive problem for underground railroad stations because they welcome illegal immigrants, demon hunters, and creatures to the States. Sometimes, the cops and ICE would stop a train to find immigrants; other times, they dragged the passengers out of the stations like animals.

Now, the higher-ups in my community don't care very much about Clinton and his policies, but I think they made up some deal with him because all the secret train stations in the States have been shut down except for the one I'm in. I don't know what kind of loopholes the higher-ups went through, but I guess they like Poseidon Express as much as anyone.

It was built by this extremely wealthy inventor, Martin Bright; the train is designed to withstand extreme temperatures, go thirty-thousand miles, and enter a body of water without any obstacles.

Blackish-green obsidian touched the cold ceiling and the floor I was standing on. Sea salt emerges from the silver train tracks, while dank rocks and grounded sand are littered with wet garbage. Standing on the metal train tracks is a silver steam engine caravan. Black vapor pours from long chimneys, causing everyone to shield their noses with elbows and hats.

Odors of fresh seawater grow stronger. Homeless people sit in the corner of the train station, dodging the smell, while rowdy teenagers spray paint on the moist, gray brick walls. The public flourishes from every side of the building, yet humans and magical creatures avoid each other like oil and water.

I see the train conductor standing near the magical transport, tapping his golden pocket watch.

"THE POSEIDON EXPRESS WILL LEAVE IN FIVE MINUTES!" he announces.

Dozens of passengers climb aboard, prompting me and Ichabod to do the same. Shoes fondle the beautiful red carpet as passengers settle in lavish pearl-white chairs.

Several are well-dressed socialites, while some look like they just graduated from some fancy Ivy League school.

I lift my backpack and move to the left corner of the pearl-white chairs until Ichabod and I find a vacant one near the window. My cat hops on the empty table and makes himself comfortable while I toss my bag above my chair and sit in front of him.

The old conductor reaches his hand into his large pocket, whips out his thin, silver-gray whistle, and blows on it so hard that it almost deafens the children's ears.

Giving attention to the piercing noise, two burly trolls in dirty overalls get up from the wet floor, scramble towards the enormous, rusty valve, and twist it open so they can enter.

"Holy shit!" Ichabod exclaims.

He anxiously jumps into my lap and opens wide to see a tsunami of indignant tides storming toward the silver train. But instead of tearing it apart, the water swallows the steam caravan in one gulp.

Some passengers deepen their nails into the pearly white seats while others, like me, watch the excitement through the thick window. Sea glass and basalt fly right past the Poseidon Express. They clink against each other and then grow apart like old friends.

I watch for a second until the spirit of an old lady permits herself into the first car, pushing around a cart of plastic-wrapped sandwiches, chips, Dunkaroos, candies, and every variety of Jolt Cola and...