Thread:Rocketlauncher22/@comment-29711200-20160922031821/@comment-30105631-20161102193717

OCD. That's what they called it. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. The need for everything to be in its right place.

And they never were, of course. They would always be moving around, visiting other people leaving their homes. But they all had the wrong homes! They didn't belong where they were, and the transporter would fix that. Yes, yes, yes, he would! He'd fix it all!

He grabs his contraption. It's such a fine piece of art, it brings tears to his eyes. He grins, and he gets in his carriage, on wheels, powered by his master invention: the engine! A creation that uses oil to generate speed, allowing carriages to move without horses!

It is one of the greatest inventions of the time. Perhaps, it is the greatest. But the transporter isn't interested in selling it or using it for money, or whatever. Nah, the transporter uses it to put everything in its right place! Cause that's his job. To put everything back, back in its right place.

The transporter smiles, the moon turning the innocent expression slightly sinister, and he climbs on board his carriage, setting off into the night.

End of Transporter story.