The layout consisted of isolated clusters of seats on one side—each group featuring two plush benches facing a rounded metallic table beneath a wide, panoramic window. On the opposite side, a narrow, dimly lit corridor ran the length of the car.
"I thought it would be more spacious," Thomas muttered, sliding into a seat across from the stranger.
"Is this your first time boarding a train?" The man gave him another long, searching look, his oculus whirring as it adjusted to the dim indoor lighting. He seemed to be growing accustomed to Thomas's total ignorance of the world's basic functions.
Thomas looked out the window. The Dante Settlement was already beginning to blur as the engine began its rhythmic, bone-shaking throb. He was a man with no money, a new face, and a mysterious mentor waiting at the end of the line.
"I suppose it is," Thomas said, leaning his head against the cold glass. "In this life, anyway."
"I came from the small villages outside the settlement," Thomas said, recycling the alibi Oliver had conveniently constructed for him earlier. "So, this is my first time seeing any of this. The city, the crowds, the train... It's all new."
"Won't be your last, hopefully," the stranger replied. He shifted his gaze away, losing himself in the flickering reflection of the window as if the conversation had already exhausted his interest.
He seemed like a man who carried the weight of the world behind that mechanical eye, and Thomas was just a momentary distraction.
"Sorry, but…" Thomas cleared his throat, the professional detective in him bristling at the admission of a weakness. "I don't have a ticket. And... I don't carry any money on me. None of the local currency, anyway."
"Don't worry," the man said, still staring at the passing landscape. "I'm not so pathetic or poor that I can't cover a cub's passage. Consider it an investment in the future."
His dismissive tone gave Thomas plenty of room to think. He leaned back into the plush leather of the seat, cradling the stone pot. Everything had spiralled out of control since he sat next to that old, beggar-like woman in New York.
The dam of his emotions had been breached, and he was currently drowning in the flood. He felt every pang of anxiety, every spark of curiosity, and every throb of the persistent headache that seemed to be the price of his new life.
As he brooded, the train began to pick up speed. The movement was far more sophisticated than Becky's chaotic lurching, but it was a far cry from the magnetic levitation or smooth electric rails of Earth.
Instead of a constant vibration, the train was subjected to violent, rhythmic shakes that occurred at precise intervals. With every shudder, Thomas felt as though his internal organs were being rearranged.
"What are those vibrations?" Thomas asked after ten minutes of bone-rattling jolts. "Is the track damaged?"
"It's the effect of the Qi balls," the man answered casually. By now, he seemed to have accepted that Thomas was a blank slate. He didn't even look surprised at the ignorance anymore; he just spoke as if reciting a manual.
"Those balls were once produced by the infamous 'Fuckers' of our world. After the Great Monarch, they were rebranded and turned into a pillar of civilisation. These people donate their Qi—voluntarily or otherwise—and it's compressed into spherical catalysts. We use them for everything: heating homes, lighting streets, powering our weapons, and fueling our transport. This train runs on them. Those shakes you feel? That's the stokers in the front throwing a fresh batch of Qi balls into the engine to keep the pressure up."
"I see..." Thomas muttered. In his mind, he made a mental note: Qi balls = Coal/Electricity. "And the black smoke?"
"Impurities," the man sighed. "I'm no engineer, but it's common knowledge that Qi balls harvested from F-grade superheroes are riddled with 'spiritual dross.' It's why no high-ranking hero would ever dream of absorbing them. They can't compare to the pure Qi stones harvested from the Isolation Zones."
The man paused, his one good eye narrowing as he turned back to Thomas. "You do know about the Isolation Zones and the stones, right?"
Thomas felt like a child being scolded by a particularly lethal father figure. He nodded hurriedly, not wanting to test the man's patience further. Seeing that the stranger was in a rare talkative mood, Thomas decided to push his luck. He pointed toward the metallic apparatus on the man's face.
"What about that?" Thomas asked. "The metal. Does it hide... an injury?"
"It hides something you should wish to have," the man said, his good eye rolling back in a way that looked unsettlingly creepy. "It hides a scar. One of the noblest and most significant marks a superhero can possess."
"If it's so noble, why hide it behind a piece of scrap metal?" Thomas countered. He remembered Oliver speaking about scars with the same religious fervour.
The man's expression darkened instantly. He levelled a fierce, predatory glare at Thomas, as if he had just spat on a holy relic. Thomas felt a cold shiver go down his spine, but he pressed on. "What's so special about a scar? Is it just a trophy from a fight with a villain?"
"Oh, you truly are a blank slate, aren't you?" The man sighed, the anger fading into a weary, hopeless pity. "Listen. I'm going to do you a favour and explain this properly. Otherwise, the moment you step into a real city, you'll turn into a laughingstock—or a corpse."
Thomas straightened his posture, listening with an intensity he usually reserved for prime suspects. This man was a "killer," a veteran of this world. His information would be far more valuable than Oliver's scattered boasts.