Thomas wanted to sprint back to the mysterious stranger's side, to find shelter in the presence of someone he at least recognised.
But he was a detective first. He knew that sudden movement in a high-tension environment was a death sentence.
"I'm just a normal-looking youth," Thomas chanted internally like a mantra. "Just a boy with a tree. Nothing more."
He was correct in his assessment. To the two figures in the back of the car, he was a non-entity—a piece of the background scenery.
Even if he looked at them with wide, startled eyes, it was a reaction they likely received from every "commoner" who crossed their path.
They didn't move. They didn't even acknowledge his existence as he shuffled past them again, heading back toward the previous truck.
The moment Thomas crossed the threshold into the next car and confirmed the door had closed behind him, his composure shattered. He glanced back, saw that the corridor was empty, and began to run.
He sprinted through the swaying metal cars, the stone pot in his arms feeling like a part of his own body as he pushed himself to the limit.
"What's wrong?!" The stranger in the front car looked up, his oculus whirring with sudden mechanical alertness.
"There… there…" Thomas doubled over, his lungs burning.
"Catch your breath first," the man said. Surprisingly, the coldness from moments before had vanished, replaced by a strange, focused version of his earlier "kindness." He reached into a side pocket and produced a blue leather bottle that looked more like a water-filled balloon than a canteen.
Thomas didn't care about the aesthetics. He grabbed the bottle and gulped down the lukewarm water, feeling it soothe his parched throat. He took three deep, ragged breaths, forcing the adrenaline to subside just enough to speak.
"Now… what happened?'' The man asked, leaning his weight forward onto his cane, his good eye boring into Thomas.
"There… are two more on the train," Thomas managed to choke out between gasps. "In the last truck. Two superheroes."
The stranger didn't just stand up; he practically vaulted from his seat. The transition from rest to action was so sudden that it was violent.
"Where exactly are they?"
In that instant, Thomas felt a vibe from the man that was far more terrifying than the two in the back. The atmospheric pressure in the car seemed to drop, and a cold, heavy aura radiated from the stranger, making Thomas's knees tremble involuntarily.
He pointed a shaky finger toward the rear of the train. "The very last car. They... they had metal muzzles over their faces. Over their noses and eyes."
"Come with me," the man commanded.
"Wait, what? No!" Thomas's heart plummeted. "You saw them. You can identify them on the spot. I've done my part!"
"You are coming with me," the man repeated. His voice was no longer kind or even instructional; it was a sheet of ice. Before Thomas could argue, a hand like a steel vise clamped onto his shoulder and yanked him forward.
"I don't have any superpowers! I can't help you!" Thomas was on the verge of a breakdown, his mind racing through every possible scenario, and all of them ended with his death. But the superhero didn't slow down. He dragged Thomas through the trucks, the force of his march scattering the other passengers like leaves in a gale.
"You are coming. It's final," the man said.
As they moved, the detective in Thomas began to claw its way back to the surface.
He saw two superheroes—so what? For all he knew, they were just like this man, mentors on their way to collect new recruits. Why was this man acting like he had just spotted a pair of rabid wolves? Why the hostility? Why the immediate, lethal intent?
Who is the real villain here? The question flashed in Thomas's mind, but he didn't have time to answer it. They reached the door to the penultimate truck and stopped.
The stranger took a slow, deliberate breath, his hand tightening on his cane until the wood groaned. He pushed the door open and stepped through.
"It's them…" Thomas whispered.
Spotted them instantly. The two muzzled figures were already on the move, walking toward them from the other end of the car. When the two groups saw each other, they froze.
What Thomas didn't realise was that the conductor had inadvertently doomed them all.
Moments after Thomas had fled, the conductor had arrived in the last car and, in a fit of prideful chatter, told the two muzzled men how lucky he was to have three superheroes on his train today—the two of them, and the one in the front car with the youth and the tree pot.
The two sides stood in a heavy, pregnant silence for several long seconds. The air between them crackled with a static energy that made the hair on Thomas's arms stand up. He realised then that he wasn't just a witness; he had been used as bait, or perhaps as a shield.
"It's you!" one of the muzzled men growled, his voice muffled by the iron across his face.
"You are going to die!" the stranger beside Thomas barked back.
The train let out a long, mournful whistle, and Thomas knew the peace was over. A battle was about to erupt in the cramped confines of the metal car, and he was squarely in the kill zone.
As the two groups squared off, the atmosphere inside the train car underwent a violent, terrifying transformation.
The physics of the room seemed to warp. Thomas was suddenly released from the stranger's iron grip, stumbling back a few steps. He hit the wall of the carriage, but the relief he expected didn't come. Instead, a crushing sensation settled over him, as if the air itself had been replaced by liquid lead.
Every movement was a struggle; even drawing breath felt like pulling gravel into his lungs.
The two muzzled men at the other end of the car leaned forward. From behind their iron masks, their eyes ignited. One burned with a harsh, metallic bronze light, while the other glowed with a predatory, sanguine red. The energy they radiated was palpable, a heat that made the very air shimmer and ripple.
Before Thomas could process the threat, a flash of brilliant silver light erupted from the man beside him. The stranger reached up, calmly plucked the black hat from his head, and tossed it toward Thomas without looking back.
"Make sure you won't lose it," the man commanded. His voice had changed—it was no longer the gravelly baritone of a traveller, but a resonant, booming bass that vibrated through the floorboards.
Thomas caught the hat by pure reflex, clutching it against the stone pot. When he looked up, his jaw dropped. The man he had considered a "shady mentor" had vanished, replaced by a being of pure, radiant power.
His black hair was no longer flat; the tips were glowing with a fierce, ethereal silver, flickering like a brown-and-silver wildfire. A shimmering halo of the same light pulsed from his skin, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls of the train.
"You are really persistent," the silver-haired man said, his tone dripping with a lethal boredom.
He began to rotate the hand holding his wooden cane. As he did, the air began to hiss. Arcs of silver lightning began to dance along the length of the wood, extending past the tip like jagged, electric thorns.
"You are a lucky bastard, C-grade," one of the enemies growled, his bronze eyes flaring with envy and hate.
"Holy sh*t!" Thomas whispered, his eyes darting between the three of them. "They all can lighten up!"
It was a display of power that rendered all of Thomas's detective training useless. He was watching the "igniting" of human potential.