The world behind the train was a chaotic blur of receding iron and dust. The severed rear trucks, or what remained of their twisted skeletal frames, slid backward into the canyon's haze, slowing as the main engine continued its relentless, chugging rhythm.
Perched on a jagged platform of scrap metal, the two muzzled enemies stood defiant, their eyes still burning with bronze and red hatred.
Thomas was certain that if a gaze possessed the power to kill, the silver-haired man would have dropped dead a dozen times over. The air was still thick with the metallic scent of ozone and the sulfurous stench of spent fire.
As the threats faded into the distance, the lightning superhero didn't offer a witty retort or a dramatic vow.
He simply raised his hand, folded his fingers into a tight fist, and let his middle finger rise in a singular, universal gesture of contempt. It was a jarringly human move for a man who had just looked like a god.
He turned toward Thomas, and the detective felt his heart skip. One of the man's eyes was normal—tired, perhaps—but the other, visible through the mechanical oculus, pulsed with a dangerous, residual silver light.
The metal casing on his face hummed with energy, and the tips of his hair still flickered with the dying embers of the silver storm. Up close, he looked less like a saviour and more like a predator that had just finished a meal.
"My hat!" the man said flatly.
He didn't wait for a response. He walked past Thomas, his leather coat snapping in the wind, and stretched out a gloved hand.
Thomas realised, with a start, that he had already extended his arm to return the black fedora. He had done it on pure autopilot, his subconscious recognising the man's authority before his conscious mind could even process the request.
By the time Thomas fully returned to his senses, the superhero was already at the end of the truck.
The silver light had vanished from his hair and body, returning him to the appearance of a wealthy, somewhat eccentric traveller. He stepped through the door into the next car without looking back.
Thomas stood alone in the wreckage. This truck—or the fraction of it that remained attached to the train—was a disaster zone.
Three-quarters of the ceiling had been peeled away like a tin can, exposing the interior to the howling, orange-tinted sky. Seats were shredded, tables were gone, and the floorboards were riddled with cracks that groaned under the pressure of the wind.
"What is that?"
As Thomas surveyed the aftermath, his eyes caught a flash of dark colour in a far corner. It was wedged near the jagged edge where the truck had been severed, less than a meter from the drop to the spinning tracks below. It looked like a wallet—thick, leather, and out of place.
He hesitated. The train hadn't slowed down an inch; the engineers in the front either hadn't noticed the battle or were too terrified to stop.
The wind whipped through the open cabin, threatening to pull anything unanchored into the void. But a detective's instinct is a hard thing to kill.
That wallet belonged to them.
The memory flickered: the two muzzled men sitting around a table, leaning in close to inspect something within that very leather sleeve. The superhero had missed it. The conductor had missed it.
Thomas glanced over his shoulder. The silver-haired man was long gone. Realising he had a window of opportunity, Thomas moved. He didn't run; he glided with a speed and grace he hadn't known he possessed, his boots finding traction on the cracked floor.
He snatched the wallet, felt its surprising weight, and tucked it deep into his belt beneath his clothes. He was back at his tree pot in seconds, his heart racing not with fear, but with the familiar rush of a successful "acquisition."
He checked the car again. This time, he saw the passengers. They were huddled in the furthest forward corner, their faces pale and streaked with soot. A small child was sobbing quietly, clutching the hem of a man's coat.
Seeing them made Thomas's chest tighten. All this destruction—the near-death experience, the terror—wasn't the result of a villainous heist or a train robbery. It was the "collateral damage" of a private feud between superheroes. The people here were irrelevant to the combatants.
Thomas looked down at his tree pot, the white fog still swirling around the gnarled branches. He felt a sudden, profound wave of gratitude. "Thanks," he whispered to the plant. "You're a better partner than I expected."
As he went to lift the pot, he noticed the fog seemed... different. It was denser, more opaque, pulsing with a faint luminescence. He couldn't be sure if it was growing or if the battle had just heightened his senses, but it felt alive.
"T… Thanks, sir. Thank you, esteemed superhero, for saving us."
Thomas froze. He turned his head slowly, like a rusted gear, to see the man who had spoken. It was the father of the crying child. He was standing up, his hands trembling as he reached into the inner pocket of his worn, cheap coat.
"Take this," the man said, holding out a strange contraption of black and red leather. "It's a shoulder harness. We use them to carry the little ones when we're working the fields or the mines."
Thomas took the gift, his face a mask of confusion. The harness consisted of a long, heavy leather belt that split into two circular loops, reinforced with a tough, woven fabric.
"You can use it for your pot," another passenger added, her voice filled with genuine admiration. "We saw how you stayed motionless, protecting your pet through the explosions. With this, you can carry your friend and still have your hands free to fight by the lightning-lord's side. You can protect us better next time."