Thomas looked at the harness, then at the hopeful, reverent faces of the people. They actually thought he was a hero. They thought he had been "holding his position" out of bravery, not because he was too terrified to move.
He looked at the leather straps in his hands, feeling the weight of a misunderstanding he wasn't sure he could—or wanted to—correct. He was a detective with a stolen wallet and a mysterious tree, but to these people, he was the junior partner of a god.
The leather harness sat heavy on Thomas's shoulders, the alternating red and black straps feeling like a yoke of unearned responsibility.
He stood frozen, unsure of how to reject the sincere gratitude of people who had so little to give. Before he could find his voice, a third man stepped forward, his face etched with the weariness of a lifetime of hard labour.
"I don't have much to offer a hero," the man whispered, dipping his hand into a small, rough-spun pouch at his waist.
He withdrew three spheres, each the size of a large fist. They pulsed with a faint, internal throb, identical to the "Qi balls" Oliver had used to feed the engine of the behemoth. "But please, take these as a token of our appreciation."
Thomas looked at the spheres, then at the growing circle of passengers. Two more balls were pressed into his hands. He realised then that words were a useless currency here.
If he tried to explain that he was just a terrified transplant from another world—that the "lightning-lord" was a man whose own enemies called him a traitor—they wouldn't believe him. Or worse, their hope would shatter, leaving them with nothing in this brutal canyon.
He silently adjusted the harness, sliding the stone pot into the tough fabric sack until it was securely anchored against his back.
He accepted the Qi balls and a spare satchel to hold them, hanging the weight from his belt. With a sombre, silent nod, he turned and began to walk toward the front of the train.
As he moved through the cars, the scene repeated itself with haunting regularity. The news of the "battle" and the "victory" had spread through the train like a wildfire.
Every time Thomas passed a cluster of passengers, they stood and offered whatever they could spare. By the time he reached the forward-most truck, ten satchels of Qi balls clacked against his thighs.
One man had insisted Thomas take his heavy, weathered coat; another had pressed a sturdy, though inexpensive, wooden cane into his hand.
Thomas felt like a fraud, a scavenger dressed in the spoils of a war he hadn't fought.
When he finally stepped into the lead car, he found the lightning superhero standing in the centre of the cabin. The car was empty of common passengers; they had cleared out of their own volition, leaving the "heroes" to their rest. The stranger stood with his back to the door, his silhouette framed by the flickering lights of the engine ahead.
"Accept them," the man said without turning around. His voice was no longer booming, but it carried a sharp, crystalline clarity.
Thomas stood there, draped in his new coat, leaning on his new cane, with a magical tree strapped to his back. He felt the weight of the stolen wallet against his hip, a secret fire burning through his clothes.
"Sit," the man commanded, gesturing toward a bolted-down table in the middle of the truck.
Thomas approached with the caution of a man walking into a minefield. He sat, keeping his back straight and his hands visible. For five excruciating minutes, the superhero did nothing but stare.
His mechanical oculus whirred with a rhythmic, hypnotic click, scanning Thomas as if he were a biological specimen rather than a person. The pressure in the room became almost physical, a static charge that made the hair on Thomas's neck stand up.
"I see you've acquired a new wardrobe," the man said finally, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "And even a cane to match mine."
Thomas didn't blink. He knew this game. This was the "quiet room" tactic—building pressure until the suspect cracked. "You're weighing the risks," Thomas said, his voice surprisingly steady. "You're deciding if it's safer to let me live or to simplify your life by killing me."
The man let out a short, dry chuckle. "Smart cub. Very smart. What do you think I should do, then? From a tactical standpoint?"
"Let me live," Thomas replied, his throat tight. "I'm an outsider. I have no allegiances here. I don't care about your 'treason' or your enemies. I just want to reach my destination."
"Oh, you're thinking purely of your own skin," the man scoffed. He suddenly lifted his ornate silver cane, and Thomas jolted in his seat, expecting a bolt of lightning to end the conversation.
Instead, the man began to trace the carvings on the wood with a gloved thumb. "See this cane? If it loses its utility—if the wood rots or the conduit snaps—it's just kindling. On a cold night, its best use is to be burned for warmth."
The metaphor hit Thomas like a physical blow. Be useful, or be consumed.
"Sit back down," the man said as Thomas hovered on the edge of flight. "I won't be the one to determine your fate today. I'm not that arrogant."
"If not you, then who?" Thomas asked, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of his heart.
"Who indeed?" The man seemed to find a dark amusement in Thomas's terror. He reached into the inner lining of his red-and-black coat and withdrew a small bronze chain.
At one end was a decorative finger-loop; at the other, a heavy, cone-shaped bronze weight that terminated in a needle-sharp point.
The man slipped the loop over his finger and held his hand perfectly still. The bronze cone dangled over the scarred surface of the metallic table, hovering just millimetres above the iron.
"A pendulum?" Thomas whispered.