The date was September 11, 1920, and the breeze drifting through the window was cool, tinged with autumn's earthy scent. Ivan found himself lost in thought, his mind wandering to familiar tunes from his past life. The melody played on repeat in his head, hauntingly familiar:
'All the leaves are brown,
And the sky is gray.
I've been for a walk,
On a winter's day…'
Ivan leaned back gingerly, shifting his weight to keep pressure off his bruised ribs. Traveling with an injury was no easy feat, but at least he was unburdened by luggage. His small suitcase was left back in the café, and most of his belongings were safely stowed in his personal storage space. All he had with him now was his ID, a few personal effects, and a set of clothes borrowed from Lao Chen.
With nothing to carry and no heavy bags weighing him down, the journey was almost relaxing.
He glanced out the train window, watching as the scenery shifted with each mile. He was on the famous United States Railway No. 1, a line that stretched across vast landscapes, fueled by the steady rumble of the internal combustion engine. The train cut through the fresh, pine-scented air of New Caledonia, heading west toward California, where golden sunlight streamed across endless fields. Occasionally, he caught glimpses of the deep blue ocean flickering at the edge of the horizon; a breathtaking contrast to the dusty plains.
In first class, the air was crisp and cool, an oasis compared to the crowded and noisy cars behind him. Leaning back, Ivan closed his eyes, letting his mind drift. For a moment, he was transported to the quiet of his university library, headphones on, with the faint echo of a familiar melody in his ears. It was a strange, comforting memory, one that felt both distant and soothing.
The gentle rustle of footsteps brought him back. He opened his eyes to see a conductor approaching, her makeup immaculate and her uniform perfectly pressed. She stopped beside him, offering a warm smile as she handed him a menu.
"Sir, here's our lunch selection. Please take a look and let me know your choice," she said, her tone polite and professional.
Ivan took the menu, a black leather clipboard with elegant gold plating, and scanned the options. Two choices: Set A and Set B.
"Hmm... lamb chops or beef tenderloin," he mused quietly, weighing his options. After a moment of deliberation, he tapped Set B with his finger. "I'll go with this."
The conductor nodded, a pleasant smile lingering as she took back the menu and moved on to the next passenger. As Ivan settled in, he returned his gaze to the window, his fingers drumming idly on his knee as he let his thoughts drift to what lay ahead in San Francisco.
The first step would be to find a place to stay and secure a job, simple enough on paper, but he knew better than to expect simplicity. In truth, he had little interest in climbing the wizard ranks or seeking out power as others did. Instead, he felt a lingering discomfort about the violent hierarchy of their world, where wizards preyed upon each other for status and survival. His moral compass, shaped in a previous life, still held strong, clashing with the brutal reality around him.
Instead, he harbored an unconventional plan. Rather than chase after the endless cycle of power, he'd build his wealth using his knowledge; ideas and insights from his world that could set him ahead of the curve. He dreamed of making a fortune, perhaps a few million dollars, then heading to Russia, a land that, in this strange parallel to Earth, felt like it might hold something familiar, a piece of his past, something to ground him. It was a wild, perhaps even naïve hope, but it was his.
His daydream was interrupted by the soft clinking of a dining cart rolling down the aisle. The conductor returned, placing a tray in front of him with a practiced elegance. The tray was metal, sturdy and gleaming under the train's soft lighting. Ivan noted the silverware with a curious smile; there was a roughness to it, a history embedded in the metal.
Metal cutlery was in fashion now, a trend that had emerged after the end of the World War. The factories that once produced helmets, canteens, and lunchboxes for soldiers had shifted their focus, repurposing these wartime remnants into everyday items for civilians. Pots, pans, plates, and cutlery all bore a second life, a relic of the war that lingered in mundane objects.
Ivan couldn't help but imagine the story behind each piece. The dinner plate before him might once have been the helmet of a weary soldier, trudging through mud and gunfire. The fork in his left hand could have been forged from a bayonet, and the knife on his right might have been repurposed from a grenade casing, one that had never seen the heat of battle. The thought was both sobering and oddly poetic; a reminder that remnants of the past lingered everywhere, even in the smallest details of daily life.
Taking a deep breath, Ivan focused on his meal, letting himself savor the present moment, even as his mind drifted to the uncertain future waiting for him in San Francisco.
Ivan chuckled to himself as he thought about how the meal he'd just enjoyed, a hefty steak cooked to perfection in butter, accompanied by peas glazed with garlic, and a baked potato the size of his hand; was, in some strange way, an example of the close ties between military and civilian life. The utensils and metal trays, recycled relics from the war, brought a unique sense of shared history to the table.
He took in each bite, savoring the crispy salt crust on the potato, its fluffy interior melting with butter, black pepper, and cheese. Dessert was a small slice of tiramisu, creamy and sweet, the perfect finish. By the end, he was comfortably full, leaving just a few potato skins behind. True to his principles, he avoided waste whenever possible.
As the flight attendant returned to clear his tray, Ivan signaled for a cup of unsweetened black tea. He sipped it slowly, glancing out the window as the train sped past wide-open farmland and entered a forest filled with golden larches. The ground foliage became sparse, and the trees created a gilded archway along the tracks. In the distance, the dark outline of unfamiliar mountains rose, mysterious and alluring.
A herd of white-tailed deer suddenly bounded alongside the tracks, their graceful forms moving in sync with the train. Ivan's fingers twitched with the instinct to reach for a rifle, to take aim like he would on a hunting trip, but he only smiled, enjoying the rare moment of peace.
And so, two days passed.
With a shrill whistle, the train finally slowed, the screech of metal on metal as it came to a halt at the platform. Sunlight poured over the bustling station, illuminating the roof of a grand Harvey's restaurant; a landmark of prosperity in the richest city of the richest nation. Ivan had heard rumors that just constructing this restaurant had cost more than the presidential palaces of some smaller countries.
As the doors opened, the platform came alive with noise. Newsboys swarmed around the passengers, selling peanuts, seeds, newspapers, magazines, even cigarettes and bootleg liquor hidden discreetly in their carts.
Ivan stepped off the train, one hand casually in his pocket, scratching his head as he scanned the lively crowd. A young newsboy in a worn gray shirt, with a wooden box strapped around his neck, sidled up to him.
"Sir, care to buy something?" The boy's face was eager, eyes darting between Ivan's face and his goods. "I've got the latest American Times, Golden Wind, and even the newest issue of 'Playboy!'"
Ivan's eyes drifted to the comic book the boy was pointing at. Something about the coloring seemed a bit… off. He smirked, recognizing the telltale signs. "Is this 'Playboy'… a pirated copy?"
The newsboy's eyes widened, then he broke into a grin and gave Ivan a thumbs-up. "You're sharp, sir! You've got it right. It's a pirated copy, so it's only four cents. Same content as the original, just cheaper paper. Be gentle with it, though, or it'll tear."
Ivan chuckled. "Noted. But I'm a gentleman; I'll treat it with care." He glanced down at the other offerings. "I'll take a copy of the 'American Times' and 'Golden Wind.' How much for these two?"
"Five cents, sir," the boy replied, his tone hopeful.
Ivan thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Alright, throw in 'Playboy' as well. I'll give you 10 cents."
The newsboy blinked in surprise, unsure if Ivan was serious. "Are… are you sure? I don't want to overcharge you…"
Ivan grinned, waving off the boy's hesitation. "What's with that look? I'm just evening out the price!"