Gunfire erupted, explosions boomed, and somewhere down the train a carriage was consumed by a monstrous ball of fire.
Elsewhere in the carriage, Marco felt himself jostled, and some of the brown liquid from his hip flask sloshed out. He looked down sadly at the spilled, wasted, sweet nectar of the immortals. Then he took another swig.
Marco sighed, put the flask away, and then pulled out his submachine gun, and stepped off the carriage. He calmly pushed his way past the train passengers that now were attempting to escape the violence, some of them barrelling past him seemingly without noticing him, while others took one look at him and his gun before screaming and running in the opposite direction. Marco walked on towards the fighting, ignoring the small voice in his head telling him to go get an ice cream, and then come back to sort this all out.
The Farmer didn't seem to be in the mood for talking. Otherwise Marco might have tried to persuade him that the current proceedings were distracting the Farmer from the more serious matter of the Farmer's Market going on in the nearby village (which didn't exist), or that his expenditure on weapons and bullets would be much better spent on farming equipment (which was economically debatable, given that nowadays guns for hire were in very high demand, whereas traditional farmers and their farming methods were suffering financially due to the competition with the up and coming hydroponics and synthetic-meat labs).
But none of that mattered. All anyone else needed to know, or cared about, was that Marco raised his gun, aimed it at the Farmer, and fired a burst of perhaps seven bullets.