"Don't move—no one. Everyone stay in your seats. One move and I will shoot."
At the front of the bus, a middle-aged man stood gripping a gun, his arm shaking slightly as he waved it toward the driver. His breathing was uneven, almost frantic, like he couldn't catch it.
"Don't stop the bus—drive faster, faster!" he barked, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence. The driver hesitated for a split second before pressing the accelerator, the engine groaning as the bus lurched forward.
The man kept looking over his shoulder, eyes darting from one window to another, as if expecting someone to appear at any moment. Sweat ran down the side of his face despite the cool air inside. His movements were jerky, unsteady—too quick, too tense.
Seeing his face, it was clear something was wrong. His pupils were wide and unfocused, and his grip on the gun tightened and loosened at random, like he wasn't fully in control of his own hands.
A child near the middle seats began to whimper softly before their mother pulled them close, whispering urgently to stay quiet. No one dared to speak louder than a breath. Even the usual noise of the bus—phones, chatter, movement—had completely died.
Jack and Peter were also shocked by the situation.
"Hey, don't move, fool. Try to be a hero and you'll have a hole in you, man," the man threatened a passenger.
Jack took in the situation. He couldn't transform here — his secret would be lost — and he hadn't really considered a scenario like this.
Why is a hijacking — an event a person never encounters in a lifetime — happening to me? I am so unlucky, he thought, glancing over to see Peter equally shocked and mumbling to himself.
This is definitely not my bad luck. This must be Peter's, he thought, quickly redirecting the blame — he really didn't want to call himself unlucky again.
"Why are you slowing down, bastard?"
"It's a red light," the driver said, his voice tight, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"Run past that, idiot—no, stop—!" The man's voice snapped between commands, confused and unstable, as he thrust the gun closer to the driver's head.
Seeing it, the driver flinched and pressed down on the accelerator instead of the brake. The bus surged forward, engine roaring as it blew through the red light.
For a split second, everything seemed to freeze—
Then a truck shot into the intersection from the side.
Its horn blared loudly, tires screeching as the driver slammed the brakes. The bus missed it by inches, the side of the truck passing so close it felt like it brushed against them.
A few passengers gasped. Someone let out a short scream before covering their mouth.
The bus swayed slightly as it cleared the junction, the driver gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.
Behind him, the man let out a shaky laugh — half relief, half something far more unhinged.
"See?" he muttered, though his voice trembled. "Just drive."
Outside, a driver in a car watched the bus blow through the red light and cursed. "$#$$#!"
He stared for a second, then grabbed his phone.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Yeah — a city bus just ran a red light and nearly got hit by a truck. It's not stopping — there's a guy near the front yelling at the driver. Something's wrong."
"Sir, what's your location?"
"Maple and 3rd. Bus number 42, heading east. Blue and white."
"Alright, we're sending units now. Stay safe."
In the distance, sirens were already beginning to rise.
Back on the bus, Peter leaned toward Jack and whispered, "Jack, what do we do?"
"I don't know. He has a gun," Jack whispered back.
"Don't talk back there!" the man shouted. The bus fell into silence, still running fast.
They didn't know why this guy had hijacked the bus, and seeing him in that drug-like state made it very dangerous to try anything.
Then, suddenly, a child at the front began crying loudly. The mother tried desperately to quiet it.
"Shut up!" The man turned and leveled the gun at the child. The situation was getting serious.
Seeing that, Jack's hand moved toward the Omnitrix. Even if he was exposed, he needed to do something — and if he did nothing, it would be worse. He couldn't forgive himself.
"Hey… hey — alright, man. Take it easy, okay? Nobody's trying to mess with you."
Jack froze. That was Peter's voice.
The man with the gun turned and fixed his eyes on Peter, raising the weapon at him.
"What's your problem?"
"Nothing — nothing, I swear," Peter said quickly, raising his hands just enough to show he wasn't a threat. His voice stayed calm, a little shaky on purpose. "I'm just talking. That's it. You don't have to point that at me."
The man's grip tightened. "Sit down."
"I will, I will — just… listen for a second, okay?" Peter said, not moving forward, not backing away either. "You said you don't want to hurt anyone, right? That's good. That's — that's all we want too."
Bro, this is not the time to be a hero. You are not Spider-Man, and that's a freaking gun, and you're going to try to stop a crazy drug guy? One bullet and you're gone. This is Marvel — even Marvel's own Iron Man died.
The man hesitated, just for a second.
Peter caught it.
"Look, we're already moving, okay? Nobody's stopping you right now. You've got control," Peter continued, keeping his tone steady, conversational. "So there's no rush. You don't have to do anything fast."
"But don't get up," the man snapped, though his voice wavered slightly.
"I'm not getting up," Peter said immediately. "See? I'm staying right here. You're good."
A pause.
Peter tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to understand. "You're just trying to get somewhere, right? That's it?"
The man didn't answer — but he didn't shoot either.
That was enough.
As the gunman slowly walked toward the back, Jack caught a flash of movement — a woman in her 30s signaled to Peter, and Jack noticed she had a firearm of her own.
As the man closed in, everything seemed to tighten at once.
Jack moved first — quick and sudden, grabbing the man's wrist and shoving it down. The gun jerked, a shot nearly going off as it slipped from his grip and hit the floor with a hard clatter.
"Now!" Peter reacted instantly, lunging forward. Both of them drove into the man, forcing him off balance and slamming him against the seats.
The bus swerved slightly.
The man thrashed, trying to break free, but Peter locked onto his arm while Jack pressed his weight down, pinning him.
"Hold him — hold him!" someone shouted from behind.
The woman stepped forward, weapon raised, her stance steady.
"Don't move! Don't move!" she ordered sharply, her voice cutting through the chaos.
The man froze for a second, breathing hard, eyes wild — then went still as he realized he was pinned and outnumbered.
"Gun — get the gun!" Peter said.
A passenger quickly kicked it further down the aisle, out of reach.
Sirens were close now, loud and getting louder.
Inside the bus, people started talking all at once — shaken voices, nervous relief, a few on the verge of tears.
Up front, the driver kept both hands tight on the wheel, slowing the bus now, glancing back only briefly before focusing on the road again.
"We've got him," the woman said, still aiming. "Police are on the way."
The bus didn't stop immediately — it kept moving, slower now, as flashing red and blue lights appeared behind them.
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