Jack Thompson's Arc

Chapter 12 of 25

Jack shouldered Lady Luck and limped after 13 and Seven, the plant's back door swinging shut behind them. The reels still hummed in his hands, but a hum wasn't cover. Outside, somewhere close, a metal snarl cut the air. A scout was on the street, paws clicking, tracking. "Move," 13 said. Flat. He pulled Seven by the sleeve and they broke into a run. Jack swung his shotgun-crutch hard against the pavement, fighting to keep up. Behind them, the cybernetic wolf barked — a wet, mechanical sound — and somewhere else, another answered. They ducked into an alley between two shuttered storefronts. Jack pressed his back to the brick, lungs burning. He couldn't train a bridge with bullets coming. He couldn't think. He just breathed and listened to the clicks fade past the mouth of the alley. Seven exhaled and turned. Her shoulder brushed a wall of torn paper — old flyers layered three deep. One caught her eye. She peeled it back. An underground fight card. A bear man at the center, robe open, a red feather branded on his chest. The same red feather 13 carried folded in his jacket. 13 went still. He pulled his own feather out and held it next to the poster. "Same mark," he said, quieter than before. "Same hand made both." Jack looked at the bear man's name printed beneath — Arthur Von Arctus — and the date. Tomorrow night. Seven grinned, ears twitching. "Then I'm fighting," she said. "Sign me up. I lose pretty, I ask questions in the back room, somebody talks." 13 didn't argue. Jack didn't either. The scout's bark drifted further off. They had a lead now, and a direction, and a plan that wasn't his — and for the first time all day, Jack let someone else hold the reins.