Jack Thompson's Arc

Chapter 25 of 25

13 kept the pistols steady on the warehouse door. Jack pressed his shoulder to the brick and worked through what they had. Two of them. One trap. A doctor who didn't spook. Jack thought about a fire at the loading bay, smoke pushed under the seam, something loud enough to crack the doctor's patience without burning the kid alive inside. He started to say it. Then the wind shifted. A low whine cut down the block, metal on stone, claws clicking. Jack turned his head and saw it round the corner past the last brick wall. A wolf, half flesh and half plate, red panels along its ribs, one yellow eye fixed on him. It had their scent. It lifted its snout and let out a sound that wasn't a howl. It was a signal, clean and electric, pitched for whoever was listening inside. "Scout," 13 said. Quiet. The full sentence. "Pack behind it." Jack looked past the wolf. Two more shapes slid into the street, lower, slower, fanning wide. The block narrowed at the warehouse end. Brick wall on one side, chained doors on the other. The pack pushed them toward the only door that mattered. Jack felt the bridge inside him pull once, asking. He held it steady. Not yet. Inside the warehouse, something moved. Not footsteps. Pistons. A long hiss of steam vented through the eaves above the door. Iron groaned. The chain on the doors snapped taut and tore loose from its bolts. The arched doors blew outward and slammed flat against the brick. A brass machine ducked through the frame and straightened in the street. It was taller than the doorway, plated in yellow brass, joints stacked with gears, a blue lens burning in its chest. Steam rolled off its shoulders. Dr. Owl rode high inside the chest cavity, hands on two short levers, glasses catching the dust light. "Thompson," Dr. Owl said. Flat. He did not raise his voice. "Step away from the instrument." His eyes moved to 13 and stayed there. "You are late for collection." Jack felt the wolves close behind them and the mech's lens swing forward. The trap had teeth on both sides now. He shoved 13 hard against the brick and drew four cards from his sleeve. He thought about the lens, the levers, the seam where brass met glass. He felt the bridge open a finger's width, no more, and let the cold run down his arm. The cards flicked out and hung in the air a beat, suspended on his will, waiting for him to choose where they cut. Behind him, the lead wolf crouched to spring. In front of him, Dr. Owl pushed the levers forward and the brass machine took its first step.