It doesn’t look like much. In other contexts, it would be easy to assume that this was the start of some kind of bizarre street show. Both Zeke and Corva have their heads tilted down, eyes closed. Corva is squatting, matching Zeke’s natural pose of sitting on his haunches. The air around them is electric. It’s nothing anyone can see, no lights or flashes or anything ridiculous like that. But Jack can feel it. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand straight out. And from the looks on their faces, everyone in Tretch’s second string crew is feeling the same thing.

Slowly, Corva and Zeke rise from the squat to fully stand. It’s particularly strange in Zeke’s case because he’s not up on his hind legs in his normal monkey way; his stance is more human-like, almost denying his own anatomy. Jack watches as Zeke rubs his thumb along the neck of the broken whiskey bottle still in his hand. Although her hands are empty, Corva’s thumb makes the same movement. Reflexively, Jack slides one foot back. His body already knows that it doesn’t want to be here.

Her eyes snap open. Zeke’s do, too, but he drops back to his haunches, bottle just barely dangling in his hand, his face slack and confused. Corva’s face is the exact opposite. That emerald fire is back. And she’s grinning. It’s not a “happy to be here” grin. It’s scarier; one of those full-toothed smiles that has a personality of its own. Angry. Hateful. Malicious. This smile exists in its own right and her face merely transports it around.

The pit of Jack’s stomach turns in on itself. For the first time today, it’s got nothing to do with damage to the bar. Don’t do it, girlie. It’s a bad call.

He stares at her, trying to get the words across without saying them. If she attacks this crew, she’s done for. Strangely, it doesn’t seem like she cares. He’s not sure she even notices him at all. He keeps his mouth shut, but he can’t help but lecture her in his mind. It don’t matter how well you fought before. This is seven to one. He catches sight of Tretch in the corner of his eye, trying to move. Trying to get unstuck. Alright, six-and-a-half to one. He turns his attention back to Corva.

For a fraction of a second, their eyes connect.

It’s a strange experience, knowing you’re not going to die. It’s even stranger when, by all rights, you know you should probably be the first to go. This is exactly the feeling that Jack gets in that mere blink of a moment. It’s hard to describe this level of assurance. It’s unreal. Maybe I did get a concussion when falling into the basement. Maybe this is all a hallucination and I’m really lying on the ground, bleeding out. Or maybe it’s just that this girl’s particular flavor of crazy is contagious. Whatever it is, he knows for a fact that she isn’t in any danger. And as long as he stays out of the way, neither is he.

For the mercs in Tretch’s crew, the forecast is quite different.

The broken whiskey bottle slips out of Zeke’s hand and drops to the ground. Before it lands, however, Corva catches it on the tip of her toe. It doesn’t break or shatter, and it doesn’t cut her. She moves with such precision and control, the bottle may as well be a juggling ball or kicking sack. It just balances there for a second before she flicks her ankle.

The bottle flips up and Jack can see past the spired shards of the broken end all the way through its mouth to her eye. She’s already turning sideways, lifting her arm. She thrusts it out and her palm slams into the mouth of the bottle. It launches by Jack’s head and across the room, a bullet with jagged glass teeth. The bottle plunges into the sniper’s neck. The poor bastard never even gets a chance to raise his weapon. Blood sprays out, instantly filling the top of the bottle. The sniper collapses as his life drains into the glass funnel. It pulses out the bottle’s mouth like he’s a freshly tapped cask.

Jack notices that the remaining mercs’ attention is now up in the ceiling. Corva’s up there now. Somehow, while Jack was staring at the blood fountain that used to be a sniper, Corva must have jumped or climbed up to the ceiling trusswork. The two mid-range mercs open fire on the ceiling with their rifles while the other three pelt the roof with handgun fire.

Not a single shot hits her.

It’s not like she’s actively dodging them or anything. Jack’s not sure if she’s just that fast or there’s some trick going on. She’s moving unhindered, almost relaxed. It’s just that she’s simply not anywhere those bullets are. He’s only ever seen Zeke move that comfortably up there.

Shit. Zeke!

Jack looks at the little monkey, still sitting on the end of the bar. His face holds a bewildered look. It’s the same kind of look a person has when downing a glass of vodka they expected to be water. Now’s not the time for Jack to worry about the emotional state of his furry employee. He bolts for the stairs leading to the basement, sweeping Zeke into his arms as he passes the bar.

He realizes too late that he’s running too fast to turn down the stairs with any control. The best he can do is twist a bit at the waist and run his shoulder into the wall to change direction. The stone wall is completely unforgiving. Jack bounces off it like the steel ball in one of those vintage pinball machines. His foot slides off the edge of the top step and he drops like a rock, landing hard on his side. Pain shoots from his elbow and hip as they strike the top few steps.

Jack groans. That sucked. He can still move, though. Jack looks down and sees his friend still safely tucked under his arm. There’s still that look of confusion, but there’s no blood, bruising, or broken limbs. So at least there’s that.

The gunfire stops and there’s a crashing sound back in the bar area. Jack worms his way back up the stairs and peeks around the banister. One of the mid-range mercs has been thrown across the room, right into Tretch. The force was enough to get the peanut-headed merc free, but his whole cybernetic side is really busted. He can barely stand. The merc that was thrown into him isn’t doing much better. He’s covered in blood and his arms flop around in a particularly interesting and unnatural way, like a pair of old socks caught in a mild breeze.

Jack cranes his neck to get a better view of the front of the room. Not happening. He’s just too short. He turns to head down the stairs. Gotta put Zeke somewhere safe. He doesn’t get more than a step or two before he feels a tug on his vest.

He looks down into Zeke’s strange, lizardy eyes. They don’t look confused anymore, just tired. Jack takes another step down, but the monkey shakes his head. He doesn’t want to go downstairs.

“What? You want to go back up there?”

Zeke nods in response.

“The fuck do you think we’re gonna be able to do up there?” It’s a futile question. Not just because Zeke can’t speak back to him, but also because he already knows the answer. “That girl? Pretty sure she’s doin’ alright on her own.”

Jack watches as Zeke’s eyes narrow into the little monkey’s best version of a scowl.

“You’re gonna make life miserable for me if we do make it outta this an’ we don’t help, ain’tcha?”

A nod.

“Alright.” Jack readjusts Zeke under his arm and heads back up the stairs. “But if we die, I’m blaming you.”

He gets to the top step and feels another tug at his vest. Looking down, he sees Zeke pointing at Plan B, still propped against the wall where he’d left it.

“That? What am I going to do with—”

Before he finishes, Zeke pats Jack’s vest, right where the cylinder with the imbued beads is tucked in his inner pocket.

“For serious? The old man said they ain’t to be used ’cept the most dire times.”

At this, Zeke sits up and tilts his head, skeptically raising an eyebrow.

“What?”

The little monkey clambers up to Jack’s shoulder and uses his paws to turn Jack’s head. If the wall blocking the stairwell from the bar area weren’t there, Jack would be looking right around where Tretch had been stuck.

“That bit with Peanut? I was bluffing! ’Sides, I wouldn’t be the one using it then.” Smirking, he turns his head to look at Zeke. “But I’m glad you don’t need to be carried anymore.”

Zeke responds by slapping Jack in the back of the head. But there’s a lightness there, a friendly touch—well, as friendly as a slap to the head can be. He wraps his tail around Jack’s neck and takes a firm grip while Jack reaches over and picks up Plan B.

Ammo-less shotgun in hand, Jack takes another peek around the banister at the top of the step. Judging from the shouting and periodic bursts of gunfire, the fight is still on. Although there’s no chance he can see what Corva’s doing from here, he can at least check on Tretch and the merc with the broken floppy sock arms.

They’re not there. At least, they’re not where Jack last saw them. He does a second scan of the room to make sure they’re not hiding or sneaking up on him. Nope. Still clear. So they’re either—

A scream interrupts Jack’s thoughts. Half a second later, he sees the floppy-armed merc—Boneless Joe—sail over the bar and smash into the assorted liquor bottles lined against the wall.

Jack curses under his breath. Granted, it’s not a huge threat to his inventory. Most of the bottles were empty. But they’re also pretty rare. Vintage pieces from before the war. The old man used to say that having them on display brought some class and history to the place. Jack had figured they’d be worth something if a collector came through the bar, so he’d kept them visible for that. Of course, that’s not going to do him any good now.

Jack watches Boneless Joe try to push himself up, and fail. It doesn’t matter how many on-demand amps and painkillers his chembraid must be giving him. His arms can’t hold his weight. The merc twists himself to a seated position with his back against the wall and rubs his face on his knee, wiping the mix of sweat and blood from his eyes. He looks at each of his arms, lying limp and useless at his sides.

Jack holds in a snort. What the fuck is he debatin’? He gonna think his arms into workin’ again?

Whatever he’s thinking, Boneless Joe’s eyes narrow with renewed resolve. He turns his head and bites into his right shoulder. It must hurt something awful; Jack can hear the merc’s muffled screaming over the chaos on the other side of the bar. But Boneless Joe doesn’t let go. He sinks his teeth deep into his own shoulder until blood leaks from the corners of his mouth. He jerks his head back, tearing away a small chunk of flesh.

The shattered-arm merc spits out the little bit of his shoulder and leans forward to his knee. Using his teeth, he opens a small pocket near his knee and fishes something out of it. When Boneless Joe sits straight again, Jack can finally see what the merc was after. Held between his teeth is a little glass ball. A bluish glow from the tiny pellet lights the merc’s face.

Oh man. We’re fucked.

Boneless Joe takes three quick breaths, like he’s bracing himself to get punched in the face. Then he bites down.

Although his mouth is closed, the glow from there gets brighter as he continues chewing and crushing the pellet. Light blue tendrils lash out from his jawline, an angry, tentacled beard of light. Boneless Joe works quickly. He tilts his head to his right shoulder and spits the crushed ball into his gaping bite wound.

The glowing tendrils follow, hungrily depositing themselves into the gully of still-bleeding flesh. They retract like a spider backing into a hole. Boneless Joe’s head snaps back and he screams like he’s being torn in half. The veins along the entire length of his right arm get that same glow. His arm hardens and re-forms. It’s no longer the loose linkage of flesh around shattered bones. It looks and works like an arm again, a freakish glowing arm double the size it ought to be.

Tretch, you tiny-skulled liar. “Got no interest in soulmancy.” Yeah. Sure looks like it.

Boneless Joe swivels his head and points his eyes toward Jack. One of those eyes has changed. It’s all white and glazed over. There’s no pupil. Somehow, though, Jack knows the merc can see through that eye just as well as the other. Worse, Jack gets the impression that Boneless Joe knows he’s been watched the whole time.

Jack ducks down, tries to hide below the top step. Immediately, he regrets it. You know you’re busted, dumbass. No use tryin’ to hide. Stand back up.

He can’t make himself move, though. This merc has his own imbued tech. Beads he’s brought with him. And those things are on a whole different level from the fixins Jack’s made before. Way higher than the dinky little booster beads in his pocket.

The beads!

He fumbles his way to his vest pocket, slapping around to feel where that metal cylinder shifted to. But it’s not there. Jack panics. Those beads might be piddly nothings, but they’re the best things he’s got. He feels his heart pounding in his throat as he scans the steps around him. Maybe he dropped it. Maybe—

There’s a slap to the back of his head. Zeke. The little monkey leans around to face Jack and presents the small metal cylinder where Jack can see it.

“You pick-pockety sunnuvabitch.” Jack smirks, taking the cylinder. “Glad one of us is thinkin’ ahead.”

He pops up to peek over the step. Boneless Joe isn’t there anymore. Where did—

Jack snaps his head back and scans the ceiling. Zeke’s apparently not the only one that goes up there now. Fortunately, it’s all clear. No beast-armed Boneless Joe swinging from the trusswork, ready to drop down and pound Jack’s head through his own chest. Of course, not seeing Boneless Joe up there is almost worse. He could be anywhere now.

Jack spins to look down the stairs, caught in his own paranoia. No one there, either. He lets out an unsteady breath. The air rattles and bounces out of his lungs like it’s lost. He tries to swallow, but it just feels like trying to eat a mouthful of gravel.

The racket of the fight with Corva still fills up the front of the bar. Boneless Joe must have gone back into it, as the fight is going a lot longer than expected. Corva fought like a badass earlier, but the numbers are much more against her now. Plus, she’s already survived an explosion, fallen through his floor, and was punched through a wall. She should be dead, or at least way easier for them to capture. Then again, someone sent ten mercs on a bounty for this girl. “Easy” doesn’t seem like it was ever part of the deal.

Jack wonders if she’s using any imbued tech, or if any of the other mercs have it. Doesn’t matter, really. Even if Boneless Joe’s the only one, there’s not going to be much of the place left to rebuild if there’s too much more of this fight.

He glances over at Zeke, still on his shoulder, patient and annoyed. Jack takes a deep breath. He squeezes Plan B in one hand and the metal cylinder of beads in the other. Let’s do this thing.

Keeping low, he sprints across the short gap between the bar and the stairs. He slides to a stop not far from where Boneless Joe had been sitting. Broken glass is everywhere. Squatting, he faces the underside of the bar. It’s a bit dirty, but still mostly organized and intact. His eyes land on a pair of backpacks nestled in an open compartment. Gitfo packs. The old man used to say it’s the gear you need when the only option left is to get the fuck out.

Not yet. Can’t go anywhere if I’m dead. ’Sides, maybe it’s not so bad.

A gun goes off, two shots. One bullet ricochets off the back wall and up into the ceiling. The other punches a hole through the bar, missing Jack by no more than a hand width. It smacks into the rock wall behind him. A small explosion of dirt and newly formed pebbles sprinkles Jack’s back.

He allows himself to exhale, reminding himself that it was a stray bullet. It wasn’t aimed at him. Still, it left a pretty big honking hole. Just a little bit to the right and there’d be a matching crater in his own chest. He shakes the thought from his mind and leans over to look through.

“Fuuuuuuck me.”