Nothing happens. Granted, he’s never tried to shoot Plan B with an imbued bead as ammo. Maybe he just has to wait a second for it to work.

Maybe he loaded the bead in too far and the firing pin couldn’t reach it. Maybe he used too much rolling paper and that stopped the bead from getting ruptured. Maybe Plan B works fine and the bead is a dud. Or maybe—

Maybe nothing. It doesn’t matter at this point. Jack feels Zeke shift uneasily on his shoulder. It doesn’t matter that Plan B was supposed to erupt with a shot of energy. It didn’t happen, and it’s not going to happen.

Besides, there’s not really any time to wait or check. Boneless Joe turns and stares at Jack along the sight of the old shotgun. He apparently heard the empty click, too.

Boneless Joe punches his massive, imbued beast fist into the ground and squares his shoulders to face Jack. At this point, that arm is nearly the same size as the rest of Boneless Joe’s body. The veins in his arm pulse with a subtle blue glow. His other arm, still shattered, still useless, swings as he shifts his weight. If it hurts, the merc doesn’t show any evidence of it affecting him.

What is it with these crazy mercs and smiling while they fight?

Jack thinks he hears Boneless Joe growling at him. However, there’s another sound that’s got more of his attention. The wheezing and gasping from Corva has gotten slower. Weaker. Jack risks a glance over at her. She’s leaning forward, still clawing at the fine cable wrapped around her neck. The weights from the bola hang between her and the ground. If he doesn’t act soon, this whole valiant effort is going to be for nothing.

Stupid girl. If she’d just lie down, it’d take off the pressure from those weights. But Jack knows that’s not going to happen. This girl, Corva, nearly choked him out while she was barely conscious. She isn’t the type to willingly lie down for anyone. His neck is still sore.

Jack returns his gaze down Plan B’s barrel. Boneless Joe is still staring back, face now completely serious. He lowers his weight, ready to launch.

It’s now or never. Jack swings Plan B around and puts Corva in his sight. He uses his thumb to shove over the barrel selector and takes a deep breath. This better work.

The experience after squeezing Plan B’s trigger is very different this time. There’s no empty click. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be any sound at all. The shot comes from the barrel almost instantaneously. It slams into Corva broadside, a glowing blue fist of light. Her body slides across the floor and doesn’t stop until it collides with the wall. The weights of the bola come to a rest on the ground next to her.

All of Plan B feels like it’s vibrating in Jack’s hands. Or are his hands just shaking? And shouldn’t his ears be ringing or something? The silence from the shot seems like it’s still going on. Am I deaf?

Imbued tech always has side effects, especially when used in a way outside of the original design. Jack wonders if this silence is the side effect of these beads. Definitely something he should’ve thought to test when he made them. Of course, how would he know he’d be trying to direct the energy of these things out the barrel of a shotgun? They’re supposed to be strength enhancers, and not even good ones. Either way, he’ll need to record this in his logs and talk it over with Lyia … if he survives.

Jack feels Zeke climb on top of his head and leap back up to the ceiling trusswork. His hearing might be shot, but at least he can still feel. Well, except for perhaps his other shoulder—the one Zeke wasn’t on, the one securing Plan B’s butt—that shoulder is completely numb. On the upside, half of his hand on that same arm is tingling, like he’s been sitting on it for hours and just now pulled it free. So at least there’s that. A tingling feeling is better than no feeling.

Still, Zeke just ran away. That’s not helpful. Granted, shooting Corva probably wasn’t exactly what the little monkey meant when he suggested that Jack help her. Jack looks up to the ceiling, but it’s tough to see anything among the twisted knot of shadows. Probably escaped out the ceiling hatch. Coward monkey.

He lets Plan B’s butt slip from his shoulder as he brings his view back to Boneless Joe. The gun is pretty useless now. Besides, there’s no telling what kind of damage his makeshift imbued ammo has inflicted on the barrel and firing assembly. It’s likely he’ll have more reliability with wads of paper and a drinking straw.

Jack can feel himself talking. Can’t actually hear the words he’s saying, though. Hopefully, it should sound something like, “There. She’s dead. Now you’ve got no reason to be here.”

Judging from the confused look on Boneless Joe’s face, it hasn’t come out like that at all. There is a response, though. Jack can hear it. Sort of. It’s just not from Boneless Joe. The beast-armed merc turns to the back of the room. The sound is kind of like listening to a conversation underwater. But from the way the deep sound rattles Jack’s gut, there’s no mistaking the speaker.

It’s Tretch. And he’s pissed.

The words start clearing up a bit as Jack follows Boneless Joe’s gaze. Tretch is standing just a meter or two away from where he’d been stuck under that ceiling truss. His gear is still busted all to hell. How’d he get there? I just looked back that way a few seconds ago. He wasn’t there. No way he can move that fast. Can he?

Jack puts the thought aside and tries to concentrate on interpreting the garbled noise that he’s hearing come from Tretch’s mouth. It’s a pretty hopeless endeavor. On the upside, it looks like the tiny-headed merc leader isn’t actually addressing Jack. He’s ranting at Boneless Joe.

It’s like he doesn’t even care that Jack’s there.

The rumbling from Tretch’s voice stops, and there’s a moment of silence. No, not silence. Jack sees that Boneless Joe is responding just as emphatically. His voice just doesn’t have the same stomach-churning weight as Tretch’s.

Then, all of the sound comes rushing back in. It’s a sharp contrast with the near total deafness from moments ago. Jack winces as Boneless Joe’s voice thunders in his ears.

“… should be thanking me! Bitch woulda killed us all!”

“The contract had two hard stips: a live collar and no soulmancy. You’ve gone and fucked up on both of them.”

“Hey, I didn’t shoot her. The kid did that!”

The two mercs each swivel to face Jack. Oh hell.

He should be saying something right now. Some kind of rebuttal. Some string of words that convinces these two that they no longer have any interest in being here. He doesn’t have any of that. He’s just got a busted shotgun and an uneasy stomach. Nervous droplets of sweat sprout at his hairline.

All those hours and years of instruction from the old man have left him here, frozen, on the verge of puking like a sick cat. What would the right words be for this situation, old man?

Tretch takes a step toward Jack. The wreckage of his cybernetic parts drags along with him. He doesn’t seem to notice. “You just earned yourself a giant debt, boy.”

Jack stares back at Tretch. Any leverage he had at the start of all of this is now completely spent. Corva’s down, maybe dead. Plan B’s busted. Any other working weapon is well out of reach. Zeke’s up hiding in the ceiling somewhere, or gone altogether.

All in all, Jack realizes that he’s painted himself into a pretty shitty corner. His mind fills with words, all of them exactly wrong. Everything he wants to say will just put him in a deeper hole. Even worse, he can feel himself caring less and less how deep that hole gets.

“Hey! You listening? You’re going to spend the rest of your life as my bitch, paying me back for this.”

Fuck it. The wrong words are better than none at all. Jack tilts his head and looks back at Tretch. He gives himself a smile. Why not? Everyone else was doing it. “Aw … did the big ol’ bounty hunter pay all his dead merc buddies in advance? Genius move there, bud. Dumbass.”

The look on Tretch’s face is priceless. He was obviously expecting a completely different kind of response from Jack. But there’s something else in his expression, something just below the surface of his hard veneer. Could it be?

“Oh shit! You did, didn’t you? You did pay all these corpses in advance!” Jack can’t contain his laughter. “The only thing that would be funnier would be if you took credit to pay ’em.”

Tretch is uncharacteristically silent.

Jack blinks at the realization and slaps his hands on the bar, erupting in a new burst of howls and cackles. “Oh man! You’re so screwed. Who’d you borrow from? The Fiends? One of the northern cartels?” He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, still giggling. There are a few bottles and glasses nearby. They’re all that’s available for any last-ditch effort. And they’re all just out of reach. “Least now I know why you couldn’t spare splitting any of the payday with me.”

Tretch mumbles something and Jack notices Boneless Joe shift his weight forward a bit. Jack tries to slow his breathing. Fun time is over. He keeps his attention focused on Tretch. If I’m gonna bite it, may as well be sure they do it quick.

“Hey. Before your friend here jumps me, I gotta ask. What’s with the tiny head? That thing is so small compared to the rest of you. That a side effect of the ’roids in your chembraid or has it always been that small?” He leans forward across the bar. “I mean, I guess it’s no wonder you make such shitty business deals. You just don’t know any better.” Jack brings his hand up and looks at Tretch between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, as if measuring. “Not enough capacity.”

Suddenly, Tretch smiles. “I know what you’re doing. Unlike some others in my crew, I’m not a victim of low impulse control.” He nods his head to Boneless Joe.

The giant-armed merc grunts in response and keeps edging closer to Jack.

Tretch lunges forward and is at the bar in just two large steps. He snatches Jack up by the front of his shirt. Jack has no time to react. Despite all the damage done to Tretch’s body, the tiny-skulled bounty hunter is still plenty fast. He lifts Jack off the ground, bringing him nose-to-nose.

“You think I’m just going to kill you in anger? No, little boy. I told you. You’re gonna be my bitch. I’ve got costs to recoup. I’m going to rent you out as a piñata. People will pay good money to beat the shit out of you. Just gotta prime the pump by letting you talk for a few seconds.”

Jack grimaces as his legs drag across the edge of the bar. Some of the larger shards of a shattered tumbler are almost within reach. “Yeah? ‘Good money’? How much do you think I can get for a five-minute session?”

Tretch’s laugh shakes the entirety of Jack’s body. “Five minutes? No. They’re gonna beat on you for days. I’ll see to it that you don’t die and you don’t black out. You’ll feel everything.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure there’s much in that for me. It’s a gracious offer n’ all, but I think I’ll pass. Now, if you would—”

There’s a crash at the front door, followed by the fwitp sound of compressed air escaping from a dart gun. Jack turns his head just in time to see Boneless Joe take a dart in his gigantic imbued arm. Tretch pivots his head to look, too.

With the small opportunity afforded by this distraction, Jack lifts his arms and lets gravity take over. He slips free of his shirt and vest, landing sideways with a thud on the top of the bar. Scrambling, he grabs the largest shard of the broken tumbler and rolls off the surface. The floor behind the bar is solid and unforgiving. Jack thumps to the ground on his chest. The fall doesn’t knock the wind from him, but it hurts something awful.

There’s no time to think about the pain, though. Tretch could be reaching over the bar to get him. Jack rolls over and raises the broken glass to defend. But Tretch isn’t looking at him.

The big bounty hunter’s small head is still twisted to face the front door. “And who the happy hell are—”

A deep thud shakes the room. Tretch is gone, replaced by a heavy rush of air. Jack hears Tretch’s body crash into the debris at the back of the room.

A second deep thud. Another corresponding crash at the back.

Confused, Jack frowns until he hears Boneless Joe’s grumbly voice, pained and cursing. He must have been the second crash.

There’s a bunch of indistinct clatter at the back. A third thud rattles from the front door, but this time there’s no crash.

A new voice breaks through from the front of the room. “Shit. I missed. You three, track them. Make sure they leave town. They can trail up or fall down, I don’t care as long as they’re off my wall. And pick up Gorm on the way. I’m sure he’s got a couple goodies in his shop to use.”

Footsteps lead to the back of the bar and out the hole in the side. Not everyone has left, though. The voice that gave those orders is still in the bar. “Hey Jackie! You back there?”

The voice is unmistakable. Jack knows exactly who it is. Fucking Harris.