Chapter 10: Thunderbird's Flight
The majestic, despairing cry of the Thunderbird—a sound that vibrated not just in the air but in Sam's chest—cut through the damp, post-sewer chill. It pulled Sam and the others toward its source like an invisible, irresistible tether. The usual chaotic mix of the city's scents—oil, exhaust, and the faint, metallic tang of residual magic—was momentarily overwhelmed by a flash of musky, electrical air, carried on the cold wind.
Sam, Newt, and Nagini moved in a frantic, desperate, three-pronged triangulation. They were a hunting party, bound by a shared, urgent need to help.
Sam's POV:
" That's not a lost pet. That's a hostage situation, " Sam thought, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached. The residual stink of the sewer still clung to his clothes and skin, making his already tense body rigid with cynical impatience.
" The faster we resolve this, the faster I can get a bath and a coffee. This is about ruthless efficiency. "
He didn't need the System to tell him what to do; the sheer, raw sound of the great creature's distress, tied to his core drive for simple justice, was more than enough. His luck guided them, pulling him down dark, unlit streets and narrow, garbage-strewn alleys. The path grew narrower, more foreboding, and definitely more illegal.
Newt's POV:
Newt, clutching his battered, familiar suitcase like a shield over his heart, was muttering frantic, soft reassurances to the little creatures nestled inside his clothing and case. His face was drawn and pale with worry.
He whispered, his voice thin with anxiety.
"That's Frank. He should be miles away by now. This is wrong. So wrong."
His empathy for the magnificent beast was raw and exposed. The fog in this industrial neighborhood was heavy with the smell of rusty iron, oil, and profound decay. He could hear the faint, underlying, rhythmic bird cries—a low, pained thrumming—confirming their dreadful location.
Nagini's POV:
Nagini walked with the group, her slender human form trembling, her arms wrapped around herself. She felt the Thunderbird's pain—a deep, resonant sorrow that echoed her own tortured, caged time in the circus. Her fear of recapturing was palpable, making her muscles seize, but Sam's determined, unyielding pace was a beacon of purpose that kept her moving.
" Another cage. Another animal suffering. I cannot allow this. "
Her fear of recapture was slowly turning into a ferocious, protective resolve.
They stopped suddenly at a massive, seemingly abandoned brick warehouse, its high windows dark and dirty. The main steel door was marked by peeling, flaking paint and guarded by two massive, hulking Trafficker guards leaning against the rusty iron exterior, their arms crossed.
[SYSTEM: Quest Alert: Free the Thunderbird. Reward: +200 Mana.]
[Hint: The biggest cage is the one they can't see. Don't get caught, Sam. The Magical Trafficker Boss looks like he charges by the hour. Minimize overtime.]
They huddled in the deep, freezing shadow behind a precarious stack of rotting wooden crates in the alley beside the warehouse. Nagini pressed her back against the rough, splintering wood, her breath catching in her throat. The caged Thunderbird's pain was no longer just a sound, but an intense, almost physical sensation to her, making the skin on her back tingle like static.
A soft, involuntary hiss escaped her lips, the sound laced unmistakably with Parseltongue, an unconscious, primal reaction to the deeply caged beast.
Sam, sensing her profound distress through the slight shift in her posture, turned to her immediately. He didn't need words. He just placed his hand, calloused and warm, gently on her arm. His chaotic luck immediately flared—not as an outward event, but as a subtle, localized, soothing warmth that eased the physical tremors that signaled an incipient, agonizing transformation into her beast form.
Newt watched the quiet, intimate exchange from across the narrow space, his quiet presence acknowledging the profound connection—the Mystery Link of two caged, misunderstood souls. This moment of empathy deepened Sam and Nagini's bond, cementing her vital role in the upcoming rescue; if Sam could ease the physical agony of her curse, she could help him free Frank.
"He is in much pain," Nagini whispered, her voice still bearing the soft, lilting hiss, a physical manifestation of her curse anomaly.
"A very large cage, made of steel and spell-craft. It is high up."
They needed an immediate, overwhelming diversion to draw the attention of the two massive guards. Newt was already preparing to unleash his Swooping Evil, but Sam interrupted him with a shake of his head.
"Too messy. Too much clean-up later," he murmured. "I've got something lazier."
He sighted a small, dented drum of ancient, oily rags near the guards, positioned precariously close to an exposed, frayed wire leading to a defunct industrial light fixture. Sam aimed his wand, not at the guards themselves, but with contemptuous efficiency, at the single, rusted support hook holding the wire taut. He cast a low-power, targeted Reducto charm.
The single hook chose that exact moment to give way. The heavy, taut wire snapped down with a crackling hiss as it made contact with a shimmering puddle of chemical water on the ground. The sudden, arcing electric energy ignited the oily rags beneath it instantly.
Smoke, thick, acrid, and black as pitch, instantly billowed out, followed by the hungry, loud sound of crackling wood as the spontaneous fire spread rapidly to the nearby crates.
The two thick-necked Traffickers instantly reacted, shouting obscenities in a rough, grating language and scrambling to put out the blaze with frantic slaps of their hands. Their attention was entirely and chaotically diverted by the sudden, strategic distraction.
One of the traffickers, moving with surprising, lumbering speed, tripped over his own oversized, steel-toed boots. He tumbled headlong, arms windmilling, into a precarious stack of empty, rusty oil drums. The sound was a loud, comic BONG-CLANG-CLANG, accompanied by a curse so inventive it would have made Jacob blush with admiration.
Sam couldn't help but crack a small, dry smile—another absurd, beautifully efficient twist of luck had created the perfect tactical advantage.
" See? Minimal effort. Maximum result. And a little comedy for Jacob, even if he didn't see it. "
"Go, Newt. Now," Sam commanded, driven by pure, decisive strategy. Newt didn't argue. He nodded sharply, already moving with the quiet, graceful urgency of a predator, his own ever-ready suitcase gripped tight.
As Newt slipped inside the smoke-filled warehouse, a tremendous, heart-stopping sound of flapping wings and shattering glass erupted from the high, upper floors.
The Thunderbird broke free, bursting through a high, dirty, arched window with a magnificent shower of glittering shards. It soared toward the dark New York sky, a triumphant, musky-scented silhouette against the feeble moonlight.
But the commotion had drawn more than just the immediate MACUSA patrols. In the distance, Sam saw the telltale flashing red and blue of No-Maj police cars—and worse, the distinct, shimmering glint of MACUSA Auror robes. The pursuit was not just ongoing; it was escalating.
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