The Perfect Run

Not to change a winning day, Ryan redid everything like last time. He arrived at Renesco's place, waited for Ghoul to get in, then smashed the Psycho with his Plymouth from behind.

However, as he opened the trunk to grab his baseball bat and finish the job, the courier felt a pang of guilt. Could he live with such laziness? Beating an old bag of bones the exact same way, over and over again? Couldn't he give this moment a little more dignity and uniqueness?

Mmmm…

For the sake of novelty, Ryan grabbed his shotgun instead. He waltzed toward Ghoul and shot him in the left knee before he could even realize what was going on. The undead bastard almost collapsed, but managed to hang on to the counter.

“Hey, are you alright?” the courier asked his favorite target practice companion. “You don’t look alright.”

“You shot me!” the Psycho snarled, half-surprised, half-angered. “You shot me in the leg!”

“Do you need to go to the hospital?“ Ryan asked with kindness, reloading the shotgun.

“I’m going to—” Ryan shot Ghoul in the other knee, making him collapse to the ground screaming. “You bastard!”

“And now you do!”

The courier had the feeling they were going to do this routine a lot.

After shooting Ghoul everywhere it mattered—and even places where it didn’t—Ryan paid off Renesco and the Private Security, before diverging from the previous loop.

Having learned his lesson from last time, Ryan chose another hotel, one where he hopefully shouldn’t have his room firebombed; a place away from the tourist areas. He drove south, towards the Plebeian district, and he could already see the reason for the name; as soon as he left the strip and tourist hotspots, the architecture changed. Casinos and nightclubs vanished, replaced with three-story apartment buildings clustered together and narrow alleys. Small markets and cafes gave off a tantalizing smell of food.

Eventually, Ryan reached the Arab district, which he recognized by the billboard ads—most written in Arabic and Turkish, although he caught a little Spanish here and there. The locals called it Little Maghreb from what Ryan had heard.

He drove by a perfect replica of the synagogue of Turin—Ryan had visited the original, although he had needed a hazmat suit to survive the trip through the irradiated city—standing next to a mosque. Both buildings were slightly derelict, showing how little Dynamis and other corporations cared about maintaining religious sites.

However, the site that caught his attention was a hill at the south, which seemed to be the city’s highest natural point. An enormous estate stood atop it, roughly the size of the Vatican, and whose architecture was clearly inspired by antiquity work. It included an oversized, multiple-floor Roman villa, fountains, a private park, and even a smaller replica of the Greek Parthenon. Clearly, whoever lived there had a huge god complex.

Why the obsession with marble columns though? Why did nobody ever add obelisks, for diversity?

And strangely, nothing was built around that estate for kilometers, and only one way led to the summit, the hill being surrounded by a fortified fence and security forces. Curious. Ryan had a good idea who inhabited those halls, and so decided to stay as far away from it as possible.

Yes, there were a few people against whom Ryan didn’t dare to test his immortality against, at least not yet. Especially now that he had a lead on Len after so many years.

His hotel was… a lot dirtier than the previous one. The owner had traded security cameras for cockroaches in the walls, and Ryan’s bed smelled of Bliss, that mushroom drug everyone consumed nowadays. Someone even drew a dick graffiti in the shower, alongside a number to call a prostitute.

Ryan did the sensible thing.

He called, out of curiosity.

“Yeah?” a male voice answered.

glanced at the graffiti, then ended the call without a word,

to prevent the ice trick that allowed Ghoul to jam it in their last encounter. The courier couldn’t have his weapons underperform while beating

in the local gulf but found nothing. He did learn that the old island of Ischia, the one he had seen while driving on the coast, was

used Genius-made submarines rather than boats. Maybe it was to send supplies to the island? He couldn’t prove it, but

knock on his window interrupted his research, like

the tenth. Wyvern seemed a little

his bedroom when Wyvern showed up. They didn’t seem to like Il Migliore

break out Ghoul today, with the complicity of corrupt Private Security guards?”

tricks,” Ryan protested. “I’m just saying, you should probably

medics said he had more bullets than intact bones in his body.” Wyvern marked a short

in a hurry before? She clearly hadn't

and save me a miniboss battle later,” Ryan pointed in the direction of the hill, and the estate on it, “what is the name of this

Wyvern

renamed it after himself. It should have

card, before flying off without a sound. Ryan watched her vanish

little divergence, he didn’t have to worry. He just had to wait for Vulcan’s call and everything would be back on

call would come any

…

…

Any second now.

…

…

KABOOM!

opened the window. He noticed a pillar of smoke reaching up to the skies, somewhat in the direction

Shit.

call him

him in when he arrived in costume. Unlike last time, they gently told

it was a crime to

clothes; he even put on a classy red tie.

asked a card croupier, playing blackjack with a well-dressed group of professional gamblers straight out of

frowned. “No, he’s

plumber friend

shrugged his shoulders. “No, I don’t think so. What is it about? I can give them a message if I see

dealer’s ear and whispered into it. “The

is in the

on it, so don’t screw up.” The dealer nodded

things had gone off the rails somewhere, but what caused it? Shooting Ghoul? The hotel switch? Warning Wyvern about Ghoul’s escape? Whatever it was, it made him fall off the Augusti’s radar or changed their priorities, just

was very careful never to overplay his hand. Having entire lifetimes' worth of cheating experience, the courier had mastered the art of looking like a professional gambler; sacrificing money when needed, discussing overcomplicated probability theories with other players, and faking

the end, the main defense against anti-seer methods was banality. Seers were rare and usually obvious, always trying to win it big; while skilled gamblers and talented amateurs were legion. Ryan just had to convince guards he belonged to the latter group, winning high but believable amounts, and