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.

ended the call without a word,

next morning, like in the previous loop, Ryan did science in his underwear. This time, though, he focused more on reinforcing Fisty, to prevent the ice

Ischia, the one he had seen while driving on the coast, was a toxic ruin since Mechron bombed Italy back to the stone age; unlike other

and there must have been a reason why they used Genius-made submarines rather than boats. Maybe it

research, like

except on the third floor rather than the tenth. Wyvern seemed a little more nervous than in the last

noticed the locals had emptied the street below his bedroom when Wyvern showed up. They didn’t seem to like Il Migliore around

complicity of corrupt Private Security guards?” Wyvern frowned. “How

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

won’t run far. The medics said he had more bullets than intact bones in his body.” Wyvern marked a short pause, focusing on her earplug. “Looks like you were right. The Meta are ambushing Ghoul’s transport convoy as

clearly hadn't been fast enough last loop, maybe this

pointed in the direction of the hill, and

Hillside. Unofficially?” Wyvern sighed.

but renamed it after himself. It should have been called

Ryan after giving him a business card, before flying off without a sound. Ryan watched her vanish

divergence, he didn’t have to worry. He just had to wait for Vulcan’s call and everything would be back on track. Since he was close to Augusti territory, no doubt they would contact

come

…

…

Any second now.

…

…

KABOOM!

noticed a pillar of smoke reaching up to the skies, somewhat in the direction where

Shit.

him all

let him in when he arrived in costume. Unlike last time, they gently told him to fuck off after noticing

was a crime to

classy red tie.

card croupier, playing blackjack with a well-dressed group of professional gamblers straight out of Casino Royale. “I am looking for Zanbato. Have you

croupier frowned. “No, he’s

friend

“No, I don’t think so. What is it about? I can give them a

Ryan approached the dealer’s ear and whispered into it. “The orange is in the hen

orange is in the hen

they will understand. Their lives depend on it, so don’t screw up.” The dealer

off the rails somewhere, but what caused it? Shooting Ghoul? The hotel switch? Warning Wyvern about Ghoul’s escape? Whatever it was, it made

playing for hours. Knowing the results of every game, he accumulated quite a nice sum at the roulette and Colosseum bets, although he 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 nerve-wracking tension while waiting for the results. He also played legitimately at poker and blackjack, not even using his time-stop to

big; while skilled gamblers and talented amateurs were legion. Ryan just had to convince guards he belonged