The Perfect Run

When Vulcan said she had a second spot in her cockpit, Ryan thought he would have his own baby seat at the back. But as it turned out, the Genius was more fond of motorcycle designs than cars.

“People are gonna talk,” Ryan said, holding Vulcan by the waist with his chest against her back as the mech accelerated. The crazy woman had designed her cockpit like a motorbike, with screens and computer interfaces at the front. The bench seat did allow for two people inside, but Ryan had to lean on the pilot due to a lack of space.

If outsiders could watch them, they would probably find their current positions suspicious.

“Let them,” Vulcan replied. Due to the oceanic pressure, the mech had entered some sort of alternate mode to protect its weaker parts, contracting its joints, shielding the cameras, and using only sonars and thermal sensors for navigation. From outside, the armor must have looked like a bulky lump of metal. “I don’t give a shit.”

“Interesting choice of design though,” Ryan said, hearing the faint noise of the fusion reaction powering the suit. “Was that a personal preference or—”

“Dynamis’ elite soldiers are trained to target the center of mass,” Vulcan cut him off. Ryan had noticed that she was very fond of lording over her knowledge whenever the occasion presented itself. “Since most armor cockpits are located there, this means enemies usually shoot straight at your vitals in a fight. I used to overcompensate for that with thicker shielding, but that’s pretty limited when you fight someone who can bench press tanks.”

“Ah, I get it,” Ryan realized, as he felt the mech slow down. “With your current design, the cockpit is actually located between the shoulders, thus away from the area where most soldiers shoot at. This improves the chances of successful ejection in a pinch, but you must also cut down cockpit space to avoid making the frame unwieldy.”

“I use a neural interface to control most of the systems,” she replied, briefly putting a hand in her hair; Ryan noticed some kind of black cranial implant hidden below her bun. “This removes the need for systems in the cockpit, except emergency ones.”

Oh, so that explained how she could command her suit from afar. Ryan wondered about her range. “I suppose it’s an even trade in exchange for the close, uncomfortable physical proximity.”

“If you use your hands to feel me up, I’ll castrate you,” she warned him. “I can already feel your cock in my back. Gee, when you said you were easy, you weren’t kidding.”

“You don’t want me to upgrade the difficulty to hard mode right now.”

Vulcan chuckled at the dirty wordplay. Ryan couldn’t believe it, but the violent Genius was quite lovely when nobody threatened her fragile ego. “You’re fucking shameless,” she said. “And here I thought you loved that girl though.”

“I loved her once, yes,” Ryan admitted. “But that was a long, long time ago.”

Well, his devotion to Len had never wavered through the years, but Ryan no longer desired her romantically; he had been in romantic relationships in the past, all erased by time. At this point, the courier could settle for a friend, even an acquaintance who could recognize him. Someone with whom he could have a connection that would survive his endless travels across time, no matter how fragile.

All Ryan wanted was someone who could alleviate his loneliness. No more, no less.

The courier sighed. Moving kilometers below the sea gave him the blues. “Are we there yet?”

“Are you going to ask this every minute?”

“Yes, until we are there.”

“If you ask it again, you can say goodbye to another A-place,” she replied.

“Are you coming on to me?”

The Genius ignored him, the mech shaking. Ryan guessed that they must have landed somewhere. “Are we,” he started, Vulcan glaring at him over her shoulder, “friends yet?”

“You must have a death wish,” the Genius said, the cockpit’s ceiling shifting. “And as a matter of fact… we’re here.”

About time.

A hatch opened above the courier, alongside a mini-ladder. Ryan could see a red lamp outside the metal suit, enshrined inside a rusted ceiling, but little else.

“I’ll be waiting here, working on other stuff,” Vulcan said, as Ryan started climbing out of the cockpit. “Since you guys need some time alone. Just don’t take too long, or I’ll leave without you.”

“You would leave a major investment stranded miles below the sea?” Ryan mused, before nodding at the Genius. “Thanks.”

“You did your job, I did mine. I ain’t a fink, Ryan.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate a woman of her word.” It saddened Ryan a little since he might bypass all these fetch quests in the future, depending on how things turned out now. He would have to find a way to balance the scales.

the mech,

machine stood with its boots in a puddle

received no answer, he moved towards the smaller door. No sooner did

the undersea airlock, and

around fifty meters square, including a main resting room, a small kitchen, and doors leading to what Ryan assumed to be a bedroom and bathroom. The walls were painted blue and red, her

whole place smelled

whistled to himself, finding this place too silent

Ryan found an assortment of tasty dishes straight from the sea: crabs, fishes, algae… a tube seemed to provide the food from another part of the complex. The courier tested the sink next; it worked perfectly, but clearly hadn’t been used

table. Instead of a TV, the main room’s sofa faced a massive porthole allowing sitters to see the world outside; namely, an undersea abyss as dark as the blackest night. Strange

mers—the exact same book Len found in Venezia all those years before—alongside Karl Marx’s compiled

Some things never changed.

a large amount of medications next to that mini-library. Ryan quickly analyzed them, identifying the products as Dynamis-made antidepressants and

didn’t know Len's self-medication treatment details,

in the darkness. On a closer look, they came from other portholes in sphere-shaped structures, an egg nest at the very

slowly building this place, going to New Rome

building her own

still, this place felt like

personal touch, no warmth to it. All the accommodations were utilitarian, meant to cover a human being’s basic needs without any aestheticism whatsoever. Besides the books, Ryan didn’t notice any source of entertainment or even a photo. This place was a

another door open behind

he could sense her eyes peering at his back. She didn’t dare say anything,

courier said, looking over his shoulder. “It’s been way

It was her.

both so familiar, and yet so different. But it was her, unmistakably her. She wore a brown diving suit, albeit not the towering armor as in the last loop,

they last met, although she was still small enough for him to tease her. Her teenage cuteness had blossomed into a true beauty, albeit one lessened

needed to

smiled, but it was more sadness than joy. Her voice was music to Ryan’s ears, yet she sounded so

heard that nickname, that the courier had almost forgotten it. It awakened old emotions he had long since buried through decades of time-looping. Happiness, and sadness too; she looked so terrible, her eyes blackened by tiredness and antidepressants, that it made Ryan feel guilty not to have found her before. It was his job

but she took a step back when she saw him move from his spot. He froze in place, confused, while the sofa

rifle. She

wasn’t the reception he had hoped

know,” she replied.

up at these words. “For how

friend looked away, before finally

as his

logical explanation. Ryan had made so many waves across Italy, he thought that if Len was alive, then she would have contacted him. If she didn’t, he believed it meant that she was dead,

never wanted to accept the

that she avoided him

asked, feeling as if he had been shot in the gut. “Why? Why did you avoid

immediately, not with her voice; but her body spoke for her. Her trembling hands, her unease

courier couldn’t believe

said. “It’s just…

it all started to make sense. “I remind you of the bad days. I remind you of Bloodstream. I’m… I’m an open

head, “it’s done something to your mind. I can see it. You’re

not insane,” Ryan protested. “I

don’t get anything,” she accused the courier.

“I—”

“You killed him.”

undersea

us,” Len accused him. “You didn’t

choice. “And it had to be

silence. Len had never been good at articulating her feelings, but all these years had only worsened her social skills. He wondered if she had any people

years studying the nature of Genomes, trying to find a solution to the Psycho condition; see if I could have made it right. But there is no cure. Or at least none I could