The red Road Runner drifted around a corner, tires screaming against the asphalt of Olympus City. Jake Miller didn’t check his mirrors; he knew exactly where the black sedan to his left was going to be. He jerked the wheel, forcing a delivery van to swerve into a parked sedan. The crunch of metal was a satisfying percussion to his morning. "Two," Jake muttered, checking the time on his dashboard. It was May 8th, 2020, for the third time. He slammed on the brakes as a tank truck roared across the intersection, the grill missing his front bumper by less than an inch. A Serenity-addict, eyes glazed and skin a sickly translucent grey, wandered into the street directly in his path. Jake flicked the steering wheel, the Road Runner’s tail-end whipping out to graze the man’s coat as he breezed past. The meth-head didn’t even blink. The cityscape opened up as he hit the main strip. Olympus City was a fever dream of glass and neon. To his left, the Sunset Coast district glittered, its casinos and luxury hostels rising like monuments to greed against the backdrop of the Mediterranean Sea. Dominating the northern skyline was the Grants Tower, a shimmering glass spire that seemed to pierce the very clouds, reminding everyone who really owned the air they breathed. Tourists in loud shirts stopped to gawk at the Road Runner, their eyes lingering on the driver. Jake didn't blame them. He looked fantastic. His Vigilante Suit was a masterpiece of aesthetic over function: a mouthless metal mask that caught the sunlight, a black top hat perched at a jaunty angle, and a navy blue trench coat that billowed behind him. It was a hundred degrees inside the car and the mask made breathing a chore, but looking this good was a full-time job. A massive holographic display on the side of a building flickered to life. Seraphina Stone smiled down at the masses, her white bodysuit pristine, her black hair swaying in a digital breeze. She held up a vial of green liquid—the Titan Potion. "Be a legend," her voice boomed over the street. "Be a Titan for only one hundred thousand euros." "Or just be me for free," Jake told the hologram, tapping the steering wheel. "Though the immortality was a bit of a localized fluke." He pulled up to a curb between an Italian restaurant and a closed nightclub. The sign above the door read *Jolie’s Diner*. It looked like the kind of place where dreams went to get mugged. Jake stepped out, the heat hitting him like a physical blow. A young Latin muchacho was leaning against a nearby wall, trying desperately to impress a girl in a short skirt by flashing a wad of cash—fifty thousand euros he’d likely spent on an elixir that didn't work. Jake ignored them, popped his trunk, and pulled out a heavy black briefcase. "Mushroom delivery," he chirped, slamming the trunk shut. He kicked the diner doors open. The interior was dim, smelling of stale beer and cheap Serenity smoke. A balding, wrinkled man with skin the color of old leather looked up from the bar. "Are you Silas Blackwood?" Jake asked, his voice muffled but cheerful behind the metal mask. "And is this Jolie’s Diner? I’d hate to give a briefcase full of explosives to the wrong guy." Silas didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He just wiped a glass with a rag that looked older than Jake. "It’s Silas. It’s the diner. What do you want, kid? You look like a circus act that got lost on the way to the tent." "I’m Jake Miller. Courier, legend, and the man holding your package," Jake said, sliding the briefcase onto the sticky counter. He struck a pose, hand on his hip. "I was told you were the man to see if I wanted to get paid without too many questions." Silas stopped wiping the glass. He squinted at Jake, his eyes traveling from the top hat down to the boots. "You’re Jake Miller? The one the guys in the slums keep talking about?" "The one and only," Jake said, puffing out his chest. "And before you ask—yes, I am immortal. I’ve died three times this morning. It’s a bit of a hobby at this point." "I’m immortal!" someone jeered from a corner booth. A drunk raised a glass of lukewarm beer. "And I'm the King of England! Put a shirt on under that coat, you freak!" Silas leaned over the bar. "Immortal, huh? That your Gene-Mod? High-end Vitality Serum?" "It was part of a package deal," Jake said vaguely, waving a gloved hand. "I got the immortality, a great sense of timing, and this hat. The hat was the most expensive part." Silas grunted, pulling the briefcase toward him. "Whatever. I’ll check the contents. If the Serenity isn't stepped on, you’ll get your cut. My suppliers have been getting squeezed by those Syndicate bastards lately, so don't expect a tip." "I’m not here for the tips, Silas. I’m looking for someone. A girl named Chloe Vance. Black hair, blue eyes, talks a lot about the proletariat and how the system is rigged. Seen her?" Silas snorted. "Sounds like every second girl in the University district. I don't keep a registry of every Marxist who wanders in here looking for a cheap pint. Try a brothel down on the coast if you’re that lonely." Jake tilted his head, the metal mask catching the dim overhead light. "I’ll pass. Not that kind of search. How about custom tech? I’m looking to upgrade my arsenal. Something that goes *boom* or *zap* without the technical jargon." "Scrapheap Town," Silas said, jerking a thumb toward the back of the city. "Go to The Boneyard. Ask for the guys who don't have all their fingers. Just watch your back. The Nexus Syndicate has been hitting the tech shops too. They’re looking for something, and they don't pay in cash." "The Nexus Syndicate," Jake repeated. "They sound like a lovely bunch of—" The front door didn't open; it exploded. A wave of frost rolled into the room, turning the humid air into a freezing mist. Standing in the doorway was a nightmare in the flesh—or lack thereof. It was a walking, skinless skeleton, its bones a polished, ivory white. Its eyes weren't eyes at all, but frozen orbs of blue fire. "Specter," Silas breathed, his face going pale. The skeleton didn't speak. It raised a hand, and the moisture in the air solidified into a jagged spear of ice. With a flick of its wrist, the spear flew. It caught Silas Blackwood square in the chest, pinning the old man to the back wall of the bar. Blood sprayed across the shelves of liquor, steaming in the cold. "Noah Hayes sends his regards," Specter rasped, his voice sounding like grinding glaciers. The Latin muchacho and his date, who had been huddled in a back booth, screamed. Specter didn't even look at them. He waved a hand, and a hail of icicles shredded the upholstery, the wood, and the people behind them. Jake felt a sharp, cold sting in his gut. He looked down. A massive shard of ice was protruding from his purple shirt, just below his ribs. He coughed, blood splashing against the inside of his mask. "Hey," Jake wheezed, stumbling back against the bar. He looked up at the skeletal figure. "That’s... that’s a really rude way to introduce yourself. I’m going to get you on my next save, you bony prick." Specter stepped toward him, his hand glowing with a lethal blue light. He grabbed Jake by the throat, the cold seeping through the metal mask. Jake felt his lungs begin to crystallize. "Next... save..." Jake managed to choke out. The world turned to white, then black. *** It was May 8th, 2020, for the fourth time, and Jake was pissed. He sat behind the wheel of the Road Runner, the "Welcome to Olympus City" sign flashing past. His gut still ached with the ghost of the ice shard. His timing sense was screaming, a rhythmic pulse in the back of his brain that told him exactly how many seconds he had until the tank truck crossed the intersection. He didn't think. He didn't quip. He drove. He navigated the streets on autopilot, his movements precise and cold. He didn't look at the tourists or the Seraphina Stone hologram. He reached the curb outside Jolie’s Diner and stayed in the car. He gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. There. A black SUV pulled up a block away. The door opened, and the skeletal figure of Specter stepped out, the air around him shimmering with frost. Specter walked toward the diner with the arrogant stride of a man who knew he couldn't be stopped. He reached for the door handle. Jake shifted into gear. He didn't use the brakes. He floored it. The Road Runner roared, the engine screaming as it jumped the curb. Pedestrians dived out of the way, their screams lost in the thunder of the exhaust. Specter turned his head just in time to see four thousand pounds of customized American muscle traveling at sixty miles per hour. *CRUNCH.* The Road Runner smashed through the front window of the diner, the bumper catching Specter in the small of his back and pinning him against the bar. Wood splintered, glass rained down like diamonds, and the interior of the pub was suddenly filled with the smell of burning rubber and gasoline. Jake kicked his door open and stepped out onto the debris. He looked around. The Latin muchacho was huddled on the floor, holding his terrified girlfriend. Silas was standing behind the bar, frozen in shock, his rag still in his hand. "Nobody move!" Jake shouted, adjusted his top hat. "I’m Jake Miller, I’m immortal, and I’m having a very bad day!" "You blew up my bar!" Silas roared, finally finding his voice. "I’m calling Sentinel Services! I’m calling the Guard! I’m calling everyone!" "Call whoever you want, Silas, but do it quietly," Jake snapped. He walked to the back of the car and popped the trunk. "I’m busy." He reached past the briefcase and grabbed a heavy, ash-wood baseball bat. He weighed it in his hand, testing the balance. Behind the car, the pile of wreckage shifted. Specter pushed a piece of the bar off his chest. His skeletal frame was cracked, one of his ribs hanging at an odd angle, but the blue fire in his eyes was burning brighter than ever. "Who... are you?" the skeleton rasped, pulling himself upright. "I’m the guy who’s going to help you lose the rest of your teeth," Jake said. "What’s your name, Bone-Daddy? I like to know who I’m beating to death." Specter let out a hiss of rage. He raised both hands, and the air in the diner turned lethally cold. Hundreds of tiny ice shards formed in the air, hovering like a cloud of glass needles. "Die," Specter commanded. Jake didn't blink. He felt the world slow down. The ticking in his head reached a crescendo, and he stepped into the gap between seconds. Time stopped. The ice shards hung motionless in the air. Specter was frozen in a pose of skeletal fury. Jake walked calmly through the cloud of ice, ducking under a cluster of needles and stepping over a fallen chair. He positioned himself directly in front of the skeleton, winding up his swing. Time resumed. The ice shards flew harmlessly into the back of the car. Jake’s bat connected with the side of Specter’s skull with a sound like a hammer hitting a tombstone. *CLACK.* The skeleton spun, his head snapping to the side. Jake didn't stop. He stepped into a second swing, catching Specter in the ribs. "This!" *Whack.* "Is!" *Whack.* "For!" *Whack.* "The!" *Whack.* "Shirt!" Jake rained blows down on the Gene-Mod, making jokes with every strike. "You know, they say calcium is good for the bones, but I think you’ve had enough! You’re looking a little pale, buddy! Maybe you should try a tan!" Specter tried to manifest a blade of ice, but Jake smashed his wrist before the frost could even settle. The skeleton collapsed against the ruin of the bar, his ivory frame covered in cracks and chips. "Drop the weapon! Hands in the air!" Three men in black riot gear burst through the ruined storefront. They wore the insignia of Sentinel Services, their energy rifles leveled at Jake’s chest. "Whoa, easy!" Jake said, dropping the bat and holding up his hands. "I’m the good guy here! See the mask? Very heroic. See the skeleton? Very evil. It’s basic color-coding, fellas." "He blew up my bar!" Silas screamed from behind the counter, pointing a trembling finger at Jake. "He drove a car through the front window! Look at the mess! Look at the property damage!" Jake sighed, reaching into his trench coat. The guards flinched, their fingers tightening on their triggers. "Relax, relax," Jake said, pulling out a thick stack of bills. He tossed them onto the bar in front of Silas. "Fifty thousand euros. That should cover the window, the liquor, and your therapy. Right, Silas?" Silas looked at the money. He looked at the guards. He looked back at the money. He reached out and snatched the stack, stuffing it into his apron. "Actually," Silas said, clearing his throat and looking at the guards. "This gentleman here... he was helping. This skeletal freak attacked us, and Mr. Miller here intervened. Very brave. Very... vehicular." The captain of the guard lowered his rifle slightly, looking from the money to Jake. "You have a license for this kind of intervention? What’s your affiliation? Imperial Guard? Bounty Hunter’s Guild?" "I’m a freelancer," Jake said, leaning against the hood of his wrecked car. "Independent contractor. I don't believe in labels. They’re so limiting, don't you think?" "I think you’re a liability," the guard said. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't take you into custody along with the bag of bones." Jake pulled out another smaller stack of euros. "How about ten thousand reasons? And another ten if you take the skeleton and lose the paperwork on the car." The captain squinted. "Ten thousand? You think my integrity is that cheap?" "Twenty thousand," Jake corrected, held up another stack. The captain signaled his men. They moved forward, dragging the broken Specter off the floor and slapping high-intensity power-suppression cuffs on his skeletal wrists. "We’ll take the perpetrator into custody," the guardsman said, pocketing the cash with practiced ease. "The car was clearly a victim of a mechanical failure. Right, boys?" "Right, Captain," the other guards chimed in. The captain turned to Silas. "And don't forget, Blackwood. Your monthly protection subscription is due on the fifteenth. Don't make us come back for a 'safety inspection'." The guards hauled Specter out of the diner. The skeleton didn't struggle; he just stared at Jake with those frozen blue eyes, a promise of future violence written in the frost on his brow. Once they were gone, Silas slumped against the bar, staring at the ruin of his livelihood. He looked at Jake, his expression a mix of awe and utter exhaustion. "Do you always carry that much cash on you?" Silas asked. "Just... wads of it?" "It’s a time saver," Jake explained, picking up his top hat from the floor and dusting it off. "Saves me the trouble of explaining things to people who don't want to listen. Collateral damage is expensive, Silas. I like to stay prepared." "That thing," Jake asked, nodding toward the door. "The skeleton. What was his deal?" "Specter," Silas spat. "He’s a Mind-Bender Gene-Mod. One of Noah Hayes’ top dogs in the Nexus Syndicate. They’ve been hitting everyone. If they find out you’re the one who put him in a cage, they’ll come for you, Miller. Now get out of my bar. You’ve done enough 'helping' for one day." "Not yet," Jake said, walking back to the car. He reached into the trunk and pulled out the black briefcase. He walked over and set it on the bar, right next to the bloodstain where Silas had died in the last loop. "I’m a professional, Silas. I finish my deliveries." Silas stared at the briefcase. "You’re insane. You know that? You just spent seventy thousand euros and totaled a classic car just to hand me a box of mushrooms." Jake leaned in close, his metal mask inches from Silas’s face. "I was bored, Silas," he whispered. "You have no idea how long a day can feel when you’ve already lived it twice." He turned on his heel, walked back to the Road Runner, and climbed into the driver's seat. The engine turned over with a guttural growl, despite the crumpled hood. He backed the car out of the diner, the tires crunching over the broken glass, and sped off into the neon-soaked streets of Olympus City. Side quest complete. Now, he just had to figure out what to do with the rest of his Tuesday. Jake tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, his mind already drifting to the next lead. Silas hadn't known about Chloe Vance, but Scrapheap Town was a different story. If anyone knew where a girl with a big mouth and bigger ideals was hiding, it would be the people who lived in the trash the rest of the city left behind. He glanced at the white rabbit plushie sitting in the passenger seat. "What do you think, Barnaby?" Jake asked. "Think she's still in the city, or did she finally find a way to get herself arrested by someone who doesn't take bribes?" The rabbit didn't answer. It just stared ahead with its black button eyes, reflecting the neon lights of the Sunset Coast. Jake pulled a u-turn, heading toward the northern slums. He had a coil gun to finish, a girl to find, and a whole lot of time to kill. After all, when you’re immortal, the only thing you really have to worry about is running out of snacks. ════════════════════════════════════════