Chapter 6

The red Road Runner slammed into Specter for the fifth time. It was May 8th, 2020, once again. The impact sent the skinless, frozen-eyed Gene-Mod tumbling over the hood, but Jake didn't wait for the ice to start creeping across his chassis. He rolled out of the driver’s side door, boots hitting the pavement outside Silas Blackwood’s pub with practiced ease. Instead of the baseball bat or the pisto-gauntlets, Jake reached into the backseat and pulled out a heavy tactical shotgun. He’d decided on the drive over that the timeline needed a little variety. Novelty was the only thing keeping him from going completely insane in the loop. Specter was already trying to push himself up, his bony fingers clawing at the asphalt. Jake didn't give him the chance. He leveled the barrel and fired. Two thunderous blasts echoed off the walls of the pub. Specter collapsed back down, his legs mangled. Blue, viscous fluid leaked onto the street where his kneecaps used to be. "Oh my god! Are you alright?" Jake shouted, his voice dripping with feigned concern as he hurried over, the shotgun resting casually against his shoulder. Specter let out a raspy, gargling hiss. "You... you shot my leg! You shot my legs, you human filth!" "Whoa, easy there, frosty," Jake said, leaning down to get a better look at the damage. "That looks like it really smarts. Do you need to go to the hospital? I can call an ambulance. Or a taxidermist. I'm not sure which one handles skinless popsicles." "I will freeze the marrow in your bones!" Specter screamed, his frozen eyes bulging as he tried to manifest an ice shard in his shaking hand. "I will tear your heart out and eat it while it still beats!" Jake shook his head, sighing with a theatrical sense of pity. "Yep, definitely the hospital. You’re clearly delirious. Don’t worry, I know a place that specializes in high-security suites for the extremely agitated." He didn't wait for a response. He hauled the screaming, shattered Gene-Mod up by the collar and dragged him toward the waiting Sentinel Services unit. The hand-off was smoother this time. Jake handed over the "deranged but reliable" courier paperwork, collected the confirmation for his delivery, and took care of the necessary bribes to keep the local peace. He paid everyone off with the efficiency of a man who had done it four times already, then climbed back into the Road Runner. He drove south. The glitz and neon of the Olympus City strip faded in the rearview mirror, replaced by the sagging silhouettes of the Commoner’s Quarter. The architecture shifted from sleek glass and steel to cramped, three-story apartment buildings. Narrow alleys branched off the main road like cracked veins, leading to small, cluttered markets and tiny cafes where the smell of cheap Serenity and burnt coffee hung heavy in the air. As he crossed into the Casbah District, the scenery changed again. Arabic and Turkish billboards flickered with dying light. He passed the Temple of Solace, that perfect replica of a synagogue that looked far too derelict for a city of this supposed stature. It sat right next to a mosque, both of them looking like relics of a world that didn't quite fit the neon-soaked reality of the present. Jake looked up, his gaze catching on the distant silhouette of Ascension Peak. The massive estate sat on the highest hill overlooking the district, a fortress of wealth and privacy. He stared at it for a moment, then gripped the steering wheel tighter and turned the car away. Not today. That place smelled like a boss fight he wasn't ready for yet. He pulled up to a new hotel—one he hadn't tried in the previous loops. It was a crumbling brick structure with a lobby that smelled of wet dog and desperation. The room he checked into was on the third floor, and the carpet was stained with things Jake didn't want to identify. He checked the walls for bugs, found none, and spotted a string of numbers scrawled in black marker as graffiti near the bathroom mirror. Curious, he pulled out his phone and dialed. The line clicked open. A deep, gravelly male voice on the other end said nothing. Jake listened to the heavy breathing for ten seconds, waited for a greeting that never came, and then hung up without a word. The next morning, Jake woke up and, true to his established routine, did science in his underwear. He spread his gear across the stained bedspread. The Ironclad Gauntlets were the priority. In the last loop, the hydraulic pistons had jammed after a single clash with Specter’s ice. He spent hours reinforcing the seals, applying a specialized thermal coating he’d "borrowed" from a lab earlier in the week. While the sealant dried, he pulled up his laptop. He bypassed the local firewalls and began digging into records of submarines and bathyspheres. He’d seen the technology before—Chloe Vance’s signature was all over the technical schematics he’d glimpsed in the previous run. Everything pointed toward Emerald Island, a place that didn't officially exist on most maps but appeared in the encrypted logs of the city’s high-end smugglers. He was in the middle of cross-referencing shipping manifests when a soft thud sounded against his window. Jake didn't reach for a gun. He knew that rhythm. He stood up, still in his boxers, and slid the window open. Seraphina Stone was crouched on the narrow ledge, her white bodysuit gleaming even in the dull morning light. Her shoulder-length black hair was slightly windswept, and her greyish eyes were sharp, darting around the room. She looked more nervous than he’d seen her in the last loop. "You're in the Commoner's Quarter now," she said, her voice formal but strained. She stepped into the room, frowning at the state of the carpet. "How did you know Specter was going to escape?" Jake leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "I have a very good intuition for these things. I'm a professional, Seraphina. I see the patterns." "The Nexus Syndicate ambushed the transport convoy exactly where you said they would," she said, her frown deepening. "If I hadn't been there to intervene, he’d be back on the streets already. Who are your sources, Jake? How are you getting this intelligence before the Grants network?" "A magician never reveals his tricks," Jake said, offering a sharp, toothy grin. "But if you want some free advice: escort him yourself. Don't trust the grunts. If you leave him to the standard guards, he's going to slip through their fingers again. He’s slippery, for a guy made of ice." Seraphina stared at him for a long moment, searching his face for a lie she wouldn't find. "The ambush was coordinated. They were waiting for the convoy at the bridge. Your tip saved dozens of lives." She glanced at her comm-unit, which was chirping with urgent pings. "I have to go. The situation is still volatile." "Wait," Jake called out before she could dive back out the window. He pointed a thumb toward the window, in the general direction of the hill he'd seen earlier. "That big estate on the hill. Ascension Peak. What’s the deal with that place?" Seraphina sighed, a weary sound. "Unofficially? They call it the 'Gilded Cage.' It belongs to the Thorne family. Stay away from it, Jake. It’s not a place for couriers, no matter how talented you think you are." She reached into a pouch at her belt, tossed a business card onto the bed, and vanished out the window in a blur of white. Jake picked up the card. It was the same one as before. He checked his phone. No calls. No messages. Urban Outlaw, the representative of the Imperial Guard, hadn't reached out to him in this loop. The timeline was already drifting. A few minutes later, a low, rumbling boom vibrated through the floorboards. Jake walked to the window and looked north. A thick pillar of black smoke was rising into the sky, miles away. Seraphina was engaged. The battle had started, and yet his phone remained silent. "Fine," Jake muttered. "I'll go to them." That night, Jake donned his Vigilante Suit and drove the Road Runner to the Sakura District. The casino was a towering pagoda of neon red and gold, a temple of vice in the middle of the city. He walked up to the entrance, the Ironclad Gauntlets heavy on his hands and his customized gear strapped to his back. The bouncers, dressed in high-tech samurai armor, crossed their polearms before he could reach the stairs. "No entry in costume," the lead guard said, his voice muffled by a helmet. "And the scanners are picking up a high-yield signature from your backpack. Is that... a thermonuclear device?" "It's a conversation starter," Jake said. "Leave, or we will use force." Jake rolled his eyes. "Tough crowd." He walked back to the Road Runner, swapped his suit for a casual leather jacket and jeans, and left the "conversation starter" in the trunk. He walked back to the entrance, unmasked and unarmed. This time, the guards stepped aside with a curt nod. The interior of the Sakura District was a sensory assault. The smell of expensive incense mixed with the ozone of slot machines. Jake bypassed the flirtatious hostesses and headed straight for the high-stakes blackjack tables. He scanned the room, looking for the familiar sights of Julian Blade’s polished armor or Caleb Finch’s bored expression. He approached a card croupier who was dealing with mechanical precision. "Looking for Julian Blade," Jake said, leaning against the table. "He usually hangs around here." "Mr. Blade is not on the premises tonight," the croupier replied without looking up from the cards. "What about Caleb Finch? Short guy, looks like he hates everyone?" The croupier shrugged. "Not here. They have other business." Jake leaned in closer, whispering low enough that the nearby gamblers couldn't hear. "Tell them 'The red bird flies at midnight, and the cat is in the bag.' Got it?" The croupier paused, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "The... red bird flies at midnight? Sir, I don't—" "Just tell them," Jake snapped. "They’ll know what it means. Or they won't, and I'll have a good laugh about it in the next life." He left the croupier staring after him and moved to the roulette wheel. He didn't need to play long. He knew the sequences. He’d spent enough loops memorizing the physics of this specific wheel to make it look like luck. He moved to the Colosseum betting screens, placing heavy wagers on the gladiators he knew would win. Within an hour, his pockets were heavy with chips. He’d cheated so many times across so many lifetimes that the thrill was gone. It was just math now. "You're having a very good night," a voice purred behind him. Jake turned to see a woman in a crimson gown that cost more than his car. Elara Hayes leaned against the betting kiosk, her long black hair cascading over one shoulder. She watched him with an amused, predatory glint in her eyes. "I've had better," Jake said, his eyes scanning the floor for any sign of the Imperial Guard. "What could be more important than winning all that money?" she asked, stepping closer. "You look like a man who is searching for something much more dangerous than a jackpot." "I'm looking for a new suicide method," Jake said flatly. Elara laughed, a light, melodic sound. "A bit dramatic, isn't it? If you're bored with life, you could always try jumping into Mt. Vesuvius. The view is spectacular on the way down." "Already did Etna," Jake replied, checking his watch. "The lava was a bit lukewarm for my taste. Lacked character." Elara’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, her gaze lingering on him with renewed curiosity, but Jake was already done with the conversation. He was bored. The loop was stagnating. He caught the eye of a passing waiter. "Hey, pal. I need a favor. Go find me an electric fan. A big one." The waiter blinked. "A fan, sir? The climate control in the casino is—" "I didn't ask about the climate. I asked for a fan. Here’s a hundred euros. Go." Five minutes later, the waiter returned with a floor-standing industrial fan. Jake plugged it in near the center of the main gambling floor, right between the craps tables and the high-roller lounge. He turned it to the highest setting, the blades whirring into a roar. He reached into his pockets and pulled out fistfuls of euro bills—his winnings, his tips, all of it. "To the fastest!" Jake shouted, his voice booming over the music and the clatter of chips. He tossed the stack of bills into the fan. The blades caught the paper, shredding the bands and blasting a whirlwind of cash into the air. Hundreds of bills spiraled upward, raining down over the shocked crowd. The professional gamblers dropped their cards. The socialites shrieked. A split second later, the room descended into absolute chaos as a hundred people lunged for the floor at once. Jake watched the madness for a moment, a small, satisfied smirk on his face. He turned and walked toward the exit, ignoring the security guards rushing past him to break up the scrum. The Imperial Guard wasn't here. Urban Outlaw wasn't calling. If he wanted to find Chloe Vance, he had to stop playing their games. He needed to find the source. He climbed into the Road Runner, the engine roaring to life with a familiar, aggressive growl. He put the car in gear and aimed the headlights north. It was time to go to Scrapheap Town and see what Dr. Aris Thorne was hiding. ════════════════════════════════════════