Ken Brady Feet suctioned to the top of yet another bullet train, he thinks - and not for the first time - that his life moves entirely too quickly.
He dodges a crossbow bolt, braces as the train turns left. Gradually. But at 300 kilometers per hour, nothing is really gradual.
He drops to the roof and hugs the train as a tunnel whizzes by above and around him. What was it his mother used to say?
Something about slowing down to notice the wonders around you. Something trite. Something pithy. Something unreachable.
Another crossbow bolt, from another direction. How was that possible? He closes his eyes, moves, gets a feel for the line.
Now a turn to the right, and there it is again. A sneaky suspicion that this has all been done before, by someone, somewhere.
He doubts many people ride the Shinkansen across the Japanese countryside while being shot at, but who really knew?
A scream, and a random cry from above. He punches upward, takes the attacker hard in the midsection as he falls.
The body tumbles away, off to the side, gone. What exactly had gone wrong, all those years ago? Where did he screw up?
Zigged when he should have zagged or whatever. He is the very model of a time-looped individual. And it sucks.
