Jason’s hands trembled. Not from fear. From revelation. He’d joked about it, hadn’t he? After the third respawn, he’d laughed a hollow, manic laugh and muttered, “Feels like I’ve got a damn trainer running.”
Jason Brody blinked sweat from his eyes. The Rook Islands humidity was a physical weight, but this… this was different. He was kneeling in the mud outside Dr. Earnhardt's bungalow, a half-empty magazine in his AK-47. He should be dead. He had been dead, three times in the last hour alone.
And then the trainer flickered.
0-1-0-1.
The terminal’s final line blinked, patient and indifferent. Far Cry 3 Trainer 0-1-0-1
REBOOTING IN 5…
The humidity returned. The mosquito buzz. The distant, guttural shout of a pirate on patrol. Jason’s hands trembled
The world went slow. No, not slow. He went fast. The rain became a curtain of glass beads hanging motionless. A pirate’s cigarette smoke solidified into a frozen grey sculpture. Jason walked through the patrol, snatched the machete from the man’s belt, and by the time the pirate’s neurons finished firing a warning signal, Jason was already a hundred meters down the road, leaving a trail of disturbed air.
0-1-0-1.
The first time, a Vaas heavy had put a machete through his ribs. The second, a fucking komodo dragon had come out of nowhere. The third—a fall. A stupid, twenty-foot tumble off a cliff path he’d misjudged.
And the machete in his hand was already wet. He’d joked about it, hadn’t he