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Don't Kill the Messenger



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JH

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Don't Kill the Messenger


Before I begin, I must inform you that where I live is not like where you live. Where you have lush fields of green grass, I have long stretches of cold, metallic floor. Where you have tall, sturdy trees, I have large metal poles with electric charges crawling over them. Where you have strong brick houses with cheery families tucked away inside, I have burned, scarred shacks with broken inhabitants. My world is not like yours. My world requires for you to be the best you can be, all the time, or else you will fall. I’ve fallen, many times, too many times to count. Each time I refused to pull myself up. I stayed down, because that’s how I liked it. I suppose that’s where my problems arose, but it’s also how I’ve come to be how I am today. Something I would never change.

I never knew my father. My mother would sometimes tell me stories of how he worked for the government, keeping the area safe from Manks, a group of thugs that have long since been broken apart. I liked to believe that my father was a hero on a much larger scale, fighting the Manks with super speed or strength. As I grew, this thought faded away, and I started to hate my father. I hated him for leaving me and my mother, I hated him for working for the government. I still hate my father, but I know it’s not fair. Maybe one day I’ll meet him and all my thoughts of him will be proven wrong.
My mother was a criminal. Not the murder type criminal, or anything of that sort, but more of a petty theft. When I was growing up, I refused to believe that she was a criminal. What she was doing was all for me, I was the only thing she had in the world. However, I’ve come to realize that no matter the reason, the outcome is always the same. She was a crook, and when I was 13, she was killed for it.

You see, death where I am is not like death where you are. Death where I am is as common as an afternoon shower, if not quite as refreshing. The majority of my friends died at a young age, killed off for coughing at a government soldier or, like my mother, petty theft. My world can’t afford to keep these people, so they tell us, as our government thrives to create the supreme species. Of course, this statement makes no sense, as there aren’t any other species to compete with. Well, except animals, but those were wiped out years ago for not wearing any clothing.

As for my story, that is yet to be told. For now I can say that I am Heiric. I’m 17. I’m a coureur for the Sub Level messenger transit. I deliver packages throughout the city. I live alone, usually sleeping in any dark place I can find. From morning to dusk I deliver without compensation. I don’t look at the packages, it’s against my policy, but I’m aware that what I’m delivering is usually illegal. It’s a risk easily taken in a town where people are executed tripping over a powerbox.
 
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Nyangoro

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Re: Untitled

It's an interesting concept. Though, you should work more on the actual story before the next update.
 

JH

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Re: Untitled

Yeah, this is just an introduction. Background and what not, has to be established before I start.

Thanks.
 

Nazo

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Re: Untitled

Wow. Sounds like this could get really cool. Looking forward to next update!
 

JH

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Re: Untitled

And so the question arises: Why do I do what I do? Why do I risk everything I have, or don’t have, for a job that offers no reward other than an uncommon pat on the back? I’ll tell you what I tell everyone else; I do it for a life. I could do nothing. If I really wanted to, I could give it all up, find a job in the government, settle down with a family, the works. However, if my past has taught me anything, it’s that those who work for the government have no life. The training to become an official is brutal, taking your humanity away from you. My life as a coureur is cruel, yes, but it’s a life nonetheless. A life that holds meaning.

The day of importance was Tuesday. I woke up in a dark alley, my usual sleeping spot when I could actually afford to get some sleep. I stood up slowly and looked at myself in the reflection of the metal city building next to me. I wasn’t bad looking, I thought. Dusty brown hair, infinite green eyes, and a face filled with hope for the future. My clothes weren’t the best, I suppose, but they were far better than the majority of the populations’. A black cotton shirt, stained jeans, dark skin tight jacket, and brown, worn shoes. Each article of my clothing was once part of a Sub Level delivery in which the client had died upon my arrival. That sort of thing happened often, but rarely was I able to salvage the package for my own use.

I wasn’t aware that this Tuesday would be different from all others I had experienced. It seemed the same, it felt the same. Nothing was different as I headed for the Sub Level. The sky was still gray with smog, the air thick with the scent of the sweat and broken hearts of the city. As long as I had lived in the city, nothing ever changed. The metal was still cold, the people colder. Every day as I would walk to the Sub Level, I would attempt to digest how the people could go on living their lives like they do. Officials would push me around if I came close, cars refused to stop as I approached the streets, zooming by and blaring their horns at invisible obstacles. People in the city were angry by nature, the key reason why I chose to avoid them. Regardless of their fierceness, I managed to finish my journey safely, heading down the stairs to the scum that is the Sub Level.
 

Diomedes

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Re: Untitled

Wow. this is really good, and for some reason, its making me think of a cross between Dark Angel and Maximum Ride.
 

Nyangoro

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It kinda reminds me of Mirror's Edge, only darker. I like it!
 

JH

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The Sub Level stands in almost complete contrast to the city. They’re both full of nonsensical garbage, yes, but the Sub Level is filled to the brim with positive attitudes. People wandering all over, searching for a package to deliver, laughing with their friends about the eventful delivery from the day before. It was really quite fascinating, almost a different culture compared to what rested just above their heads. The Sub Level itself wasn’t impressive in the least, trash littered the ground, dirt smeared on the walls and booths. The booths are the key part of the Sub Level, what keeps me and so many others in business. They’re simply run by people who need deliveries done. Each booth is varied dramatically, from stock shipment to private inquiries. However, each booth dealer has their secrets, and you can never be too careful when choosing which one to approach. As for me, I stuck with one booth dealer for my entire time as a coureur, run by a sly man named Marx.

Marx is the kind of person no one wants to deal with, but continue to deal with anyways. He’s rude, stubborn, decayed, and has a odor to him that would turn a bullpig away. He comes to the Sub Level every day at 4 AM sharp, and rarely hands out deliveries except to his favorite coureurs. I was one of them.

“Mornin’ Marx.” I greeted as I approached the booth.

He was rummaging around in some boxes towards the back of booth, his butt high in the air. He looked up at me upon hearing my voice.

“Get lost, dog.” He grumbled, and then returned back to his searching.

Ok, I really wasn’t one of his favorites. When I was 15 he went out on a limb and gave me a large delivery. I screwed it up big time, and he hasn’t forgiven me since. Regardless, he gave out the best jobs, in my opinion, so I came to him every day, hoping for his long overdue forgiveness.

“Look, Marx. We can’t keep doing this,” I reasoned, “Everyday you tell me to screw off, and later on you end up giving me a job anyways. Can’t we just cut out the middleman this time?”

He looked shocked as I spoke. It was all an act, I knew it better than he did.

“You listen to me, boy,” He argued, “I ain’t got nothin’ for you today. Not after yesterday. You killed my god damned client, you did.”

“No I didn’t Marx, I told you. He was 89 years old, he died of old age on my arrival.”

“You told me that, did ye?”

“Yeah, Marx.”

“Oh. Well,” He scratched at the back of his head, “I still don’t have a job for ya’, mutt. I gave my last one to the Luv twins.”
“Last one?” I questioned, “It’s 6 in the morning, Marx.”

He sighed and looked at me, a slight shine of care in his eyes. It vanished quickly.

“Fine, mate, I’ll tell ya’ what,” He paused for a moment, took a pipe from his jacket, positioned it in his mouth, and lit in. I watched as he inhaled deeply, coughing violently afterwards. He wiped the spit from his mouth on his sleeve and continued, “I’ll let you trail along with the Luv twins, alright?”

I shrugged. The Luv twins were alright, brother and sister, but they fought a lot. It was better than nothing, so I nodded at Marx.

“Where are they?” I asked.

“Somewhere around here, find them yourself.” He answered, waving his hand in no distinct direction.

I thanked him with resist and turned to search the Sub Level.

---

Let me know if you spot any grammatical errors.
 
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