The Gunrunner's motorcycle slowly coasted to a halt.

In front of him was a large, nondescript grey dome.

The dome was a protective measure put into action by all surviving cities. It was a structure made of concrete, that completely encapsulated a city, and had filters to scrub air of all traces of the Scourge.

The gates were simply glorified airlocks with guards stationed outside. Most cities only had one set of airlocks, but Detroit had two, hinting at its wealth.

In the U.S. after the Scourge, there was no change in currency, as that would have been too costly and time-consuming to put into action. However, most people would just as readily accept a material exchange, usually involving bullets.

Most objects deemed useless- computers, trophies, and the like- were scavenged for parts to melt down for reuse in other areas. This led to a conspicuous lack of shared information between the cities, as the only people allowed to keep a computer were the extremely rich and extremely powerful.

"Halt!"

One of the guards had noticed the Gunrunner, and had brought up his rifle to point at him.

"Identify yourself or leave!"

The Gunrunner slowly stepped off the motorcycle, with hands in the air, and began speaking.

"I am John Tanner, citizen number 2734-19446."

After the collapse of the government, social security numbers became useless. Thus, the cities made a new system- the 'citizen number'. A citizen number was a unique 9-digit code assigned to ordinary citizens. If a city detected any traces of the Scourge in your body, it would have you executed, then erase your name from the registry.

John Tanner was not the Gunrunner's real name- it was simply an alias he used when dealing with certain cities. Anywhere you went, there was someone willing to take an extra bit of money in exchange for a fake identity in the registry.

The Gunrunner had twelve such identities. The paranoia was in part due to the fact that the Gunrunner dealt with rather unsavory individuals. Criminals were nothing new, and corruption of the higher-ups wasn't either- but that didn't make them any less dangerous. For instance, Detroit was currently ruled by a gang lord calling himself Felt. For two decades Detroit had been ruled by gangs, and it had degenerated into a city of vice as a result. Everywhere you went, you could see its effects; prostitutes lounged in alleys, muggers openly discussed their targets, and huge, multi-story buildings containing nothing but bars and strip clubs were sprinkled across the city like grains of rice.

As the guards checked his identity against the list of persona non grata- updated only when officials from other cities arrived, which was usually once every two years- the Gunrunner softly whistled between his teeth.

"The registry says you haven't been checked for the Scourge in over half a year, Tanner. Better get it over with."

The Gunrunner took the motorcycle into the airlock, and put a chain lock on it. He knew what was coming next- to prepare, he took off his clothes, folded them, and stacked them in a neat pile.

A man dressed in hospital scrubs entered, with what looked like a syringe. It was a Detector.

Its official name was "Scourge Bio-degradation Detector", but for convenience most people called it a Detector. It contained organic matter, typically a mixture made of a small amount of wood ash, water and phenolphtalein. When used, it would draw around 3 drops of blood, and then mixed it with the puree. When the nanomachines degraded organic matter, it let off an acidic residue, which would turn the phenolphtalein clear. It was extremely common in any city, and its rate of error was less than 0.01%.

The nurse inserted the Detector into the Gunrunner's arm, then drew it back and shook it gently. When the Detector's fluid didn't turn clear, the nurse sprayed the Gunrunner and his discarded clothes with an antiseptic liquid and told him to get dressed.

After he put his clothes back on, he removed the chain lock from the motorcycle, and waited for the other side to open. When it did, he walked the motorcycle into the sprawling city of Detroit.

Detroit's architecture was mostly unchanged from before the Scourge, although many buildings had been reused for purposes they were never designed for. Surprisingly enough, it was one of the best-preserved cities in the United States- although whether this was due to mob rule or something else was unclear.

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He made his way through the crowded streets and colorful signs to a bar named "The Drunk Knight", depicting a gauntleted fist clutching a mug of beer on its sign.

Inside was a small, cramped room that barely had enough room for the long bar that ran from one end of the room to the other. When the bartender saw the Gunrunner, his face lit up.

"Hey, John. The usual?"

"Yes. Help me unload it, Mark."

The cargo that was to be delivered was a plastic crate strapped to the back of the motorcycle. It contained 12 glass bottles of wine.

Liquor was surprisingly one of the few things that didn't take too much of a hit from the Scourge. Although crops to make alcoholic beverages were in short supply, that didn't stop enterprising brewers from trying out new concoctions.

The wine was from before the Scourge, which made it extremely valuable. The corks had been replaced with a plastic seal, which interfered with proper maturing but was a necessary move as the Scourge would eat through corks and get to the liquor inside.

Although it didn't look like much, Mark's bar was one of the most successful bars in Detroit, catering to all sorts of clientele. It was ranked in the top ten bars in the United States, and was the go-to place for alcoholics and wine sommeliers alike to sate their needs.

The Gunrunner had first been hired 3 years earlier, when a nameless supplier had paid him to deliver an unmarked crate to The Drunk Knight. When he had arrived there, the bartender had opened the crate to reveal wine- which explained the large sum of money the Gunrunner had been paid. After that, the Gunrunner occasionally visited The Drunk Knight, usually on an errand, and eventually became friends with Mark, which led to him using it as a sort of safe haven whenever he was in Detroit. Not only that, but he treated the bar as a sort of a bank- every time he stopped by, he would give Mark money as an "investment". Mark would use the money as an emergency fund, and his line of work was profitable enough that he always made enough money to fill the gap whenever the Gunrunner showed up.

After the two exchanged pleasantries, the Gunrunner parked his motorcycle in the parking lot, and set off to find another job.

Mark had once asked him why he was so obsessed with delivering things from place to place, when he had amassed enough money to live reasonably comfortably for the rest of his life. The Gunrunner had refused to answer, leading to Mark throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. The truth was the the Gunrunner didn't know, either- perhaps it was a sense of atonement, a way for himself to make up for the crime he committed to become Exiled.

After 5 meetings with potential clients, the Gunrunner had a job.

The first had wanted him to deliver a parcel across three states, but had been shocked when the Gunrunner named his rate.

The second and third were much the same. The fourth, however, was willing to pay- but the cargo was a shipment of slaves.

The Gunrunner had a strict policy on not transporting slaves. He disliked slavery, and found those who would degrade a fellow man in such a way distasteful. This, however, did not stop him from accepting jobs from known slavers- as long as the cargo was not human.

He also did not transport live animals. The Gunrunner never carried many provisions- doing so would slow him down, and cost him his reputation as the fastest, safest courier in the States. Instead, he made do with the least he could. He rationed his food and drink carefully, and when he ran out he hunted for what meager game was available and filtered water from any nearby source. Transporting live animals would force him to carry provisions to feed them.

The fifth client offered him an exorbitant sum of money to transport a large crate full of marijuana to New York. As the Gunrunner had no qualms about transporting drugs, he accepted the offer- then almost turned it down when he saw the size of the crate.

It was almost the size of his motorbike, and certainly would not fit there. When he tried to explain this to the client, he simply waved it away, saying that he would provide the Gunrunner with a small wagon. At this, the Gunrunner relented, but warned the client that due to its size deliver would be slightly slower than usual.

He arranged a meeting with the client at 8 AM the following day, and he went back to The Drunken Knight, where he had a cup of beer and went to sleep in his bedroll on the rooftop.

The next morning, he woke at 7 AM, and went around Detroit buying supplies. The most important of them was fuel.

Gasoline, as a substance the nanomachines either chose not to or could not eat, was as cheap as always, although the dwindling stocks had been slowly driving the prices up. He bought two jerry cans' worth of fuel, and lugged them to the motorcycle.

Next was food and water. He usually carried around 5 days' worth of water in small, easy-to-carry bottles. Food was usually in the form of jerky, as it was compact and nutritious. The Scourage had resulted in a loss of many of the animals in the States, but once ranchers became aware of the danger they sheltered their animals carefully and were able to stop any further losses.

Last was ammunition. His revolver took .357 Magnum rounds, and he always carried exactly 100 with him. Mining had become an even riskier job than before, as a storm of Scourage nanomachines could trap and potentially kill teams of miners. This drove the cost of metals, most notably the ones used in bullets and guns, moderately higher.

He met the client near the airlock, and hitched the provided wagon to the motorcycle. He was not checked for the Scourage on exit- after all, it would be pointless- but his gun was checked for signs of recent use. If it had been used in an unauthorized shooting inside the city, he would be detained. Additionally, the meaning of "unauthorized" meant "unendorsed by the gangs". If a man who had participated in a gang-backed shootout had to leave, the gang would pay the border guards to look the other way.

When all the requisite checks were completed, the guards bid him farewell, and he left on his motorcycle.

About a hour in, however, his ears, so used to the comforting sound of the engine, noticed an irregular sound that would be unnoticed by most. He stopped, and checked the bike for the source of the noise. The source turned out to be the crate, and he debated with himself whether he should open the crate and violate the privacy of the client. In the end, he decided to open it, just in case there was a potential threat inside.

He was not prepared for what he found.