Perched on that desolate rooftop, the dim glow of a cigarette illuminated my surroundings, casting eerie shadows across the dystopian expanse below. The night was a shroud of darkness, punctuated by distant gunshots and sirens, a stark reminder of the harsh reality that defined our city. My watch displayed 22:48, and I decided to linger for another hour, in the hopes of securing one final job before the night relinquished its grip.
The year was 2189, and my occupation bore the cryptic title of Courier. It was an unusual job, one that only a select few dared to undertake, yet the lure of substantial credits made it irresistible to me.
My gaze shifted to the sky, where colossal freighters served as luxurious havens for the Elite, the very individuals who had abandoned our world to its miseries many many years ago - or so the story said. No living soul remained to verify this account; we pieced together our scant knowledge from fragments of a bygone era, long gone relative accounts and relics that whispered of an age now obscured by the fog of time.
Down on the planet's surface, life was a catastrophic plunge into a dystopian abyss, a far cry from the technological utopia humanity had envisioned. Flying cars and futuristic gadgets were but fantasies, replaced by a DIY world of makeshift technology. The remnants of an earlier technological age lay scattered across our landscape, constructed by hands long silenced. Progress, however, was not entirely stagnant; cybernetic enhancements amplified our physical capabilities, and brain implants connected us to the Dark Web, the sole remnant of a long gone global network. These enhancements, though, exacted a price : the sacrifice of physical integrity and the relentless burden of maintenance. Despite these costs, the majority adorned themselves with such augmentations, and nowadays it had become rare to encounter a human untouched by machine. Myself included, I was so sick of this city, and the danger of streets below. I had always favored the sanctuary of rooftops, a preference that had led me to invest in enhanced leg muscles and extensions; the less time spent on the grimy streets, the better.
Another gun shot could be heard.
A shroud of steam enveloped the city, concealing piles of uncollected waste that had transformed into looming mountains on either side of crumbling roads. Dilapidated vehicles sputtered with exhaust, weaving precariously around pedestrians who stumbled through the littered streets.
The city, as it sprawled beneath me, resembled a nightmarish vision of decay and despair. The towering skyscrapers that had once gleamed with ambition now stood as grim sentinels, their surfaces marred by the corrosive touch of time and neglect. Neon signs, once bright beacons of hope, flickered sporadically, casting eerie, stuttering lights that illuminated the streets below in unsettling, irregular patterns.
The air was heavy, weighed down not only by the weight of a thousand shattered dreams but also by the suffocating smog that clung to every nook and cranny. It was a toxic blend of pollutants and regret, the atmospheric remnants of an industrial age long past its prime. The once-pristine sky was a distant memory, obscured by a thick, perpetual haze.
With a sense of reverence, I retrieved one of my most prized possessions from my backpack, a nearly intact magazine from 2028. Its cover featured a sleek, glistening car – a symbol of the once lofty aspirations for the future. Protected in a hard shell cover, the book was my favorite item, I kept it on me at all time. It was a time when optimism reigned, and people believed the future would be a realm of groundbreaking inventions and technological progress.
Flipping through the pages, I encountered my most-liked image – a flying car, with its graceful, sculpted lines and the emblem "BMW," a brand now relegated to history. Alas, such wonders had never manifested in our reality. Instead, our vehicles were crafted from remnants of decades-old relics, painstakingly patched together with spare parts salvaged from the refuse, their engines powered by a mix of fuel and Gatty—a battery concocted from organic waste, which seemed to malfunction as often as it worked.
Once more, my gaze returned to the sky, to the impenetrable freighters that loomed above, offering an unattainable life. I pondered the details of existence within those colossal vessels – the quality of food, the purity of water, the technology, the life we will never have. No one remaining had any contact with the Elite, who lived apart from us yet remained an ever-present specter, their immense ships visible from every corner of Earth.
As I extinguished my cigarette and stowed away my cherished magazine, I glanced at the time: 23:11. The opportunity for one last job was slipping away, and it was time to retreat to the sanctuary of my own abode.
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But before I do, permit me to elucidate the nature of my peculiar profession.
In this labyrinthine world, my existence as the Courier took on an enigmatic and haunting quality, akin to the enigmas of the city itself. My role was to facilitate the seamless transition of consciousness from individuals - who had amassed sufficient credits - into the digital expanse of the Mainframe. With each assignment, the remnants of their past lives, the intricate tapestries of their existence, were meticulously digitized and stored within the Mainframe's sprawling data repositories. In return, a portion of my own memories was systematically purged, like pages ripped from a book, leaving only fragmentary recollections in its wake, the cost of transporting such a precious cargo.
While their digitized lives continued inside the MainFrame Servers, the sacrifice for that transaction was my own memories. With each transfer, I was required to relinquish a part of my own recollections to accommodate the new arrival. In this world, two Souls could not coexist within a single mind. Consequently, each transaction exacted a toll, tearing my own memories asunder. It was a conscious choice, one that I had made long ago, driven by the allure of substantial credits. Most people opted for this vocation for only a few months to a year, but I had persisted for nearly two years, with a difficult personal price to pay.
The memories of my parents, or at least those I believed to be my parents, remained distant recollections within my fractured consciousness. Their weary faces had been etched into my mind, but I couldn't be certain whether those memories were genuine or mere fragments of a past I had once known. It was a disorienting sensation, akin to navigating a labyrinth of half-truths and faded recollections.
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In our world of endless hardship and suffering, credits were the lifeline we all reached for. These Souls I was tasked with ushering into the MainFrame held a contract, a Subscription, a flicker of hope in our bleak existence. Life in this forsaken realm was a ceaseless struggle, but there was a digital glimmer at the end of the tunnel, courtesy of the elusive MainFrame corporation.
For a substantial sum of credits, one could subscribe to varying tiers of what we colloquially dubbed "Heaven." It was an intricate digital afterlife experience, painstakingly simulated on their sprawling servers. The tier one could afford determined their afterlife's quality, from modest simplicity to extravagant luxury. Rumor had it that at the coveted Gold Tier, communication with the loved ones left behind was even possible, though in my two-year stint as a Courier, I had never encountered anyone who held such a prestigious subscription, nor had I even heard whispers of such a person.
As your last breath drew near, and if your Subscription had been paid in full, a figure like me—a Courier—would race against time, arriving within 21 minutes to capture your Soul. This was your consciousness, the essence of your being, which would then be carefully stored within a Receptacle implanted in our brains. In exchange for this service, we Couriers relinquished fragments of our own memory. The next step was to convey the precious cargo, the Soul, to the nearest MainFrame deposit center. Once there, the content of the Receptacle would be carefully downloaded, and we Couriers would receive a percentage of the subscription fee - an amount that translated into substantial credits.
For most, the aspiration was to achieve the basic Subscription plan, a modest goal costing one million credits, and these individuals were known as "Heaven Seekers." They endured lives of austerity, diligently squirreling away each credit, their eyes fixed on the ultimate prize—the sanctum of the MainFrame Heaven. The Tier 2 Subscription, which required a payment of two million credits, was a rarity.
I had a few rare calls from Tier 2 Subscribers, but at that extreme cost for the Subscription, this was not common at all, and most Courier would rush to be the first on those.
Oh yes, I forgot to mention it, Couriers competed against each other. Whenever a death occurred, MainFrame would initiate a call to all Couriers in the vicinity that could reach the target within the 21 minutes limit, setting off a frenzied race to be the first to collect the departing Soul.
Officially, MainFrame prohibited any underhanded tactics or foul play among Couriers, but the gritty reality was far removed from their idealistic edicts. The competitive scramble to secure a Soul often escalated into treacherous conflicts, with Couriers arming themselves and resorting to whatever means necessary to ensure they were the ones to capture the coveted prize.
I, however, was not the combative sort. My strategy leaned heavily into speed and agility. My enhanced leg muscles and extensions allowed me to traverse rooftops and leap across streets, deftly evading the chaos below. My arms and forearms, though less augmented than my lower body, bestowed upon me the strength to grasp ledges and cables, enabling nimble acrobatics through the urban labyrinth.
And why did I subject myself to this life-threatening-memory-wiping profession? The answer was simple : Credits. These elusive tokens were the lifeblood of my life dream - to attain a Heaven Gold Subscription, the pinnacle of their tiered system. The cost was a staggering ten million credits, a seemingly insurmountable aspiration in a world where the odds were stacked against everyone.
10 millions Credits. A long and seemingly impossible dream.