As the elevator chimed its arrival on the first floor, an unsettling wave of nausea washed over me. Something was amiss, something distinctly unusual about this Soul. My head hung heavily, bearing a weight akin to a boulder as I cautiously navigated past the metallic threshold. Two Beta-Blockers should have placated my discomfort, but this time, the sensation of wrongness persisted. My steps faltered, and I sought the support of the corridor wall.
There was no time to waste; I needed to reach the Deposit Center with all haste to expel this aberrant Soul. As I endeavored to continue my progress, inexplicable flashes intruded upon my consciousness. Vignettes from a life that, as far as I could discern, was not my own.
I glimpsed a young girl entering a pristine office, where smiles and a loving embrace enveloped her—a child, my daughter.
That vision gave way to another, one fraught with strife, urgency, panic. Fear pervaded as I grappled with the need to flee, to escape an imminent danger. I had rushed into an elevator, and someone named Erica seemed to know something...know what I had done.
I crumpled to the floor, only then realizing that I remained on the building's first level. What had transpired? Were these memories truly my own?
Exerting great care, I ascended once more. The blood from my nose had smeared crimson on the dusty floor. I mopped it up with the back of my hand, but the persistent nausea lingered.
For two years, I had thrived as a Courier, never encountering anything remotely close to this baffling experience. Whose memories had these been? Could they have belonged to Noah?
Before I could find clarity amidst the maelstrom of questions, a paralyzing headache assailed me. I fell to the ground yet again, my vision fading into inky blackness. My head throbbed incessantly, as though something within yearned for release. I clutched my head, the waves of agony crashing over me relentlessly.
Fumbling for my Beta-Blockers, I retrieved the bottle and placed one of the pills in my mouth. I hesitated briefly. Two pills had already coursed through my system in rapid succession, and while they were typically effective, exceeding the recommended dosage was a perilous gambit.
Yet another wave of torment descended upon me, rendering me unable to stand. As I lay there, wracked with torment, I made the fateful decision to ingest the third pill. Clinging to the tenuous hope that it would alleviate my suffering, I awaited the pharmaceutical respite.
With my gaze locked onto the decrepit plaster of the wall, I reclined in stillness. Time seemed to warp, my connection to the present reality attenuated. Though my body remained within the confines of the building, I felt as though I was adrift, my sense of balance precarious, as if I floated on the periphery of existence.
Focusing on the shattered plaster and the decaying structural framework visible through time-worn apertures, I endeavored to regain my tether to the corporeal realm. I was there, on the floor of the building's corridor, aware of my surroundings. It was imperative to reestablish a connection to my physical form. I knew I was there.
My physical world was unraveling before me, the walls warping and twisting as if they were dissolving into something beyond comprehension. The lines between reality and this other realm blurred, the solid surfaces rippling like liquid, their texture transforming—brick and plaster bending, stretching, and reshaping into bizarre patterns that felt both foreign and oddly familiar.
It was as though everything around me was being absorbed, pulled into a dimension that wasn’t mine. Colors began to bleed, walls liquefying, swirling together in a hypnotic cascade of motion, like ink dropped into water in a strange dance of contrast. Objects lost their edges, twisting and folding in on themselves, stretching out as if guided by an unseen hand. The corridor itself pulsed, inhaling and exhaling, its rhythm perfectly synced to the pounding of my skull, each wave of pain bending reality further.
Even the air shifted—its weight and texture thickening, pressing against my skin, molding to the contours of this new, shapeless world that was consuming everything I thought was real. Time felt stretched, every second pulling apart like taffy, distorting, warping as my surroundings fused with this strange dimension in a seamless, unrelenting dance.
Summoning tremendous effort, I placed my palms flat against the ground and exerted force. Though it felt as though I had propelled myself hundreds of meters into the air, I had moved only a short distance. Employing my knees and feet for support, I ascended, ultimately achieving a vertical stance. The world around me spun in surreal disarray, an eerie and unsettling panorama.
My head swam, and I struck my own face with force.
"Wake up!" I cried aloud. "Wake up!"
The self-inflicted jolt aided in clearing my mental haze, however slightly. I needed to act. I reactivated the trajectory toward the Deposit Center, its fluorescent yellow path superimposed upon my view. Focused intently upon the path, I asserted, "I can do this."
Gradually and cautiously, I advanced, relying on the wall for support, heading towards the building's exit. My thoughts, my body - both were slowly realigning with the realm of the tangible. The street outside bustled with activity, evidence of a fierce battle between Couriers that had happened moment before : fractured concrete, bloodstains on the road, and two vehicles emitting ominous wisps of dark smoke. Nearby scavengers sought to profit from the wreckage, salvaging valuable components. Unfazed by my presence, they remained fixated on their endeavor.
Observing the distance to the nearest Deposit Center—1.21 kilometers—I reasoned that the journey should be manageable. As my mind gradually reconnected with my physical self, I was encouraged by the return of self-sufficiency. Though far from prime condition, I could now traverse the streets without external aid.
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Emerging onto the desolate street, I endeavored to clear my mind. The enigmatic Soul was different, yet the ultimate objective remained unwavering—I fixated on the Credits, those coveted Credits that would be my reward.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
With the clock nearing 3 in the morning, the street lay sparsely populated, but during these nocturnal hours, theft and violence surged to unprecedented heights. I strove to pick up my pace and reach the secure enclave of the MainFrame Depository.
Fortuitously, I bore the visage of a disheveled wretch, my appearance a testament to the challenges I had recently faced. Scorch marks and scratches adorned my cybernetic legs, souvenirs from the race to my target. My cybernetic arms exhibited the telltale dents from the clash with the formidable Courier. My skin bruised and cut from the journey was covered in dry blood and dirt. Such blemishes served to render me indistinguishable from the undesirable denizens of this forsaken realm, an undesirable target—an immaculate disguise...
I navigated the street for another hour, eventually arriving at Avant Street, which marked the threshold to the Deposit Center. The distance overlay projected a mere 356 meters to my destination.
I infrequently traversed these grim streets, particularly at this late hour. The city had metamorphosed into an abandoned wasteland, with junkies strewn about, some languishing in torpor while others engaged in heated disputes. Distant screams and the sporadic retort of gunfire reverberated, while the imposing presence of the colossal space freighters, like an ominous behemoth casting a long shadow through the hazy firmament, a constant reminder of our insignificant worth.
"Hey!" a voice behind me barked.
Uncertain if the hail was directed at me, I continued to tread the path, intent on evading any unwanted contact.
"Hey, you, stop for a minute," the voice persisted.
Two hundred and fifteen meters remained. I paused, sensing a hand alight upon my shoulder, gradually turning to confront the intruder.
Before me stood a man whose countenance bore the gruesome vestiges of pustules and sores, one eye socket vacant, the other occupied by a rudimentary, low-grade cybernetic implant that oozed dried blood and oil. His dental situation was dire, and his personal hygiene nonexistent. This wretched figure was unquestionably a junkie.
I maintained a vacant, hazy expression, mimicking the perpetual state of drug addicts, in the hope of being misconstrued as one of their own. The man's gaze fixed upon my legs, and with a pointed gesture, he remarked, "Good implants you got there, real good, huh?"
The man's demeanor wasn't menacing, but his calm, authoritative voice suggested he wasn't under the influence of Dream or its lingering aftereffects. He was a fellow addict, seeking Credits for his next fix. I had to think on my feet.
"Broken," I mumbled, continuing to affect an air of stupor. I remained vigilant, ready to act at a moment's notice.
The junkie surveyed me, grinning. Despite his putrid and emaciated state, he posed a potential threat that could not be underestimated. Dream addicts could transition through various states, similar to any mind-altering substance. Following their initial dose, they drifted into a state of slumber, entering vivid dreamscapes as their bodies all but shut down. Awakening them during this phase was perilous, as they were scarcely conscious and more akin to feral animals, unable to distinguish between dream and reality. After several hours, typically between 8 to 10, they stirred from their slumber, and the craving for another dose - the sensation of life and death - consumed them. Dream was extraordinarily addictive right from the first exposure, and its aftermath exacted brain damage that rendered addicts exceedingly aggressive. Moreover, Dream obliterated all sensations, including pain and fear.
I needed to disengage swiftly.
"I want them," the man suddenly declared, producing a curved blade from behind him. "These are mine."
With rapid reflexes, I seized his wrist and twisted it mercilessly, the shattering of his bones punctuated by his anguished cries. He struggled to swing his blade, but I evaded the attack, retaining my grip on his left hand.
With calculated force, I immobilized him further, snapping his weapon-wielding arm between my right knee and elbow. I repeated the maneuver, once more with every ounce of my left strength, until he finally released his weapon.
In the throes of rage, he shouted anew. Yet, control remained firmly in my hands. I yanked his arm toward me, then, with unbridled force, allowed it to snap back, connecting a ferocious elbow strike to his face. He tumbled backward and crashed to the ground, his nose bleeding. But pain was no impediment to someone in his wretched state.
"CREDITS! HE HAS CREDITS!" he screamed.
I quickly surveyed the vicinity, only to observe half a dozen more individuals who had turned their attention toward us.
"Damn it!" I cursed, promptly disengaging.
I sped away, leaving the man behind as he continued his cacophonous chant.
One hundred twenty-eight meters—the Deposit Center lay tantalizingly close. I pushed myself onward.
Pressing forward, I willed myself not to look back, despite the anguished cries echoing in the distance from the mob of zombie-like junkies following me.
Reaching the colossal staircase that led to the Deposit Center, I advanced with urgency. Just as I arrived at the summit, an unseen force seized my back, propelling me violently backward.
I crashed to the ground, my view filled with the eerie countenance of a woman. Her eyes, both cybernetic but distinctively disconcerting, bore an oily, grimy quality—a likely indicator of illegal implants. A sinister, blood-stained smile adorned her grotesque visage, while her teeth, tainted and blood-soaked, added to her ghastly appearance. She was a nightmare given form. A junkie.
"Creeeeeeyyydits!" she shrieked, driving her blade into my chest. Agony coursed through me as blood cascaded onto her malevolent visage.
Would I meet my end here, at the hands of a junkie, mere paces from the Deposit Center? After coming so tantalizingly close to apprehending a Gold Tier target, after all I had endured...
The junkie woman's head erupted in a macabre amalgamation of blood, brain matter, and oil. The crimson deluge obscured my vision.
A metallic arm had sundered her skull with brute force. I glanced up, discerning the Asian woman from the previous day—the Courier.
"Need help?" she inquired, grinning.
"Please," I implored.
She turned her gaze beyond me, and then back to me.
"Roughly twenty or so quite deranged individuals are headed your way."
"Help me, please," I beseeched, my body aching as I struggled to rise.
"Half," she stipulated, her tone chilly, the earlier smile vanishing in an instant.
"Half?"
"I know you secured the Gold Tier," she added, her expression resolute. "I want half the reward."
I regarded her incredulously.
"This isn't charity, love," she clarified. "It's a matter of life and death. Either you die here, and no one reaps the reward, or you live and keep half."
I had no choice.
"Okay," I nodded.
Her smile returned. In a rapid dash, she ascended the staircase leading to the MainFrame Deposit Center's entrance.
Behind me, I could discern a horde of crazed individuals commencing their ascent. I cast an anxious glance at the Courier, attempting to discern her course of action. The pain that coursed through my abdomen was all-consuming.
Realization struck—she was scanning her identification chip. The red LED above the entrance transitioned to green, and she exclaimed :
"Courier with a Soul in danger! MainFrame Depot under attack!"
The guards—a formidable phalanx of security—rushed forward, weapons blazing. I covered my ears as the storm of bullets assaulted the intruders. The Dreamers were dismembered, their bodies riddled with armor-piercing projectiles. The confrontation was brief, an entirely lopsided affair.
The horde of junkies was decimated within seconds, the MainFrame security personnel annihilating them with the efficiency of machines. This was no fair fight; the security detail dispatched the attackers like insects. It was a swift and merciless display.
With unwavering resolve, the guards resumed their posts.
The Asian woman approached, extending a hand.
"Half," she repeated.
"Half," I conceded.
She assisted me in rising, and I leaned upon her as we approached the security checkpoint. I scanned my arm, gaining access to the hallowed confines of the MainFrame Depository.