It’s slowly becoming routine, entrenched in my life, but the pulsating vibration and the dissonant beeps that sound off from the bomb embedded within my chest still cause a jolt when they first activate. The fourth job was no different from the rest of them in that manner. However, when I read the slow, scrolling text across the panel of the machinery, I felt my throat slightly clench, and my heart rate sped up ever-so-slightly, as indicated on the cardiogram built into the device. The first two words to scroll across were “kill target”, followed by the name of the person. One “Mr. Jackson Albany”, employed at Huttochem Pharmaceuticals. The next words that followed were “weapon: any” and “time: four hours”. 

Almost three hours ago, I had made up my mind, and steeled myself for the next step in this new life. The fourth job that had scrolled across the bomb, indicating the name and information of a target that I had to kill, in cold blood. Now, that same “almost three hours” later, I’m standing outside of Jackson Albany’s apartment with an unregistered and unmarked gun in my hand. Usually, a gun feels cold, especially in the crisp winter air. Today, though, the gun feels like a brand, stinging at my palm and burning my flesh away. I look down at the implement in my hand. A tool of destructive force, primed to end another man’s life to preserve my own. 

In an instant, I kick down the door, knocking it off its hinges and leaving a hefty dent in the center where my boot met the thin metal. A panicked woman screams, and jumps from her chair, diving behind it. A man comes running from around the corner, and I ready my weapon. My mind is already made, and I fire twice, hitting Albany squarely in his right shoulder once, and knocking him to a stagger. Red blood trickles down, staining the white shirt he has on. He collapses now, but his breathing remains a whimpering and sad desperate cry for help. 

The machine in my chest hums a low hum. One hour left for the job. I step in through the doorway fully, now. The apartment is a small and cozy place. A picture sits, framed, on a nearby table with Jackson and the crying woman, except here she’s smiling and happy, wearing a wedding dress. I feel my heart beat against the metal in my chest as adrenaline courses through me. The job isn’t finished. 

I step towards the collapsed figure of Albany. I take a moment to examine my gun. No point in wasting any more bullets. A swift kick will do. With a definite crunch, the target’s eyes no longer have life or presence to them. 

I turn and exit the apartment without a word or even acknowledgement of the still sobbing woman. My boot tracks some of the victim’s blood through the entryway, but by the time I step out onto the main floor of the building, any residual blood has rubbed off of the sole. I take a moment to shut the door, using my right hand, while my bare left hand still holds the searing gun. A breath in. Composure. Evening. 

The job is done, now. Another day, another chance. A step closer to freedom from this new prison. The woman wails and cries through the door. I shut my eyes and wince. She would have done the same in my shoes. Anybody would. Even now, though the job is done, the weight of the machine in my chest feels heavy and oppressive. Heavier than before, even.

And then, something new happens. Something I have yet to see thus far. Two words scroll across the bomb, now, but two which I haven’t yet seen. “Your Reward.” Soon, coordinates follow, and a routing map. New Washington is a dense and layered city, but the marked spot is a familiar location. My own apartment. 

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I begin to follow my usual route back home. A steady pace, making sure I have time to get back within the hour. The job is finished, but I’ll get a new one as soon as the timer for this one is complete. I step with purpose as I walk down the street. The rail station, then the Seattle District. Finally, home. The building I’ve lived in for the past six years sits in front of me. Thirty minutes left remaining on my timer. Thirty minutes to myself. I climb the old rusted stairs to the second floor. Bricks made out of compacted industrial waste hold the walls of the complex together. Red and blue spray covers the walls in mismatched patterns. A few red X’s mark doors, denoting vacancies. The metal on the building feels warm, having been baking under the sun through the day, and now just starting to cool in the winter evening air again. Despite this, the air itself is the coldest it’s been through the day, and breathing in sharply suddenly jolts me back into focus. I step forward and reach for the doorknob to my apartment. It’s slightly sticky, but familiar. Moments before opening it and stepping through, however, I look down, and see a small parcel at the foot of the door. Wrapped delicately, with intense care, it looks straight out of manufacturing. 

It’s addressed to me. My name, written on the label in a bold black font. Herald Fischer. I pick up the box and step through the threshold into my own residence. It’s warm, quiet, and cozy. I hear Marize’s light breathing from the other room, and picture her in my head. Her eyelids are closed, and her short brown hair is spread about the pillow as she takes a nap after a long day at the paste packing factory. Of course, she doesn’t know where I’ve really been. She thinks I was at work. I suppose I was. 

I set the package on our dining table and carefully open it. Within the box, layers of paper and packaging sit. I slowly remove them, and find, at the bottom of the box, a lone wad of cash. Money. Physical money. Practically criminal in nature, attained through criminal means, and truly only used by criminals. I feel each bill between my fingertips. My thumb and index finger rub together, with a single dollar bill between them. Then the next. Real money. I exhale. I look around the corner of my bedroom, and see Marize asleep in my bed, covers draped over her like film over water. Her light breathing relaxes my mind once more, and I turn away, and quietly close the door to the bedroom. $500, in total. For spending money in the digital banks, this might not amount to much. For physical, discontinued American dollars, it would be enough to buy the apartment building I’m living in. It all slips away into my pocket, and I sit down for just a moment to recollect my thoughts. 

My name is Herald Fischer. I am a government worker, who maintains databases. About six days ago, I was kidnapped while undergoing surgery for a herniated disc. I woke up in a warehouse, strapped to a chair, with a bomb newly implanted in my chest. Since then, I have been forced to take criminal action and live a double life, at the threat of my own untimely execution by means of a remotely triggered explosive. For the first time in these six days, I am sitting down at my own dining table, thinking to myself, and the realization of what has occurred over this week is settling in. And now, as my girlfriend sleeps in the other room, and the bomb continues to hum in my chest, I find myself considering whether this is worth it. I made up my mind to take another man’s life to preserve my own. And now, I have time to reflect.

For the past six days, I’ve been following orders and doing these jobs out of fear and obedience. Going forward, I can continue to live like a beaten dog, obeying orders, and being a slave to the Preachers. I take a breath, once again. I could take my own life and end this charade. I exhale. I’ve already taken a life, and committed a number of other crimes in the name of self preservation. To end my life now would be worse. 

I come to a conclusion, and make a third choice. The second job I’ve worked for the past six days, with its fourth job now assigned and completed, being a Techrunner. A servant to the gangs and criminals of New Washington. A free flying individual who carves out their own path in the world. A rebel. A thrill seeker. A killer and criminal, but a free man. I can live as a Techrunner. I have to live as a Techrunner, or else I’ll wind up just like Jackson Albany, except my blood and innards will be decorating the entire room instead of my shirt. I stand up, and fix my jacket. A buzz, a beep. Job Five begins to scroll across my chest.