I startle awake with a gasp, and as I try to move, I feel my limbs bound. Yet, I’m upright in a chair, in a dark room, no longer laying on the operating table from what felt like moments ago. The fading anesthetic makes me woozy, and suddenly, I feel myself lurch forward, my stomach dancing above my guts. I hold back my vomit for a second before I feel it run through my lips and down my face. Suddenly, a hand forcefully grabs me, squeezing my jaw from the left and right, flanking and digging into my face like a crab’s pincer.
“Ow! Fuck!” I gargle out through the bile. As my lips are pushed open by the man’s grasp pressing from both sides, the vomit trickles out from opposite corners of my mouth, and my vision continues to spin. The man grabbing me certainly isn't Doctor Kaspar, who was responsible for the surgery I went under for. My vision bounces momentarily, casting doubles of the shaded figures in the room around it. Things start to come into focus, and as I look around, I take in the warehouse I’m seated in. No longer an operating room in the back of a hospital in the Seattle District, this is somewhere in the slums, the dregs. Finally, my eyes trace their way up the arm of the man grabbing me, and look to where his face would naturally lie. In its place, a smooth black mask, obscuring any sign of humanity. Black, like a monitor while unpowered. A reflection of my own face faintly shines back into my eyes, and I see the visible wreck that I am. My face is pale, and my eyes are bloodshot. A black marker writes out the number “024” beneath my left eye, though it’s reversed in the reflection.
“Welcome to the real world, sleeper.” The man grabbing my face suddenly squeezes tighter as his menacing voice booms from behind the mask he wears. I see no facial expression through the mask, but I have a deep feeling that a sinister smile is crossing his lips as he says this. “You’re a Preacher bitch, now.” He says this with a slight hint of glee behind his tongue, and the smile I feel from beneath the mask feels present to a greater degree, now.
“Preacher? Like, what, the gang? Preachers?” I ask, not thinking to mind my mouth or my words at this point, seeing as I’m already bound and beaten.
“Hah, yeah, like the gang. Preachers. Particularly, you’re Cal’s bitch now.” I’m unfamiliar with whoever Cal is, but I recognize that I’ve exhausted my free pass on a stupid question as the man’s grip feels slightly more purposeful and drifts slowly towards my neck. “Ever heard of a Muler?”
“Yeah. Kidnap and traffic people. Is that you?” I feel my heart start beating ever-so-slightly faster as the words leave my mouth. If he’s a Muler…
I feel the smile from beneath the mask once more, despite still no indication of it truly being present. My eyes drift downwards, and I finally see, and really feel it, for the first time. Inside of my chest, where a new cavity was carved out by advanced surgical machines, a foreign beast sits. A metal container, adorned with timers, maps, and other details, taking the shape of a capsule pressed against the anatomical location where a child might draw a heart. Directly in the center of my chest, leaving room for the other organs within my torso to press against it, a bomb sits, ready to explode should I disobey, flee, or fail to do what’s asked of me. Now, the thumping of my heart starts to burn, as I can practically feel the cold metal and furious flesh combat one another for space within me.
“So, what now?” A sinking feeling permeates my entire being. This is not a negotiable situation. This is an execution of the soul, where one is worked to the bone with the mere hope of freedom or liberation from a prison in the shape of a bomb.
“Your first job. It was assigned an hour and thirty minutes ago. You have eight hours and thirty minutes left. Judging based on your reaction to this situation, I assume you are familiar with this process. Since you weren’t awake to receive your first instructions, I will give them to you once again.” The figure pauses. “Here… are your coordinates.” The man’s finger deftly navigates a small screen on the bomb that is sitting within my chest. Every time he makes a sudden movement, I feel something within me twist or jump in panic or anticipation. “You are to pick up the package located here, and deliver it, covertly, to the individual who is meeting you at this location.” The figure's fingers move like an artist’s brush, navigating the small monitors with the familiarity of the palm of his hand. “And, to answer your question, yes, your scheduled surgery was completed.”
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Honestly, I hadn’t even considered that question. The ruptured disk that once ailed me, supposedly, is now fixed, by the grace of the same advanced medicine that worked to implant a kill switch within me. The reality of the situation burns harshly and causes my throat to close up for a moment. As I think to myself, assessing my situation, the captor slowly unchains my bindings. “Better hurry. You’ve only got eight hours and twenty seven minutes left, now. We both know what happens if you don’t get your job done in time.”
I stand to my feet, still woozy, and gather my bearings. My clothes are sitting on a nearby bench, and I notice multiple other figures in the shadows who were entirely obscured while I was still coming to. Everything suddenly tumbles like an avalanche, and I feel myself collapse to the floor, in a panic and in a state of lightheadedness, both physically and mentally unprepared to face this altered world.
My first action after a brief period of self collection is to call my girlfriend. I notice two missed calls from her as I open my phone up.
“Marize?” I hear her inhale as she hears my voice.
“Herald! How did the surgery go?”
I pause. She warned me about the hospital I went to. And she’d be sick, she’d go insane, if she knew. I can’t tell her. Not yet. She doesn’t have to be a part of this.
“It went great, Mizzy. No complications. Nothing.”
“That’s so great! I was thinking of cooking some synthetic beef wellington tonight for dinner, the line workers get bonuses today!” I smile for a moment, before looking back down at the timer in my chest. Ten more minutes have already passed.
“Maybe another night. I need to stay late at work today. There’s some bureaucratic stuff to take care of.”
“Oh.” She sounds sad. “That’s okay, I can just have some paste and save the synthetic beef wellington for another night.” I frown. I hate to hear her sad, but I need to do this, or else I will literally die from a bomb in my chest exploding.
“I love you.” I hang up the phone before she can say anything else.
I step fully out into the cold air of the city. The artificial trees and nature always seem so forced and unwelcoming, but without them, the city would be a swamp of screens and industriality, so I suppose it’s better than nothing. I discreetly check the coordinates of the package one more time, and begin to make my way towards the location. I already took the day off of work for my surgery, though I was originally going to use it to surprise Marize. I suppose it’s quite fortuitous that I now have breathing room before a potential untimely execution.
From what I know of Techrunners, they follow a simple life path. They are given instructions via the bomb in their chest, follow them, and live their life in the free time allotted in between jobs. Of course, that time is only however much is left after doing the job. Few are public about the lifestyle due to the criminal connotation. Few manage to live for a long time in the field. Sometimes, people will be freed, or will earn their freedom in other ways. For the ones the Mulers catch, it can even become a new income stream.
The bomb wasn’t always the way they handled it. Before, they had capsules of toxins which would release into the bloodstream after failure. But, the designers realized that the explosion and the threat of collateral damage dissuaded a large number of cowards from running from the responsibility, and also sent the biggest message to future Techrunners.
I was under anesthetic for two hours, and in those two hours, my life has completely fallen into a state of chaos. I stand before a small green parcel, now, and feel a small pulsating from the machine inside of my chest. My heart thuds against the metal, and my hand slowly extends out to grab the package before me. As my fingers wrap around it, I feel my heart steady and calm down, and the weight of the machine within me seems to lift ever-so-slightly. I pull the parcel from between the two artificial branches of the fake tree before me, and slide it into my pocket. A small package, with a glass ampule inside, judging based on the weight and feeling of the object. I look at the timer. I still have six hours and fifty-nine minutes. Either the first job has ample leeway, I’m really good at this, or the recipient of this package will be the real challenge of this job.