“That’ll be one-fifty shillings,” I told the child, young teen actually, in front of the counter.

They handed me a two hundred-shilling note through the opening of the wire-enclosure. I checked the note to make sure it wasn’t counterfeit, always a must, before unlocking the cash drawer and handing them a very worn fifty shilling-note. They took it hesitatingly, giving me a I-gave-you-a-very-decent-note look. I returned a take-it-or-leave-it look to them. The used up notes had to go somewhere and I was too much of a chicken shit to give them to the threatening-looking adults all the time. In my defense, the kid had been haughty throughout our interaction. Haggling the price of everything he was buying. You would have thought he was going to purchase goods worth thousands of shillings with the energy they put in. In the end, they only managed to shave off ten shillings. Seriously, that wasn’t enough for an andazi, they had gone up in prize again, from the previous ten to fifteen shillings. I could remember days when with five shillings I could get five huge maandazi. Now it was a small puny thing, costing fifteen times as much.

“Hartie!” my father called, returning me to the present.

I locked the cash drawer as I turned to stare at him, but he wasn’t even looking at me at all, busy studying the weighing machine. The weight marker to be precise. And I’m not sure that was the correct name for it. It was those old analog weighing machines. It had a rectangular base around twenty centimeters tall, with a steel plate suspended on top of it. At one side of the base, a red thick pipe rose up to roughly chest level with another bar stretching horizontally to its right. Underneath that bar and with the hinge at the red thick pipe, was the weight bar and its marker. At the end of it was another rod hanging from the free end of the weight bar, roughly the length of an average hand. It had a small flat platform that weight stones were placed on it.

After a few seconds, he looked up as he called again, “Hartie, come here for a second.”

It was never good news when he called for to get close. Either he wanted help with something, or I had made a mistake. From where he was, it could be either or both.

I left the counter, locking it too on my way out. It was located near the door of the store, and surrounding it was a wood and wire-mesh enclosure for security purpose. Where I was working at, that was more than enough. We didn’t deal with lots of money, nor were there any gun wielding ruffians around. Except for the police. But I wouldn’t call them that, not directly to their face. Spending a night in jail had taught me the err in that. Apparently, we are always breaking the law one way or another. Whether we knew it or not. I call bogus, but they still arrested me. Which was good for me because I finally had a more than four-hour sleep for the first time in four years.

“Hartie, I’ve been send to the market by mother. What do you want me to bring you?” Annie asked she passed through the store, giving me an open smile.

She was the ten-year old daughter of one of the tenants staying in the plots behind the store. There was a door at the back of the store that allowed them to pass through the store on the way to the market. There was a gate at the back of the plots, but using that would take longer to get to the market. And my father didn’t mind.

“No, not today,” I told her.

“You’ll buy me something, right?” she asked in return, shooting those big doe eyes at me. She was a very outspoken kid, having no issues expressing herself. A few weeks back, she had given me a note saying ‘Annie heart Hartie’. The heart had been drawn. I don’t know if I reacted properly to that. But I did my best, going so far as to google how to respond in such a situation.

“Run along now, you don’t want your mother asking where you are,” I shooed her away as I resumed my walk to the weighing machine.

“That wasn’t a no. I will come to collect,” she said as she began running from the store. A few seconds later, her seven-year old brother came rushing through the store, hot on his sister’s heels.

“Where is the marker on the scale?” he asked when I approached him.

Huh, that is the name of the weight bar. “It’s at the three kg mark.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking at me with those I-know-better-than-you eyes of his.

Of course I was sure, I had put it there. I didn’t bother to answer that. If he thought there was something wrong with where the marker was, he should point it out.

“You did chemistry in school, didn’t you? Is that where the marker should be pointing when the weight is set for three kgs?”

Was he kidding me? He was bringing up chemistry right now. Chemistry!? I wasn’t bad at school, a pretty good performer if do say so myself. But chemistry had nothing to do with weighing machines. Nothing at all that I could think of. But all I gave him was a tired sigh. Get on with it old man. We both know you are eventually going to point out what your perceived problem is.

“It is not there. It’s between the point nine and the three mark.” And there we have it; now was that so hard.

But he was wrong, I had set it exactly at the three kg mark. I was a stickler to preciseness. Look… okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly where it was supposed to be. But in my defense, there were times when it landed on the other side too. By the end of the day, they cancelled each other out. But telling him that never ended well for me.

I was saved from another lecture when a lorry pulled over in front of the store. My father moved to check it out, leaving me with a ‘always double check where the marker is’. Before I could even make it back to the counter, he called me again. And it was to the lorry. Carrying ninety-kg maize or beans bags, I always hated that. But I had no choice, I had signed up for the job myself. I knew the duties required of me.

I suddenly realized just how empty my stomach as I made it to the lorry. I should have had a heavier lunch. And maybe gone to the toilet too. It would be beyond embarrassing if I peed myself with a ninety-kg bag on my neck.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The lorry was packed full of bags. I estimated around eighty of them. My father never took more than thirty at once, and we still had some in stock. There were two other brokers that had come with the lorry. Assuming one was for loading the bags on to our necks, I was looking at carrying at least ten bags before it was over.

Father had already started selecting the bags he wanted, and one of the brokers was having a bag loaded on to his neck. He left and I took his place, bending my knees a little and leaning my head forward. The other broker loaded the bag on my neck and I straightened up. The first two steps were wobbly, me getting used to the weight. And I should really have had a heavier lunch.

I stabilized after that, making it to the weighing machine and lowering the bag slowly. A sudden drop could be hazardous for both the bag and the weighing machine. After confirming it was at least ninety-kgs, I used my knees as a fulcrum as I lifted it with my hands as slowly shambled my way to the rack made for them. there was only one layer only, making loading the bag on top easier. I returned for the next bag, stepping aside for the other broker to pass me at the door. He was slightly faster than me.

On my last bag, the eleventh for me and the other was already getting loaded his twelfth, Annie ran past me. She grazed me a little, making me stumbled a step before righting myself.

“Stop running through there!” I heard someone call out. It sounded like my father, but with how tired I was, it was hard to be sure.

I felt something slam into the back of my legs. Hard. I knew who it was without having to see them. Annie’s brother. I felt myself losing my balance faster than I could correct myself. Knowing where I had been hit, I forced myself to lean in the opposite direction hoping the kid had stayed on his side.

I wave of relief washed over me as I saw him dash past me on my way down. The fall wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be. A little winded, but that was all. But as I tried to get off the ground, something heavy fell on my chest.

“Uhh…” I breathed out and saw droplets of blood fly out of my mouth.

My brain was furiously sending signals to the chest for a breath, but there was nothing but mangled flesh and bones to respond to it. I felt warm wet liquids running from eyes, mouth and nose. Strangely, there was no pain, none at all. My vision was becoming foggy, and black at the edges. Whether from the tears, blood or lack of oxygen; I couldn’t tell.

Suddenly, my father’s face filled my vision. I could feel him touching my face, his fingers running down my neck and back up again before they reached my chest. Yeah, even I didn’t want to look down there. I knew enough physics to know what the likely result was. And enough biology to know my fate.

“You’ll be fine,” my father’s obvious lie sounded like an echo. So close, yet so far away. Even my vision was failing me. Getting more black with each second. Before turning black completely. And the last of my father’s you-will-be-fine stretched out for a few seconds longer. Then nothing.

…

Well, I was still me. I couldn't feel anything but I was aware of my existence. And in that awareness, time was immeasurable. I felt like I had been in existence for eternity and at the same time like not even a second had passed. I imagined a lot of things then. Like what my life would have been like, would I ever have gathered enough courage to approach a girl, or even a lot of scenarios or reasons for how that bag came to land on my chest. The most obvious one being that the broker had moved to the same place I had when avoiding Annie's brother and my fall knocked him enough for his bag to fall forward and onto my prone body.

Suddenly, a soothing white-lined rectangle appeared in my vision. Shortly after, words started appearing inside. The same white color. And an androgynous voice said them as they appeared.

‘Welcome to Mesily.’

It sounded a lot like misery to me.

‘Would you like to change your name?’

Why would I want that? I've always liked my name. It was why I chose it. In my tribe, your parents gave you a birth name and you used that together with your father's name as your full name until you chose a name for yourself. Some started as early as at eight years of age. Others changed their names so often, they never really stuck. But it was custom to address someone with their chosen name. Anything else was considered rude. I chose mine at fourteen.

‘I understand. Name set as Hartie.’

'Wait, what?' I tried asking, but I could only manage to think it. 'Did you read my thoughts?'

‘I'm a part of you. Whatever you think, I'll know.’

'What if I don't want you to know?' I asked.

‘That is not an option.’

Great. No privacy. 'What, or who are you?'

‘Think of me as a Daemon of the System.’

I definitely felt those capitals. They were titles, names, and not just words. I wanted to know what they meant, but I had a more pressing concern to deal with.

'Are you going to speak and display each time? Or can you stick to one?'

‘That was going to be the next question. What form of interaction do you prefer? Keep in mind that you can always change anything in the future. And that the system is highly customizable.’

This time, I didn’t feel the capital when system was spoken. Also, it wasn’t capitalized on the window. Every time Daemon spoke, the old text would clear up and the new one take its place.

‘My name isn’t Daemon.’

‘What is it then?’ I asked. If we are going to interact like two people, the least was to get a name of address.

‘Clare.’

‘Masculine or feminine?’

‘Does it matter?’

I thought about it for a while. Thinking my answer through. Yeah, I didn’t think at all before I answered, ‘No.’

‘What is your choice for the form of interaction?’

‘You choose the most appropriate for the occasion,’ I answered Clare. Then added, ‘Unless I specify otherwise.’

‘Noted.’

‘What is the System?’

It was best not to assume anything. That was always a smart rule. A lot of people, me included, have found themselves in weird disastrous situations all because they made the wrong assumption.

‘You already know the answer to that question. What species would you like to be?’

Species? Okay, I should have expected that but, really? Why was that the first thing Clare asked? After the name that is?

‘What are my options?’

‘You only have access to three: Goblin, Human, Lizard.’

‘Why only three? How many others are there? And what are they?’

‘Your personality decides what options you get, and your original species. There are ten in total: Animus, Dryad, Dwarf, Elf, Ettin, Fairy, Gnome, Goblin, Human and Lizard.’

‘Why do my options lean more towards the evil side of things?’ I asked after studying the options thoroughly. Some I didn’t understand, but they were easy guesses from what little I knew of mythical creatures. Or was it more fantastical?

‘Why are you not answering?’ I asked after what felt like a minute of silence elapsed.

‘I’m not required to answer all your questions.’

What? What did that even mean? They were supposed to be my guide in this new world. What guide didn’t try and provided their subjects with all the information they would need? Wait, had Clare actually said they were my guide? I couldn’t be sure. I decide to leave it for the time being.

‘Leave things as they are. And by that, I mean try and keep everything I had before I died,’ I said. If those were my first options, it would be a waste of time going through the whole of process of selecting when it was clear the best option was to leave things as they were.

‘You don’t need to worry too much. There is peace and full integration of all species where you are going. Everything is set, we will communicate again when you wake up.’

‘Wait, that’s it? What about…’

But things were already changing. My senses were already returning to me. And the first thing I felt was the unbearable pain going through my left leg. That hastened my wake up program, with my eyes shooting open and coming to stare directly at the face of what I could only consider a beast. And it was busy trying to rip my leg from me.

‘You couldn’t be bothered to place me in a safe place!’