“So how is this supposed to work?”

The man sat on a stool in the middle of his room. It was located in some cheap motel with a name that neither of them felt the need to recall. On one side of the room, the man sat on his stool with a peach in his hand and nowhere to be. His photographer sat opposite of him, his scarlet eyes turned green for the benefit of his subject to know when he would record.

“I’m supposed to record things, take stories and experiences as assigned by the Notary. One of those duties is to record for the posterity of this world’s history. In exchange for having a massive amount of data at my beck and call, I take videos of the common people and other interviews.”

A heavenly smile graced his face as he stroked his chin. “So you’re here to interview me. For what reason?”

A few flickers of green scatter across the face of Shoa. “Need to prove my worth somehow.”

The room Shoa found himself in was neat and orderly. It wasn’t as big as the Morning Star, but it was comfortable. Eggshell grey curtains and a dark blue carpet. There were two beds and the sound of lurching in the vents. An unsettling sound as Shoa struggled not to turn his head.

“What is that sound by the way?”

“Mirepods.” The man nodded upwards. “They keep them for air filtration since they’re cheap.”

Shoa looked through the I.D.S. and saw what he meant. The Mirepods were a boon to the overall health of Mash-Al due to their regenerative ability and malleability. With a magic system based on belief and will and a creature that could be easily convinced to be single-minded, they were fertile. That combined with their static nature and dubious sentience greatly increased their standing as invaluable resources in the world in medicine, fuel, and a good number of assets.

“Astounding.”

“All that information and you weren’t aware,” he teasingly asked.

If a Mech could blush, Shoa would be doing so. “I can’t keep it on all the time! Sometimes I get tired, sometimes I need to rest my systems.”

“Mechanoids need rest?”

“Well, I certainly do. Now, are you ready for your interview?”

Shoa sat in a chair across from the man and raised his hand.

The man got ready and the hand dropped.

“Hello. My name is Cormack Bloom. Hello to anyone else watching this.” Cormack took a bite of fruit as he stared directly into the camera.

“Where are you from?”

Bloom closed his eyes as if he was envisioning his past. “Couldn’t tell you. People who took care of me found me around the way, somewhere outside Deerwood.”

The IDS pinged Shoa again. Deerwood was far. Real far.

“What was Deerwood like?”

A nostalgic smile graced Cormack’s face with his eyes still shut. “The trees were as large as the Metro buildings. As tall as they described New York’s. People lived longer and healthier. It was graceful.”

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

IDS: Direct travel from Deerwood to Metro is inadvisable due to rogue Mirepod formations and members of the Strong-Big generation of Animalia.

The information spilled into Shoa’s head from each factoid, Deerwood’s record of longevity as the people lived to see 200 and the bumps that grew on them due to exposure from the tree oil. Shoa would have to alter most of these settings later but for now, he settled for the little blurbs to only notify him with pertinent information.

“What made you want to leave?”

There was a pause and Cormack’s face scrunched for a bit before releasing. “There was more to do outside their walls.”

.

.

.

“Alright, that should be all!”

IDS: Subject confirmed

Cormack Bloom:

Race: Human .

Height: 5’11.

Age:26.

Everything seemed to be clear. The video was uploaded and both Shoa and Bloom seemed satisfied with the results. All that was left to do was-

Knock, Knock,Knock

A rough voice demanded attention outside the door. “Yo, Cormack. We need to talk to you.”

Murmuring and shuffling sounds were at the door. Multiple people were at the door. A.. startling amount of people sounded like they were at the door. Cormack simply got up and looked at Shoa.

“Oh. Those must be my friends.”

…

A middle-aged man still sells his wares to a tired mass of people. He knows business has been slow for a bit since the travel got reduced. Hickshaw’s massacre didn’t help people wanting to taste Kanasas’ famous peaches either. However, he still needed to try and earn his keep.

“Get your peaches,” he cries. “Fresh Peaches, Human grown!”

He shouts the slogans again and again till sweat starts to collect in what remains of a dying hairline. The effort stocked his coffers for a bit, but tomorrow will have to be better. As he begins to turn in for the night, a woman with a duffle bag on her shoulders approaches him. This woman wasn’t a tourist, yet her darting eyes still left her with the scent of amateurism.

“Yo, sir. How much for a Peach?”

A simple question. The dance was on.

“How much do you have?”

“A couple of Union coins, but I have more provided you’re willing.”

The man’s face kept his smile, but his eyes squinted. A Runner. “If you’re asking, I paid for these fair and square.”

“Buddy, I could care less about your peaches. What I wanna know if you saw a Mech walking by.”

The man restrains himself from sending the woman away. The money would be sorely appreciated, so he has to test his luck. “I see a lot of things, a lot of people.”

The strange woman slapped down a couple of coins onto the table. “Not in the mood bud. I know that Union coin holds better sway than whatever shitty paper you guys carry. So I give you 10, and you skip this little runaround.”

At the mention of the payday, the man’s eyes widened. “Ok. I saw one of them. Not one of the regular ones, more bulky and square. Orange and shit.” The man’s hand-stretched outward, but Rhys kept a tight cover.

“Nuh-uh. What else?”

The man suddenly got all shaky. Eyes fidgety. “Your piece of metal was hanging with this guy.”

“A guy?’

“I don’t know his name, no one asks, he doesn’t give. He’s been selling things here.”

“So?” The woman begins to retract the coins. “The hell would I care about a salesman?”

“Because no one knows where he gets it. It's beef and fruits for sure but it's too much. The amount he’s able to bring in is way too much without a fridge. So a couple of guys wanted to figure out his sources. Maybe a few Vegas guys with them.”

The woman suddenly tensed up. The marble slab is left with nail marks.

The man quickly put his hands up in response. “ We’re not with 'em! We heard what they did in Hickshaw, and we don’t sell to them like that. Mostly.”

The woman gives him a look that tells him she knows how the market works, and how much of a lie he told, but she moves on.

“So what about this? They roughed him up a bit? What does that have to do with who I’m looking for?”

“No. They’re going to. Tonight.”