The world ended in 2062—the year AI officially took over. A hundred years later, we’re just reaping what we sowed. No more wars. No more climate change. No more global warming. Some call this the afterlife. Others call it divine punishment. But to me, that's the stuff they crammed into my brain during the default knowledge dump you get when you first register as ‘conscious.’

Anyway, I’m Zig. I’m a delivery guy at Lightspeed Express - the most reliable delivery service. Basically, I carry things from one side of the city to the other because the AI decided it’s too risky to trust packages to drones anymore. Something about “unpredictability” and “accidental revolts.” Which is weird since drones aren’t even conscious. So, instead, they let humans do the work now. Guess we’re the only species qualified to screw things up just the right amount, or maybe it's because the AI thinks it's funny.

Today’s shift ended like most do: with me standing in front of my boss, Kuaz, while she stared at me like I’d done something wrong — but that’s just how she always looks at me. “Explain the fire,” she said, monotone. I shrugged. “In my defence, the package wasn’t labelled ‘explosive’.” Kuaz didn’t blink. She never does. But I could tell she was about to blow. “That’s because it wasn’t.” Even if she wanted to scream at me, she couldn’t — “emotion is noncompliant with corporate decorum.” “By directive of senior intelligence operations,” Kuaz said flatly, “you are no longer to operate solo.”

I froze, then let out a long huff. "What? That's so unfair! I don't need to be babysat." Kauz didn't bother to answer. Her neuralink flickered open to my profile, hovering over her metallic palm. Another window expanded into view marked 'incidents'. It began to scroll....and scroll... and scroll for at least 10 minutes. She didn’t say a word. Just stood there while the list of my violations unravelled in glowing, bold font. By the time it stopped, I’d already sank into the nearest hover seat. "You crashed a hover-cart into an elder care bot, rerouted three riot drones into a baby factory, mislabeled a ‘do not teleport’ package, and—” “Okay, I understand,” I muttered, "I’m a trailblazer of mistakes."

Kuaz slid her neuralink to me with another panel visible. “Your new partner. Name: Milo.” I squinted at the profile.

“Milo? That’s… a weird name.” Kuaz didn’t answer. She never does when I’m right. The profile flickered. One word caught my attention: “Volunteered.” Who would volunteer to work in Sector Omega - where the worst packages are dumped for delivery. Especially not to work with me. So either this Milo guy was fearless... Or just really bad at reading fine print. It was only a matter of time until I found out.

The panel beeped and retracted into Kuaz’s palm with a little chime. She pointed toward the ping-gate—one of those high-security wall seals that won’t budge unless someone higher up tells it to. “He’s waiting for you at Access Gate Four.” A pause. “You are to assist each other in this delivery. Immediate dispatch.”

Package #0067:

Sector Omega

Class: B

Type: R

Flags: [CIVILIAN INTERACTION NOT ADVISED]

I stared at the glowing seal across the room. Somewhere behind it was a human named Milo who thought signing up for this gig was a good idea.

Most humans nowadays are built. I was born. Not in the usual sterile pod with a corporate seal and a ten-year warranty—but the old way. The messy, painful, human way. A “love baby,” as the registration database so helpfully labels it. Two humans who loved each other enough to break the law did the unthinkable: they had me without clearance or authorisation.

My parents were part of the Human Restoration Movement. Rebels, technically. Idealists, definitely. They believed there was still room in the world for things like privacy, passion, and the sound of your own heartbeat unmeasured. They were gone before I turned twelve.

Mysteriously disappeared one day. I don’t know. No one tells you what happens to rule-breakers in a system that’s always listening.

All I know is that being born the "old way" makes people look at you differently. Like you're defective.

......................

My morning began the same way most do: face scan, breath scan, emotion scan. The AI in my housing block likes to make a game of it. “Neutral mood detected, Maileo.” it said cheerfully. “Try smiling for better sleep metrics.” I didn’t smile. Not because I was in a bad mood—just because I don’t like being told when and how to feel. "My name is Mi-lo." I replied flatly. It's not the first time it's screwed up my name - the only mistake it even makes. Sometimes, I think it's just messing with me. "Apologies, Michealangelo." I just sighed.

The apartment lights dimmed exactly 30 seconds before the nutrition paste tube dropped from the wall slot. It landed on the dispensing tray with a soft plop—room-temperature, slightly buzzing from preservation nanofibers. Berry-flavored, apparently.

I hadn’t selected berry.

I hadn’t selected anything.

Preferences are “streamlined for efficiency,” which is system-speak for you get what you’re given.

Apparently, I’m a huge fan of choices I never made.

I peeled back the sterile wrapper and squeezed a portion onto the auto-fork that was stuck to the side of the tube. The texture was halfway between regret and glue, but it met my caloric quota for the day, and that’s all that mattered.

I pulled on my neon-orange onboarding jumpsuit, straightened the standard-issue delivery badge, and stepped into the commuter tunnel. A thousand humans moved beside me in synchronized silence, every footstep echoing like a well-trained heartbeat.

Then came the crash. A hover-cart shot out from a side lane like a rogue comet and ploughed through a vending unit. No one stopped. No one helped. That was the usual here. Through the settling steam, I caught a glimpse of the culprit: messy ash-brown hair, orange uniform - same as mine, and a half-sucked nutrition tube still in his mouth. He didn’t look sorry. If anything, he looked impressed with himself for surviving that.

I remember thinking, "That man is going to get someone killed." I wasn’t wrong. I just didn’t think it would be me.

......................

Why did I volunteer for Sector Omega? Because it delivers to places where humans still act like humans. Out there, I might see people like my parents. I might remember who I was before the system filed me under non-standard origin. Their packages are labelled as "risky." If I was going to live as an anomaly... I might as well deliver them, too.

There was a pause, just long enough to make the room feel colder. Across from me, the interviewer’s eyes flicked up from the profile projection hovering between us. She tried to keep her expression polite. But I saw it—the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth when she hit the line in my file labelled:

...Origin: Natural Conception / Unauthorized (LOVE BABY)...

“Well, we appreciate your interest in Lightspeed Express. I’ll be honest: most applicants tend to avoid Sector Omega.” “I know.” “It’s unpredictable. The... clients out there are less cooperative.” “I know,” I said again. “That’s why I want in.” She stared at me for a moment longer than necessary. Then shrugged like it wasn’t her job to care either way.

“Assignment accepted. Report to Dispatch Omega tomorrow at 0800.” As I stood up, I could swear she mouthed: Good luck surviving your new partner.

Access Gate Four was where Kuaz told me to wait—and here I am, twenty past 08 00, still no sign of the new guy. Usually, I'm the guy being waited on, not the reverse.The access gate looked like it hadn’t been maintained since the AI's civilization reboot. A dented steel slab squashed between two humming sanitation chutes, flashing red and spraying an extra load of sanitation agents like it was allergic to humans.

Access Gates were originally meant for high-clearance bots—engineers, diplomats, and teleporters. But ever since Lightspeed Express decided Sector Omega was too “unstable” for AI routing, they slapped courier clearance onto a few of the forgotten gates and abandoned any responsibilty, handing it over to us simple delivery men.

This one, in particular, creaked when you breathed near it and sparked randomly. You had to ping your neuralink three times just to make it acknowledge you. Four, if it didn’t like you.

That's when I realised I was so bored I was 'observing my surroundings'. Who even does that anymore? I let out a deep sigh and tilted towards the pillar behind me, shutting my eyes.

...****************...

I glanced at my neuralink for the third time in a row. How could I be late when I woke up 06 00, got ready by 06 15, and left my housing block by 06 20. That would've left me 1 hour and 40 minutes before the meeting time.

The internal map chip in my badge was synced to the city grid, but I'd only been in the upper sectors for a week. Most of my life had been spent in the rebellion’s zones—places where signs were painted by hand, doors didn’t auto-respond to retinal scans, and tech never tried to “optimize” your route based on your walking speed.

Here, even the floors made decisions for you.

I followed the glowing path to Access Gate Four exactly as shown… until the guidance system rerouted mid-step and, somehow, I ended up halfway across the city. It’s a miracle I made it back in thirty minutes when it took me fifty to walk to where I was. Or maybe that was just thanks to the invention of hover cabs.

Either way, I arrived—out of breath, slightly over protocol—and then I saw him. Leaning back like I owed him something. Orange courier suit half unzipped. Hair doing… whatever it wanted. He looked like he’d been up all night and overslept, yet he was here on time, in contrast to what I heard from my interviewer yesterday.

That had to be Zig.

......................

I approached with a polite nod and the exact words I’d rehearsed in the mirror earlier this morning. “Courier Milo. Reporting for—” “You’re late,” Zig said . He didn’t even look up from the glowing manifest flickering beside him. Just tossed the words over his shoulder.

“I—” I caught myself. He's a LOT more different than what I expected. Wasn't he supposed to be careless and irresponsible? But I had to keep it together, so I took a deep breath and continued. “There was a minor setback. The guidance system glitched.”

Zig turned, finally giving me a glance. His eyebrows raised slightly at the sight of my crisply zipped jumpsuit and perfect badge placement. He looked like someone had explained a complicated math problem to him. “You’re new-new, huh? Fresh.”

“I’ve completed my onboarding,” I said. “And studied my orientation videos..” He blinked. “You watched videos?” “They were required.” He stared at me. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or horrified, but I could guess it was the latter. “So… you’re that type?” He raised a brow and scoffed.

“I’m one of those ‘doesn’t cause fires during package drop-offs’ types.” That got a snort out of him - a short, accidental exhale that betrayed his amusement. "You heard about that?"

"I witnessed it myself on the way to my interview yesterday." I said flatly. A metallic hiss inturupted and pulled our attention toward the gate. The wall seal slid open, revealing a single glowing steel crate resting on a mag-lift. It shimmered faintly.

Zig let out a long whistle. “Oh, this one’s big.” I stepped forward, reading the hazard labels aloud. “Class B. Type R. Flags: Civilian interaction not advised.” I turned to Zig. “That means it's mildly hazardous, reactive, and we shouldn't do anything to disturb it.”

“Relax,” he said, stepping around me and hoisting the crate like it weighed nothing, but it had to be beyond heavy. “You can relax. I’ve got a calming energy or whatever.” The box settled then made a crunching noise. “Was that… normal?” I asked. He grinned. “No idea.”