Delivery #002: Caution—Milo Inside

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.

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