Delivery #003: Our First Day—Dissatisfactory

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.”

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