The Regretful Parcel

It had been three days without a proper, well paying job for Marcus. Living in the upper east side of the Greek district in Neo-Jersey was tough for a courier. Marcus laid his coffee mug next to his plate of food, now cooled from his lack of appetite and gnawing anxiety. He rubbed his thumbs into his temples, working the tense digits shakily against his skull whilst his foot bounced off the bare, concrete floor of his kitchen. Marcus was by birth a bastard, a man of funny feelings and borderline insane person to converse with, but people liked him. Always willing to help people, big thing or small, he bleed for strangers and broke his body for those he loved. His only downfall was his lack of drive until things were truly, for a lack of a better word, fucked. The constant rapping of his naked foot was interrupted by a sharp pinging noise.

Picking up his data pad, he looked at his weathered reflection briefly, wincing at his sunken, green and hazel gaze. They judged the beaten man they saw in the onyx mirror, hated him for his scarred cheek, repulsed by the lack of life they witnessed in themselves as they hyper examined and broke down everything they despised of the ghostly pale delivery driver. His head was bald, his hairline had given up in his early twenties, letting him pursue the less than fashionable "skin head" motif. A fading Japanese Oni tattoo that followed anyone looking at it with it's ink infused stare.

Picking up the mug, he sipped at his dark, acrid brew as a smooth motion from his empty scarred palm flicked his index to open the device's lock screen. "Old bag with a job coming by in a bit with a job for ya Marcus. This is the last time I can throw a gig your way. My uncles don't appreciate the outsourcing since last time you didn't live up to the Nkrínia code. Walk in the shade brother." The message was from Acastus, a friend of sorts but on the fringes of "the type of friend you don't tell your other friends about". Acastus was involved in a Neo-Greek gang called the Nkrínia, a pack of vagabond mercs working security for the Metro P.D. since they couldn't deescalate foreigner tensions without unloading .30 caliber machine gun fire from their drones half the time. The Nkrínia were in charge of the eastern side of the city from political matters to civil and logistic handlings of the corporations, as over half of the one and half million citizens in Neo-Jersey were of Greek descent when they flooded the city after the Mediterranean collapsed under the boot of global war in 2035. The Nkrínia were old world vets and tradition toting specimens of human nature. Alot of them fought in the last world war so if they couldn't reason with people, they did things to people that made meeting your end at the barrel of a semi sentient robot flying pillbox seem like a date with your favourite stripper.

Marcus put his head in his hands and stopped bouncing his leg. Letting a sigh out, he thought about the last time he worked for the Nkrínia. Being a courier all his job every entailed was to get the package to the destination or client on time, no questions, no excuses and no peeking. And yet, Marcus was always the do-gooder, the curious one, the sly rogue with a heart of gold.

He was supposed to bring a case full of helium mine bonds to this red light bodega, easy, in an out kinda thing. As he walked the location, he kept passing faded, jittery workers and snickering townsfolk alike. They would get unnaturally upset as he ignored their proportioning or roughly navigated the crowd of carnally charged traffic, his mind on the job but he saw something that would break his heart that day.

A woman, in her thirties, looking apathetic, tattoos on her calves and thighs of birds and flowers, a pretty little thing. She had caught his ogle and held it in her own stare with a desperate pang of something. It pulled him in like a song, a thing; sharp and needy, a lonely wail. Marcus would not ignore the magnetic pull, entranced by the woman he waded through the crowd to get closer to her, a cigarette flicking up to her lips, her hazel eyes dully washing over him. She spoke before he could. "Look buster, you seem like a nice guy, so how about you just keep going where ever you're headed, I'm not working right now." Her cigarette lit her brown eyes up like a fireplace, in contrast to her chestnut skin tone, the ember danced in her glassy peepers to the low bassy thud of the music from some rat's nest down the street.

Marcus nodded, threw on his most disarming smirk and replied, "Well miss, I don't consider myself a nice guy so maybe here's where I'm supposed to be." His heart felt tight in his chest, each beat seemed to drum in tantrum to the way she shifted her weight from one high heeled boot to the other. "Maybe if you aren't on the clock, I can help you relax, maybe a bite to eat?" He tried his best to look of higher stature and position but she could see right through him.

The woman smiled, tucked her bottom lip in and shook her head. "I can take care of myself darlin', been doing it longer than you've been alive by the look." She ran her finger up and down his worn leather jacket, the ripped seams felt more tattered than they ever had. She was playful in her delivery and it made his pulse quicken that she felt comfortable enough to boldly touch him, most people gave him a wide berth due to his appearance.

Around the corner, a small scuffle was going down that made the pair turn their heads towards the very bodega Marcus was destined to bring his quarry to. He rang his hand roughly against the metal handle as he watched two men hold a waifish woman in her early twenties still, her stiletto's frantically stabbing at open air as a man dressed in a clean, pressed black suit shakes his hand in front of her face. Both Marcus and the woman he had approached looked at each other with morbid grief under the surface of their eyes. She mouthed a worried "Don't."

Marcus avoided her eye contact as he swept away from her, fully knowing that man ran the bodega and that man was the client he was meant to deliver the case to. He walked up to the trio of men, the girl scrambling away as an injector fell from the larger of the two brutes clattered to the street. He felt his blood boiling, the three men acting as if this was business as usual, most likely it was, stimming up ladies of the night was a fine way to make sure they didn't run away. The well dressed figure turned to Marcus with a snide look upon his visage. "Well Adonis did say he'd sent the best looking courier he had, you got my stuff good looking?"

Marcus opened the case, letting the contents spill raucously at their feet. The man in the suit was stunned, the two brutes turned to look at each other as Marcus pulled a small firearm from behind, two shots rang out, then people screamed and scattered. Finally after a cold few seconds, two more split the air.

His coffee breath tasted more stale by the second as he stood up from the table, grunting and slapping the data pad against his kevlar sleeve, it clicked into place with a satisfying *tock*. As he got to the door of his apartment, he was met with with a dreadful feeling. He leaned into the door, pressing his eye up to the peephole. He could barely see the top of the person's head. A small hunched over figure dressed in mismatch rags, scurried down the hall. Marcus felt a tinge of ominous worry as he creaked the door open. He looked down the hallway, it was clear apart from a parcel, wrapped in brown paper and secured with blackened twine.

He stooped low, placing a hand on either side of the package, feeling the edges of it, he gave it a partial hoist. The object was heavy, but no weight shifted inside it seemingly. Lifting the paper encased article, he looked around the corridor before bringing it into his home, placing it on the kitchen table next to the smog dusted window. As he sat down another message came in, one with no contact code. "The levy of a man's soul is loyalty but what taxes a soul's purpose until there is nigh a flake of worth?"

Marcus's eyebrows cocked into a conflicted ripple. A few tortuous minutes flowed by, every muscle in the man's body begged him to leave, leave without the item, leave without packing his things. Ultimately Marcus's nature would be his undoing as his hands quickly ripped into the paper, tearing away sheets of the crinkly material, not even pausing to snap at the stringy bindings. Shredded remains of the wrapping littered the table, revealing a small metal case.

Ravenously, the man flicked open the container, revealing a small piece of paper, which was rare the times and a miniature bronze canary. He was perplexed by the figurine but more so by the one word printed on the note. "Doubt."

How was this a job, what was the purpose of this? That was the last thought to go through his mind before the world slowed down. Marcus flinched from a loud *crack*, shattering glass whizzed past his vision. The room was tilting, no he was falling, sideways towards his concrete floor, before his world went black and cold.

On the rooftop, Acastus rested his chin on the rifle butt, feeling forlorn as he pried his eyes from his grim works. "Walk in the shade brother, no more doubts."