Chapter 1: Courier
The rain beat down heavy on Nash and Olafsen, washing the blood from their recent wounds to the concrete of the roof. Clutching his arm, Nash advanced toward his brother's killer, firing one more shot as he clamored to retrieve his weapon, the pulse fire burning through his hand. Olafsen let loose a scream from the bottom of his lungs only to be swiftly silenced by Nash's boot, reducing the sounds of pain to near silent retches as the cries fail to escape his throat. Nash could have watched him suffer like that for hours, just like his brother had as he choked on the blood that Olafsen's knife had filled his lungs with, but the S.W.A.T. team would be on the roof soon to arrest the murderer, and Nash did not trust the law to give the scum what he deserved. Nash raised his gun, aiming between the eyes of the mortified Olafsen, ready to enact his own justice.
"James, stop!" Sanchez implored, exhausted from fifteen floors of chase; "You've already won, there's no need to take this any further!"
Nash was unmoved, "No, Jessica, he's still breathing. I haven't won yet."
They had been partners since the day she had been promoted to detective three years ago, but Sanchez had never seen him with such hatred in his eyes before, every fiber of his being was telling him to pull the trigger.
"Damn it, James, you're a cop! I know he was your brother, but you need to uphold the law and bring him to justice!"
The S.W.A.T. team would be with them in mere seconds and Nash knew Sanchez had just been stalling for time, his conflicting emotions and the biting cold leaving his teeth unsure whether to grit or chatter.
Soaking wet and freezing yet refusing to let the cold shake his resolve, he makes his decision, "I-
*Bing Bong!* The alarm signaled a new arrival to the all but deserted station as they attempted to fit their bicycle through the narrow doorway.
"Every damn time…" Douglas angrily muttered below his breath, even if he was on the clock, he was already a full season behind.
The very picture of the public's distrust of the government's ability to hire, Douglas was overweight, undertall, lacking most of his hair and any form of drive in his work. It was not as if his attention was required, September had barely begun and vacationers from both sides of the border had already ceased to flow in and out since the end of Summer break. Any coming over to work either lived in on-the-job housing by now or were important enough to fly between nations on steel wings. He never understood the point of him being there anyway, the borders had been more or less open nationwide ever since the end of the Crisis and the process was more or less automated, all he ever did was push a button and the system confirmed everything for him. "So who would be passing through now?", he pondered. Whoever it was, Douglas scarcely reacted to migrant as they approached his station, skipping his holovid back a few seconds, not moving his eyes an inch from it.
Without so much as a glance from his screen, Douglas began his standard greeting, "Tourist or Worker?"
"Worker." replied a young voice, eager and bursting with life, despite the telltale sounds of exhaustion.
With no hesitation the traveler scanned his identification as the uncharacteristically intrigued Douglas reviews it:
Dailor
Brian C.
Birthplace: Oakland, California, United States
Occupation: Package Courier
Employer: Navarro Express
Sex: M
Age: 15
Date of Birth: December 7, 2060
Reason for Visit: Work Order (See More)
Looking from the picture on the screen to the boy in the blue hoodie standing in front of him, leaning on a bicycle put well through its paces, Douglas could barely believe they were the same person. The picture was taken almost a year ago, coinciding with his employment, and physically little had changed: A slim build befitting of a messenger, fair light brown hair of medium length, short stature even for his age, and a boy's face slowly but surely becoming a man's. The only true change were his eyes, in the photo there was a stillness in them, something far deeper than simple boredom and, sorrowfully, something all too common. They were eyes of despair, the gaze of someone who saw no future ahead of them, facing only a dead end on the road of life, but now, those eyes were flaring, radiant with hope, blue windows to a soul on fire. Dirty and fatigued as he was, Brian had not one shred of melancholy upon his face, forever changed by five minutes of his life.
Douglas was flabbergasted by Brian's presence here all by his lonesome, it was over five hundred miles between Oakland and the border, and judging by his washed-out appearance, he had journeyed solely on his two wheels and youthful vigor. Even if it wasn't a straight path to this destination, there were few left in this world who would even attempt such a thing, much less alone. The real question was why, what possessed this boy to come this far? If he was running from someone, there were safer and closer places north of the border, much the same if it was purely for profit. Legally, everything was in order given he was there on official business, even considering his age and lack of education, but Douglas pondered contacting the boy's company or the authorities, just in case, then he considered how long that would take and the fact that this was the season finale…
"Have a safe visit.", Douglas said with more worry and sincerity than usual, though still far below what one would expect, as he allowed the courier through with the push of a button.
With a smirk and near silent chuckle of undetected sarcasm, Brian pushed his bike awkwardly through the doorway, thanking the lethargic guard as he exits, his farewell unnoticed as the decision is made.
"I'm sorry Jessica, but this is the only justice I believe in now."
With a gunshot and the sting of overly dramatic music, Brian closed the door behind him, still unsure why they wouldn't have a bike lane, especially since this was a relatively new station, but considering these were the same people who let Douglas through the hiring process, common sense was clearly alien to them.
...
He had never been to Mexico before, but according to his peers and the Californian Education System, his Spanish was fluent enough to make his way through without much trouble and a brief tinge of pain as he mounted his bicycle reminded him that he had enough skill and confidence should there be trouble. If a solid kick to the ribs lingered for this long, he didn't envy what a wrench to the kneecaps must feel like by now.
"It's what he deserved anyway", Brian justified within his mind, "Morality aside, he should have at least brought a knife or something."
It was just one of the risks of being a courier, being alone en route to your destination means vulnerable in the eyes of the average street thug. When he first sought employment as nothing more than a reason to get up in the morning two summers ago, he had always dreaded such an encounter, but now he relished every opportunity for such a confrontation. If one punch made him rise this high, he delighted at what more conflict would make of him. The true man's path to becoming a hero the world needs; biting the pain, he continued riding on it.
Today that path led him to Tijuana on a delivery, hoping to escape any incidents with the law after his latest encounter with the wrong side of it, preferring not to risk the chance of being sent back home by force. He had done the same many times over the last few months across California, in his mind it was a lucky thing that trouble had seemed to find him, but the mileage was beginning to weigh heavily on his shoulders. He cared little for politics, but he understood the laws of California well enough to survive on his own there, exploiting the government's leniency on the homeless as a free and easy way to find food and shelter. It's not as if he was doing anything illegal, given his situation and rate of pay, he did legally qualify as a below the line and even then, he felt the need to earn his keep. He could live on charity alone if he wished to, but of course, that wouldn't be very heroic of him.
The streets were still grey, the sky was still blue, the dirt was still brown, and the autumn wind was still harsh against his face, but Mexico was not California; free room and board was not open to foreigners like it was in his home state. To Brian, this was just another challenge, a new way to test himself, and he delighted at the chance. Pedaling onward through the streets of Tijuana, he was surprised to note how similar it all looked to him, as if he had not stepped one foot from California. This disappointed him slightly, dreams of heroism and desire for conflict aside, he had hoped for new experiences, whatever their form, to offer him a means to better himself. He could only hope that he was judging too quickly and that opportunities would present themselves. Even if things weren't very different from his home state, at least that meant an abundance of chances to prove himself against the criminal element, though the seemingly pleasant nature of the streets did not bode well for that.
Paseo de Los Héroes, Road of the Heroes - There wasn't a more fitting road for him to travel on. Statues of heroes from ages gone dotted the way, not that Brian could recognize the majority of them. Still riding on, he wondered if they had any monuments to Overwatch still standing.
"Probably tore 'em down," His pessimism told him, "just like the ones back in the States."
It was a sad state of affairs, in his opinion, that cities had been demolishing those monuments.
"Even if they did half of what people say, they saved the world, and nothing'll change that."
In any case, he was here to work, payment by delivery, he could go sightseeing on his own time.
He had spent mere minutes traveling from the border before he finally reached his destination, just another house in the suburbs, built not long after the crisis and not cleaned since then by the look of it's cracked and fading paint, with an address he was already forgetting. Retrieving the delivery for a Mr. Ramirez from his pack, his imagination began to run red as it often had in recent days.
"Pretty light for a box this big…Feels like a lot of foam too… Place looks kind of trashy…Sound like it could be a fake name… Hmm, reverses the stereotype, but I guess it's still possible…"
Cartels and Gangs almost exclusively use their own couriers when smuggling their drugs, domestic and international, but it wasn't unheard of for small time, far less intelligent criminals to use legitimate services for deliveries to more distant contacts. He recalled a story from a coworker on one of the rare occasions he socialized with them that one of their fellow couriers was arrested after being caught with a package full of Crystal Meth meant for an amateur chemist's clients across the Nevada Border. Brian figured that it was just another lie, a tale created for the sake a few moments of attention, but now a part of him hoped it was true; stopping a drug operation, even one that small, would be quite the act of heroism.
Ringing the doorbell, Brian prepared himself should things go wrong as he had hoped; positioning to give himself the best view possible of the interior and a superior angle of attack. Answering the door with the haste of a tortoise, Ramirez appeared utterly average; early to mid-thirties, slightly chubby, dressed very plain in black shorts & a lightly sweat-stained red shirt, and interrupted in the middle of shaving judging by his uneven five o'clock shadow.
"Yeah, what is it?" he asked, noticeably surprised that anyone was at his door, much less someone with such comparatively pale skin.
Brian was not set at ease, it would be unwise, even unfair in his mind, to assume Ramirez wasn't capable of wrongdoing simply because he looked harmless, people had made the same mistake about him in the past.
"Package for a Mr. Ramirez.", Brian answered, stealthily casting his gaze into the home of Ramirez, wishing to see even the slightest sign of misdeed.
"Oh, already? Huh…well, where do I sign?" Ramirez responded with pleasant surprise, Brian's disappointment going undetected, as he saw not a single mark of suspicion, outside of a poor taste in decor.
Hiding his dissatisfaction, Brian replied with professionalism in its place, "Here.", as he pulled up a hologram screen through his phone's app.
Ramirez began to sign, the length of the process telling Brian this was a rare event for him, as he began to sing the courier's praises.
"Usually, it takes a day or two before I get packages all the way from San Diego, but here you are already! Hell, I only just got the message from my sister about an hour ago! Did you really come all the way, just for this?" Brian felt the sharp sting of guilt, there was no deceit in his words. He still wasn't used to being spoken highly of, much less believing such words, and he had done nothing but search for the slightest hint of anything wrong with the man.
"Oh, uh…Yeah," He awkwardly accepted his thanks, "kind of figured it'd be a good excuse to visit Mexico."
"Well, if you're willing to bike all that way, you definitely deserve the trip."
"Uh, not to probe or anything, but can I ask what's in the box?" Brian wouldn't let that sting cloud his judgment, kind words proved nothing; he had to be absolutely sure. "I mean, not to trying to accuse you or anything, I was just curious is all since it looks like it means a lot to you." Brian continues, secretly sliding his foot into the doorway.
Perplexed by the question, Ramirez answered regardless, "Oh, it's a painting my sister did, it's just a hobby of hers, but she likes to send everyone in the family a copy."
Opening the box to reveal his sister's painting, Brian could see why her artistic pursuits remained just a hobby. He never understood why some people considered a canvas of multi-colored scribbles and swirls as art.
"Yeah, I know," says Ramirez, reading Brian's distaste, "but she's family. You understand, right?"
"…Right." There was no way for Ramirez to know how deep of a cut that was and that made it even deeper.
"I'm just glad she's following her dreams, slow as that's going for her, but I'm even more glad that she moved out of Dorado."
Brian's interest was piqued.
"Why, something happen? I don't watch the news much."
"Oh, nothing that major, at least not recently, gang violence has just been on the rise there. Those Los Muertos thugs are still spreading across the whole country, but it's been horrible in Veracruz, according to the news at least. There was a big arms deal bust back in March, some vigilante's work apparently, but that was the last big news I've heard. Still, that's just what makes the headlines, who knows what else could be going on. " Ramirez explained, oblivious to the promises of heroism that Brian extracted from his words.
Getting what he came for, Brian bid a heartfelt farewell and rode for the nearest Navarro Express outpost. Dorado was well over a week away by bicycle and Brian was only human, he would have to ride a roundabout path to his new objective if he did not want to starve to death or drive himself to madness from lack of sleep and he did not intend to waste a single second.
He should have been overjoyed, yet there was a feeling gnawing at his heart as he left the house of cracked white paint, something in his soul that was disgusted by his actions. He didn't have a single justifiable reason to silently accuse Ramirez as he did, only a hope that he was guilty in order to give him an outlet for his own lust for glory.
"It's not like it was for the wrong reasons," He tried to convince himself, "he could have easily been a bad guy, there's no way I could have known for sure."
That was exactly the problem and he knew it, there was no way he could be sure, he had only denied Ramirez the benefit of the doubt for his own sake. There was nothing heroic about treating everyone like a criminal, just for a chance to add to his own fame and self-satisfaction. He wanted to be a hero, he needed to be a hero, not just call himself one.
His feelings of doubt over his judgment were soon conquered by his hopes, however; now that he had a clear destination ahead of him, he would not have to look for excuses like he had before if the news was correct. Even if there was nothing in Dorado for him, it was over two thousand miles worth of road, that alone was a worthy trial in and of itself. For all the trouble seeking he had done up to this point, he never had encountered any of Los Muertos before, despite their growing presence in California. Whether it was due to a focus on far bigger scores than something as small time as mugging a courier or if he was simply what he considered unlucky, he could not know, but if all went as he desired, they would not be able to keep their attention off him.
After less than twenty minutes of vigorous cycling, Brian arrived at the outpost, eager for a new assignment to bring him closer to his goal of Dorado. It was fortunate for him how far Navarro Express had expanded into Mexico; it gave him the means to survive wherever he may roam, despite his mediocre at best pay. It was amazing how well the legend behind the company alone was enough to make it expand into the largest delivery service on the West Coast of the entire North American continent in only thirty years. Before, he had assumed that it was nothing but a myth or at the very least a truth stretched to the point of deceit, but his recent travels and gradually waning cynicism made it seem more feasible by the minute.
According to the company, they were founded thirty years ago when the Omnic Crisis had found its way to the United States. With all Internet and telephone communication in the area down due to omnic cyberattacks, the only warning the many townships of Mendocino County received were from a lone rider from the town of Navarro. A modern-day Paul Revere by the name of Chris Dornan, who alerted thousands of his fellow Californians of the encroaching metal horde, including the advancing 1st Marine Division. While his home of Navarro and many other towns in between had been lost, Dornan had saved thousands of lives and gave the Marines a foothold in the area thanks to the intelligence he provided on the movements of the mechanical menace. Shortly afterward, Dornan continued to work as a simple courier as the area still lacked a more convenient method of communications; soon creating his own de facto delivery company, using his tale as a way to drum up business. Slowly but surely, Navarro Express spread throughout California and with the end of the Crisis, across much of the US and now Mexico, with Dornan still as it's CEO, even with the perpetual controversy of supposed discrimination against omnic applicants.
Turning his attention from corporate propaganda back to the task at hand, he scanned his worker's card into the terminal and began browsing the available deliveries. Yet another fortunate aspect of his employment was the majority of outposts being fully automated, lessening the chance that anyone would try to send him back home. He had no intention of returning until he found what he was looking for, he had made that clear to them. Judging by the fact that his card still worked, and his direct deposits had not ceased, they either failed or did not even bother to try and convince Navarro to fire him with the intent of forcing him to return home, likely the latter if Brian's opinion of his parents was accurate. He made sure to mention in his note that a lack of steady income would not bring him back, it would just be one more trial for him to overcome; he believed that, he was sure his brother believed that, the question was if his parents did.
Forcing the thoughts of home from his mind, he made his selection, choosing the furthest location available in the vague direction of Dorado, the city of Mexicali, eleven hours away. As always, he did not even bother to check what the pay would be, the miles were worth far more than the dollars to him. With a tap of the screen and the whirring of machinery, the package was expelled from the outpost and into Brian's hands. It was no different than the one he had just delivered to Ramirez, no different than most packages he'd carried, but holding it filled him with a new sense of zeal, it was his first step toward Dorado and, he hoped, toward destiny. He set back out on the road with an inextinguishable fervor, toying with the promise ahead of him.
"I wonder where I'll sleep tonight…"
