Mega Man ZX: Express Lane

Chapter 1 - Routines

Here's the weekly schedule.

Monday. First-priority deliveries. From private documents to cursed stones, as long as it's on the list it's gonna get delivered on Monday. When a client asks for anything, requests you for any package, calls for any cardboard box to be delivered even to you, then deliver it, illegal or not. We deliver anything, illegal or not. That's our motto.

To make sure you don't get lost when you travel, you must check the backlogs every half-hour and find the safest route to your destination. Or use a Local Transerver to teleport the package with just one button, but that's only if the destination is in Innerpeace. It's not like every company can afford a Global Transerver. If you happen to get stuck in the forest of Area A or something, maybe a steep cliff, or in the middle of the crossroads in Cinq Ville, then watch your back. Anything can happen behind your back. Illegal or not.

Tuesday. More first-priority deliveries, if there are any left. On most days there aren't a lot, maybe five to fifteen last minute orders at most. Some clients might want to schedule another delivery on Tuesday. When this happens, do what you should do: answer the call, get all required information about the item, get the due date, deliver, get the payment. Sometimes this might be a special delivery. Special deliveries must always be done right when the client wants them to be done. Special deliveries include anything. Illegal or not.

At this point all delivery and special delivery requests are closed until next weekend. Supposed to be closed.

Wednesday. Thursday. All the same. Check the logs. Travel. Transport. Deliver.

You fail to deliver, then you fail the whole company.

If someone asks if they could ride with me on a delivery request, I always say no. No, no, no.

Saturday. Sunday. Both are break days in the morning, both also have the request queue open and a little less than a flood of clients start pouring in the logbooks, credit card information ready, filling out addresses and dates and pending orders every five minutes.

Oh, Friday? Something always happens on Friday. Something new.

On Friday I was assigned to deliver an E-Crystal. A single E-Crystal, slim, tinted a faded, desaturated green, with its top shaved and its bottom pointed, worth nothing economy- and energy-wise by today's standards, delivered directly to myself. This was a special delivery, and it stayed in my pocket for not even a month. The other part of this special delivery was that I had to give this single cheap E-Crystal to the client's son, if I ever meet him.

On Friday of the next week, I met the boy. Found the boy and his friend without either of their parents, so I took them in and lost my part-time job, too.

You fail at your job, then you fail the whole group. So I left and took the two into my office.

The boy wore a gold-colored necklace with a black base looped by a crown, and upturned it was as if it were a box with no top flaps. I gave him the E-Crystal and he asked, "What's this for, sir?"

I told him, "All I know is that it was from your mother."

The boy put his finger in the black base and felt the edges of the stone it was made of. The inside of a box. Then he took the E-Crystal, placed it in the base, and the shaved top slipped right in and locked into place.

"Was this supposed to happen?" he inquired as he tried to pull the E-Crystal out.

And I said, "It looks good on you."

He wore the necklace this way for the rest of his life.

The boy and his friend, their names were Vent and Aile. My first. A friend of mine managed to have Serpent Inc., Cinq Ville's leaders, officially license my company as a delivery service and a lost-and-found for children. Soon after I started taking care of more and more kids that I found on the street.

Give them food.

Give them water.

Tuck them into bed.

Teach them the ropes of the business.

Then watch them leave through the glass doors with their new foster parents who'll do the same thing. My little daycare.

But Vent and Aile stayed. Any adult who came through those doors was either a client or a relative of one of the kids here. The relative comes up to my desk and asks, "Have you seen my child?" And if I say, "I'm sorry, sir, I haven't. He's not here," I wouldn't be able to see that person's face. My head's turned down so low as I hear footsteps recede and the glass doors shutting.

What's important is that Vent and Aile had no other family members, according to the system.

They only had me.

But I could've sent them off with total strangers if I wanted to. Here, take them, I'd say. Be the great guardians you've always strived to be. Take them.

Except that never happened. I can't do that. I don't want to. I'm not that type of person. If I were to do that, I wouldn't look at another parent in the eye ever again. I tell myself that.

"Why is your hair so long?" they ask. "Do Reploids need glasses to see?" they ask. "Do you need more coffee?" they ask. "Does blue look good on me?" they ask. "Can you tell us the story about the crimson warrior again, please?" they ask.

So then I ask them, "What do you want to do in the future?"

And then they said, "To avenge our parents."

Later, the bug-eyed duo approached my desk and yelled, "Are we finally allowed to go on a delivery with you?"

If someone asks if they could ride with me on a delivery request, I always say no. No, no, no. Until now.

So on Friday a little more than eight years later, the three of us drove out for a special delivery and we ended up on the edge of a cliff.

On that same day, my main core stopped functioning.

So I stand here in the white nothingness, watching the two in their day-to-day lives. Their routines, not mine. Where I am, I'm not considered "real" anymore.

But this story begins on the night before.

And whatever happens after is now a part of my weekly schedule.