Please Mr. Postman

Chapter 1: In Which Fate Brings Two Mailmen Together, and One is Very Cross

"If war proved one thing, it's that appeasement never lasts." Ulysses talked as he worked, spraying careful touches of blue onto his mural, never so much as glancing at the laptop he had precariously set up on a dumpster lid. Trying something a bit different today; a livestream. "Lesson in that, one Eagle would do well to heed."

His vlogs enjoyed a modest but loyal following on Youtube, had viewers tuning in to hear him speak on history and politics, make his art and his explorations in the ruins of Vegas, legacies left behind in this city of dashed hopes and failed dreams. Hadn't planned on it, at first; liked to talk as he worked, get his thoughts in the open. Filmed them, in case anyone would listen (and, perhaps, to feel less of a madman, muttering to himself in abandoned buildings), had been surprised to find that they would. Something powerful in that, people over the world hearing what he had to say; wasn't just shouting into the void after all.

(Commenter once described his channel as "beat poetry meets history lecture meets street art meets urbex." He'd been mildly pleased by that.)

Led a simple life, outside of his channel. Worked as a courier for the Mojave Express to pay his bills; job might not have had the best salary but it gave him freedom to move. Was never made for an office job, not built for wage slavery. Was a man of simple needs and no desire to toil simply to line the pockets of the greedy and corrupt.

"Follow a belief, need to stand for it proudly; fall, otherwise." He shook up the can of white paint, stencilled in stars to match the stripes. "Easy road never holds; not worth the trade of convictions to take." Mural was finished but for one thing. He took a step back to cast a critical eye over his work, picked up the can of red to put in his signature.

"Choose a road, then walk it all the way, stop for nothing–"

If he'd been less absorbed in his work or his monologue, he might've seen the woman on a bicycle barrelling towards him, and the course of both their histories might have been very different.

The pavement burned in the Nevada sun as Jane Finn pedalled hard. Been a bit too caught up in an "interestin'" detour on this route, and now her title as the Fastest Courier in the West (self-awarded as it may have been) was in serious danger.

She did boast some of the fastest delivery times of all the Mojave Express bike couriers, although god only knew how between all the detours and the sidetracks. Perhaps it was her habit of taking shortcuts through rough trails and neighbourhoods that most couriers gave a wide berth. Perhaps it was the fact that she rode that mountain bike of hers like a hound out of hell. Either way, she had a reputation to maintain, and she was damned if she was going to let it slip now.

She took a left off Cheyenne, narrowly dodged a pedestrian, ignored his subsequent torrent of complaints. Adjusted her old cowboy hat (kept the sun off her face, she claimed, even if some of her ruder co-workers told her it made her look like a goddamn tourist), winced as it rubbed against the still-healing stitches on her forehead.

(Weird fucking business, that; she'd been mugged by a bunch of thugs about a week ago, one of them wearing the ugliest suit she'd ever seen. Seemed to want her package; hadn't a clue why, but Mojave Express had not been sympathetic to her plight at all and there was talk of a significant fine for lost goods. She figured if she ever saw that checkered-suit-wearing motherfucker again she was going to kick him right in the goddamn teeth.)

Hung a right into one of the dodgier districts, though it wasn't so bad in broad daylight. This part of town had been hit hard by the recession, dotted with abandoned business and aborted building projects like a rash. Dealer's paradise after sundown, but at this time of day it made a pretty good shortcut, could go as fast as you liked without worrying about hitting somebody.