Jasper's eyes snapped open, breath hitching as the world steadied around her. The booth was tight and hot, wood-paneled walls closing her in. Brightfall light bled through the slats of the shuttered window, sharp and searing even in here.
She slumped against the side wall, fingers brushing rough seastone mortar where it met the timber frame. The surface scraped her skin, brittle, grounding. It was always like this every call—one of the reasons she hated the damned memory-locks.
Her GlyphGlass pulsed on the counter before her, projection light burning to life and washing across her face in the booth's cramped glow.
A middle-aged woman with a badge reading Newgate courier representative flickered into view, framed by floating dossiers and stacks of delivery logs.
"Ah, well if it isn't our busy little work horse, Jasper." the rep said with a practiced smile. Then her eyes narrowed, catching the courier's dazed sway and the hand unconsciously resting on her revolver.
"Still not used to it, are you? The memory-locks always hit heavy. But they're the most secure. What better proof of identity," her voice softened, "than reliving your own trauma?"
Her tone softened. "Go on. Breathe. Then we can figure out how to get you out of this mess you're in."
Jasper blinked and realized her grip on the revolver was too tight. She exhaled slowly and slid it back into the holster and readjusted her cropped shirt underneath her weathersuit.
The rep's gaze sharpened. "Do you at least have any idea where your security detail could be?"
A dark ripple pulsed across Jasper's shoulder.
Her translator activated—a hovering sphere of liquid nanites. It quivered, shifting into jagged characters, breaking apart, then reforming again and again until the letters smoothed into words the rep could parse. Jasper's sharp hand motions made the meaning clearer still.
The woman's smile faded. Her voice softened.
"Oh… that is unfortunate. Tell me again what happened?"
The sphere flickered again, fractal characters scattering into chaotic strings. The rep's brow furrowed.
"Mmm. Bad. Usually gangs back off once they see armed escorts. They must've been desperate. Hold." She tapped a screen out of frame.
Seconds dragged by. Only Jasper's shallow breathing and finger taps filled the silence. She worried at her lip piercing, restless with anticipation.
Finally, the rep looked back. "I can't trace their location—but their vitals are alive."
Jasper exhaled in relief.
"I have no temporary security in range, but it's good you reached Tyla. The objective hasn't changed. Deliver that Mechanica to the Grand Machinist in Tereliva. Today. I'll keep working to pull your team to the rendezvous point."
Jasper's translator flared in agitation, symbols spooling too fast to parse as she leaned closer to the projection, waving her hands in refusal.
The woman's voice turning to ice.
"Jasper. I understand your concerns. But you can more than handle yourself out there and we need that Package delivered."
Jasper shook her head, pink streaks fraying from her dark hair beneath the backwards-turned cap. No.
"The Newgate Courier Company is the Nine's top courier firm. Ninety-nine percent success rate. No failures tolerated. You knew this when you applied. Yes, the job is risky, but that is why we pay well. Keep that in mind, Jasper—when you think about how to sustain that family of yours."
Jasper's eyes twitched at the manipulation. She ground her teeth, then nodded.
"Great. Now listen. Our intel says there has been a spike in lawlessness in that region. If you get captured and they get that Mechanica, our client in Godhand command will be… furious. So let me make this clear: do not get caught. Your bodyguard Lucia kept you on a short leash for a reason. You like to wander. Take pictures. No more of that. Stay on course, away from bandits and hired guns. And most importantly do not turn the town of Tyla into a bloodbath." she took a breath and muttered "If only your infamy could pay your collateral damage insurance."
Jasper rolled her eyes at the accusation then nodded again.
The rep's smile thinned. "Good. Now the AquaTran is on the first level of Tyla, get there and it should take you up to Tereliva in 3 hours. Once you get there you'll have the full protection of the Godhand's PMCs. So keep a low profile and deliver the package, okay celebri–."
The projection sputtered. Then died along with several other lights in the building.
Jasper leaned back as the call cut. She hated when operators talked about "collateral damage," like it was her fault bandits chose to chase her cargo. She'd do whatever it took to protect the package—and herself. If that means killing a dozen men then it means a dozen widows. But she was right about one thing; too bad her fame didn't pay because she could surely use the krits.
Darkness swallowed the booth, broken only by sunlight bleeding through the shutters. She stared out at the churn of traffic in the mining town's streets. Without her escort detail, keeping a low profile was easy—no one knew her face. Just the name whispered on the Frontier: the Courier of Death.
"Saints damn it!" the postmaster barked from outside the booth. A wiry man with a grease-stained vest stormed behind his counter, slamming a fist against the powerless Ion Mechanica in the corner. The machine sputtered once, coughed out sparks, then went quiet.
"Figures. Rentin' this piece of junk costs me more Krits than I make in a month, and it cuts out every damn day. Ain't no wonder, though—not with that Shriek bitch running everything. It's only been three weeks and she's got her goons bleeding us dry."
He spat on the floor, then shot Jasper a glare as she came out of the booth "Before you ask, no I don't think generators gonna be up in the next couple of hours."
Jasper stepped closer to his desk, arms crossed.
The postmaster huffed. "And no, I don't have any other way to call out. The Ion Mechanica's down, power's out, and long-distance lines are dead. Tough tit."
She pulled a camera out of a bag around her waist putting it on the counter, flipping it open, and slid two drained batteries toward him.
"Ahh, you want a recharge." He snorted. "Did you not hear a thing I said? The generators—"
Before he could finish, Jasper dropped two oval gold coins stamped with Krits onto the table.
"Ahh, new batteries it is."
Irritation flickered across the postmaster's face at Jasper's silence. He reached under the counter, eyes lingering on her sunglasses, and slid the batteries across the table—only to tug them back before she could grab them.
"You know, a little gratitude wouldn't kill you." He jabbed a finger toward a sign reserving service. "I don't have to accommodate you, Red-Eyes. But money's money." He finally let the batteries go and scooped up her Krits.
Jasper was unphased by the Postmaster prejudice, she'd seen it several times. She slipped the batteries into her camera and powered it on. Through the viewfinder, she caught movement—two bandits swaggering inside, armor patched together from scraps.
The postmaster's glare flicked toward her, and the bandits followed it. Their eyes lit at the glimpse of crimson before Jasper adjusted her glasses back into place.
"Well, well," one drawled. "Looks like we got us a little lost 'jin."
Jasper kept her eyes on the camera, scrolling through its gallery with detachment from her surroundings. Past moments flickered by—her family, fragments of a life that felt far away.
The second bandit leaned against the counter, grinning. "Oyy look she's a courier too. What do you have there love?"
They went ignored
"Hey do you hear my friend, he's talking to you."
"Oh, we have a deaf one here." The bandit began chugging his bottle of whiskey
The postmaster snorted but didn't intervene.
Jasper's humb swipped until she stopped on a photo: her father standing beside her, pride written plain as he helped her aim her revolver at a target.
"Maybe this will get your attention!" One bandit hurled his empty whiskey bottle. Jasper shifted effortlessly aside, never looking up, gaze locked on the frozen smile in the photo—the pride in his face, the echo of who she was supposed to be like.
The bandits exchanged a glance, hands drifting toward their revolvers.
Before they could draw, Jasper moved. In one smooth motion she pulled her revolver free–It wasn't like the crude revolvers most carried. This one was heavy and blocky, its squared frame etched with twin glowing grooves. Reinforced plating and thick rivets gave it the look of a weapon built as much for endurance as for killing. Superb Mechanica weaponry.
She thumbed back the hammer. The barrel swept between the two, steady as her breath.
"Whoa, whoa—settle down. We were just joking." The bandits froze, hands lifted high.
This was who she was now—hunted for her work, hated for her blood. But it was nothing she hadn't been trained for. Molded for. Her father always said she wasn't cut out to be a mercenary, too gentle for the trade. Maybe that's why he pushed the courier life on her, half in jest, half in hope. She wasn't sure if he knew how much bloodshed would be involved.
"Hey! No action in my establishment, you hear me?" the postmaster barked, fumbling for a rifle under his counter.
Without even glancing his way, Jasper swung her revolver toward the him.
"Alright, alright—easy now!" All three stiffened, hands lifted neck high.
The tension stretched, thick as smoke. Jasper turned her aim back to the bandits. This was lawless country—the Emerald Frontier—but she was her father's daughter, raised by a gunman.
Slowly, she lifted her camera to her open eye.
Click.
The flash carved their sneers into a nice portrait.