The Messenger - Crafting

    The message was heavy. He had crafted it for hours... days... weeks. He wanted them to know the truth. He wanted it written loud. he constructed his letters with ammonium nitrate, accented his words with a few blocks of Trinitrotoluene. he wrapped them in velcro around a surplus bulletproof vest, all connected to a homemade deadman's switch. He caringly altered surplus body armor onto a custom body suit, enabling him to move naturally but with added protection underneath a workman's uniform. he weaved hidden pockets into the seams of the shirt and pants, laboring for hours and then days with only determination and dedication as his fuel. He even got a part time job playing the part, working on his demeanor and body language along with some slang and work speak. He changed the company he kept, all to play the role to deliver his message safe and sound.

The Messenger

    Rain was threatening. Footsteps fell on hard stone. Lightning flickered in the sky above as he contemplated the task before him. Eyes of a woman across the way came towards, then away. Retreat marked her movements. Wise was she. 

    His fingers moved independently as he eyed the walkway, stepping forward. Determination echoed with his footfalls. He would not be deterred. His mind played with the shadows. A bird came fluttering down, hopped a few paces forward, then away as well. He worried his mood bled to his demeanor. 

    Today he was the messenger. Tomorrow, he would be silent. The words must be well picked, well played, he reminded himself. He suppressed a smile, tugged the tag at his breast and lingered the workman's belt. He must not linger. Attracting attention would not benefit him. He stepped forward, pretending to know a different path. 

    Eyes meeting another passerby, a curt nod given. Nervous eyes met him. He was not doing well. He needed to separate from his anger. Draw out his amiable side. Or there would not be time. The message was clear, the recipient closer by the footstep. But would they hear? Would they heed? Or would they turn away? When the response came, how would he greet it? 

    Voices across the way. He fell into a crouch, ready to tie the laces he left loose on purpose. Every cue, every action, every reaction must be carefully chosen. Too much time and grief had gone into planning to see this message left unsent. Light was fading faster. Passerby were becoming shadows. He took a breath. He could not afford hesitation. 

    His watch beeped the hour, and the doors opened, letting out the end of days. It was time.