The Ten-Second Machine

"That's not the one."

The voice on the other end of his earpiece was clipped, angry. "The manifest code is wrong. Read it again."

Benji swerved to avoid a taxi, his tyres hissing on the wet pavement. "I'm reading what's on the box, man. X-7-T-4. Just like the dispatcher said." He glanced down at the small, heavy cube zipped into the front pouch of his bag. It was pulsing with a low, rhythmic vibration he could feel against his chest.

"Negative. It should have been Y-9-G-2. Where did you pick it up?"

"Alley off Bishop. Taped under the third drainpipe, just like the instructions said," Benji grunted, pedalling harder. Rain started to fall, slicking the streets.

"Abort. Take it back. Right now. Do not open it."

The line went dead. Benji swore under his breath. Take it back? Through rush hour traffic? For no extra pay, he was sure. He pulled over under the awning of a closed butcher shop, rain dripping from the faded red and white stripes. He unzipped his pouch and looked at the box. It was plain, black metal, with no seams. The manifest code was stuck on with a cheap label. He peeled it back. Underneath, etched into the metal, was a completely different code, and a single, recessed button.

The vibration was stronger now that he was holding it. A low, resonant hum, like a sleeping animal. 'Do not open it.' The words echoed in his head. But there was nothing to open. Just the button. Curiosity was a bad habit for a courier, but it was one Benji had in spades.

He looked around. No one was paying him any attention. Just another drowned rat in the city's downpour. He pressed the button.

The box didn't open. Instead, a section of its surface shimmered and became a screen. It showed an image, grainy and unstable, like an old video feed. It showed the street corner he was on, from his exact point of view. A red city bus with a 'Visit the Aquarium!' ad on its side lumbered past. A woman with a bright yellow umbrella stepped off the curb. A blue courier van ran the red light.

Then the screen went blank. The whole thing had lasted maybe ten seconds. He stared at the box. Some kind of camera? A prank?

Just then, a red city bus rumbled past him. On its side was an ad for the aquarium. A woman under a yellow umbrella stepped into the street. Benji's stomach clenched. He looked down the intersecting street. A blue courier van was accelerating towards the red light.

"Hey!" he yelled, a useless, instinctive cry.

The van didn't slow down. It blew through the intersection, horn blaring. There was a sickening crunch of metal, the squeal of tyres, and the shattering of glass. The bus swerved, hitting the van. The woman with the yellow umbrella screamed and jumped back onto the pavement just in time.

Benji stood frozen, the black box cold in his hand. He had just watched it happen. Twice.

A Rear-View Mirror Prophecy

His heart was hammering against his ribs. It wasn't possible. It was a coincidence. A trick. But the detail... the yellow umbrella, the aquarium ad... it was too perfect. He looked down at the box. The screen was dark again, the surface seamless. The humming had stopped.

People were shouting, running towards the crash. Sirens began to wail in the distance. He needed to leave. He couldn't be here, holding this... this thing. He zipped it back into his bag, leaped onto his bike, and pedalled away, his legs pumping on pure adrenaline.

Take it back. The voice on the phone had been urgent. Terrified. Whoever this box belonged to, they wanted it back. And whoever it was *meant* for... they were still waiting for it.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. The chaos of the crash was receding behind him. He needed to get somewhere safe, somewhere he could think. His flat was out. Too obvious. He thought of Ramon's place, the basement flat that was always a mess of books and half-finished projects. Perfect.

He took a sharp left, cutting through a pedestrianised square. The box in his bag felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. What was it? Some kind of predictive technology? Military tech? It felt impossible, but he had seen the proof with his own eyes. I can't believe it happened. The thought looped in his head, a frantic mantra.

He pressed the button again. He had to know. He kept one hand on his handlebars, holding the box with the other, his eyes flicking between the screen and the road.

The screen flickered to life. His point of view again, from his bike. He saw the back of a black saloon car. It swerved suddenly. He saw his own hands losing their grip on the handlebars. Then static.

He looked up. He was on a narrow street, lined with parked cars. A hundred metres ahead, a black saloon was pulling away from the curb, directly into his path. He squeezed his brakes, his back wheel skidding on the wet tarmac.

The car didn't just pull out. It blocked the entire road. The doors opened. Two men got out. They were wearing simple, dark suits, but they moved with a purpose that made Benji's blood run cold. They weren't looking at him with surprise. They were looking at him with recognition.

They knew he had the box.

He didn't think. He wrenched his handlebars to the right, jumping the curb and onto the pavement. He pedalled furiously, weaving between startled pedestrians. He heard a shout behind him. He didn't look back. He just rode.

He raced through the city, his lungs burning. Every black car he saw sent a jolt of panic through him. He was being hunted. For a package he wasn't even supposed to have. He needed to get rid of it. He should just throw it in a canal, let it sink to the bottom.

But he couldn't. The device was incredible. It was terrifying. But it had just saved his life. He felt a strange, possessive pull towards it. It was his now. His burden. His advantage.

He ducked into another alley, skidding to a halt behind a row of overflowing bins. He needed a new plan. He couldn't go to Ramon's; they might know about his friends. He was on his own. He pulled the box out again, his hand shaking.

He had to see. He had to know what was coming next. He pressed the button, his eyes glued to the small, dark screen. The image appeared. It was dark, shaky. He could see his own legs, his bike lying on its side. He could hear heavy footsteps approaching. Then a man's hand reached down, grabbing the front of his jacket. The screen was filled with the face of one of the men from the car. He wasn't angry. He was smiling.