The uniformed blue officers of the mechanized delivery branch of The Most Glorious Postal Service of Glory throttled their Mk. XXVII ‘Postman’ mechs to maximum speed. They split off in different directions, along their prescribed routes, to deliver their payloads of mail. Each Postman zigged and zagged across the wide open avenues of their assigned neighborhoods, dodging wreckage and debris beneath a hail of enemy fire.

The commander brought his mech to a leap and let loose a barrage of auto-targeting smart missiles. The missiles corkscrewed out towards the enemy mechs and detonated in shrapnel spraying balls of flame. A solid brown mech fell in burning heaps from the rooftop of a small building, dropping its shield. An express mech from the Federals, painted white, blue, and green, lay in a smoldering pile of slag.

Johnson lay dying inside the wrecked mech that he named Jessica. In front of him, a green light signified a complete delivery.

“Great,” his customer said, “thanks for the fucking junk mail.”