Mazure Hatlock sat in his small, quiet room in Wardha. He looked at his hands. They were old now. The skin was wrinkled and spotted. But these hands had once built the future. Many years ago, Mazure was the top scientist in a country called Azuira. Azuira was a place of bright lights and dark secrets. The government there wanted absolute power. They ordered Mazure to build a weapon. He created something far beyond their dreams. He created "Project OG".
Project OG was not a bomb or a gun. It was a suit of armor. But it was not bulky like a knight from the old days. It was built using advanced nano technology. When deactivated, the entire suit lived inside a device that looked like a thick wrist watch. The watch had a long, curved black screen. The straps were made of pure nano material, feeling soft yet unbreakable. With a single press of a button, the nano tech would spread over the user. It covered the body in a protective shell. It gave the wearer the ability to shrink down to the size of a bug. It allowed the user to expand and grow massive. It even had thrusters in the boots and back to let the wearer fly across the sky.
It was a miracle of science. Mazure stole his own life's work. He ran away in the middle of the night. He crossed borders, changed his name, and hid his face. He traveled for years until he found a place where no one would look for a genius scientist. He found Wardha, a dusty, peaceful district in Maharashtra, India.
Here, he became Aniket. He grew a long white beard. He wore simple cotton clothes. The locals loved him. He spent his days feeding stray dogs and reading old books. No one knew that the calm old man had a device that could change the world sitting in his wooden cupboard.
Far away from the quiet neighborhood of the old Aniket, life was loud and difficult. The sun was just starting to rise over Wardha, but Om Gaitonde was already awake. Om was twenty two years old. He was a tall, lean boy with tired eyes. He lived in a small, cramped house in a crowded colony. The roof leaked during the rainy season, and the walls trapped the heat during the summer.
Om looked at his reflection in a small, cracked mirror hanging on the wall. He splashed cold water on his face to wake himself up. He had only passed his 12th standard exams. He wanted to go to college. He wanted to study computers and get a good job in a big city like Pune or Mumbai. But dreams cost money, and the Gaitonde family had none. Instead of college books, Om picked up his bright orange t shirt. It had the logo of FOT printed on the back. Food On Time. He was a delivery boy.
He walked out of the tiny bathroom and into the main living space. His mother, Urmilla, was already awake. She was sitting near a small kerosene stove, making flatbreads for the day. Her face was covered in sweat. She looked much older than her actual age. The stress of poverty had drawn deep lines on her forehead.
"Good morning, Ma," Om said softly. He sat on the floor near her.
"Good morning, beta," Urmilla smiled. Her smile was the only thing that made the small house feel warm. "I made your lunch. Please eat it on time today. You always skip meals when you are working."
"I will eat, Ma. I promise," Om lied. He knew he would probably skip lunch to complete more deliveries. Every extra delivery meant extra cash.
A loud, heavy cough from the corner of the room broke the morning silence. It was Uday, Om's father. Uday was lying on a thin mattress on the floor. He had worked in a local cotton mill for thirty years. The cotton dust had ruined his lungs. Now, he could barely walk to the bathroom without losing his breath. He was severely ill.
Om quickly poured a glass of water and hurried to his father's side. He help Uday sit up and brought the glass to his lips. Uday drink slowly, his chest rising and falling with effort. "How are you feeling today, Baba?" Om asked his father and then wiped his mouth with a towel.
"I am fine, Om," Uday wheezed. "Do not worry about me. Focus on your work."
Om looked at the small wooden shelf above his father's bed. The bottles of medicine were almost empty. The doctor had prescribed a new, more expensive inhaler. Om needed to buy it today. There was no other choice.
Just then, the youngest member of the family walked into the room. Srikanth was ten years old. He was rubbing his eyes, carrying his school bag. Srikanth was the exact opposite of Om. He was brilliant at studies. He always stood first in his class. He loved reading science books and doing math problems.
Om looked at his little brother with immense pride. Srikanth was the hope of the Gaitonde family. Om had made a silent promise to himself years ago. He would work day and night. He would deliver food in the burning sun and pouring rain. He would do whatever it took to make sure Srikanth went to a good college and became an engineer or a doctor. Srikanth would never have to wear a delivery uniform.
"Are you ready for school, Sri?" Om asked, ruffling his brother's hair.
"Yes, Dada," Srikanth nodded. "We have a science test today. I am going to score full marks."
"I know you will," Om smiled. He took a ten rupee note from his pocket and pressed it into Srikanth's hand. "Buy a samosa from the canteen during your break. Do not tell Ma."
Srikanth grinned widely and ran out the door to catch his school bus.
Om stood up and put on his orange FOT cap. He picked up his large delivery bag. It was time to face the city. He walked outside and kicked his old scooter to start it. The scooter was a second hand machine. It made a loud noise and emitted dark smoke, but it was Om's only way to earn a living. He mounted the scooter, opened the FOT app on his phone, and marked himself available for duty. Within seconds, a loud beep indicated his first order. The daily grind had begun.
The city of Wardha was hot. By noon, the sun was beating down on the asphalt roads, creating waves of heat. Om drove from restaurants to houses, carrying pizzas, biryanis, and cold drinks. He climbed stairs to the fourth floor of apartment buildings when the elevators were broken. He smiled and said 'Thank you, sir' even when customers shouted at him for being five minutes late. He had to humble himself, every rupee was essential. His papa's medicine and his brother's tuition were on his mind, and that's what drove him forward, even in the blazing heat. He just couldn't let his family down, so he pushed on, no matter how tough it got. The thought of his family's needs gave him the strength to keep moving forward, even when it felt like his pride was taking a hit.
Around two o'clock in the afternoon, Om received a rare ten minute break between orders. He parked his scooter near a famous tea stall in the city center. He needed a glass of water and some shade. As he sat on a wooden bench, wiping the thick sweat from his neck, someone tapped his shoulder.
It was Rupali.
Rupali was Om's closest friend in the world. They had grown up playing cricket in the same narrow lanes of their colony. But Rupali was different. She was a true journalist. She worked for a local news outlet. She was fearless, sharp, and always looking for the truth. She wore simple clothes, carried a heavy bag full of notebooks, and always had a pen tucked behind her ear.
"Looking tired, Om," Rupali said, taking a seat next to him. She handed him a cold bottle of water. "You need to rest. You are going to collapse in this heat."
"I cannot afford to collapse," Om said, drinking the water quickly. "Uday Baba needs new medicine. It is expensive. I have to work double shifts this week."
Rupali looked at him with sympathy. She knew all about his struggles. She often tried to give him money, but Om always refused. He was stubborn about taking care of his family with his own hard work.
"What about you?" Om asked, changing the subject. "You look stressed. Is your boss making you write boring articles about city drains again?"
Rupali's face turned serious. She looked around to ensure no one was standing too close. She leaned in. "No. I am working on something big, Om. Something dangerous. I am investigating the local sand mafia."
Om froze. His heart skipped a beat. Everyone in Wardha knew about the sand mafia. They were stone-cold gangsters. Here they were illegally mining sand from river beds and selling it to constructors for huge profits. They ruined rivers and destroyed the ecosystem. They acted like animals. If anyone tried to stop them, they would beat them or make them vanish. The police feared them, and politicians accepted money from them.
"Rupali, are you crazy?" Om hissed softly. "You cannot mess with those people. They are monsters. They act like wild animal boys because they hunt in packs and have no mercy. You need to drop this story."
"I cannot drop it," Rupali said firmly. Her eyes burned with determination. "They are stealing our resources. They threatened a poor farmer last week because he complained about their trucks ruining his crops. Someone has to expose them. I have gathered evidence. I have photographs of their illegal operations at night."
Om grabbed her hand. Please, Rupali. Think about your safety. and a newspaper article is *not* worth your life. They'll kill you if they discover what you're up to."
'I know how to hide, Om,' she smiled softly, attempting to console him. Do not worry about me. You simply concentrate on bringing your food. Let me do my job."
Before Om could argue further, his phone beeped loudly. It was a new order. The break was over. He looked at Rupali with deep concern. He did not like this at all. The sand mafia was not a joke. But he knew Rupali. And once she'd made up her mind to get at the truth, nothing could stand in her way.
'Just promise me you'll be cautious,' Om said, donning his helmet.
I promise, Rupali waved. Go earn your money. Tell Urmilla aunty I'd come visit her on a Sunday."
Om drove off, but his psyche was unsettled. He worried about his father. He worried about his brother's future. And now, he was terrified for his best friend. His life felt like a heavy stone pressing down on his chest.
The sun began to set, casting long orange shadows across Wardha. The heat finally started to decrease. Om was on his twentieth delivery of the day. The address led him away from the busy city center and into an older, quieter neighborhood. The roads here were lined with old banyan trees. The houses were small and independent, with faded paint and quiet gardens.
The FOT app told him the customer's name was Aniket. The order was simple. A bowl of plain rice and boiled vegetables. It was the kind of food sick people ate.
Om stopped his scooter in front of a small wooden gate. The house looked very peaceful. There were birds chirping in the trees. It felt completely different from the loud, dusty colony where Om lived. He picked up the brown paper bag containing the food and walked up the short path to the front door. He rang the doorbell. It made a soft, pleasant sound.
A few moments later, the door slowly opened. The man standing there was Aniket, or as the world once knew him, Mazure Hatlock. The old scientist looked very frail. His white clothes were neat, but his body seemed to shake slightly. His face was pale, and he looked like he was struggling to breathe.
"Food On Time delivery, sir," Om said with a polite smile, holding out the bag. "One plain rice and boiled vegetables."
Aniket glanced at the Boy. He noticed the sweat on Om's face. He saw the beat up shoes and the sun-bleached orange tee. But he also looked into honest, hardworking eyes.
Thank you, my boy, Aniket whispered. His voice rasped like dry leaves. He cautiously extended his hand to accept the sack. His hands were trembling badly.
Om clocked something was seriously amiss. The old man's skin was frosty and dappled with a fine sheen of sweat. He appeared to be in excruciating pain, but was attempting to conceal it.
Sir, are you feeling well? Om asked, stepping closer. Should I ring someone for you? You look very weak."
I'm just… a little tired, Aniket whispers, forcing a small smile. Old age is a hard road to travel."
Before Aniket could complete his sentence, a fierce, uncontrollable spasm rattled through his form. He gasped loudly, his eyes widening in pure agony. He dropped the paper bag. The container broke, spilling rice and vegetables across the porch tiles. Aniket clutched the center of his chest with both hands. His knees buckled, and he began to fall backward.
"Sir!" Om yelled in panic. He threw his delivery bag onto the ground and lunged forward. He caught the old man before his head could hit the hard floor. Om gently lowered Aniket to the porch.
The old scientist was struggling for air. His face turned a dangerous shade of grey. He was having a massive heart attack.
"Hold on, sir! Please keep breathing!" Om shouted. His heart was pounding in his ears. He quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. His fingers were shaking so much he almost dropped it. He dialed the emergency hospital number.
"Hello! I need an ambulance immediately!" Om screamed into the phone. "An old man is having a heart attack! The address is House 42, Old Banyan Road! Please hurry! He is dying!"
Om tossed the phone aside and placed his hands on Aniket's shoulders. "Help is coming, sir. You are going to be fine. Just stay awake. Look at me."
But Aniket was not looking at Om. He was looking past him, at the darkening sky. The old Aniket knew his journey was over. The pain in his chest was absolute. He had lived a long life. He had built wonders and he had run from demons. Now, it was time to rest.
But he had one final task. The secret he had guarded for years could not fall into the wrong hands. It could not go to the police, and it certainly could not be discovered by the agents of Azuira. He needed someone pure. He looked back at Om. This boy was a stranger, but he was a stranger who tried to save an old man's life. He was a boy who worked hard in the heat to earn his bread.
Aniket forced his shaking hand into the deep pocket of his cotton kurta. It took all the strength he had left. He pulled out a heavy object.
Om watched in confusion. It looked like a thick wrist watch. It had a long, curved black screen. The straps were strange. They were not leather or plastic. They looked like dark, flowing liquid that had been frozen solid. It was the nano tech strap of Project OG.
With a sudden surge of desperate energy, Aniket grabbed Om's wrist. His grip was surprisingly tight. He forced the heavy watch into Om's open palm.
"Sir, what are you doing?" Om asked, his voice shaking with fear. "Please, do not move. Save your energy."
Aniket pulled Om closer. His breath was coming in short, harsh gasps. "Take it," the old scientist whispered. "Project... OG."
"I do not understand," Om pleaded, tears forming in his eyes. He had never seen anyone die before. "What is this?"
"Hide it," Aniket commanded weakly, his eyes burning with sudden urgency.
Aniket gripped Om's shirt. "You are... a good boy. Use it. Use it for..."
Aniket's voice failed him. He let out a long, rattling sigh. His grip on Om's shirt loosened. His hand fell to the floor. The light faded completely from his kind eyes. He stared blankly into the evening sky. Mazure Hatlock, the creator of the advanced weapon, was dead.
Om knelt on the porch, completely frozen. He stared at the lifeless body of the old man. The silence on the porch was deafening.
A few seconds later, the distant, shrill wail of an ambulance siren pierced the quiet neighborhood. The sound snapped Om back to reality. The authorities were coming. The police would arrive. They would ask questions. They would search the house. They would search him.
Om looked down at his hand. The strange, heavy watch with the long screen felt cold against his sweaty skin. He remembered the desperate look in the old man's eyes. Hide it.
Om did not know what to do. He was just a delivery boy. But the old man had trusted him with his dying breath. Om made a split second decision. He scrambled backward, grabbed his large FOT delivery bag, and unzipped it. He pushed the strange watch deep into the bottom of the bag, hiding it underneath his spare rain jacket and some empty food containers. He zipped the bag shut just as the flashing red and blue lights of the ambulance turned the corner into the lane.
Om Gaitonde sat on the porch, waiting for the paramedics. He was just a poor boy from Wardha trying to feed his family. He had absolutely no idea that the strange device hidden in his bag was about to change his life, and the world, forever.
[To be continued…]
Support me: vanshbosssrahate@oksbi (UPI ID)
Author: Vansh Rahate
Editor: Vansh Rahate
Story by: Vansh Rahate
Under: Alaukika Studios