The stranger entered the town via the little used back road system, not wanting to be seen he kept to the shadow pools between the dim lighting. His task was to search out new writers with original ideas; a task made virtually impossible since the Reading Societies took control of the books.
There was a rumour of a new writer, one who spurned fame and wealth for independent thoughts; a man who may hold the key to the information the stranger required. To seek this man, the stranger needed to remain on the edge of society as his man had become the target of the RS and their men were trawling the streets, you never realised what was happening until it was too late to react.
The RS not only controlled sales but what was written and writers wishing to be paid their pittance needed to tow the line or be shunned. This man was one who was shunned, but much to the anger of the RS, he had formed a vast network of fans and was earning more than some of the paid writers.
The stranger caught a sight of a flash on the edge of his vision, when he turned to see what it was, all he saw was a blur as the figure melted into the bushes, as he went to walk; his foot hit an object hidden by branches, bending to find what he had kicked, his fingers touched metal.
The stranger lifted the box to the light and saw it was an old laptop, the type used centuries before and thought obsolete in the days of thought transference writing, slowly he opened the lid and found inside a note saying ' If you are wondering why you have never heard my name - I am am indie and as such classed as vermin by the leaders of the RS - my name will never be known, but my work shall live on, you hold the entire volume of my works from 2011 to 2015, there are more volumes but that is for another time and place. Thank you for your belief and the risk you took coming here."