Planet Telex

Heron stood by the door of his owner's office, asked to wait as she gathered some papers for him to deliver. He blinked occasionally, head rather empty, mind in a pause state until he was given his task.
"Here." His owner said, slipping a sealed document folder into a small black bag and passing it to him. "You know who it's for."
Heron nodded. He had been sent to deliver several packages like this in the past few weeks, all to the same place. He remembered the delivery point, and remembered enough to recognise who to meet, but not much else, as his owner liked it. "Yes, Mistress. Is there anything else you want me to do on the way back?"
"No, but I'll need you to stay out and about to throw off anyone who decides to follow." The Agent paused for a second, looking between Heron and the bag he was now holding. "I'll also need to enable the verbal limits."
Heron whined quietly, but nodded again. "Yes, Mistress. Two hundred?"
"One hundred. Can't take too many risks, and it should be enough to get you there and back."
"Yes, Mistress." Tick-tick went a counter in his mind. 98.

Heron wasn't a very smart Personal Assistant. His owner made it that way, preferring the information he was regularly in contact with stayed on the paper it was printed on. Thusly, anything approaching writing simply did not stick in his head, the Avian unable to make sense of anything but the simplest characters and numbers.
He was reminded of this as he looked up at the street signs at the intersection, the habit still sticking from before he was assigned, and realised he had no clue what was on them. Not that he needed to know, the chip nudging him in the correct direction, as if every street and side-line in the Accord was familiar.
"Excuse me, Assistant?"
Heron stopped, turning to the Avian calling out to him. "Yes, ma'am?" He asked. Tick-tick. 96.
"I think I must have lost my direction around here somewhere." The Avian said with a nervous laugh.
Heron tilted his head in confusion, not understanding the attempt at humour at all.
"Oh, hm. Class A, then, I guess." She said, clearing her throat. "Where's the closest monorail station?"
"Two streets down, then turn left and the signs should be visible." Tick-tick-tick. 84.
"Ah, thanks. I'll let you get back to your duties."
"No problem, ma'am." Tick-tick. 81.
As Heron continued on his way, he wondered if he could have put it in less words. He wanted some left over before he returned home, if he hoped to reliably order some lunch.

Heron's delivery point was a Ministry of Internal Affairs black-site, a place that was better the less that was spoken about it. A single word to enter (tick, 83), and a few to ask for the contact (tick-tick-tick, 71) was all that was needed to get to him.
"Ah. Heron." Said the contact, a thin-looking draconic being, standing over his desk. The wood surface was cluttered with papers, blueprints, and jury-rigged electronics. "Always the bearer of bad news."
"Sorry about that, sir." Heron mumbled, opening his messenger bag and taking out the package to offer. Tick-tick-tick. 67.
"Not your fault, Assistant. Better we know it than not." Replied the Tarnash, taking the package and checking it over to ensure the seal was original. "Peregrine's claw polish. If I didn't know better, I would have thought she was hitting on me."
The dragon ripped the top off the plastic envelope and started skimming through the documents, holding a finger up to tell Heron to wait.
"Hm. I see. Interesting…" The contact replied, finishing the sentence with a slight growl of annoyance. "Thank you for the prompt delivery, Heron. Could you return this back to your owner?" He pulled a similar sealed package from a desk drawer, holding it out for the Assistant to take. "Ask that she burns it afterwards."
"Yes, sir." Heron took the package and stuffed it into his bag, closing it up securely. Tick-tick, 65.
He left quickly, the less he saw on the way in and out meaning the less that had to be removed from his head later.

The vocal limitations always did make Heron slightly nervous. Two hundred words was enough to get through a normal day, even without being careful with how he used them, but a hundred could be expended just by attempts at small talk by free Avians he met or delivered things to. He had so far tried to keep vocalisation to a minimum, but the enforced politeness when meeting free Avians meant the count remaining was slowly chipped down anyway.
He was told to stay out and about and explore, mostly to throw any trails off him. This involved a number of side streets and rides on the monorail throughout the sector, the chip guiding him down a route that would be confusing to anyone without prescient knowledge of every inch of the Accord's transport infrastructure. To finish it off, Heron even ducked into the Assistant-only section of the main transit hub, disappearing into the sea of grey dresses walking in perfect unison, and onto the monorail home.
The ride to his home station was uneventful enough that he thought over how he was going to use his remaining words, whittled down to 43 after navigating through the various transit stations. The reasoning behind the limits, as his owner had told him, was because a blanket ban on answering questions would make it obvious he was owned by an Agent, and therefore confirming he was a valuable target, while a limited word count could simply be publicly chalked down to an owner punishing their Assistant for speaking too much. Heron wasn't entirely sure that was the real reason, but he was in no place to question it.

His path through his local transit station was almost robotic, the Assistant's head hard at work pondering the reason behind his vocal restrictions, leaving his body on autopilot.
"Ah, hello, Heron." Said the Avian behind the bakery counter. "The usual?"
Heron blinked up from his mind wandering, and nodded. "Yes, please." He pulled his ID card from his dress, pressing the metal rectangle against the sensor by the counter until it beeped. "Thanks." Tick-tick. 40.
He looked about the transit station for anyone that could be following him, but it was empty, save the various small cafes and shops along one wall of the concrete and steel building.
"Here you go, darl." Said the baker as she handed over a brown paper bag. "You should have said you were Internal Affairs earlier, you know."
Heron poked open the bag, seeing one of the larger sausage rolls, rather than the smaller ones that Assistants were usually given. "I… what do you mean?" Tick-tick-tick, 35.
"We had someone poking around earlier, asking questions about an Assistant with your serial. They said you'd been found someplace, and they were trying to track down your owner to return you…" The baker laughed, leaning over the counter. "I used to work in the Ministry. I know a spy when I see one, and I know Assistants don't get lost. I also know IA Assistants get the better food."
"You… The Ministry? Why… not now?" Tick-tick, 29.
The Avian smiled at the Assistant. "Turns out I made a better baker than Assistant-wrangler. Never had the stomach for it."
Heron furrowed his brow, trying to pick his words carefully. "Why do you think I'm Internal Affairs?" Tick-tick-tick. 22.
The baker's smile turned into a grin. "Every time you scan that card, I don't see a thing but what's printed on your dress. I see you with a messenger bag every time you come through… and you're clearly word-limited, which means your owner knows how to program the chip. It's not hard to add two and two together."
Heron blushed a little, knowing they knew he was indeed vocally restricted. "Four?" Tick. 21.
"I- yes." The baker coughed. "You best be on your way. I've already let the Ministry know about the snooper, but it's best to let your owner know as well. I have to guess they're the real target."
"Okay. Thank you." Tick-tick. 18.
Heron turned away, pressing the sausage roll out of its paper bag to take a bite. It was, indeed, nicer food, and he'd even have words left to spare when he got home.