A life: On Credit

• Credit Transfer Denied
• ACCOUNT SUSPENDED
• Please contact your local branch for reinstatement.
• Have an excellent day.

No no no! DAMMIT! I slam my fist against the touch screen. Gold grin leprechaun dances back and forth, pixelated through thick grime.

Retreating past an overlong queue, tendril infection snaking from the ATM. That jingle. No way in hell my suffering gets to have a theme tune. I turn back and kick that sucker in. Wires spill out like errant guts, jackpot spill of creds snatched by grubby hands too stupid to know better. Tune wains with comic timing, first laugh I've had in months.

Shame no one else finds it funny.

Glares a plenty. Hollow expressions plucked straight from the latest rage REM. Everything's bought and borrowed these days, reality barely even registers as a haunting. Bunch of stuck up suits desperate to fall into today's 1s and 0s, inflate their egos with a cursory balance check. Guess you'll have to wait. Find some other source for today's throbbing blood rush.

Damage of Debt-Tech property, now that's no laughing matter. Big no no. Bigger sentence. Hence the quickened gait. Recon drone's inbound, then a full squadron to brutalize anyone that lingers. Ironic seeing as there's not even a state to surveil. Siren blare, quicker response than any bio crime. Corporate interests protected by algorithmic authority, snuff out the fire fast incase it's an upward trend careening towards brand rejection.

One way to ensure a callout I guess.

If I'm ever jumped I'll be sure to smash some Corp gear, get that millionaire rapid response. Even if all it amounts to is another audience member to witness the spectacle of my skull being crushed.

Safe to say I didn't make any new friends today... The fault lies with the world, not me, I swear mom.

Besides, just 'cos creds are programmable, doesn't mean you'll be able to divine a sudden influx of wealth. The only thing that falls out of the sky here, are bodies. All they really amount to is oversized and oversimplified tokens for dull minds. But that's decidedly the trade-off. Analogue quirks as opposed to digital omnipresence, as if the shape unseen isn't defined enough. Physical depictions of an entirely digitized bank balance, for those that want to flash the cash, feel the weight slide between index and forefinger, g-string or slot machine. As such, there's a decent markup on the black market, fools who think they can feign a fortune with some ad hoc bedroom hacking. Real money is quick, and paltry. Fast handoff to root hackers that play the low stakes long game, unremarkable and by extension undetectable, all to ensure their operation persists. They own the risk, you get the 10% left over for your troubles.

That's why I didn't even pick up a few... In-built tracking by ORCL. Ostensibly more valuable than any delusional soul willing to steal it, a shiny headache that's guaranteed to get you behind bars. My rage is already compartmentalized by the system, I don't need to join it.

Maybe they're just too busy to care what games the rats play.

Well. I'm still strapped for cash. Shocking I know. Guess I'll pay Mac a visit, see if he's got anything going, shake off this frustration. Oh how I've missed his manic outbursts. That reminds me, must get better at dodging whatever's on his desk.

Led through the maze by eager want, I'm outside his office before I know it. Slight tinge of shame, overridden by the burn of grazed knuckles. Jana smiles like always, of course she enjoys the show.

"He doesn't want to see you."

"Business as usual... Shame Mac ain't lucky enough to get what he wants."

"One of these days I'm going to actually have to do my job and stop you."

"But not today. Besides, you're far too glamorous to be his doorman."

"Flattery only gets into his office I'm afraid."

"Perfect, just where I need to be. Drinks?"

"I'm seeing someone..."

"Ouch, ouch."

"Buzzing you in now."

"Hope he treats you right."

"Better than you."

"You wound. Truly."

The doors slide open in an awkward shudder. Old Mac is primed across his desk, in a room darker than it rightly should be, as if held in sunset. Quick scan, no sharp objects in reach, though there's a paper weight that could do some damage.

"MAAAAAC!" I announce with overzealous glee.

"Sigh...Why darken my doorway?" He should thank me for his frown lines. Adds character.

"I need help."

"Help? Hmmph. Funny way of pronouncing money..."

"Listen. I'm desperate, I won't lie. You got a job... Anything, I'm your guy."

"You most assuredly are not "MY GUY". I can count on a daily double rainbow more than I can count on you."

"What can I say? God's piss just refracts better when he's enjoying making it rain..."

"I want laughs I'll stop by the $laughter house."

"You want a heavy, a driver, point man, whatever... I'm your guy. Reduced fee."

"Bold of you to barter for me."

"Confidence is a manifestation of skill."

"...You don't actually believe that."

"I believe whatever gets me to tomorrow, that little bit richer. I'm tired of chasing a living Mac. I've never held life, I'm talking a good life, in my hands. I don't need honest or wholesome, wife, kids and dining table dreams. I need a slice of Mainline city to call my own. You just gotta supply the knife."

"You talk too much..."

"Want me to stop? Job me up."

He leans back in his chair, the deep recline of a man made wary. "200 creds. 50 now, rest upon completion. Take it or leave it."

"Whats the job?"

He slides the first payment over. "I'll be in touch."

"...When?"

"I'll be in touch."

"I appreciate this man, really, I do."

"...Yeah, we'll see..."

Jana allows me the indulgence of a long goodbye before I cut through the scurry. Modular homes of concrete piled like building blocks, stained with piss and smoke. A slum in the truest sense, economic, cultural, any measure worth recording. But for technophobes, it presents some... unique opportunities. The illusion of privacy, the chance to carve a life outside of wage slavery. Here you're just indebted to an increasingly perverse code of moral depravity... Much better. It's fun though, I can say that much. Human dregs are certainly flavorful. Derangement does that... sort of a package deal.

Me, well I'm here for a simple life. I was born pre tracker mandate, so I'll use your tech and your devices, I just won't put it under my skin. Mistrust of augmentation is particularly insidious when it's an aversion to sub dermal networks and blood swarm nanites. But it's kept me safe. Paranoid, but alive... Or some shade of it anyway. The smell from my apartment should be proof enough of that.

Speaking of which, home sweet cathode hum... It's cramped, industrial, lacking in all luxury save an ortho sleep station I... acquired from a friend. Well... He died... Using it... But it was dehydration so it's not like he made a mess.

I try not to think about it.

Forever humbled by my designated scraps... Make no mistake I'm here because I can't afford to be literally anywhere else. What chances of fortune tomorrow brings, who knows? But a payday is coming, on Mac's winged form. I fall readily onto the bed. Dreamcatcher's still plugged in. I carefully place the viewer on my head.

Tonight's entertainment. Pirate REMs.

Holiday candids.

Off the coast of Europe, some islands that don't even exist anymore. Bronzed bodies wined and dined followed by an extended Stim session. Artisanal stuff. It's the details that make it really, the out of place hair strands, the awkward birthmarks. A flood of colour, saturated longing as he's leading her back to his apartment. They kiss in the lift. Can barely free their hands to get the key in the door. She undresses, demands him to follow. Then. Then... It cuts out. Right before the beautiful people do the nasty. Eyes black, mind empty... Just my luck.

You don't get to leave here. Ever.

Guess my own dreams will have to do... Cruel I know.

New day. Same overbearing problems.

The meat machine requires sustenance. Auto-pilot to Della's diner, wholesome, health-code violating, geographically convenient and best of all, cheap. Get in early enough and you'll be served by Della herself. Bit of a local celebrity. She's surly, and has a mustache she's somehow managed to neglect... But her pancakes are peerless and well, the service is a reminder of life's brutality, so I like it enough.

"The usual?"

"Indeed."

"Gave you a little something extra. Mac's payin'."

"... Thanks Della." Under the plate of pancakes nonchalantly thrown onto the easy wipe table, a napkin already stained with grease. A napkin with a note, just for me. "Transport job. Cargo is under the seat. Don't screw this up." An immediate burst of tension. Suddenly I'm not that hungry, but I power through, chewing rubber. With an exaggerated gulp, I reach under the chair and fumble around. Hand grips a sort of briefcase, freed with a hearty pull. Darting eyes as I bundle the package into my padded jacket and make for the door. Entirely unsure of where to head next. You'd think that would be important. Was there another side to the note? This is not going well...

I pull into the alley. Get a look at this thing, see if there's any instructions or if I need to drag my unprofessional ass back to Della's, rifle through the trash. Gut bomb of humiliation is disarmed by a display screen of co-ordinates and a 6 hour loop timer, an insurance policy of an ever changing destination so as to not incriminate any one place or party. What the hell have you got me transporting Mac?

I climb the nearby fire escape and wedge myself between the cold metal and brick. An act stupid enough to make me feel safer.

'DO NOT OPEN'. Immaculately printed on the case's exterior. Bold, red, and so very inviting. Weighing up my options as the grease settles. Who cares if I take a little peek, so long as the thing's delivered right? Right?

Now you can't blame me for what comes next. Spend a life being burnt, playing with fire sounds like business as usual... And 200 creds? Really Mac? Got me smuggling way more than that, right here.

Industrial lock is proof enough, medium spec... Should take my can opener a few minutes, tops. I let it get to work, as I contemplate whether it'll be a can of worms or a pot of gold. Worth the risk regardless, worst case scenario; I lose my 'life'. Fair trade for a bit of excitement. That's the thing with hush hush ops, no prying eyes, no one to run to when property gets... creatively reallocated...

Pop of the soft close seal, theatric rush of cold air. This baby on ice? Better not be some vintage Rosé meant to toast the downfall of man. The suspense would kill me if I wasn't the one lifting the lid. Custom Cryo-dome, frosted over. Should probably use gloves, but a glance shouldn't hurt. I curl my sleeve across my hand and scrape away the surface ice. All frosting no cake. No. No cake at all. Something else entirely.

A severed head. Early 20s. Beautiful in any other circumstance. Clean cut at the neck.

Jesus... Visible through her side shave, the telltale marks of a cerebral augmentation. I've read about this. And when I say read, I mean watched a few late night conspiracy Holos. Her chip's on ice. The tech persists but if the brain rots, there's nothing to recover the data from, so you become a human popsicle, for, posterity I guess. It's not cheap. Someone wants the recording of her final moments real bad. Bad enough that money is no object, but secrecy dictated a backwoods freelancer like me...

Question is, do they want it for vengeance, or to delete it..?