Patterns for Recognition

She was heading home from the drop site when the money hit her bank account with an audible thunk, proportional to the size of the pay off. It was her earliest attempt at customising her headrig, from back when she was a kid. She’d kept it, because it still amused her.

It took a microsecond to ensure the sum was exactly what had been agreed, though she’d tuned the alert to the point that she could tell the amount to the cent from the sound, so she was unsurprised to find a bonus attached for her swift response. She was good, and she knew it. So did her employers, that’s why they paid her the big bucks.

Working collection for Yeager wasn’t as cool as people assumed. Most of the time, it was just like today, wasting low lives who’d welshed on their payment plans, and recovering the merch. The pay was everything that was whispered, however, and with her collection rate, even better.

An hour later she was home, her coat dropped by the door. She narc’d up and jacked in. Time to crawl the deebs, once more.

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