Outta cred, outta work, and outta food…

All those newsfeeds made running look glamorous.

And yet? Here you are, in your shitty apartment, having to tell your teammates that no, that fixer didn’t get back to you, and yes, you are trying to meet with the Johnsons, but they haven’t exactly been fighting over the opportunity to hire you.

Nope, after that last fucking job, they’re staying the hell away from you. And you can’t even blame them. It was an unholy mess. If that fucking Johnson hadn’t fucked it up, given you the wrong access codes…

No point in reminiscing.

So you sit here, eating the last of your kelp powder sprinkled on some noodles. Fridge empty, accounts empty, and your landlord isn’t accepting excuses anymore. With that printout the Johnson sent you sitting on an overturned crate you use as a coffee table. Staring at it. You memorized it hours ago:

“2 am. Amplitude.” And a string of zeroes longer than you’ve seen in a VERY long time.

This is your chance…this is it. The Fixer told you that this is a sweet run. Profitable beyond your wildest dreams. And yeah, yeah, yeah… you know what they say about it being too good to be true.

Fuck it. The money’s too good, and this instant ramen tastes like shit.

The Writing's On The Wall