The incessant drone of the commlink alert burrowed through layers of sleep deprivation and synthahol stupor, deepening what promised to be a brutal hangover. Jimmy groaned and peeled open eyes crusted shut with layers of grit and activated the commlink’s AR to see who was calling at whatever ungodly time it was.
Blank ID. Unlisted number. Business time. Drek.
The fixer rolled over, slapped on a stim-patch to wipe away most of the night’s leftover revelry and activated the commlink’s enhancements to cover what he didn’t have time to wash away in the shower. The ’link connected the call and Jimmy breathed a small sigh of relief as the signal came through without trid feed.
“Hello?”, he mumbled, trusting the software to make it sound professional.
“Mister Card.”, replied the nondescript male voice on the other end. “Your services have been exemplary. The team you put together has developed well, and has been most useful to us.”
“Uh-huh”, grunted the fixer. He wasn’t paid to be eloquent…
“We shall most certainly be interested in retaining their services in the future”, continued the Johnson. “We shall be in touch again.”
As the connection closed, an alert window popped up in the AR display, confirming the deposit of a substantial sum of nuyen into one of his ghost accounts. Jimmy grunted in satisfaction and looked longingly at the bed. The stim-patch was still kicking in, and sleep was pointless. Something to counteract the stimulants would just make him puke, so the fixer fired up the soykaf and shower while he picked out something to wear, dragging his tired, over-stimulated, hungover ass into the morning. No…make that afternoon…shit.
At least he was flush with enough cred to live well for a while. Maybe he’d even have time to stop off at Carla’s for some fun….