A cold December wind whipped across the brick-iron apartment complex, catching me in the face like a left hook. In the receding daylight, the buildings looked respectable for middle-class families, though it had started to show its age. Originally designated section-8 back in the mid-90s, it had been remodeled in the past decade like most of the metroplex to make room for new money and the burgeoning middle-class. Motion lights and facial recognition cameras tracked everyone coming and going. I flipped open my phone, the OLED shone bright with an NFT repo job from an online retailer. A VR gaming headset with peripherals, bought on a payment plan that was a month in arrears. Probably some college kid that spent this month’s payment on beer and edibles. These jobs weren’t glamorous, but they paid the bills with an item small enough to fit in a carry case. Beats the hell out of lugging a 75” flat screen from a home while a family screams and pulls at your heels.
I pulled the navy peacoat tight around my chest, noticing it fit looser these days. I pushed through the wind and up to the second floor, passing windowless apartments each with tablet screens embedded in their doors. I leaned against the wall next to the corner apartment and closed my eyes, breathing cold air deep into my lungs. The chill helped steel me against the uncertainty behind the door. I reached across and knocked, avoiding the tablet that would stream anything in front of it to whomever was inside. Standard practice for any Courser whose full-time job was chasing felons and saw too many shotgun greetings. Someone light-footed walked toward the door while others scurried toward the rear of the apartment. The screen lit with a woman from the shoulders up, discomfort seeped in from my false assumption. I slid over, my phone flipped open in landscape, credentials ready.
“Can I help you?”
I placed the phone up to the tablet so she could see the Courser I.D. and badge.
“Ma’am…my name is Logan Locke. Courser #315317. You are illegally possessing an item for which you no longer have a valid redemption token. This is a violation of federal statute 18.USC.338. Could you open the door please?
“Absolutely not.”
“Ma’am…”
“Don’t “ma’am” me…do you know who I am? Do you know who my husband is?”
“I don’t…”
“Of course you don’t because you’re a nobody. A leech. My husband and I are legal counsel for Eos Energy and if you don’t walk away now, we will literally own your ass.”
“Were legal counsel” was more like it, but I chose not to antagonize her. Eos, like any modern corporation, kept a couple attorneys in house, but the profession became redundant with the national adoption of the Rhodeum Cryptocurrency. Corporate law, realty, banking; facilitator jobs the lot of them…all experienced a 90% unemployment rate over the past decade. Any profession that could be replaced by the blockchain went obsolete. And good riddance. The friction economy never produced goods, never created art, they were middle management. People that took percentages while slowing down the transfer of everything in society. Unemployment skyrocketed. The media fear-mongered about the collapse of our service economy and downfall of the United States as global superpower. Politicians geared up a regulatory push against the tech industry in response, until the Naxos Foundation agreed to upskill anyone interested in a new profession in tech and offered remote “employment” to the rest at no cost to the taxpayer. Except there’s always a cost and these people were paying it.
After the cursing went silent and screen darkened, I placed my phone near the digital lock scanner, prompting the black screen to kick on with a spinning Naxos logo, a Calligraphic symbol incorporating the Greek letter Rho. Before the lock clicked open, a computerized voice replied “Locke, Logan. Courser #315317. You are granted access to this domicile under 18.USC.338. Federal law prohibits unlawful access unless in the performance of duty.”
I threw open the door, hoping to catch whoever else was inside by surprise. It was just the woman, standing in pajama bottoms and a black tank, but the way she carried herself, it was easy to imagine her walking through the C-Suite in a pinstripe suit, refusing to take shit from anyone. She ran down the hall and threw open a closet door with a composed urgency, like I wasn’t the first repo man that had crossed her threshold. I rested my palm on a shoulder holstered pistol just in case. She charged from the darkened hallway; an aluminum bat raised above her head. I released the grip in time to thrust my forearms upward, absorbing the first blow. The bat slid away, but the next blow came too quick to stop, cracking against my ribs and forcing air from my lungs. I wondered what D-I softball team she played for before instinct kicked in and I trapped the bat under my left arm. I pivoted back and to the right, wrenching the bat from her hands and pulling her close. She welcomed the momentum shift as a handful of acrylic nails embedded in my face, drawing blood. I pivoted away and slapped her hand from my face, breaking a few nails in the process, then shoulder checked her. With the added distance, I pulled the bat from under my arm and pointed the barrel end at her, hoping she’d reconsider any further aggression.
“Christ lady…I’m just here for the headset.”
“It was a Christmas present, you asshole!”
In the moment, I neglected to survey my environment. Walking up here and talking to her, I was still under the assumption this thing belonged to some college kid, maybe a young couple, the irresponsible type. Pictures hung around the apartment of her and the husband. Graduation photos. Wedding photos. Family photos of two little boys at varying ages.
“God dammit,” I said.