“When are you going to get off your lazy ass and get a job?” Loretta asks as she throws an empty beer can at Paul’s head.
“Shut up woman.” Paul’s retort is that of a man who’s already lost.
“You’re such a looser, Paul. I’m getting a divorce.”
“Suspected as much. I’ve lost everything else, why not my wife and kids too?”
“Fuck you Paul.”

That conversation was three years ago but it plays over and over in Paul’s head. He hasn’t been able to hold down a steady job since he was bounced from the force five years ago. Even his own private investigation practice went under in a few months. Luckily the bottle was there and when his wife ran out the whiskey didn’t. Loretta must still love him though, she pays the rent on their old apartment and it’s really the only thing that’s kept him alive. He couldn’t survive below Tier 12. He can’t afford a mask or anything to protect against the sand. All of these thoughts flooded out of his mind as quickly as they came in when the door rings.

Paul pulls himself out his chair and stumbles half drunk to the door. He doesn’t even bother to check anymore, he just buzzes them up. It’s never for him anyway, just some idiot with the wrong number. Then he makes his way to the fridge, grabs another beer, and returns to his beat up recliner. Not five seconds after he sits down there is a knock on his door. Curses erupt from Paul’s mouth and he slings his full beer at the wall. He pulls himself up again and makes his way to the door.

“Wrong apartment asshole.” Paul screams at the door.
“I do not think so. Is this Mister Paul Steven Wiht?” A digitized voice responds.
“Oh fuck no. Go away. I don’t want to talk.”
“I apologize for the intrusion Mister Wiht but I’ve been instructed to speak with you. I will destroy this door if you do not let me in willingly.”
“For fuck sake…” Paul says as he presses the open button on his door.

A two foot tall metal box rolls into Paul’s apartment. There is a projector mounted on the top of it that is transmitting a generic human face as a crude hologram. When the box rolls in and Paul steps out of its way. He knows the sensors on these things are shit and last thing he needs is a bruised shin. The box makes a circuit of the room, clearly scanning its environment,  before coming to a stop facing Paul. Paul still hasn’t moved from the doorway.

“What do you want machine?” Paul asks gruffly.
“I would like to offer you a career Mister Wiht.” The computer continues to respond without inflection.
“Stop calling me that you stupid robot. My name is Paul.” Paul says robot like ru-butt.
“As you wish Mister Paul. My employers are willing to pay you twice what you made when you worked with the C12PD plus the same hourly expense rate as what you charged when you were freelance.”
“Who the hell would want to pay me that much?” Paul’s voice is sobering up as the realization of getting back to work sinks in.
“That information is privileged. I can not tell you who you would be working for until you sign the contracts.”
“Of-fucking-course. What can you tell me, bolt bag?”
“We need help tracking down people. Five people total. We do not have an estimated deadline for this assignment, just as soon as possible.”
“Alright, I won’t ask any more questions. I need the cash. Give me the papers.”

The top of the rolling box  slides open and there are a pile of papers laying inside with a fountain pen. Paul picks up the bundle and pages through everything. The guy who wrote all this up knows a thing or two about contracts. Everything is filled out, he simply needs to sign on the last page and he’ll see himself pulling in an income thirty times higher then he’s had since being bounced from the police. Paul signs, then thinks of Loretta. Maybe after this job he can get his family back. Maybe this robot delivered more than just a job to him. Sobriety. A family. Happiness. He lets himself hope.

Paul signs the papers and before he can ask any more questions the robot rolls out of his apartment. Paul lets out a deep sigh and goes into the bathroom for his first shower in weeks. He shaves his face clean and runs the electric razor through his straggling hair. He leaves a quarter inch, he can’t stand the bald feeling. Paul brushes his teeth and puts on deodorant. All cleaned up he moves into his bedroom and pulls out and old suit he hasn’t worn since his days as a PI. The fit is tight now, but it feels good. Paul finally feels like he’s getting his life back together. Finally feels like he has something to work… to fight for. Then his phone rings.

“Agent Wiht. Time to get to work…”