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Post by onceover on Apr 21, 2011 22:15:46 GMT -5
Arc
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on May 1, 2011 10:45:52 GMT -5
[14 March, 02:09 - Arc's doss]
Arc is deep into his second bag of soy-chips, reading up on the latest #SOTA.Reddit articles when a message comes in on his commlink. Forwarded through St. James, the message is short, terse and to the point:
<<St. James @ Arc>>
<<FWD: RE: need a courier?>>
<<Arc,
A fellow I know needs a bit of work done. I sent him your way for my usual fee.
-St. J
==BEGIN MESSAGE==
New business requires services of a courier capable of making secure deliveries. Respond to {alphanumericstring@helpwanted} if interested.>>
Recognizing the numeric string to be a code series that represented the word 'Exploit' - a common hacker sign - the message was clearly not for just a courier...
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Post by onceover on May 3, 2011 11:42:38 GMT -5
Arc scans the message quickly and then opens his account and frowned at the diminutive number he saw there. He sighed as he stood, spilling the remainder of the soy-chips onto the floor.
"frag"
Arc begins his response as he heads to the coffee dispenser in the hall. He swipes his cred-stick moments before he sees the "Out of Order" sign blinking on the display. Then he sees the creds in his account drop.
"FRAG!"
<<Arc @ St. James>>
<<Re: FWD: RE: need a courier?>>
<<Boss,
You seem to have a knack for knowing exactly when I am out of cred. Where and when can I pick up the package?
-Arc>>
Arc makes a mental note to hack the rig the coffee machine to spit coffee at the next poor sap to try it. The gangers standing at the corner give Arc an incredulous look as he crosses the street in his PJ's and strolls into the freshimart. He buys an extra large coffee and another bag of soy-chips with one last look at his diminishing funds.
"frag"
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on May 3, 2011 14:03:16 GMT -5
Within moments of sending his message, Saint James replies:
<<St. James @ Arc>>
<<The client will be contacting you shortly.>>
[14 March, 03:00 - Arc's doss]
Busying himself with writing a quick control program for the hall coffee maker, Arc passes the time. Later in the evening, his inbox chimes.
<<BLU3M@N51 @ Arc>>
<<You come highly recommended. There is meeting at Begbie's later tonight in about a half an hour. Find your way in, and we'll talk some more. Consider it your first interview.>>
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Post by onceover on May 3, 2011 15:39:29 GMT -5
Arc smirks at the thought of this pre-run challenge. The smirk broadens into a full blown smile as he hears someone scream from the hallway as he imagines the grumpy dwarf from next door being covered in boiling brew. "Alright" Arc mumbles to himself. "Now to find Begbie's" Arc's eyes glaze over as he slouches senselessly into his big easy chair. His mind is quickly full of the multitude of new sense the matrix provides him. Arc looked around briefly at the industrial city that made up his Reality Filter. The steam and cogs felt more real than anything his meat-bag body would ever know. He walked over to the train station and jumped on a passing car.
A quick glance at the map in his cabin marked the true beginning of the search.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on May 5, 2011 11:59:13 GMT -5
[14 March, 02:34 - Arc's doss, in the Matrix]
Arc looks closely at the map then extends a clockwork hand, one finger extended, towards the map's surface. A small key extends from the finger and slots, almost invisibly, into some continent or lake on the cartography. With a whirrr, Arc's wrist turns independent of his arm, cycling like a screw driver. The map splits open and unfolds vast ornithoptic wings that cover Arc's body, fully enclosing him and finally pulling him into the map.
Finding himself in a marble floored library, the walls lined with books, each floor a ring on a massive, endless spiral that soars to vertiginous heights before disappearing in a haze, Arc sets himself to searching.
After a long, circuitous search, Arc finally puts together several fragments and encrypted messages that suggest a location for Begbie's. Arrayed out on a heavy wooden drafting desk like tarot cards, lit atop from an antique, green shaded lamp, the data seems impossible to understand.
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Post by onceover on May 5, 2011 18:29:39 GMT -5
Arc stares and strains to make sense of the seemingly random assortment of pamphlets, maps, and the torn pages from ancient books. His right eye swivels in its socket reveling a telescoping brass lens on its reverse side. Steam is emitted from the back of arcs neck as the lens focuses and refocuses on each sheet. The pieces seem to fuse to each other as they are rearranged on the oaken table.
At long last, the telescoping lens slides back into its socket and Arc's eye swivels into back into place. His arms on either side of the drafting board, Arc stares down at a complete map of the Seattle subway system. Five points on the new map glow a slight red. Again Arc's arm whirls as he inserts a tiny key into the first glowing location.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on May 8, 2011 20:30:47 GMT -5
[14 March, 02:50 - Arc's doss, in the Matrix - Seattle Regional Transit Node]
Arc is standing in the midst of the huge glass arched dome of a 20th century train station. Around him, hundreds of people mill about, headed to and fro while an itinerant wind pushes around some loose paper on the ground. The air is ahum with commotion, the whistle of a train's engine signalling a departure and a PA system's echoing call of an arriving train.
Raising an umbrella over-head, Arc presses a button in the handle and ascends as the umbrella becomes helicopter blades. Scanning about, Arc can find Arrivals and Departure offices, a Service Desk, an Employees Only area and a Welcome kiosk. After searching over each of these five locations, he can find nothing even remotely close to Begbie's.
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Post by onceover on May 10, 2011 12:24:41 GMT -5
Arc shivers as he opens his eyes. The single window in his apartment stands open, letting in the ever present Seattle rain. The wind has blown the soy chips to the floor and they crunch as Arc stands and stretches. He chugs the chilled remnants of his coffee. He quickly checks his watch and sends a quick command to his vacuum drone with an "I'm sorry for the mess". A smile dances across Arc's face as he sits back into his big comfy arm chair. The the gentle whir of the com flipping to hotsim fills the room.
Arc is again standing in the crowded train station. The crowd is moving in slow motion. He drops a small brass box that almost instantly unfolds into a platform. He watches the five hot spots as the platform raises him above the torpid crowd below. A railing erects itself and a control panel, spilling over with buttons and levers, flips open. Time seems to stop as Arc inspects each node with nearly unending filters and lenses.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on May 10, 2011 14:54:43 GMT -5
Under the myriad lenses and filters, Arc finds only the usual Public Access that one would expect at a train station - price schedules, time charts, calendar services, accounts payable...
Rising higher and higher on his corkscrew driven platform, Arc intensifies his search. Nearing the end of the fifth node, he notices a small crease in the counter of the Welcome Kiosk. Drawing in on the desk with his telescope, he notices a slight sheen along the crease, off color and texture from the rest of the desk.
Descending quickly, Arc walks to the Kiosk and, pressing a finger into the crease, finds it rubbery at first and then, as if bursting through a surface tension, his whole arm descends into the desk. Inside, his hand grasps at a small lever. Giving it a tug, he becomes weightless for a moment and the world goes pure white.
When things come back into focus, he is standing in a dimly lit bar crafted out of heavy, deep stained hardwoods. A pair of crossed sabres rest over the bar, sitting above an old musket. Lining the back wall are etched crystal decanters filled with liquors, and a barkeep, complete with a period mustache and sleeve ties, stands ready to take an order. A dim hum fills the whole place, and gazing about Arc takes in the various personae filling bar stools and booths. The cognitive dissonance of a cartoon shark carrying a spiked baseball bat in the midst of a 19th century British Imperial Officer's bar is a bit stunning.
'You're early.'
Arc turns to see an icon of a realistic take on the Mad Hatter, deep laugh lines etched into the powdered face and impossibly tall, precariously hatted. Extending a gloved hand, the icon asks 'how do you do?'
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on May 10, 2011 14:59:20 GMT -5
Motioning to a booth in a secluded corner, the Hatter guides Arc to the table.
'Not an easy place to find, this one. Just getting in proves you have some good chops. Ol' Begbie runs a pretty tech little Stealth program on the main portal, don't he? Sort of keeps out the... gutter trash... doesn't it?' The Hatter leans back and takes in the scene around him, smiling his wide, toothy, deranged smile. Truly, the usual off-the-shelf better-than-life personae that fill the Public matrix nodes are not to be found here. Every icon is stylized, meticulously programmed for sight and sound and smell, every inch detailed and wired for maximum hot-sim.
'I've a need for someone to courier a small data package into a secure server and drop it off without being noticed. You see, the recipient is not expecting any such package, nor would they particularly care to sign for it, as it were. The package itself will be pre-configured and encrypted - your discretion in delivery is expected. Before I can give any further information, you will have to agree to the job.'
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Post by onceover on May 12, 2011 18:25:15 GMT -5
Arc smiles a toothy gin at Mr.Johnson. The atmosphere and artistry in Begbie's have been the highlight of his day.
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't want the job. Though 'dropping a package of' is nebulous at best. There is no other information you could provide that would assure me I'm not making deals with dragons?"
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on May 13, 2011 20:33:22 GMT -5
Covering his mouth, the Johnson's face contorts into a smile while an intentionally poor quality sound file of a Japanese school girl giggling plays.
'Cautious, aren't you. I can assure you that there are no dragons involved - the pay is too low, for one. The job pays five thousand nuyen, with a thousand of that up front... but there is a catch. If, within seven days, the targeted system or the system's owner show signs that they know about a breach, you will not be paid the rest.' Twitching a bit, and nudging his hat over to the other side of his head, the persona continues. 'The whole deal is pretty simple really: slip in and out, quiet like, drop off your package and be gone without anyone knowing you are there. The delivery must be done within the next forty eight hours. Enough information for you to agree?'
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Post by onceover on May 14, 2011 16:33:11 GMT -5
Arc smiles.
I accept.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on May 15, 2011 11:52:16 GMT -5
'Excellent.'
Pulling a card from his hat, the Mad Hatter tosses the card to Arc
'That will provide you with some further information and also has your retainer. Any questions?'
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Post by onceover on May 20, 2011 11:26:16 GMT -5
Arc simultaneously begins to copy and encrypt the files to a more secure location on his com. To the hatter it appears that he has placed the fill in some strange music box with continually shifting steel bars moving up, down, and side to side. He reaches into his duster and pulls out a billfold. Inscribed into the gold is the name Arc over a number "1,031.00".
well that was fast
He replaces it in the folds of cloth. "Should we meet here in 48 hours? Is there the possibility of a bonus if I complete the job early?"
Arc takes another look around as he monitors the process of encryption. Maybe I'll stay for a drink.
With a ding the paper is ejected. Arc takes the paper and hands it back to the hatter.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on May 21, 2011 15:31:30 GMT -5
The Hatter grins a toothy grin, his eyes mad and wild. 'I've reached my budget on this deal, my good man. But, if you do a good turn on this one, you can expect some more work from me in the future. That, in its own right, is a kind of payment, no? An investment, if you will!'
As the conversation draws to a close, the Mad Hatter catches another icon's eye and gallops off to chit chat with them, leaving Arc at the table by his lonesome.
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Post by onceover on May 24, 2011 2:04:19 GMT -5
Arc stands and walks through the front door with a swirl of is duster and a tip of his hat.
A shiver runs down Arc's back as his meat body again takes on the weight of his consciousness. He looks with a frown at the second bag of soyschips that are lying next to him. His knees give a slight grown as he stands and heads to take a shower and shave.
Look like you mean to do business and business will be done.
He changes into his only "biz-casual" outfit and takes a seat and quickly wipes the chips crumbs to the floor before regaining his seat on the chair.
Arc Opens the file with a grin.
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Post by NoOnesShowMonkey on May 29, 2011 19:20:32 GMT -5
[14 March, 03:40 - Arc's doss, Seattle]
Arc pops open the file, the vellum scroll opening with a rustle like dry leaves.
The target was Fenimoore Financial - looked like some kind of banking or investment firm based out of Seattle. A Downtown address on the 51st floor of some stratosphere scraper. Mostly handles investments in the developing of South American metroplexes.
After a short dossier, Arc gets to the meat of it: the technical specifications. Account privileges for an User account were provided, allowing access to a customers-only section of their matrix node. From there, Arc was on his own. The data-card indicated that there was definitely a secure server linked somehow to the customers area. It made sense: customers had to be able to access a database that contained theirs - and others - information. That was the way in.
The last line of the data-card caught his attention:
Danger: Black IC rumored to run on the network.
Maybe Arc was in over his head...
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Post by onceover on Jun 1, 2011 14:42:16 GMT -5
Arc switches to AR mode as he runs a quick search of Fenimoore Financial, assessing who their enemies may be and who would want them to fail. He strolls into his bed room and send a command to the hidden compartment in the base of his bedside lamp. Ironic that I keep my amphetamines by my bedside.He pops the pill into his mouth as his fridge opens and begins to fill a glass of water for him. After a sip of water he devours a few protein meal bars and heads back into the living room. The world blurs and he is standing in the familiar desert town once again. He walks to the station and hops on a passing train. As he sits in his cabin he runs a quick diagnostic of his programs. As he looks at each items he makes slight tweaks with a screw driver protruding from his index finger.
An old mans voice can be heard through a speaking horn in the corner. "Next stop, Fenimoore Financial, please remember to take your luggage![]() [/img] with you as you exit the train." Arc smiles as he think of his grandfather as a train conductor. and gingerly picks up his leather medical bag. "Time to get to work. [/color]
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