hxdonist

[hxdonist]

.::. A TRUE FIREWALL .::. depthwall.txt

Once upon a time, not long ago, the net was unfettered, completely free to the grasping hands of any willing to explore within it with little more than a handful of corporate and government firewalls and cybersecurity netrunners to contend with- the threat of being struck down with an EMP ever present- but avoidable.

The era of a 'free net' ended in 2035. In an attempt to find a way to protect the illegal movements of a number of netrunning factions in the city, development started a short time prior on a more powerful firewall, something that could be deployed at a moment's notice, anywhere around the net, to ensure a clean getaway from any pursuing threat- rogue AI, the threat of viruses, Netrunners in government employ seeking to eliminate those nosing around in places uninvited. It would be a powerful tool in the arsenal of its creators- two young netrunners in the still at the time burgeoning Nano Zillas, this 'perfect' firewall would be essential to the moves their upstart leader intended to make- it was a project of necessity, worked on tirelessly day-and-night out of passion for the attempt-

And a knowledge that if successful, its designers wouldn't have to fear for the safe return of one another on plunges to seek the confidential- that those allied to his cause would be safe, just the same.

Successful they may have been, but only in a single capacity. And at the cost of something far more valuable than blackmail material to the man behind its red-cast code.

Upon its first test run outside of a controlled environment, the defense mechanism intended to protect netrunners would claim a life- catching his partner behind it and, in the panic to try and shut it off as it spread, hungry, voracious across the deeper seas of the Net- it would kill her- absorbing mental data, stripping the mind and the digital engram from one another- this would be considered one of the kinder fates the wall could provide. The Depth Wall, as it became known upon establishing itself permanently across the old, shady, and more 'dark' portions of the net exists now as a deadly obstacle for those who are not intimately knowledgeable of the pound of flesh it asks in trade for the information it hides, Plunges requiring multiple netrunners in direct connection to each other to prevent the complete destruction of the mental data of those who enter.

It is, perhaps a blessing then, that those who call the Net home most prevalently, the ghosts that haunt Dreamland, seemed to have a headstart on the other runners in the city, aware from early on how to safely push past a wall built to kill.

It was the creation of their leader, after all- a child that slaughtered its 'mother' in cold blood now attended to by a reluctant custodian in the very man who claims he released it on purpose upon the people he rallies against.

Lying gets easier, the older he gets. But each moment, stood at the precipice of the Depths aches more desperately.

It's impossible to forget the kind of screams that come from a runner unprepared to pass through- or never expecting to be behind the wall in the first place, after all.

[hxdonist]

>//location.dat: Ikarus' Apartment [INTERIOR] >//participant.dat: Ikarus & Julian [ @cyberisks ]

A meeting of giants a long time coming- even if one is unaware of the other's position of power.

Ikarus has never made it a secret: He hates the idea of doing anything at all that reminds him of what he once was- one of Gestalt Bureau's favorite chairjockeys before he was even old enough to drink, he was a capable jack-of-all-trades if that trade could be taken on in the embrace of the net or through the sweeping, universal language of code. Many of those things were security- the veritable dog sent to bite after people who got too nosy about the Bureau's business- the pick driven into firewalls to return the favor of corporate espionage. But these things were still in his tool kit- improved, even. His skills in the net were something intrinsic to Ikarus himself, the thing that made him 'Ikarus Ito' had been divested- pushed off onto 1NF1N1T3FUN.

Which meant that this meeting would be for the other half of his once-lofty corporate position: Julian wanted to discuss their programming, additional code, new memories for a host like them. He was capable of it. He just hated the feeling of doing it- even if it would end in something symbiotic between Lazarus and the Nano Zillas- another willing protector of Dreamland's secrets and a possible liaison in the spaces 1NF1N1T3FUN didn't roam- a necessary evil. But one that made his nervous ex-corpo act far closer to reality. He'd spent much of the day drinking,the mirror hung in the corner of his apartment reflecting a man more metal than flesh these days, something he'd have to cover for this meeting, the carbon steel of his arm something that could make the perceptive connect some dots to the masked leader of the Nano Zillas.

[Knock. Knock. Knock.]

"Fuck, one second." He answers, sitting his bottle aside and peeling out of tank top, replacing it with a turtleneck, thin and tight- a glove on steel fingers. All but the port in the back of his head and the twisted steel and cables of where it meets his neck now hidden- He's a netrunner, nothing more. several layers of locks sound from his side of the door- Deadbolt after deadbolt and sliding locks opened up again- and the crack he peers out of just large enough for some of the roaches populating the hall to spill inside. "You Julian?" Comes the question, a paranoid, single organic eye peeking through the crack. "The runner that pinged me said I was waiting for a Julian." lying gets easier, after a few years of it.

He wonders, half-framed in that doorway, if they might recognize him once he opens it in full- he hasn't worked for the Bureau for twelve years- but he had, once- and many times, Julian had crossed across his 'workbench' for upgrades, updates, repairs. He could be anyone, dark ringed brown eye scrutinizing through the small opening he's created. "Told me Fun had a... crafting gig for me." He's vague, despite knowing exactly who this is. "But if you're here for the rent money I don't have it, and I'm not above blowing both of us up with overclocked headware if you're gonna try and beat me up for it."

[hxdonist]

Dreamland rarely sleeps.

There is always some kind of activity going on within the depths of the park, Nano Zilla runners working on pet projects, visiting with each other over a deeply unhealthy meal usually consisting of more energy drinks and prepackaged burritos- Or even settling in to use one of the many couches or bunks strewn around in the former staff tunnels as a place to call it a night, clothes and belongings strewn and shared among the collective. Ikarus' fondness for his people is no secret- a leader out for the greater good but also to provide a home for those who may not know one without him- Dreamland is haunted by digital ghosts and people still far-too-living. So it is no surprise, really, that their 'illustrious leader' is still wide awake, catching a smoke perched atop the rotting, rapidly crumbling pillar of the castle the gang hides beneath.

He's afforded a moment to think, the sort of thing that never goes in his favor- regularly returns him to the dark places prior to this one: perfect, clean halls of a corporate office where he reorganizes the thoughts and minds of living things as easily as he resets an errant netrunning cradle. The depths of the net before the failsafe, before his own hands made netrunning a more dangerous occupational hazard for far more than young boys forced into the work by an uncaring hand. He'd likely sit here and let them circle in his head, accomplishing nothing but making him sick to his stomach- at least, until the little "+1!" appears in his peripheral vision. It's second nature, to touch fingertips to the net even cut from it directly, an ever-present through-line from Ikarus to the places that he feels most powerful.

It's all he really has, now. He opens the messages, watching as they slowly filter in- cigarette butt dropped from on high as he makes the precarious climb down. Nishijima Megumi- he'd reached out some time ago when word through the grapevine insisted she had plans to abandon her idol company- a dangerous dare, if Ikarus' knowledge of corporations held true- and that knowledge hadn't failed him yet. So he'd reached out, behind wall after wall of encoding, a message of support- an offer of aide. and then, of course, the accident. Even someone as willing to divide himself from the fame machine as Ikarus was aware of the incident.

And it stank like a corporate plot to quiet a detractor from the drop.

Sure, she was 'fine' afterward, but better than most he knew that death was hardly enough to stop many companies. Could he trust a message from someone he couldn't be certain was still that someone at all? He was going to, in any case- He wasn't the kind of man who went back on his word- and if his worst-case-scenario thought processes proved true... She'd need help even more now than ever.

[secure uplink established. FUN IS INFINITE!]

2:33 AM: Ah. Hello, Miss Nishijima. I had thought my intel was faulty. 2:33 AM: It is good to know that is not the case. 2:33 AM: We have not spoken prior to this exchange, if we had, you likely wouldn't have had any messages anyway. I am a man who values his privacy.

He settles into his desk, the stilled bodies of his crew on dives nearby. He relieves their current overseer to sleep. He'll take it from here. He rests his chin in a carbon steel palm and continues to type.

[Uplink Maintained. Message from: 1NF1N1T3FUN]

2:40 AM: I have heard about your accident- I should hope you're recovering well, a car accident is odd, these days, on-board computers are growing more capable by the moment. 2:40 AM: Who I am is not, and has never been important. What is important, especially now, is that I can help you. 2:41 AM: My people have informed me that you are considering breaking your contract, or at least, have been in communication with legal practitioners... capable of just that. 2:42 AM: I make it my business to keep an eye on the city. And offer my aide to those who might need it. If you are looking to slip out of your cage, what's important to know about me is singular. 2:42 AM: that I can help you.

There's no need to waste time on specifics- if his people had been right, if his own digging after the fact held true- Megumi wanted out. Ikarus knows how difficult cutting one's strings can be. He'd taken on claws and fangs and still had to trade his mind and integrity in several capacities to get away from the Gestalt Bureau, after all.

so hear me when i call for help.

via the NET ✮ ˚ — 2AM. ⋰ written for @hxdonist !

                              𝐈𝐓’𝐒   𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍   𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄   𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒   𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄   𝐏𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃   𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎   𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐗   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐓𝐖𝐎   𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐒   𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄   𝐒𝐇𝐄   𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃   𝐈𝐓.   In   those   three   months,   Megumi   encountered   and   conquered   the   worst   shock   of   what   was   denominated   a   brain   injury.   She   thanked   her   good   luck   that   recovery   came   with   ease   and   that   besides   her   head,   nothing   else   suffered   trauma.   She   was   restless   to   go   online   and   speak   to   her   fans,   to   reassure   and   comfort,   and   indeed,   they   knew   no   limits   in   gratitude   and   joy   when   Megumi’s   health   was   declared   out   of   danger.   

A   revelation   was   shown   to   her   in   the   instant   before   death   came–   before   death   should   have   come–   and   bathed   her   with   the   purpose   she   had   left   behind;   at   one   point,   she   believed   she   should   separate   from   the   entity   that   lit   her   spotlight   among   the   stars,   thinking   to   vacate   the   stage–   how   could   she?   It   occurred   to   her   that   she’d   been   a   selfish   individual   aiming   to   crush   the   hearts   of   her   genuine   admirers. 

              In   the   meantime,   she   poured   over   the   support   given   to   her   with   tears   of   gratitude.   One   night,   when   she   sat   in   front   of   her   personal   computer   and   read   the   comments   left   behind   on   her   post,   she   spotted   the   pink   slip   of   paper   stuck   beneath   her   desk,   which   contained   an   email   and   a   password,   and   what   they   pertained   to.   Megumi   logged   into   the   account,   realizing   it   was   a   personal   account–   no   moderators,   no   media   team   behind   it–   a   secret,   it   seemed,   from   everyone   but   herself.   It   was   this   that   Megumi   struggled   with;   her   doctor   informed   her   that   she’d   experience   memory   issues,   but   offered   reassurance   that   her   mind   would   settle   back   to   its   right   balance,   and   she   would   soon   be   entirely   her   former   self. 

Her   former   self   despaired   at   finding   nobody   who   could   or   would   be   her   ally   against   Yoshimoto   Kyogo   Ent.,   but   her   current   self   can’t   figure   out   how   to   cut   those   loose   strings   and   move   on.   The   username   1NF1N1T3FUN   blinks   with   a   notification–   someone,   three   months   ago,   wanted   to   help   her.   She   hoped   to   remember   such   an   individual,   but   two   weeks   of   pondering   hasn’t   produced   any   answers,   and   they’ve   been   waiting   for   a   response   long   enough. 

【   from   𐐪   gumi   𐑂   】 

2:23AM: Hi   1NF1N1T3FUN   ⸜(｡��   ᵕ   ˂   )⸝ 2:23AM: Um….   (ᵕ—ᴗ—)  2:24AM: There’s   no   good   way   of   putting   this,   so   I’ll   just   go   ahead   and   say   it:   I   don’t   remember   being   in   contact   with   you.   I’m   so   sorry,   but   I   don’t   recognize   your   username   (╥﹏╥)

         She didn't remember she had this account until two weeks ago.

【   from   𐐪   gumi   𐑂   】 

2:26AM: But   since   you   contacted   me   here,   I   have   to   assume   that   I   gave   you   this   account,   right ?   I’m   recovering   from   a   small   accident   and   my   doctor   mentioned   that   I   could   experience   temporary   issues   with   my   memory   (ᵕ—ᴗ—)  2:27AM: This   must   be   what’s   happening 2:27AM: Sorry   (╥﹏╥) 2:27AM: Can   you   please   remind   me… 2:27AM Who   are   you ?   (๑-﹏-๑) 

[hxdonist]

HERE AM I, TAKE ME TO THE PEARLY GATES SO I CAN LOOK YOU IN THE EYE WHEN I SPIT IN YOUR FACE.

[hxdonist]

It's common enough knowledge that among the crews that populate the shadowy places in Japan, the Nano Zillas are regulars to the idea of outsourcing their brutality. While many of them were capable in physical space as much as the Net, there was always the simple fact that crushing corporate drones into a fine paste was something that reflected... poorly, on Ik and his people if they did anything more than toss the multiple hundreds-of-thousands in yen to the willing mercenaries populating the city who cracked heads for a living. One such mercenary in Ikarus' chosen arsenal was Ironmonger, and while he often preferred to spare the bloodshed-

he's wrought enough suffering with his own hands to last several lifetimes and it haunts him even now.

He'll never say Ironmonger isn't effective at what she does. It doesn't take long for one of the other runners to patch her through- the flickering image of a fox with too-many eyes and splintered limbs spreading into the markings of a motherboard soon displayed on all appropriate cyberware and equipment- 1NF1N1T3FUN's modulated voice rumbling across their connection. "Always so crass Iron. If you've made your way into their server room, I have already provided you with my... gift, to leave behind."

eightmoreeyes.exe transferred.

"There will be a large, central server in the room you've breached. Identifiable via the hundreds of cables running to it. If you can avoid smearing any viscera upon the consoles, I ask that you transfer the .exe that I've sent you, and then get clear of the building- by destroying this server I will likely be releasing a substantial EMP pulse that would cleanly strand you at the scene of the crime. I'd like to refrain from losing you to any upstart Cowboy or cop too big for their position- partnerships are... difficult to come by, when I don't leave my den."

hundreds more eyes than just eight peer through cameras and code- Iron's presence alone in the building as good as standing there himself- a camera above once lit blue now sweeping the room with a sharp red gaze.

"The good news is upon the pulse, all evidence you were ever here will be wiped away. If you are the type who desires credit for your atrocities, I would leave your calling card now." The camera settles, pointing deeper into the building. "work quickly. I'm picking up heat signatures higher in the building moving to the server area."

Virus

Closed starter for @hxdonist Location: unnamed corporate office building

Ironmonger was the type of person you called when bodies needed dropping. Specifically corpo bodies that no other merc would be dumb enough to accept a hit on. Ikarus was the type of person who only called you when a problem in realspace needed fixing that he couldn't reach through the net. Specifically corpo problems that no other netrunner would be dumb enough to target.

Go figure what happens when Ikarus rings Ironmonger.

A body splashes into the pooling blood on the concrete floor, its face an unrecognizable mess. Bits of gore and blood drip from Ironmonger's fist. She steps over the corpse, leaving the corporate security team to rot in their own blood.

Her armor covered in blood, guts, pieces of bone, and at least some brain matter, she steps into the server room. She raises her pistol, putting a bullet through the one netrunner's skull. Been on that one's case for a minute already, since her ICE had blocked some shitstained attempt to shut down her implants. The red outline of the tracker faded away alongside the runner's heartbeat.

The other tries to raise their hands in surrender, but they're too slow before Iron's squashed their head against a wall.

The office's basement now quiet, the masked merc looks around the server room, her iron visage betraying nothing of the manic glee bubbling beneath the surface.

She taps into her link to Ikarus.

"I'm in. Fuck do I do now?"

[hxdonist]

I can't be saved. Reaching for the life we threw away. Watching as it circles in the drain. With everything I love that's gone to waste. With everything I was, but couldn't change.

[hxdonist]

"Better man than me, I rather enjoy complaining to the distinctive lack of anyone listening." It's how he cuts BTs, too, a conversation to dead air that helps mitigate the suffocating silence of his apartment. It used to be conversational, but that almost seemed stranger than bitching and moaning. The other man insists that there's not much looks can tell him about Ikarus- or anyone about anyone else, for that matter, and typically, Ikarus is inclined to agree with him- His appearance is a carefully crafted farce, after all, a sloppy, life-worn ex-corpo in last night's clothes hiding the truth just beneath. He's usually wearing the same amount of neon though, to be fair. "Aw, come on, they had like, 2 good albums before they went mainstream and started courting the adult alt-radio play market." He looks down, tugging the fabric of his shirt forward, a shower of ash cascading from his cigarette to the hem right at that moment. "I also don't remember buying this shirt." Which means he stole it from someone, a common occurrence given the way the Nano Zillas treat Nara Dreamland like a communal house. He shrugs.

It fits, and the holes are minimal. Sometimes that's all that matters.

He's thankful, perhaps, when Malcolm seems to ease up on the 'tough guy' pressure. Ikarus isn't particularly strong, all 6'4 of him smattered with wiry muscle and his talents best suited for sitting around in a netrunning chair. And given the lack of exploitable cyberware any sort of physical scrap was going to end with Ikarus' ass soundly kicked- and that would only make tonight worse. Being forthcoming had its benefits... sometimes. "See I conduct my business in an apartment like, fifteen minutes from here, and do not make a habit of advertising my services in places you can get the same experience without bothering me, but sometimes, an idiot with more money than sense and a very niche fetish decides he's going to inconvenience several people in one day. Me, You, himself, once I get my fidgety fucking hands on 'im." Malcolm looks momentarily stunned to silence, and if Ikarus hadn't just scanned him, he'd assume for a split second that yes, in fact, the other man had suddenly encountered a processing error.

Hell, maybe he technically had.

"Like I said, it's weird shit, of an origin that is clearly homemade, but nothing I should have had to drag myself out of the house for. And if I owe any apologies or favors to the higher ups for this shit, I'll pay my dues." He's good for his word and services, after all- he wouldn't get away with half the shit he gets up to otherwise.

"If I had it my way, I wouldn't be doing this deal here. Trust me. I might not think ahead most of the time, but even I know this was a stupid decision." It gets easier to lie, the more you do it. playing stupid is an artform. A hand meets his own, and Ikarus nods. "Pretty sure I've burned out in the same bar as your brother, here and there. In any case, Thanks for the spark up- and not immediately trying to turn me into a vaguely technicolor pavement smear." His ocular scanner flicks on, sending a particularly angry message to his client for making him wait- before he sighs, throwing his hand up. "Fuck it." He snuffs his cigarette under one well worn boot. "I'm going in at the bare minimum for a drink. I don't like owing people either."

And so the offer's made. "Trade you a round for the light?"

❝ not often. ❞ the answer to the question is just as flat as it is swift and anyone who didn't know malcolm ( such as the gentleman standing opposite him now ) might assume him a liar for how abruptly he shuts down the notion. but the honest to goodness truth? he really doesn't. see, malcolm is about as much of an open book as the audubon — you may get a glimpse beyond the surface, sure, but only one that has been chosen for you. pre-selected. he keeps his details sealed away, locked and guarded. beyond the occasional gripe to his brother — more often than not, about his own behavior — malcolm seldom shares his complaints. but particularly not with strangers ; what are they meant to do with his burdens? his expression does not falter even a twitch at the younger man's incredulous reaction to his reminder. malcolm stands by what he said. ❝ i've been 'round the block enough now t'know ye canny assume to judge anybody on looks alone. what's yer outfit got to tell me yer capable of, outside o' maybe listenin' to trash bands? ❞

the fact that ikarus bothers to explain himself at all is enough to encourage malcolm to cool it on the offensive a bit ; he's still wary as he would be of anybody else loitering outside of the club, but he takes a step back, spares enough attention to his cigarette to flick away several centimeters' worth of smoldering ash he's wasted. a long drag fills lungs with the deliciously acrid burn of nicotine. malcolm blinks at icarus through a cloud of smoke. ❝ isnae conductin' yer business directly outside of — and still on the property of, mind you — another establishment exactly the definition' of solicitin' anyhow? ❞ there's a brief pause and, for a moment, one could almost be convinced the enforcer had his own cyberware enhancements for the nearly visible gears turning behind a slate gaze. he chooses to ignore the morbid images evoked by a casual comment ( violence may run hot in his veins, but that doesn't mean he enjoys when it is gratuitous ) but — ❝ pool toys and toes? ❞

malcolm shakes his head. ❝ already told ye my thoughts on yer looks, it don't matter. listen, i've seen ye 'round here, ikarus, i know yer not startin' any trouble— ❞ just as much a statement as it is a warning, but there's no real heat behind it. he suspects there doesn't need to be. ❝ ―but would ye be so kind as t'keep yer dealin' with the degenerates from the deep end away from this particular doorstep in the future? canny be good for business ― for the hens, ye figure, their peace o' mind ― having creeps treat it like a porn post box. ❞ and look, malcolm understands the irony of his statement given the very pleasure heaven's night purveys, but he'll argue there's a difference between that and kinky bootleg braintrips. ❝ yer clown's got a problem with it, ye can tell 'im mac said so. ❞ there's another pause as malcolm takes a drag from his cigarette ; longer this time, he begins exhaling the smoke through flared nostrils partway through as he reaches for the other's hand. ❝ i'm mac. ❞

[hxdonist]

We speak in tongues and we walk on the wires between We don't belong here We are the sleeping sickness, the dancing dreams We don't belong here We're invaders from the inside We're survivors in silver skin Shapeless, we move, unwinding the wires between We don't belong here.

[hxdonist]

"I don't have any problem getting action thank you." That much is true- he's left Heaven's Night a number of nights drunk in the company of a rail thin so-and-so with more sharp angles and cheap, plastic adornments than sense- a taste for the trashy he accredits to his mother- she'd sired him with America's premiere deadbeat after all. He doesn't look like the kitsch type, all dark clothes and carbon steel, but he'd sooner buy himself and Carmen a round of cheap vodka than anything top shelf. It is a direct anachronism to the expensive cigarettes he smokes and the life he abandoned. It's simply a matter of easily satisfied tastes. "So unless you're offering to find me a little company let's try being nicer to your favorite corporate burnout, shall we?" She winks, then shoots him a glare, and slightly-bucked teeth are exposed in a smirk all the while. "Ha. Meat. Good one. You do still need to sleep, though."

He's one to talk, a chromed-up chronic insomniac giving a lecture to someone chopped from the same cloth. He'll argue it's different when it's him. Their dark circles are matching half-moons, and as smoke tumbles from his lips, climbing the air behind the phantoms of self-destruction Carmen's exhaled, he takes in rumpled clothes and impressively sleepless bedhead. "Incredibly bold of you to be offering to pay me off when you look like you'd sell your soul for a nap right about now." He understands the concern, it doesn't mean he has to like it. Carmen's got enough to worry about.

In the same ways you are forced to remember she has been made to forget.

"Shit's not even that crazy- sure, it's weird, and isn't the kind of thing that gets my rocks off, which means cutting 'em was a miserable nightmare, Not my bag, but way, way tamer than the shit people usually bring 'round to me." Carmen's seen him on enough nights after the usual- shaking hands and haunted brown eyes. a job's a job but you never forget the sensation of being zeroed in a BT that's not been correctly dampened yet. He drinks hard, those nights, barely spills down the stairs to the basement to say hello. She looks more like him on those nights than she'd probably like to admit, right now.

"I know better than to move anything particularly gnarly in Mata Haris territory, I like living, contrary to what's certainly popular belief. If this dude had commissioned me for any of the heavy shit, he'd still be bitchin' at me about not wantin' to meet at my place." He's quiet, as Carmen settles against the building beside him. There's a balance- he can't remember the last time they'd both been of right, well rested mind together. He isn't sure he believes the insistence she's fine, but he's never been the guy to call her on it. "Ah, well, could think a' way worse company to have, I guess." he adjusts, tapping ash and watching it tumble to the ground beside well worn boots. "Might still be interested in the boots though. You sure they're my size?" He pauses, tacking onto the end "Both in the 'wearing' and 'shoved up my ass' categories." He would have made a filthy joke, normally, but instead, uncharacteristically, he sighs.

"I do live like, fifteen minutes from here, you know. If you ever get tired of sleeping at your desk or not sleeping at all, you're welcome to crash there. I hear my couch pulls out way better than half the dudes in this city."

And there's the filth, after a slight detour.

❝   𝐁𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐕𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.    ❞    Carmen responds with  that  same  shade  of  playful shit-talking  that  falls  along  an  exaggerated  snap  clipped  off  the  edge  of  Ikarus'  tone.    She  pauses  her  perusal  of their exchange as he swiftly reclaims the cigarette she stole seconds before ( and at least replaces with one anew, to which she rewards her trademark wink as she lights up ).    At his words,  she  squints  down.    Affront  hovers  around  the  hunch  of  her  glare but it's all just in good fun.    ❝    well, that's what happens when you work for a bunch of habitual circle-jerkers. plus a girl's gotta make ends meat.     ❞  

A sly  curl  makes its encore on  the  already  bent  edge  of  her  lips.    ❝    ━━━━    tis' the season and all.    ❞      it's a bad joke  that  she  bites  off  with  a  bitter  snort.    The  state  of  her  attire  shows as much.    Carmen's  fingertips  catch  in  an  untamed  bedhead  situated  atop  the  haggard  half-purpled  eyes  of  a  BT tech  who  hasn’t  seen  the  good  night  side  of  a  pillow  just  yet.    She’s  rumpled,  un-ironed,   slouching  into  a  place  where  she  knows  enough  about  the  person  she’s  staining  to  breath  a  sigh    —    no  matter  how  fleeting    —   of  RELIEF.    ❝    look,    ❞    Carmen  stalls,  ashing her cig.    ❝    i don't wanna be that person but i hope you're being careful.  i'll even give you some incentive.   probably  cover  your  dry  cleaning for a month,  your  uber eats,   HELL  ...    i’ll  even  throw  in  a  pair  of  new,   shiny,   never-before  tarnished  by  tokyo’s  dirty  laundry  doc  martens  just  so  i  can  shove  them  up  your  stupid  ass. just don't get caught selling any crazy shit, especially by soyala.    ❞  

The  exhale  that  spills  out  of  her  lungs  is  caught  halfway  between  stumped    &    the  battered  EXHAUSTION  hanging  her  elbows  to  the  tops  of  her  knees.    A  bump  of  her  shrugging  shoulder  turns  to the entrance of Heaven's Night.    ❝    but i'm good. ❞ If she wasn't, she'd be shit at admitting to it regardless. ❝ anyway, aren't you glad this smoke nickin' bitch came around to brighten your evening? you looked like you were struggling out here, respectfully.   ❞  

[hxdonist]

.::. A CALL TO ARMS .::. archival footage

the following transcript and video data has been provided to the public in a heavily redacted state to spread awareness of the insurrectionary collective known as the NANO ZILLAS and their methodology for large scale attacks upon the populace.

At approximately 13:15:59 on XX/XX/2040, several hundred AD SIGNBOARDS across Tokyo experienced a long-term glitch allowing for the insertion of a repeating visual of the NANO ZILLAS logo. While teams were quickly deployed to repair these hacked screens, at approximately 13:30:21 these screens began to display a live feed of the insurrectionist known as 1NF1N1T3FUN flanked by fellow netrunners- all hidden beneath masks. The transcript of the live feed is below.

1NF1N1T3FUN: Greetings, Tokyo. I am a friend. My name does not matter. Only my intentions- our intentions. Some of you know who we are- in stories told as warnings against young netrunners and freshly minted corpos, the NANO ZILLAS are bogeymen- that we lead your skillful astray, calling them away from the safety and comfort of high towers and your exploitation with the promise of making them something greater. That we steal, and rob, and destroy the peaceful way the deserving people of Japan have been allowed to live.

[1NF1N1T3FUN'S Helmet lights up, eight holographic eyes displayed over the faceplate. they emote as they speak.]

1NF1N1T3FUN: I am here to tell you that those tales are true. But like with all myths and legends, our purpose has been lost in the sensationalism. So allow me to remind you: Hello, Gestalt Bureau. At approximately 13:15:55 today, my people and I breached the protective protocols on your local servers. We now know the names and orders of every high-profile buyer you've served in the past... several months. I will offer you a trade. Your integrity with your customers for the one-time-fee my people have sent to your finance division. If you shut off the Ad system in the city, I will turn it back on. If you attempt to track my people- I will kill the runner fool enough to chase me without hesitation. Any attempt to circumvent our demands will end in bloodshed- and the release of the entire client list- unredacted.

[upon this announcement it is believed a transmitter puck was discovered in the Gestalt Bureau building's perimeter. it is unknown who placed it there. The demand for [REDACTED] in yen arrived shortly after this message.]

1NF1N1T3FUN: And to you, Tokyo, I assure you, I am a friend. So consider this a favor- an offering from my family, to you. Free of charge. Every adboard in this city, until correctly reprogrammed, will provide you a running feed of who among you believes humanity can be bought and sold- that the circumstances of birth are completely relevant to the way you are treated. Until we receive payment, or the overworked, underpaid, government staff tasked with ensuring you are inundated with consumerism and government-approved drivel via these very screens manages to repair thousands- You will be given what we already knew: That if they can justify an absence of humanity, if a scrap of deniability to the presence of a soul can be held aloft- they will exploit you.

[screens around Tokyo began transmitting the names and employment data of several of Gestalt Bureau's customers at this moment, one per minute from 13:35:43 to 13:50:40 upon which the Bureau is alleged to have paid the ransom. NANO ZILLA did not broadcast the entirety of this period, but did continue their control over a number of signboards until 13:38:10 to speak to the public.]

1NF1N1T3FUN: Power. Control. Gestalt Bureau is not alone in their attempts to play God, Tokyo. You- all of Japan, are chattel to those who have positioned themselves above you- were it not for the Hosts, the names on the screens you see now would have simply chosen one of you to fill the role they were created for- some still do. I know this from experience. As I have said, I am a friend, and the people who sought me are my family.

1NF1N1T3FUN: Ask yourself, why is it NANO ZILLA must deal with those The Powers That Be have deemed undesirable? Is knowledge not what hundreds of religions promised? Is it not a gift from our Gods? the original sin that we toil for? Why must we toil in the darkness? It is because like our friends who push drugs to feed their people, or kill in defense, we represent something our new gods do not want you to embrace- protection of the self against exploitation- against suffering.

1NF1N1T3FUN: I am not in the market of withholding what I know. All are welcome to take their solace among us, you need only to prove your merit where my people and I dwell- Follow me, and we'll find you... You need not live in the dark anymore. To the rest of you- more knowledge will find you, when the time is right.

[Upon transmission ending, every ad board affected by the hack proceeded to continue to display the stolen client information until ransom payment was received. A number of generous anonymous donations to [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], and Host Rights Campaigns were distributed in the weeks following the incident, they are believed to be connected.]

[hxdonist]

An ever present feed of data filters into his vision as he's approached. There are benefits to paranoia married to intelligence in a world where the surface of the net is constantly at hand. The red-lit panel that appears in his vision is standard enough information- name, arrests- and a carefully maintained running tally of any other person's present affiliations. Malcom Hayes. Mata Haris, through and through. "What, never complained at least a little about being given the run-around to anyone who can hear?" Narrowed eyes scrutinize him, and when it's suggested he might be soliciting- Ikarus barks out a laugh. "Please, do I look half like I'm here to solicit anything except a quick finish to this exchange and maybe a drink with a friend? I didn't even bring my wallet." He's dressed in all black save for a neon-splattered tee shirt for a band from America, a single glove over steel fingers- his augmentations ever-tucked away, even the coiling wires of his neck and spine less visible here, behind the biblical gift of knowledge tattooed on the front- it's not exactly the typical 'baby I can save you from this place' getup- far less suit and tie worn poorly and more personal stylist since he was a child now recapturing his youth.

He realizes, however, that trying to preserve any semblance of subtlety about what he's doing here isn't going to fly with Malcolm- making a mental note to add 'untrusting and dogged' to the personality profile later. "Got a client picking up BTs I cut for them, and they got squirrely about coming to get them from my apartment, like I was going to call in a sting on 'em for being into like, pool toys and toes like I don't scroll people gettin' zeroed for the right price. So they told me to meet 'em here." He motions at the building towering behind him, shifts black paper cigarillo to the other side of his mouth with a sigh. "And now, 'cause they've either got cold feet, or traffic was way worse than I encountered, I'm standin' around outside with my dick in my hand and no lighter."

Eventually, though, Malcolm parts with a flame, just long enough for Ikarus to spark up and take a drag, the familiar taste of cloves enough to send tensed shoulders back to a more... relaxed, position. "If I'm lucky? I'll manage to make this hand-off and have the time for a drink for my efforts, check in with some friends, before I clear out. If I'm unlucky, I'll be drinking on a deficit, because the Undertow's all the way across town and I'm not going home empty handed and sober." He reaches his hand up to scratch along the space where his neural port meets the back of his head. it came back with blood under the nails, a night ago. "Do I look even a little like I might be the kind of guy who's stupid enough or even half capable of causing trouble in the heart a' Mata Haris territory? I like living." He hands the lighter back smoothly- then extends a hand- flesh and bone emblazoned with the head of a goat- "DDOS" marked across the knuckles. "Ikarus. Like the greek birdbrain who drowned his ass."

He'll pretend to be surprised, if he gets a name in return, after all.

though he is not under the technical employ of heaven's night as security ( and certainly not as entertainment ) there is nary a night that malcolm hayes cannot be found looming somewhere in the shadows of the perverse and fantastical haze that fills the club in a perfumed cloud of lust. make no mistake, that does not mean he arrives with intent to ❛ partake ❜ in any of the pleasures within these walls either. he is still here for business. level four gym may be signing his checks above board, but at the end of the day, his loyalties lie unwaveringly with the mata haris.

❝ the feck are ye on about, pal ? ❞ malcolm's head cocks to the side a bit as he takes a couple of steps toward the other man, gaze like a tumultuous ocean narrowed in mild suspicion as he gives him a brief but thorough once-over. ❝ sounds t'me yer clown's not the only one speakin' in riddles. what d'ye mean, questionable shit, huh? ❞ the man himself doesn't appear to pose any immediate threat ( malcolm recognizes ikarus as a regular face, but he doesn't make a habit of conversing with the club's clientele ― again, he is not on their payroll ) but his words have dubious inclinations that spur malcolm to interrogate him a bit further. there isn't any real aggression behind the questions ( not yet, anyway ) but he remains on alert all the same. as he speaks, a hand drops to slide into a worn denim pocket and curls around the cool metal of a stainless steel sigaretta ; it remains, as of yet, unoffered. ❝ isnae the place for loiterin', friend. or solicitin'. but ye already know that, yeah? ❞

slowly he pulls the lighter out of his pocket, uses the flame to light the cigarette he's just untucked from behind an ear before finally extending it. ❝ what're ye doin' here tonight anyway? are ye not goin' in? ❞

[hxdonist]

[hxdonist]

He's seen the guy before, constantly on some street corner, talking about how augmentation is the mark of the devil, or whatever, and to the credit of this nutjob, he's dedicated to the cause. He is, at the least, entertaining enough that Ikarus can justify standing here with his to-go ramen in one hand, funneling noodles into his mouth with the other as Zephyr screams at innocent passerby that they're doomed to... some kind of government-controlled techno-hell if they don't repent and strip themselves out for parts soon. Ikarus spares a chuckle, this guy's starting to sound more like him than he likes. He's got the right idea, he reasons- when your body is owned by a corporation you're never truly free.

But sacrifice is the name of the game, these days. Zephyr levels a hand at him, insists that he might be saved. "Missed the boat on that one, chief." He can't judge too harshly, from this angle, he does look spared of the claws of transhumanism- that's on purpose. He turns his head, though, displaying the netrunning port and the sea of dark steel and carbon coiling up toward it- metal replacing flesh eaten away gleefully in sacrifice to this ikarus' personal sun. "But, I'm not eating babies or beating people to death in the street." He reminds, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his turtleneck and tossing the empty carton of his ramen into a nearby trash heap. "However, you are disturbing the peace, and there's a PD sweep coming through in oh, 4 minutes? Might wanna pack it in for a little bit, Doomsday- looks like you've got a record already." the pupil of one brown eye constricts and expands slightly, a cursory scan through all required databases made before he approaches anyone, now.

Location: A streetcorner near the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building, midday. Participants: Zephyr & [redacted]

"there's a price to pay for what you're doing to your bodies!" zephyr had been ignored on the corner for hours, now. his voice was starting to grow hoarse, as he rambles on and on. "laws allowing the augmentation of the human body have always been immoral, but i see how many of you are augmented, and my heart breaks for you! they were created for control, and soon you will be nothing more than a husk of your former selves, government controlled and killing each other to downsize the population!"

he points, at a random person, lifts the other hand outstretched, palm up to his side. "you! you could be saved, those around you could be saved! the greed of humanity surely doesn't permeate in your mind, influenced by what the government allows, by what doctors are willing to do to your body!"

[hxdonist]

>//location.dat: The Undertow [INTERIOR] >//participant.dat: Ikarus Ito and Lux Hernandez @deusmort1s

He loves bar fights. Not being involved in them, mind you- but last call at The Undertow always gave him the best opportunity to watch some solo haul off on a mouthy ganger, egos and liquor a dangerous combination for those who didn't know when to pick their battles. People unlike Ikarus. He picks up his glass and leans back, as the merc runs the unfortunate fellow who hadn't heard her out the first time down the bar face-first toward him. He takes an absent sip of the dregs before motioning to the bartender around the crashing of a body into a nearby table that, by the look of it, will soon be used for its original purpose again, unless Mara steps in. "Hey. Can I get another round?" He's not bothered.

He's here on business, after all.

Two versions of Ikarus live within him, and it's nights like this where he's not sure which one is answering to the summons. Nano Zilla are no strangers to working with Mara, but face to face, like this, only Ikarus is known to Lux... For better or worse. It's 1NF1N1T3FUN who knows where The Undertow hides in the city- it's Ikarus who's familiar enough with the boss to be sitting here getting shit-canned while the doormen drag a chromed-out cowboy off the guy who really will feel that in the morning.

He's not sure if it's the commotion, or the fact Lux finally bothered to check their messages to see his offer of a trade, but through the pleasant swim of the drink, Ikarus spots exactly who he's been sitting here waiting for most of the night.

"I had my money on the cowgirl." He declares as Lux appears- downing the last of his drink with a scrunch of his nose. "I'll apologize first for keeping you waiting- I was... under the weather, last time you reached out." He taps the case beside his foot with the toe of his boot.

It's the travel rig, a BT editing and viewing setup less wieldy than Ikarus' home build- for running raw scrolls- unedited, unclipped. He won't judge Lux's poison when they're the best place to get some of his own.

"Figured I'd get back to you as soon as I could- and word on the grapevine was that you were in tonight, so I figured if anything- I could sneak outta the slums for a nightcap."

[hxdonist]

>//location.dat: Nara Dreamland [NANO ZILLA 'UNDERGROUND'] >//participant.dat: Ikarus Ito and Nixon Montgomery @feastonkings

There's enough servers and data bays in Japan to blanket the globe several times over in miles of cables and steel, if laid end-to-end-to-end, and a not minimal amount of those bays live hidden, tucked away in the carcass of a land of dreams that somehow defied the threat of the wrecking ball. It had started as little more than a foxhole, a suitable hideaway with the urban legends of ghosts and spirits enough to turn away most prying eyes at little more than the looming entrance.

And now, in some way, it's a home. Nara Dreamland is still bound in the steel skeletons of grand roller coasters and copyright-dodging attraction buildings. And if you know where to look within those bones, you'll find where Nara's 'ghosts' haunt the net. Ikarus moves unbothered through the wreckage, picking his way through overturned trash cans and collapsed buildings long-past rusted with peeling paint to slip into one of the overhauled ruins.

Natural vines and dust give way to a crawling sea of wires, and his boots shake mud and dirt off onto much cleaner floors. "Ah, someone actually bothered to sweep." It's laughed- and to himself, really, before running the scanner indicates that he's not the first arrival to the hideout, today.

"Nixon? the fuck're you doing here this early?" He leans himself in the doorway of the room he's found them in, a brow arching, his helmet tucked underneath his arm. "Did you even sleep, champ?" He shifts, tugging his helmet on and waiting the few seconds it takes his headware to prime up and connect, the latches alongside his neural port flicking out and locking into it- primed to mitigate the way it gleefully consumes the humanity left in him.

"you know a healthy work-life balance is important. I think. They said that shit a lot when I worked for GB. Granted- they also wanted that balance to be like 'sleep for an hour then get your ass back in the chair, netboy!' but I feel like the advice is sound... prior to being bastardized."

[hxdonist]

"Smoke nickin' bitch." The words, despite their bite, are fond, when his eyes catch up with his hands and mouth (they're usually bringing up the rear, to be fair.) to sort out exactly who he caught to bum a light off of. "I mean to be fair, usually when we're hanging out there's two of you. But, now that I do recognize you, I've got company for this waiting for Godot thing I've got going on." He straightens from where he's leaned into the side of the building, watches silently as she lights the end of black and gold paper- a preference for clove always present, as a corpo it had been for aesthetics- now, he just prefers the taste he's acquired. "What the hell're you doing out of your dungeon, anyway, normally I have to come inside and haul you up for a drink, I didn't know you went outside all on your own."

Mechanical digits between thick black leather flick his case open again, pulling another cigarette from within- he watches smoke climb from between Carmen's lips for a moment, toward the neon of the signs and ads high above- the camera shutter of a scanner embedded in one brown eye flicks on- examining his surroundings for something new... and finds nothing out of the norm.

you're always looking over your shoulder now, even the 'real' you knows too much.

"And nah, this isn't a drop for you guys. Got a client." he reaches forward, twisting the cig in his hand to face her- before swapping the unlit one for the one he'd previously been robbed of smoothly, smirking as he takes a long pull, exhaling through his nose.

"Dude's convinced he's gonna get nailed by somebody for buying off me, told me 'we have to make the drop where it'll seem the most normal.' and didn't listen when I said 'the least normal place I could give you porn BTs of questionable origin is a strip joint' so now we're hanging out on a rare day that I'm not drunk already. You get to decide if that's good or bad news. How you been, Carmy? Working too hard still?"

THIS IS A LAZY HOUR. The city still chatters away outside, but in the muted, late-night bleating of spare taxis calling out to each other, in the happy, liquor-doused meandering down the sidewalk, the sounds are subdued. Heaven's being explored upstairs, packed with desperate low level corpos and various criminals grabbing ass; launching cash on the floor as the stripper's danced in seductive circles, undressing slowly but surely with practiced ease. Outside the sun's down, sidewalks cool.

She needs a break and no one's looking.

( you're a long way from the girl who looked at her mortality with the last centimeters of clawing fingernails but you're still just as desperate. now, you're just trying to constantly feel something, in whatever way that means )

Carmy stretches in her standing, taking the back door outside. The humidity of Tokyo's spring starts to settle & so she becomes clammy, thick midnight hair clinging to the nape of her neck, trickling too far down her ears. There's a voice. Carmen turns, stares at Ikarus through the alleyway aperture and decides fuck it; after  a  beat  she  snatches  the  cigarette  from  its  wobbling  place  cornered  at  his  lips    &    puts  it  back  to  her  own  in  a  single,   streamlined  motion.     She squints around the light of her zippo, quiet in a long, flickering drag. ❝ hey asshole, didn't recognize me? ❞ her tongue flats around a curling, grey stream of smoke.

There's a ring of a playful scoff riding its way toward a MOCK at the end, like she's biting off a laugh. ❝ — vic call you or what? ❞

[hxdonist]

Pussy, money, fame: my religion I ain’t superstitious- I’m praying for forgiveness I’m praying for you. Bitches, money, fame: ammunition I aim with precision; and cock it and blow your brains on the kitchen . . .