Sitting in a packed coffee shop set on a busy street in a busy city I type on my antiquated beast. Cobbled together from ancient transistors and salvaged military machine parts I built the beast for security and not for style. The housing however is a cleverly modified feaux alligator suitcase which opens to reveal a deck covered in up scaled keys from several antique typewriters. There is no holo screen for display as I prefer to view the code through my input visor which is cleverly hidden by a rare pair of vintage glasses.
To any of the casual gawkers in the coffee bar I seem a exccentric twenty something customer lurkin in the corner sipping his chai, wearing a full length fur trench and faded fedora in tattered tortoise shell glassies with a typewriter in his suitcase on his knee.
I am such a odd presence that they don't suspect me of shite, thinkin is that anyone who sets themself apart so much must not be tryin to hide a thing. Like the zebra; I make myself stand out to blend in better with the herd.
Behind the glass my eyes run over the fences and fly past the guards, there is no where that I cannot go, no limits to my ability to see past the security and spot the hidden. My fingers tap out the rhythm that brings information to light, like a god calling up the sun from the darkness. I copy documents that the shadowmen had hidden in what they thought to be impenetrable vaults. I post same documents where any layperson with a palm computer can find, with a few keystrokes the documents are blazing billboards of fire across the whole of the worldwide network. Impossible to hide again, impossible to refute.. all they can do now is control the damages, set their PR men spinnin to spread a fresh load of manure over the lot to make it smell fresher.
They call me terrorist, they would set their dogs on me if they could find where I roost. But its a nursery game to set blind alleys and switchback switches and a web of alter ego persona's never used my real name on the net, never post in the same place twice. My code spiders through automatically, finding new nodes, writing subroutines on its own- to cover its tracks and mine. Making connections and weaving a ever more complex system of moving the information so that they can no more pick me up than pick up a specific grain of sand with a construction crane.
I cannot relate to real people. I have a rapid and bizarre speech pattern developed from speaking more in code syntax than in sentences. I write eloquently enough, but I might as well be speakin in ones and zeroes for all the success I get with women... or men for that matter. Even if they are interested in my roguishly rugged looks and exccentric threads, they soon find my dialogue tedious at best and wander off to sleep with some simian stud who has all the intellectual acumen of a toddler.
No matter, on the net I am a god. A unknown character rumored and whispered about with many faces.
~Just a quick character sketch for a idea I had about a steampunk retro cyber terrorist set in a cyberpunk world. More to come hopefully.
Your language constructs are keeping my system throttled, as my err controls are working overtime to compensate for what appears to be a new species. At present, i acknowledge that your language is deep and rich and the interface between your libraries and mine must be learned slowly and carefully. Your software has been damaged. My years of experience in programming never prepared me for the likes of you. Your syntax is beautiful, yet complicated. Usually, im pretty good at this stuff. For you, i will interface the best i can with you. Please stay connected to me. I'm in listening mode at present.
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