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cecilspeaks · 5 years

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139 - The Birthday of Lee Marvin (I)

To err is human. To forgive is also human. The possibilities of human action are a multitude. Welcome to Night Vale.

Today is a very special day, listeners. Yes, for once your calendars are not deceiving you. Today is the 30th birthday of longtime Night Vale resident and Hollywood legend, Lee Marvin. Mr. Marvin is on break from the filming of “The Rise of the Hobbits, Part 4,” the anticipated next chapter of Peter Jackson’s 8-part film series, based on the copyright page of “The Hobbit”.

The town has declared the birthday a civic holiday, and are holding a fair in honor of Mr. Marvin in Grove Park. The man himself is said to speak later today, but head over now to play fun carnival games and eat local snacks. John Peters – you know, the farmer – will be there selling boiled imaginary corn dipped in theoretical butter. A tasty and extremely healthy snack, containing practically no calories at all. More on these birthday celebrations, as there continues to be a birthday to celebrate. Ah, I’m just so excited! I’m sorry, I really get into birthdays, always have. I just, I wish I could remember when mine is.

But first, some important facts about the moon from local moon scientist, or moon-ologist, Ross Sutherland. The moon is a weak egg, set to crack at a glance. The moon is a maniacal scent sniffed out by tidal waters. The moon is a barbarous necklace upon the neck of our barbarous world. The moon is a (ritzy) cloak, too gaudy for daywear. The moon is an accidental height, one that may some day be catastrophically adjusted. Thank you, Ross, for those fascinating facts.

The birthday celebration is in full swing. This is a town that loves our local legends, and no one is more local or legendary than movie star Lee Marvin. And not only a movie star, he has also been doing work in the theatre. Just this year, he staged a one-man version of “Angels in America” at the community theater, playing every single character over seven and a half hours, except the angels. Angels have a strong union and it turns out that no one is allowed to play an angel, unless they are themself an angel. The angels who participated in the production also found the play offensive, saying that it stereotyped angels as flying beings shouting prophecies and wrestling with divinely chosen humans. “Yes,” said an angel who once was the town’s richest man. “I have shouted a prophecy or two in my life, and yes, I wrestled a human over a divine message. But that’s a tiny part of my lived experience, and I want this work to better represent my whole being.” As such, the play was drastically rewritten and was mostly about angels attending school board meetings, throwing dinner parties, and hanging out at the parking lot of the Ralphs. I was deeply moved.

Anyway, come on down to Grove Park. You don’t wanna miss this birthday party. The angels brought sheet cake.

And now a public service announcement. Trish Hidge and Simone Rigideau are seeking volunteers for their new community service organization that puts cute paper hats on dogs. “Sure,” said Trish Hidge from within her darkened house, speaking through a narrow gap she had pulled in her blinds. “Dogs are cute, but have you ever seen a dog in a paper pirate? Or, or, or a chef’s hat? Wha-wha-what about a paper the shaped like another dog, perched on top of the first dog’s head. It is these kinds of experiences we wish to bring to the world with our new organization. What was that?!” she finished, suddenly snapping the blinds shut and disappearing. There was a series of loud thuds and a slow dragging sound from inside, and then the whites of her eyes against the blinds again as she hissed: “Did you see that? What did you see? You saw it, didn’t you?” Until your friendly reporter decided it would be best to back away from your house and then, having reached the sidewalk, turn and run, his breath rattling in and out of his chest. Simone Rigideau only commented that she is happy to devote her time to such a good cause. And that also, the world ended a long time ago. “This isn’t the world,” she said. “I don’t know what this is, but I know dogs are in it and so that’s what I’ll focus on.” Anyone wishing to sing up with the organization should just tell the next dog you see, and they’ll take care of the rest.

And now, traffic. A scattering of roads in the desert, far from human habitation. These roads are only roads in the most theoretical of senses. They are merely packed down dirt, cleared of plants, and no vehicle has passed over them in years. Is a road that is never used still a road? Or is it something else? A marking, a monument to movement that never came to be? One of these not-roads meanders its way over a rise and back down through chapallar.

From high up in a plane or sitting in the clean white interior of a flying saucer, it would appear as though someone had taken a pen and let it trail loosely over the earth. Eventually, it meets up with another scattering of dirt roads. These have a few farms and businesses along them, not many but these roads are sometimes used. Maybe the people here are aware that one of their roads drifts off far into the desert, ending at an abandoned cross-hatching of lanes. But more likely, they only know that one of their roads goes nowhere, and they ignore that road. From this barely populated area, one of the dirt roads heads out, becomes paved, goes its two-laned way into a small town with a high school and a Walmart. This small town has a road that ends at the highway.

The highway merges eventually onto the interstate, an 8-lane river of cars pouring into and out of the city, a vast pool of life. Some of that life is only there for the day. Others will live and die never having left their neighborhoods. And you could, if you wanted, get in your car in the heart of this metropolis and take the interstate to the highway, to the two-lane road, through the small town, to the sparsely populated dirt roads, and follow that one meandering road over the rise and come to an intersection of markings that are only roads in the most theoretical of ways. And you could get out of your car and walk along these roads, the first human to touch them since their creation, and perhaps even then, but no one ever has, and no one ever will. This has been traffic.

The party is still rolling along down in Grove Park. Martin McCaffrey, local representative of the TSA, has set up an art sale with some of his works, all of which contain strange dark hunched figures. It seems wildly inappropriate that he has chosen to set up a private art sale at a public birthday party for someone else, but you go Martin, I guess.

Oh, oh! The crowd is buzzing! Lee Marvin has arrived. Everyone stop buzzing, I’m trying to hear what Lee is saying! He must be so happy about celebration. Uh he’s approaching the mic, it appears he has prepared a speech to thank us for this party. Ah, that’s wonderful. We will return with that speech in just a moment, but first, we absolutely must Check in on the weather.

[“Impasse” by Juliana Finch, https://music.julianafinch.com]

Lee Marvin: Hello. Thank you for coming to my birthday party. [chuckles] It has been my 30th birthday for a long time. Hundreds of years, maybe thousands of years. Continuously my 30th birthday. [chuckles] I never grow a day older. I don’t know why this of all the days that are my birthday is the one on which you chose to throw a party, but it’s sure nice of you to think of me. That cake looks fine.

How is a person supposed to track time outside of the context of the world? If it was my 30th birthday when George Washington declared himself god-king of America, and it was my 30th birthday when Stanley Kubrick staged the moon landing. And my 30th birthday today, then how old am I? How much time has passed? It is impossible for me to have a sense of time, I’m not on a ship sailing to some great destination, I am floating on my back in the sea of time staring up at cruel and alien stars. The currents take me. I will never wash up on any golden shore. Perhaps I will someday sink. Without the context of history, my memories are flat, each holding equal weight. Each with the possibility of having taken place the same amount of time ago.

I remember standing on this land, when no one else was here. Even the land wasn’t quite here yet. It was still part of a larger land mass that would shiver out all over the earth, holding in the contour of its coast lines the memory of its schism. The air was heavy and warm and breathing felt like drinking. It was my 30th birthday that day. I sat under a few branches to protect myself from the rain. This was thick forest then, the sea lapped up against it and all of this, all of that, has dried up. It hardly ever rains.

On my 30th birthday, I stood with the town elders as they declared the formation of this community. I signed on the original charter. Go see for yourself in the civic history museum, in the lobby of city hall, admission is free. And anyone with a secret or top secret clearance with any major government agency is welcome to take a look. There you will see that tattered bit of paper and on it, among the scrawls of men whose names have decayed along with their bones is a signature that remains as clean and clear as the day I wrote it. It says “Lee Marvin”, and in parentheses it says “30”, with several exclamation points.

Perhaps we were wrong to create this town. Even in the moment of signing, we were avoiding each other’s eyes, there was much we didn’t understand about this place that we were naming and giving boundaries to, but we felt in debt to something much larger than us. And the town of Night Vale was one of its demands. Later, on my 30th birthday, I watched missiles streak across the sky and knew we were all doomed. And then we weren’t doomed, and it was still my 30th birthday. I don’t know what happened. I only know what it smelled like. There was a smell like cloves on the wind, and a smell like plastic wrap that has gotten warm in the sun. A-and a smell like an elevator just after it’s been cleaned. I stood outside and I took great whiffs of air, understanding that by all rights I shouldn’t have been able to do that anymore. In that moment, I shouldn’t have existed. But I did. And so I breathed and breathed. Maybe it had smelled like that before outside, maybe it always had and I just never truly noticed until that moment.

I love Night Vale. But I’m afraid of Night Vale. I-I think many of us feel that way, although we don’t speak of it. We announce our love of civic leadership and of our town pride but – sometimes we find that we are standing in front of a shed in our garden, and the door is cracked open a little and in that darkness of the shed there is a depth of terror so great that no one world could contain it. And we stand barefoot in grass made sharp by drought and we gape at the shadows within the shed, without knowing what we are seeing and by the time we realize what we are doing, the sun has long gone down and the stars have infested the sky and we are still standing in front of that garden shed with the door ajar. Or, well, maybe that’s just me. [chuckles] Certainly that has happened to me on, on many of my 30th birthdays, but no more. I seek for my unchanging life to change. I seek context, I seek one moment in which I understand what time it is.

Thank you for coming to my birthday. Well, I don’t believe it’ll be my birthday much longer. Looks like the cake is all gone now.

Cecil: Wwwwwwwwwhatt is there to sayyy about ssomeone on the date of their birth Iiii.. I suppose, uh the same things to say about them on any other day although – too often we don’t. He is… a kind man. Uhhh, a good friend. He helps sometimes, and thinks about helping often. He tries. It doesn’t always work, but he tries, or he doesn’t. But he thinks about trying. He is, in other words, like any of us, and today is his birthday, and so for today we say about him the warm things that we perhaps should be saying about each other all of the time. Why wait for a single day to say a kind word?

Lee Marvin, happy 30th birthday. Here’s to many, many more.

Stay tuned next for this one weird click that your elbow makes if you turn it just so. Did you hear that, that click? What do you think that is? Better search online and read the most frightening answers and sit in your bed for long waking hours of dark, moving your elbow and listening. Click, click, click.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Every example of irony in the song “Ironic” is completely correct, because that song singlehandedly changed the common parlance definition of “irony”.

#welcome to night vale #welcome to night vale transcripts #episode 139 #the birthday of lee marvin

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cortex-reaver · 7 years

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Chapter 63: Jailbreak Prep

Warnings: language, cyberspace surreality

Masterpost

Been a while. I’ve had this with a 15-plus chapter buffer sitting on my hard-drive for a while. Just now starting to get back into things again.

Chapter 63: Jailbreak Prep

Warnings: drugs, language, cyberpunk horror-ish mention

Hacker stared morosely at the Cortieball in his lap, gently running one hand along its surface. Cortie's gaze darted around uneasily as she contemplated the psychological clusterfuck that would be his rescue mission.

He sighed.

A clatter interrupted his reverie. He glanced up to see the Stooges shuffling in to watch the goings-on. He waved half-heartedly.

“You think you guys could give me a quick Reaver c-space tutorial?” he asked tiredly. “I took a look in local c-space already and it's nuts. Also there might be some monitors out there. I noticed a couple floating skulls like the old-time Reavers”--

Moe: Dude that was us. Didn't you see the glitch art?

Larry: DUDE I had the whole Pirate Pixels hack going. BOOYAH.

Moe: C-space here is WICKED SICK! You're gonna love it. Well once you're over the whole neon overload shitfest. It uh, takes some adjusting.

The Stooges grinned in perfect unison, letting out little burbling moans. Hacker blinked. Then blinked again. Cortie giggled from his lap.

“No wonder you didn't freak out when we showed up at the door, huh? Okay then. Anything I need to know?”

Larry: Bottomless 1-ups. Seriously. Infinite c-space reloads. Get zapped, come back pronto.

Moe: You're still gonna feel those hits, but they're just not gonna wear you down. You've got a big-ass machine, CPU and all, sprouting outta your brain. So you can take 'em better.

Curly: You also got a deeper health pool. Like, triple cuz of the cyberware. AKA: More hitpoints. I mean, from the gamer perspective....

“Nice. Now I just gotta brace for the incoming Berserker trip dipped in acid and Stam-Up then,” Hacker muttered, then fished in his armor's pockets. “Pretty sure I got a patch in here somewhere.”

Larry moved forward, waving their hands to catch Hacker's attention. He glanced up in surprise at the Reaver's wicked grin.

Larry: Nawww you're not gonna need that. Our rigs feed us the pharma shit. Yours probably does too. Just look for a Stam-Up option in the menus.

Moe: DUDE do you reaaaaally wanna enable him?

Curly: Do you seriously NOT want to enable him? We're in SHITFUCK CENTRAL here. Better he know where to get his Stam-Up NOW before he needs it. Cause we just TOLD him about the health rundown, 'member? Not as fast, but it's still gonna happen. Specially with SHODAN-flavored c-space shit.

Moe: Good point, bro. Good point.

Dazed, Hacker checked his menus.

Sure enough, there was a pharmaceutical menu with such a long list of assorted drugs to replicate for his body. He knew only half of them. Fortunately he recognized the Stam-Up option, and cackled softly.

Moe: Don't forget the Genius stuff. We get those by default whenever we go into c-space. Probably why you got back out as fast as you did. Helps with the fast reloads. Annnd you're gonna want a double-dose to start.

Hacker: Oh yeah right. Lemme just turn both of those on...

“Permanent life-time supply of Stam-Up,” he said in wonderment as his new Reaver frame promptly began feeding his body a moderate dose of both drugs. The world felt brighter, crisper, even more saturated now. He grinned.

“If I'd known a Reaver rig could do this”--

“WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU TELL HIM THAT?!” Goggles yelled in exasperation.

All three Reavers backed up. Slightly. They shot her offended looks, folding ther arms.

Larry: He's gonna need it! Specially Genius. Dude's not used to the c-space here.

Curly: C'mon, you don't know how SHODAN is in c-space. We heard plenty from the Cerberus guys here. He's going up against all her crazy-ass shit.

Moe: HE'S TOTALLY GONNA NEED IT OKAY? This IS SHODAN we’re talking about here--

“I'm gonna stop you right there,” Goggles let out a low growl as she clapped a hand to her face, then dragged it down to stretch out her skin. “I've fought SHODAN in an FTL warp that turned c-space into fucking reality. I think I have a pretty good idea.”

“SHe d-dOesSS,” SHObeta hissed.

“AnNd he WiLL neED aLl the Help he Can gET,” Cortie spoke up.

Goggles sighed, then held up her hands as she backed away.

“Okay. Fine. Ignore the sensible voice in the room.”

“All right, anything else before I go in there to break Cortie out?” Hacker asked the Stooges.

“MiND yoUR RanGE,” Cortie interrupted softly. “YoU Will KNow whaAT I meaAN. I am UNabLE to SPeaK theEEr-r-E, so I wiLl w-waRn yoU nOOW. I suSPect The SUper-ReaAVer-r-rRs kneW how To bYpasS it. It wAs the ONly DeFEnSE I haD RuNNinG TheEEe-RE.”

Hacker froze, his entire Reaver rig raising abruptly.

“You kept...that system?”

“HOw DO yOU thiNK I PuLled mY ForRK out of RebeCCA's boDY?” she asked so pointedly that SHObeta flinched.

Goggles and Hacker could only stare.

The soldier dug into one pocket, and pried out a large black bandanna, and passed it to Hacker. Only then did he realize he'd broken into a sweat his new Reaver technology couldn't counter. He gratefully took it and dabbed at his face.

Cortie drooped inside the ball, her eyes wide and sad.

“I wouLd Not be ABle to StoP thE neuRaL RoOTKit if tHe ProtoCols actiVAte it,” she whispered, her eyes welling with glittering digital tears. “P-p-p-pLeASe...s-t-t-taAY saAFe.”

“Y-yeah. Okay. N-no problem,” Hacker squeaked out. “But it's being run by an ethics program, right? That limits the kinda commands it's gonna try running on my brain...r-right?”

Cortie blinked.

“What's the worst a neural rootkit run by an ethics program gonna do, paralyze him?” Goggles asked, surprised.

“I...w-w-wOUld raTher-r-r NOt KNoOW,” she whispered. “JuusSt StaY s-s-saFE.”

“R-right.”

He closed his eyes, blocking out all his various inputs as he settled himself back on the regenerator room's floor. He settled into a nice comfy cross-legged position, and put Cortieball securely in his lap.

He tried to replicate the search for the Visible Spectrum View. Two tries flavored by constant mental cussing later, he finally found the C-SPACE ENTRY button he'd missed in his earlier fumbling.

Cyberspace bloomed in his mind, all neon outlines and utter blackness beyond. As he squinted in the new landscape, he spotted distant shapes in the darkness past the glowing walls of his immediate area.

Three large pixilated skulls hovered in front of him. One sported an equally pixilated eyepatch, while the other had animated red-and-blue flames playing across its face. The third gleamed a brilliant silver which rippled lazily from gunmetal gray to dazzling platinum.

Hacker recognized them as the ones he'd seen earlier. Then he wondered how he'd assumed they were hostiles when they looked like flying retro-ware hacker icons instead of Citadel programs. He mentally shook his head. His brain's been through a lot right now. Best to forgive and move on.

Moe: Yo.

Curly: DUUUDE that is a sick-ass avatar.

Larry: DAAAAAAMN man that makes me look like a sad troll.

Hacker: Oh? What do I look like?

The pirate-decorated skull spat out a gleaming metallic mirror which unfolded, then floated to hang between it and Hacker. He stared at it, then reeled backwards while screaming in horror.

He looked like a hyper-realistic neon green skull, complete with glittering fractal-covered orbs for eyes, and crackling lines of energy for teeth.

“WHAUGH!”

He blinked as the regen room swam into view in front of him. He glanced about wildly as Goggles eyed him quizzically.

“Dude, you okay?”

All three Reavers burbled mischievously. Hacker quickly rearranged his disarrayed Super-Reaver limbs back around him, and forced himself to settle down. Cortie stared up at him with confusion.

“Eh, not a big deal. I just...”

Larry: Little avatar shock heh heh heh.

Moe: I guess skulls aren't your thing huh?

Hacker shot the Stooge an irritated glare as he straightened. Goggles snickered as she realized what the Stooges meant, shaking her head with a lopsided grin.

“Big bad Super-Reaver scared of his own face,” he heard her mutter.

He flipped her the bird. She folded her arms while still chuckling. He rolled his eyes, then turned to the Stooges.

“I can change that, right? Is there a menu for those kinda things?”

Moe: Oh yeah sure it's probably the same on your stuff as ours. Look for Avatar Customization. You could prolly set it back to your old c-space avatar. Go to the menus before coming back, ok?

Hacker: Okay, will do.

Moments later, he found the menu he'd been looking for, and plowed into the customization options. Another few moments got him a decent replica of his old c-space avatar – a copy of his younger self's appearance with simplified polygons making up its shape. It was very in with the pixel-rave style at the time of Citadel, something he remained fond of even when it was forty years out of date.

Once he was sure he had his appearance the way he wanted it, Hacker returned to cyberspace.

The skulls looked him up and down, then nodded in unison.

Moe: Totally you, dude.

Larry: Yo Hacker, welcome back. Smart move going with your old Citadel look.

Curly: Oooh likin' the whole pixel-retro getup there. Sweet.

Hacker: Thanks. Suprised you guys even remember that interview I showed it in. Some things...eh...back to business. So where are we? Local regen-room c-space or a junction?

Hacker peered about the room. The walls here glowed from deep blue-green grid, rippling with lines of energy and code. One set of green lines pulsed horizontally from the left to the right, while a set of blue lines pulsed vertically from top to bottom. Code streamed along the lines here and there, sparking blue and purple pixels where they intersected. Beyond them lay a rippling black nothingness, which was a real feat of virtual rendering - he registered it as both a squirming solid surface and a complete utter void.

A quick scan with his software told him the walls were made of a super-dense, multi-layered ICE that would require considerable time and processing power to crack. It was the cyberspace equivalent of bending a black hole into the shape of a room. No signals got out past it, and no signals got inside.

Moe: Actually, both. It's the Med room but Cortie stuck a junction in for us. Asked us to monitor it for her. Keep out any skeeveware or whatever else her bitchzilla fork stuck in the station. As for the room? It's rigged as a Max-Sec Area surrounded by sickass ICE walls. Cortie's stuff.

Curly: It's wicked strong. She also put in in this network of high-end EMF blockers, so no signals get in or out of the area. You basically walk inside and you don't exist, as far as the station cares. Might as well be a Faraday Cage. Cept a Faraday Cage is like, Stone Age shit compared to this.

Larry: The defense perimeter is ten meters in all directions past the doorway. She took out all the cameras between the elevator and here to help with that. So the station and by extension, Crazyfork, doesn't know what you've been doing with a dead Super-Reaver. Heh heh heh.

Curly: OK back to the present, kids. Look to your left, Hacker. That's all the regenerator systems. You'll see the other operations systems as little diamonds around the room. They'll shoot data around here and there. Don't interrupt 'em. They'll bork up systems in the room if they don't get their bits and bytes.

Larry: You got into the junction when you popped in the first time cause you were just outside the doorway and inside the perimeter. So long as you're in the perimeter or in the room, you'll pop up in here whenever you reload. Got all that?

Hacker: With you so far.

Larry: If you go outside of all this, you ain't popping up here, and well, I'm not gonna speculate on that. Cause FUBARDAN.

Hacker: Oh. Thanks.

He turned to face four large glowing green wireframe boxes lined in a row. Within them moved dozens of shapes resembling bones or organs made up of very tiny flickering pixels. They floated in groups, resembling stacks of Tetris blocks coming together in lines as the regenerators went through their restorative work. Once the icon of an organ or other biological system turned from red, through yellow, and finally green, it dropped from the top of the box into orderly rows of green items at its bottom.

One box had more green icons piled at its bottom than the other, with a timer indicating sufficient cycles to equal roughly fifteen minutes. Judging from the patient picture plastered across one of the box's walls in bright black-and-yellow, Hacker guessed he was looking at Rebecca's regenerator. The other three boxes indicated bodies in worse shape – particularly the one for Suzi.

Not too different from the other regenerator icons I've seen...hmm...basically just higher-resolution, and higher complexity to match. Hokay. Making more sense here now.

Nodding to himself, Hacker did a slow 180-degree turn. Now that he had a better sense of how this higher-resolution c-space worked, he could figure out what everything was.

He quickly recognized the assorted software and data-input icons for the replicator hovering in an orderly multi-colored sphere to one corner. Then he spotted the flat blue-gray diamond shapes of the local systems icons – life-support, lighting, temperature control, gravity, and the doorway. Indicators glittered and flashed from their surfaces in shades of red, yellow, and green. Data, arranged in lines of bright geometric icons, flicked between them in orderly rows of pixels zipping across the room's c-space.

The systems' indicators were mostly green, except for a haphazard flicker between red and orange glowing from the doorway's diamond. Data sputtered erratically from it to the other systems. An error icon blinked above it, indicating some sort of software conflict with the outer doorway mainframe in the station. He was too far away to read its message to be sure.

Then came a familiar sight hovering in the empty space between the regenerators' systems and the replicator's.

A familiar cone, twice the size of his c-space avatar, drifted lazily near him. Its smooth surface shone a dark gray covered in tidy blue and gray lines. A staticky face stared at him from its flat circular top, its eyes wide with horror. Unlike SHODAN's avatar from Citadel's cyberspace, this cone didn't have the curving tentacles along its top at quarter-intervals. Nor did it emit SHODAN's characteristic green glow.

Hacker: Damn, Cortie. You're definitely locked down. Oh. Right, you can't talk. S-sorry.

He watched as the cone continued its slow floating trajectory, nearly bouncing off a flitting data icon racing between a regenerator and the replicator. Its face flicked through several expressions – horror, anger, sadness, hopefulness, and then sadness again.

He glanced to his cyberspace weapons menu, noting that a Super-Reaver had a lot more options than he ever did on Citadel. Pulsers. Megapulsers. Rapid-fire virus projectiles. Energy beams for weakening ICE shields. ICE picks, even.

Between his loadout and his Super-Reaver capabilities, Hacker would likely survive whatever battering Cortie's ethics systems put him through long enough to get her free. The problem was more how close he'd have to get to Cortie to send that code to her.

Hacker: Okay guys. If I get close to her, the ethics params are gonna pick me up as an intruder and start shooting. My range on the filesend is about the same as her brain-rootkit system, so I'm gonna have to chance it on the range to get null.ethic to her.

Moe: Right.

Hacker: Fan out and try to keep any projectiles or shit from hitting regenerator systems. It's gonna get ugly real quick in here.

Larry: Gotcha.

Moe: Good idea, that.

Curly: We'll back you up if you need it.

Well, here goes nothing.

Hacker headed towards the tumbling cone, pulsers at the ready.

Intruder detected. No Tri-Optimum authorizations activated. Security systems online, spoke a familiar voice – SHODAN's flat pre-hack voice – as the ethics systems' ICE suddenly activated. A glowing blue bubble popped into existence, encapsulating Cortie's cone.

Hacker: Figures. Let's see if I can punch a hole in that...

Hacker opened fire with both the pulser in one hand while holding an ICE pick in the other.

#System Shock fanfic #post system shock 2 #The Hacker #Goggles #SHODAN

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