02-21-2014, 07:17 PM
As shitty as it was, his time in Mumbai had its highlights. He had a lot of downtime, sure, but after the observations that led to his current career, he suddenly took up an interest in all things wired. That is. If its wired, it can be cracked. There were times, sure, when he stuffed himself in his apartment for days at a time and cringed when next he saw the sun. He thinned out from time to time, but dropping off the grid now and then was worth it. The tinkering, as he liked to call it, was just practical. Prudent planning. Getting a leg up on the competition. Whatever you call it, Jaxen worked at the skill as he did pick-pocketing.
From the world of bits and ones and zeroes emerged a few handles. The identities evolved into aliases. And the alter-egos turned into a disguise he could don the very moment he sat in front of a keyboard. It was better than Halloween. Almost. Halloween was fucking awesome.
He was seated at his station. A very secure workstation that he operated out of his own home. In the old days in Mumbai, he worked primarily from public networks, but throw on a decade of experience and practically endless funds, and Jaxen could tinker in the comforts of his own home at his lesiure. AKA: naked.
He scratched his leg and set up the shop to check out what the hell was going on in the Enlightenment District. Oh, he'd done as much research before going to the Baccarat Gala, but he was all the more intrigued now. Throw on the fact that he'd been hunted in the kind of way Oriena implied, add a dash of seriously wound-tight Mr. White, and an overwhelming abundance of fucking curiosity, and here he was again digging deeper. Scratching at the wall.
He used the backdoor he planted to gain access, and scrolled through generous amounts of information, hoping something would catch his eye. Unlike other aspects of his repertoire, a quick in-and-out was necessary when hacking other systems. Soon, he came across blocked passages that he was sure were his own openings, and worry briefly twinged his expression that administrators had caught on to his spying. But something was different.
"You're no administrator,"
he spoke to the screen, grin easing into mischief. He pulled his feet from where they'd been propped up, and took up a more focused posture, curled over the keyboard lasered across his work table. Just for good measure, he threw up an extra pair of screens to the left and right, and drank in the view to see what would happen next.
"Let's see if you're real."
Opening a dead end should do the trick. A bot would follow down the false path, and restart when the trail ended. But people were more clever than bots. For the most part.
From the world of bits and ones and zeroes emerged a few handles. The identities evolved into aliases. And the alter-egos turned into a disguise he could don the very moment he sat in front of a keyboard. It was better than Halloween. Almost. Halloween was fucking awesome.
He was seated at his station. A very secure workstation that he operated out of his own home. In the old days in Mumbai, he worked primarily from public networks, but throw on a decade of experience and practically endless funds, and Jaxen could tinker in the comforts of his own home at his lesiure. AKA: naked.
He scratched his leg and set up the shop to check out what the hell was going on in the Enlightenment District. Oh, he'd done as much research before going to the Baccarat Gala, but he was all the more intrigued now. Throw on the fact that he'd been hunted in the kind of way Oriena implied, add a dash of seriously wound-tight Mr. White, and an overwhelming abundance of fucking curiosity, and here he was again digging deeper. Scratching at the wall.
He used the backdoor he planted to gain access, and scrolled through generous amounts of information, hoping something would catch his eye. Unlike other aspects of his repertoire, a quick in-and-out was necessary when hacking other systems. Soon, he came across blocked passages that he was sure were his own openings, and worry briefly twinged his expression that administrators had caught on to his spying. But something was different.
"You're no administrator,"
he spoke to the screen, grin easing into mischief. He pulled his feet from where they'd been propped up, and took up a more focused posture, curled over the keyboard lasered across his work table. Just for good measure, he threw up an extra pair of screens to the left and right, and drank in the view to see what would happen next.
"Let's see if you're real."
Opening a dead end should do the trick. A bot would follow down the false path, and restart when the trail ended. But people were more clever than bots. For the most part.