hacktivist: ghost looks curious (there were 1s and 0s everywhere)
[personal profile] hacktivist
[the video switches on, bouncing a little on a hip before a sharp hiss of static and incorporeality. Ghost moving into a room uninvited, but not exactly stealthily.] You were a challenge to find.

[a voice replies from somewhere out-of-frame, female and familiar. a little less combative than the network may be used to.]

That's the point. And you didn't ask.

[the vocoder's level, neutral, as the video keeps recording a blank and unhelpful wall.] My error. I have made several crucial ones in my dealings with you. But I intend to rectify them. [a pause] Tell me why you requested access to the root functions of the Network.

There was something I needed. [audible is the click of fingers on a laptop keyboard, a pen scratching across paper without lifting. Candy sounds distracted.] And now I've gotten it. Why?

[a beat] Don't tell me you took a six hour road trip just for that.

[Ghost drifts closer, a gloved hand leaning on the desk in the shot] Professional curiosity. ...and no. I didn't. [the silence is gathering. Unpleasant, the moment before the Rubicon; the short step before the drop, the anticipation of pain.] Where is she, really?

[the stubborn bluff.] "She?"

I wager still alive, in an undisclosed location. For as long as her value holds... but nothing is certain. [there are little cracks, barely perceptible, in the mechanical voice. The human underneath struggling to remain level. Building anger palpable.] You were very convincing. I should thank you for giving me the opportunity to say goodbye.

[sudden sounds; the shifting of a chair, toppling and crashing to the floor with a violence smothered beneath that of gunshots. everything crackles, interrupted, like damaged film--and then the comm lifts, focusing deliberately on Candy as she writhes on the floor in the grip of what looks like a heart attack.

And then her skin mottles to a sickly, inhuman green, her features shifting, harsher, sharper. Alien.

There's a dead Skrull lying on the floor, Network.]


...I am sorry.
deconnate: (Default)
[personal profile] deconnate
Richard and Megan Gray died in a car crash two days ago. Their son Daniel survived the crash itself, but complications in the emergency room landed him dead, too. He was nine years old. Those names won't mean anything to you, but they were relatives of someone you should remember: Sommers. Ultranova.

It wasn't an accident. And with this level of erasure, I doubt those deaths will be the last.

[The post, for once, isn't video, but Candy DeConnick's voice comes across clearly; there's background noise, a crowd, murmuring over an intercom. An airport? A bus terminal? It's difficult to tell. She sounds as irritable as ever, ennunciated aggravation, clear words and sharp emphasis.]

If you can't guess where I'm going with this, you're prooobably not paying attention. Aside from murdering anyone they can find even tangentially connected to Majesty, they've been getting cozy cross both oceans, gathering resources and test subjects for its next round. I know you, and I know you don't want that, do you? One Fugue is enough.

She's still alive, if you were wondering. She and Knock-out skipped the country pre-tty fucking fast after Højere.

[There's a break in her speech for another moment of intercom broadcast; an edge of static.]



Hey, Ghost.
deconnate: (Default)
[personal profile] deconnate
[EncryptionEZLN: locked from FUGUE; DRIVER; KNOCK-OUT; ULTRANOVA; TRUE-BLUE.

Hey it's another video post. Remember this asshole? Yeeeep. Different background (hi Lassiter's kitchen table), but same sort of set up.

It is time to Get Your Shit Together.
]

Here's the deal. You don't want Vulcanus mass producing these "Metamen" of theirs. For one, it'll turn into an international arms race that'll make the Cold War look like a goddamn spring frost. Two, even if it didn't, the process is imperfect. They don't have anyone capable of cutting down that twenty percent failure rate. If they start pumpin' this shit out on an unrefined process, even if the whole goddamn world thought this was awesome fucking shit, you are still looking at lots of good people dying. Three, you're self-absorbed enough to think you're the only ones who should have your "above human" existence. It's a stupid fucking perspective, but if appealing to that is what it takes, fine.

You might not like me. You probably hate me. I really don't fucking care. But we're being equally screwed, and if you actually want to stop these assholes, you need me.

[Pause.]

I'm taking down the Højere base. Greenland. It's about eighty kay-em northwest of Daneborg. Aether and Sylph are coming with me. Spikes might.

Prospect, you have an answer for me yet?

Majesty as you know it is split. The people with me are just as pissed off as you fucks are with Vulcanus, so I don't want to hear shit about shutting them down or reversing the procedure. They are good fucking people who wanted to do the right fucking thing and got screwed over. Don't fuck with them, they won't fuck with you. Clear? If you want to be pissed off at someone, you either take it up with Vulcanus, or you take it up with me.

Driver and Knock-Out are staying with Vulcanus. Don't even ask me about Fugue. You can take that shit to her directly.

You want in on this, you tell me now. I'm not a military strategist, so I'm handing off logistics to people who can pull this off. [BAUER-WALLER PRODUCTIONS.]

Oh? And if you do? Get a fucking disguise that isn't instantly recognizable. I don't want some moron in a red domino mask showing up and being surprised when people crack jokes about which animal-themed sociopath kicked his ass last season.
deconnate: (Default)
[personal profile] deconnate
[The video opens on a girl, high-school age, sitting at a desk. She's looking down into the camera, almost as if to make herself look taller, or perhaps simply because this is the only position she could angle it without the communicator falling over mid-broadcast. She's no one you'd recognize, and neither is the communicator number. (Alas, it is the one that would have been given to that poor Mister Yorks! That abject failure.) The back wall is a bland sort of cream color without decoration; there are no windows, no plants, and no cutesy posters of kittens or heartthrob pop idols hanging behind her. No real markers for what sort of place this is, other than the desk. It's wood. If there's anything on it, it's not in frame.]

Now is the time for chaaange, the time for reneeewal.

[Her voice drags on the words, heavy with sarcasm.]

Please. Do they expect anyone to buy that at full price? You won't. I know you won't. You're the sort of clever people will only imagine. Never attain.

I'm sorry, you were.

[The girl blithely rolls her eyes, her left hand rapping fingernails against the surface of the desk in three short beats. The attitude she projects is a heavy-painted boredom.]

Buuut not all of you are. Clever. Satisfied. There's gotta be some of you with your pathetic joke powers and bullshit self-esteem problems. You want the upgrade. You want to be better. Or maaaybe you want them gone. Wouldn't that would be so cool?

I got two words for this.

[The girl tilts her head a little to the side, expression still as disdainful as the start. She doesn't say anything. Instead: first her left hand comes up, then her right. With each pronounced gesture she proceeds to flip off the camera once, then with both hands. She holds this pose for five seconds before the feed automatically shuts off.]

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