Error 420
One Thousand Club
ArcticFox
Please watch this thread.The blinds part between your fingers as you look out into the expanse of the Cloud, quickly glancing around to make sure you weren't being watched. It won't do anything, you know that. In these days, surveillance meant peering through the webcam in your phone or a synthetic eyeball in your head. Even if they were watching the old fashioned way, it'd take a hell of a pair of binoculars to cut through the thick miasma of wetness and pollution that coated the city that was known as the Cloud. You did it to feign a sense of security, a trick to make clients feel safer than they probably were. The way your current client was shaking, any security would make them more malleable. Something about this grotesque man intrigued you. Perhaps it was the implants on his neck, automatic resuscitators, his sunken eyes, his flawless skin and perfect hair, despite its griminess. He had all the signs of a rich man with too much value to his own life and not enough shame.
"Walton, right? You're Walton? I was given this card and..." mumbles the shivering husk of a man sits crumpled in a heap in the old wooden chair where so many lonely hearts, adulterers, paranoid geeks, and general creeps told you their tales of woe. The only difference was this one sweat more than the others. Without a wave of your hand, you silence him, more than ready to get back to work on your outstanding cases and not ready to wade through this creep's muttering.
"Well, I need your help. It's something like you've never seen, I promise." You turn to him. He's nothing more than a pale skeleton with black hair. Under your gaze he silences himself, his hands fiddling with a hastily folded piece of paper. "I'm looking for someone. She's been after me for a while and I need you to stop her, please."
Unimpressed, you stare back at the client. "I need you to eliminate her, at any cost. I don't care what you do, it's for the safety of everyone." You're disgusted by this offer, as you should be. You're scum, but you're not a murderer. You shove him out of the office, and in his place on the chair is the crumpled note. On it, you read the following:
`helloworld.bo/profiles/meet/p=8675309JNIE
Find her there
Call me - 8-960-239-4958`
Pulling up your computer from a drawer in your desk, you carry it to the adjoining room in the office. It's a conference room, connected to the main office by a singular red door and a wide window covered with a green muslin curtain. In the conference room: a fridge containing little more than energy bars and gallons of black coffee. You pour yourself a mug, putting it in the microwave as you unlock your device, password, fingerprint, retina scan, voice confirmation, ReCaptcha check, and all. You pull the coffee from the microwave and begin typing.
Last edited:
