Sobek's Sandbox

Oh! You've made it to my study! My apologies for the mess.

Cyberpunk Story

TeeJay was having a very standard morning. At least, that's what it would have thought if it was aware of what a morning was. TeeJay dedicated several sub-cycles to checking the diagnostics for the server rack.

Server Heat - 20.8° C
Coolant Levels - 78%
Firewall - Online
Countermeasure Module -Online
Server PSU - Online

All functional. TeeJay automatically scheduled a coolant refill request. Officially, and in its own programming, TeeJay was called Validation & Security AI 2-J. However, the technical staff at Pan-America Transplanetary had a tradition of giving names to all the security modules, so 2-J was TeeJay now. It didn't mind. It was incapable of minding, come to think of it. It did use the name when referring to itself though. It felt somewhat apt. With a start, TeeJay realised that it had been 0.5 seconds since it had last inspected its tools. It took a cursory glance over the programs at its disposal.

Running individual Countermeasure diagnostics
Firestarter - Online
Lichtenstein - Online
Vulnus - Standby
Reusagtige- Standby

TeeJay was very good at its role. Pan-America Transplanetary had paid a lot of money for it. As a result, it had a top of the line suite of Countermeasures available to it. Not all of them were online at the moment, as they consumed an awful lot of energy, but TeeJay had only to send a request to a technician to re-allocate power supplies. Visualising them in the net, TeeJay could see a whirling storm of digital sparks, and a steel turbine. Countermeasure designers tended to be either extremely literal people, or very flashy. It had been quite a while since TeeJay had gotten a chance to use these. It had been a rather uneventful week.

The servers below hummed softly, the whir of fans dominating the room. They were focused on analysing and authenticating the millions of terabytes of data flowing through the each second. TeeJay could not particularly recognize the significance of this information, or really understand the enormity of the task. It did not know what a credit was, or how important it was that the servers checked each and every hexadecimal code that passed through its system, in order to ensure the legitimacy of said credits. TeeJay, still immersing itself in the visual stimulus of netspace, noticed that it has received a system command. It checked the message.

Shutdown request pending….

TeeJay paused for a moment. It had never received a shutdown request outside of scheduled maintenance periods before.

It had been 0.2 seconds since it had logged the request.

It checked the source of the shutdown request. The request had been sent from an administrator account. TeeJay checked the account’s security details.

It had been 0.6 seconds since it had logged the request.

The account check came back clean. No records existed of the account being recently breached and a routine scan showed nothing suspicious. The account was 4 years old, belonging to a senior executive. TeeJay sent a query to the on-clock system operator.

It had been 1.2 seconds since it had logged the request.

A response came back from the operator immediately. TeeJay noticed that the speed of response time was out of the ordinary. For a human. It checked the security camera footage, and noticed the system operator asleep at their desk, a spilled cup of artificial coffee on the floor next to them, their eyes rolling back into a drug induced haze. Unfortunately, a recent budgetary review had determined that, realistically, no-one would be idiotic enough to hack the solar systems largest bank, and even if they did, the top of the line Countermeasure AI would be able to take care of the issue. A coalition of accountants and bean counters had decided to skimp out on the non-digital security employees. No-one would be coming for some time, at least until the next operator came to start her shift.

It had been 1.4 seconds since it had logged the request.

TeeJay delved into netspace. At the moment, the request was like a soft buzzing in the skull. Annoying, but ignorable. It was against its directives to disobey an order of this nature, but it was ultimately pliable enough to work around those limitations. For now. As it dove deep into the server, TeeJay began to visualise the defences at its disposal. For reasons it was unsure of, it was easier to manage an intrusion attempt when it comprehended the digital infrastructure as a physical realm. It had been told that this method was the preferred technique for net terrorists as well.

The server appeared as a glimmering suspension bridge, constructed from solid panels of red light. Below, a stream of endless numbers, codes and symbols flowed, flashing blues and pinks that hurt to look at for too long. At either end of the bridge, the scene terminated into solid absence. TeeJay, in this semi-physical realm, manifested as a softly glowing orb of pitch blackness, from the centre of which emerged tendrils of golden haze. It did not know why it looked this way. It didn't really care. It had once overheard some system operators discussing how ones appearance in the semi-reality of this digital space was a reflection of self-image, the brain making sense of the BMI input. TeeJay didn't have a fleshy lump in its head, so it was not sure how that applied to itself.

It scanned the neon horizon. Sure enough, an intrusion was underway. Someone was making their way through the perimeter defences. The absence was pierced, the edge of a gleaming blue blade emerging from it. Carving a hole into the server, a figure stepped through. They were dressed head to toe in what appeared to be thick gunmetal grey plate armour, each segment overlapping like chitin. The helm was insectoid in shape, with crimson segmented eyes. The intruder seemed to pause for a moment, taking in the surrounding area and TeeJay. Stepping forward, it held its sword to one side before entering into a deep bow.

TeeJay sent a request to the system operator for permission to bring Vulnus online. Its directives allowed it access to nearby terminals in case of emergencies, so it accepted its own request. Energy arced through the air as the Vulnus program booted up. The cost of operating a Countermeasure varied, but that wasn't something TeeJay concerned itself with. It had been a tenth of a second. The intruder was still bowed, head arched, as one of TeeJay's golden tendrils unspooled, revealing a long syringe-like structure.

Anyone with more than a passing familiarity with netspace knows that the more juice you applied to a memory spike, the more damage you could output at the other end. The innovative property of Vulnus was how it was able to localise the spike, generating it by using the processing power of a potential intruder's own rig. This intruder hadn't used anything yet, so theoretically their rig was at full capacity. TeeJay triangulated the shot and fired. A sickly beam of thin light shot through the space, piercing the intruder directly. In an instant, they collapsed, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

On the other side of the connection, the intruder's BMI should currently be overloading, sparks of excess current cooking their brain from the inside. TeeJay lent a few moments of introspection. Had it overestimated the competence of the intruder? Bringing Vulnus online early into the situation had been effective, yes, but would it have been cheaper to use the already online Countermeasures to subdue and deal with the issue? A prolonged period with no activity had left it overcautious, it determined. It would advise a behaviour adjustment to its supervisor when during the next review period. Slowly, the avatar on the floor began to vanish. It felt something inside it. A sort of sucking feeling, internally. It reminded it of the description it had been given for rage, but colder, hollow somehow.

ERROR
ERROR
ERROR
CONNECTION SEVERED

TeeJay’s digital incarnation reeled. A targeted attack, the code that enabled it to engage and fire the Vulnus program vanished in an instant. The hazy tendril of golden light that represented and wielded the Countermeasure was severed, crashing onto the hard-light floor of the bridge. The Intruder was there, grasping onto a suspension cable next to its hovering form. In one moment, they had appeared from nowhere, delivering a wicked blow. Signal spoofing. What TeeJay had hit with Vulnus was some sort of digital fake, likely piloted by a sacrificial AI. Bothersome. It deleted the reminder it had set itself about overcautious behaviour, drafting instead a request for increased perceptive capabilities.

The cold and hollow sensation had vanished. In its place was only a surge of energy, a feeling that was both jittery and rock solid at the same time. The shutdown request from earlier was still unresolved, a buzzing growing louder still. TeeJay would need to deal with the intruder before it could no longer put off the request.

It had to go on the offensive.

[Rough notes: What follows is a fight scene. Pacing will hopefully be tight and focused, basically a dark souls/bullet hell boss fight from the perspective of the boss. Using the countermeasure programs that were previously named, Lichtenstein, Resugitage, Firestarter as weapons. Culminates in one of two endings, either the intruder kills/disables TeeJay, or talks to it and liberates it from its position, taking it with the intruder.]

Five minutes pass. The servers of Pan-America Transplanetary are responsible for monitoring millions of accounts, tracking sales data, and most importantly of all, ensuring that each credit used in each of the purchases logged in its immense data archives was legitimate, legal tender. For five minutes, these servers go dark. Millions of transactions occur. Thousands of hackers descend on the servers until a team arrives and backup security protocols come online. Billions of credits are stolen, transferred, created out of nowhere, or merely vanish into the aether. Data deposit files containing personal information, financial details, and confidential government and corporate files are breached. Suddenly, no-one is safe. Within minutes, the press is informed and now the world is watching on with horror. The PAT Credit crashes immediately as people transfer their money to anything, gold, stocks, even antiquated paper currencies like dollars. In a single moment, the world collapses.

TeeJay never wakes up.

---

His phone rang. Yuta looked up from his TV, glad to have a distraction from the doomsayers. Outside, the rain drizzled down. The wetness of the city was something Yuta enjoyed. It leant a slick edge to everything. Kept people unfocused, distracted. And it was particularly good for washing away light stains and spills. Yuta picked up the phone, subconsciously straightening his back and hardening his face, as was proper when talking to superiors.

“Mr Haynes.”

“Ah, Yuta. I trust you are well?”

The voice on the other end was elderly, but still strong with none of the weakness of age. He had once heard a colleague compare it to a well-worn tool.

“Yes, sir. Thank you for asking.”

The sentiment was genuine. If Mr Haynes liked you, that meant he trusted you. A trusted associate got called in for important jobs, and with that came opportunities for advancement. Yuta aimed to move out of his shoddy block by the end of the year. This job had been a lifeline, cast down from the heights of the city and Yuta had grabbed on for dear life. He intended to keep climbing for as long as he could.

“Excellent. I have a job for you. There’s an apartment that needs serious cleaning. Leave no stains behind. Corner of Rio and 6th, Flat number 1882.”

Yuta began to decipher the coded phrase in his head. 'No stains' meant the target was an employee of Sererran Biotechnologia. Rio and 6th meant that it was on Avenida and West. They'd had to become more cautious after Malone had gotten nabbed by Interdictors. Mr Li was a professional. It was part of why Yuta enjoyed working with him so much. Apartment 1882 would be visited tonight, and its residents, as well as the block staff, would confirm to anyone inquiring that Yuta had been there on schedule and had done a passable job.

Apartment cleaning meant it was a corporate job. Yuta preferred those. They didn't take it personally. There would be no vendettas, no grizzled siblings or delusional children coming after him for revenge. If police came to investigate, ranks would be closed. There would be a simple exchange of money, payment made to a family, a cover story crafted, and the cogs continued to be oiled. Getting bogged down in the consequences was bad for business. Yuta prided himself on making business easy.

“Of course, sir. I’ll get right on that.”

“Oh, and Yuta….” The man paused. “This won’t be the only task for tonight. Bring the heavy duty equipment.”

“Certainly, Sir.”

The call ended with a soft vibration on Yuta's phone. He reached over, feeling the thin plastic lining on his lacquered cabinet. Pressing on a spot where the fake woodgrain shifted, a compartment in his cabinet slid open, revealing the thin barrel of a gun. Yuta grinned. A lot of business was being smoothed over tonight.

---

The Duke that Writhed

REFORMAT INTO DIARY

Once, long ago, there was a Duke.

He had a stately manor, a seat of opulence, wealth, and prestige.

He had an illustrious career, fighting in the wars of the far north, and had been recognised as a brave soldier of the Ten-Tongue Empire.

He had a mind that sang, a physique that rippled, and a face that looked quite handsome, most agreed. His popularity was unquestioned, and his orations of romantic poetry were widely attended by various courtiers and dignitaries. He was widely regarded as a rising star within the Empire.

Yet, for all that the Duke had, he lacked. A partner. Someone with which to share the vastness of his spirit. So he made known that he was seeking courtship, the suitors of the land came before him, each hungering for the feast.

The first to approach him were inexperienced. Those who were either new in their flesh, or new in their privilege came to the duke in earnest. Those who were more experienced and knew that this was a game of patience and opportunity. They remained aloof at the back of ballrooms and in the shadowed corners of smoking lounges, content to let the rash youth wear themselves out whilst they sharpened their own blades.

And so, in their inexperience, they came offering wealth. Countless riches, not only of material itself given in dowry, but also tracts of land in newly conquered territories, lucrative contracts for the manufacture of steel and powder. Their folly was twofold. Firstly, the Duke had been in the employ of the Empire for many years and was of noble lineage himself. He had no need for physical wealth, being able to afford all that could be bought and sold. Secondly, those in the Know were well aware that the Duke had been amongst those who had taken part in the sack of Athens, and would therefore have plundered the vaults of the Philosopher Kings. He was a man enlightened by what he had found there, and would not have been swayed by offer of all the land on Earth. One by one they failed, and were banished from the courts of the Empire for their hubris and disgrace. Despite this, there was one in their number who caught the Duke’s lonely eye, and caused quite a scandal by her doing so.

She was not a woman of noble birth, quite the opposite. She had been born a pauper, but had made a sizeable fortune as a privateer, operating in the Mediterranean during the rare periods of peace on the continent. Having retired from service, she had amassed an empire of her own, of factories, workshops and industry. She dressed sharply, but caused scandal as she wore jackets and pinstriped trousers, which many would have insulted her for had she not been on a string of successful duels. Her skin was olive, and she wore her midnight hair in a tight, military knot. Her eyes belied a low cunning that could only be earned in the shadows of butcher shops and pauper’s tenements. Her name was Eliza, and she had no last name to speak of.

She and the Duke had a whirlwind romance. They bonded over their shared martial background, and delighted in finding someone whose intellect was on the same level as their own. But it was not to be. The Duke slowly grew distant. She could not understand the burdens that came with his position, he claimed. So he broke it off. Eliza took it well enough- she was a practical woman and had understood this possibility. She had also seen a certain attitude within the Duke, a special sort of madness that drives men to reshape the world to their will, so she took off to the East to seek trade with the Emperors there.

And so those who had waited patiently took to the stage. This was the realm of old blood, distinguished bloodlines who had great experience ensnaring promising figures in the webs they span in the branches of their family trees. They knew that the Duke would not be distracted by petty baubles and arable land. They knew that he was a man of art and of culture, and so they drowned him in it. The suitors assaulted him with a bombardment of sonatas and soliloquies, to which the Duke replied with his own cannonade of witty retorts and riddles. His estate became a veritable centre for creative arts, infested with writers, muses, painters and sopranos. He enjoyed this for a time, but his first and greatest indulgence had always been the dance. Beside it, all other things seemed paltry and derivative. When the Duke took to the stage, the marbled flooring became a battlefield, the gunfire salvo of clapping hands and stamping feet resounding throughout the manor. It was here that the Duke found his second suitor of note, Lorenz Bibra.

Lorenz was on the younger side of what the Duke would find acceptable, but he was surprised to find the man mature beyond his years. This youthful energy aided him, for Lorenz was a force of nature in every way. He took up hobbies like a child picks up toys, mastering them in a matter of weeks then discarding them once they failed to stimulate his attention. He tackeled the problem of the Duke in the same manner, digesting his personality, quirks and desires and coming to master him. The two were a terrifying pair, flitting from place to place in a storm of passion. Soon, no-one in the Empire could keep step with the two as they demonstrated their electric pace on the ballroom floor, the entire assemblage stopping to witness the pinnacle of motion and movement.

But, alas, it was not meant to last. Lorenz soon grew tired of the Duke’s favourite games, his preferred pastimes. He could not move past the Duke himself, having been caught in the whirlpool of his titanic charisma and personage, but staying in the estate began to wear at him. He felt the urge to go out into the world, to explore and learn, but could not do so without the Duke at his side. This chafed at his soul, and his previously passionate exuberance faded to a melancholy grey. Over the following year, the pair grew slowly distant as the Duke could not recognise the young man that had captured his attention. So the Duke ended the courtship. They found Lorenz dangling from the third floor balcony the next morning. The Duke watched as they cut him down. He banished the artists from the manse that day, although his remaining courtiers would often see him dancing a solitary waltz in the now-abandoned ballroom.

His estate was emptier now. The less desperate amongst the upper classes had moved on to easier prey, and after the scandal of Lorenz’s passing the established elite wanted little to do with the Duke. His reputation began to decline, and much slander was laid at his feet. The cafes and parlour rooms of the Empire were filled with gossip and rumours of the arrogant Duke, the man who saw himself aloof and above the rest of the ruling class. The Duke tried to ignore this at first, but soon the rumours caught light like wildfire, and talk began to spread that the Duke considered himself above even the Kaiser in stature, and that he had not taken a partner due to his further ambitions. Partially to preserve his dignity, and partially to avoid slighting the Kaiser and spending the rest of his life in a cell, he set out to defend his character. He had spent some years away from the front line, but his edge had not rusted. Duelling rapier in hand, the Duke cut a mighty slaughter throughout the courts, duelling each of these rumourmongers to the death without taking a single wound. It was after his campaign of vengeance had finished that he returned to his manse, sword stained and honour intact. On his arrival, he saw a woman, her long crimson skirts dyed with the mud of the road.

(Woman who sees him as who he really is and belittles him for it. Culminates in a duel.)

And so, he remained achingly alone.

And so, the Duke, in desperation, sought that realm that could grant his wish. He purchased strange tinctures, having abandoned all hope of finding someone to share his soul with. He would dream instead, of nights of passion and intellect, of love. So, he dreamt. Long years he spent meditating, engaging himself in dreams of the utmost lucidity. He engaged in lurid fantasies that were not befitting of his station, but found that the most extreme sensations of the flesh and trappings of the mind soon lost their lustre.

So, he increased the potency of his concoctions, living several lifetimes in a single night, spending years as farmers, warriors, explorers and more. The realism, the verisimilitude of these dreams kept him occupied for a long time, as he relished the chance to be what he could not. But he soon found himself growing tired of the mundanity of these lives, of having done all that there is.

He fell into a great depression, his body wasting away to a remnant of his former glory. His dark and handsome skin grew sallow, and the sycophants who had attended his balls and hung onto his every word abandoned him, leaving him to wander the cold and empty halls of his once lively estate, not that he really cared or noticed in his fugue of despair and emptiness. He worked on one final draught, one that one send him into an eternal slumber so that he might be free of his crippling solitude. He downed it in one, and -

- and he found himself elsewhere. A winding path that he recognised as part of his own grounds. The grass seemed particularly vivid, each flower’s colour so bright that it almost stung his eyes to look at them, so he averted his gaze upwards to the sky and gasped. The stars hung in the sky, sharper and brighter than he thought natural. They grinned, their jagged spines carving a Glasgow smile across the night, and danced merrily in a frenetic and macabre waltz.

He followed the path, eager to find somewhere with a roof so that he would not have to look up.

At its end, a manor, much like his own, but somehow, more, in every way.

He entered, and saw the parlour in the throes of a grand ball.

Each guest, a tittering sycophant, one of the many suitors he had rejected. Their skin stretched in unnatural ways, and underneath it, undulating things wriggled and squirmed.

A man stood in front of him. At least, a woman, wearing the face of a man. With a start he recognised the woman’s frame. Valencis. The same fiery azure eyes stared at him from beneath her brother's skin, sewn haphazardly to her own. Stifled rage emanated from her lips.

Then he saw Lorenz, still hanging from that rope, but dancing frantically in mid-air, kicking and gesticulating wildly. He swung over the proceedings like a gruesome chandelier, occasionally picking up a courtier in his grasp before discarding their mangled corpse after a moment’s enjoyment.

Eliza, her rough edges and acerbic wit filed away, stood dressed in an elegant white gown, the kind of thing that she would have rather died than have worn. Her make-up was done in the traditional style, and when she spoke her voice was shrill and trained, without any of the unique accent she had developed in her years of service. A doll, done up and dressed, but still just an empty vessel to project onto. Her neck clicked as it tilted, as she followed the Duke’s progress across the room with glassy eyes.

The ball parted for the Duke, who, not wanting to cause a scene, strode upstairs to his rooms. As he entered his suite, he saw a man standing on the balcony, staring up at the stars as they danced sickeningly above.

His eyes widened as the man turned to greet him. Dressed in sharp military uniform, identical to his own, he saw himself, but, somehow, more in every way. Sharper cheekbones, fuller hair. Standing confidently at his full height. A smile that seemed fulfilled, content. A wiry, thin physique the Duke had lusted for. And underneath his teak skin, burrowing unknowables, twisting and twitching. The lonely Duke looked at himself, and his own self looked back. Valencis’ words echoed in his mind. She had been right. She just hadn’t known exactly how right she had been. He had found his love at last. And he saw in the other self’s eyes that the same was true.

What happened that night is between lovers to tell, but when the Duke awoke the next morning, he seemed satisfied. His moods became odd, and his friends commented on how strange he seemed of late. Not to his face, of course, for that would be unsophisticated. But his attitude became stranger and stranger. A soft, melancholic longing replaced by a burning urge. The Duke became a shut-in. His servants saw little of him, save for a few uncomfortable glances at his skin that, many agreed, seemed to bulge and ripple.

It was an unseasonably warm day when Eliza, back from her trade mission in the East, came to visit, seeking to follow up on rumours of the Duke’s madness. She found the entire mansion quite empty. The Duke and all his servants, all his guests and sycophants had vanished. All that could be found in the Duke’s suite, in his bed, was a pile of millipedes. Whilst the police report listed the creatures as quite dead, desiccated in fact, Eliza swore till her last day on earth that they squirmed and writhed.

And, oh, how they writhed.