|-@SILVERBOWANDARROW-|
This was your first mistake: you pissed off somebody rich. Everyone's got a price, kids, and that includes the people who can turn your computers into expensive bricks. People like me.
This was your second mistake: all your overpriced bullshit, security passcodes, gating keys, backups to the backup servers, multifactor ID, none of it matters if your gating systems use the same bland security as every two-bit mom-and-pop shop on the planet.
This was your third mistake: you thought you could outsmart me.
Art was halfway through his frybread taco and the edited Easter egg he planned to leave with Krios when his phone buzzed short-long, the code for an Ansible message. He fumbled with his phone, mumbling a curse through a mouthful of corn and pork. The first attempt at unlocking Ansible only left a smear of grease on the screen; Art wiped his fingers on his shirt and tried again, successfully punching in the 12 digit code to open the application.
Decryption failed: Error code 751.
Art frowned. All of his decryption software was homemade, as were their associated codes. 751 corresponded to an end-stage error, after the data had been rearranged and checked for coherence. Whatever the data packet was, his computer couldn't recognize it as information, either text or programming.
He started to type a command into Ansible when the general chat icon let out a ding. A bubble of text appeared at the top of his phone, tagged Mateo: Where the fuck are you.
The headache Art had sought found and caf to banish abruptly returned. His fingers stilled before closing and locking Ansible and opening the chat. Working, he typed back.
Bullshit you are. Your room is empty and you still owe me the rent. If you ditch with me holding the check I'm legally allowed to cane you.
You'll get your damn money, asshole, Art typed one-handed, taking another bite of taco. Harassing me isn't gonna make me work faster.
If you were working you'd be at your computer, and it's not like you have a social calendar. The only thing I can think of is you're spending money you owe me at some shitty takeout place.
I am NOT at some shitty takeout place, Art answered truthfully. There was a pause.
You motherfucker. You went to B3 didn't you.
"Did you need a refill on the caf? Or more beans?" Art glanced up at the round-face teenager standing beside his rickety table, a half-filled caf pot in hand. Their frame said they ate too much and their complexion that none of it was healthy food; the wideness of their grin and the hollowness of their eyes both spoke to overwork in food service. A smudged nametag marked them Food Service Technician Alex!
"More caf, but hold the beans," Art told them distractedly. He returned his attention to the phone: Bitsui's charges too much for my budget, which was true, and completely sidestepped the fact that he was there anyways.
Food Service Technician Alex! obligingly refilled his cup with lukewarm caf, the fluid too lackluster to muster even an acrid curl of steam. Art set his phone down and concentrated on finishing his frybread taco. The sauce leaked out of the back end and over his fingers, all tomato and pork juice mixed with bits of chopped squash. Art reached for a napkin as he finished with relish, found the tray empty, and turned to ask Food Service Technician Alex! for more only to find them gone. Muttering a curse upon waiters, napkins, and sauce in general, Art wiped his fingers on his shirt again and picked up the phone.
