Hack and Slash Part I


andrew_icon.jpg finnegan_icon.jpg

Where: Fishing Pier
When: June 17, 2020
What: A hacker is hired by a bartender of little means but a lot of plans.

Remember, you never saw me, I was never here.

A new client, or at least a new number had come across Andrew's screen the day before. Whoever it was knew the right answers to the right questions, so the meeting was set up. An hour after sunset at the Venice Beach pier. Even this late at night, there are still people around on the beach: Tourists who waited for the sunset before packing up their cars, shop keepers locking up the doors, ready to call it a night. A bonfire down on the beach pulls the eye toward it like a magnet; everything else is dark and growing darker.

The pier itself is at least lit with street lamps; the fishermen are mostly gone but for an old man down at one end that isn't likely to be Andrew's client, who promised to wear a black baseball cap. There's a young couple, still in their teens, leaning on the railing and giggling and kissing. But an hour after sunset is an unspecific time.

Andrew looks up every now and again, mostly working on his Tablet, and by work, he is looking over a huge chunck of software code for a new type of gaming engine, he of course, developed it himself. Wearing his usual attire, along with a long tench coat that hides a fire arm of some kind, not that he is eager to use it, but his parents made him promise he would keep safe in the 'big city'.

Eventually, there's a fifth person on the dock, walking slowly from the start of the dock so the more brightly-lit shops and street behind him make him a silhouette, until he passes under one of the street lamps. A black cap on his head marks him as the client; the gold glint in his eyes mark him as a werewolf. He keeps his hands free — no weapon in them — as he approaches the hacker, walking past him just a few feet before turning to lean his elbows on the railing. To anyone watching, it might look like he's just staring out into the water, like the young couple, but without turning his head, he speaks.

"Nice night," he says, voice low. "7892." The last four digits of the phone he used to message Andrew.

Andrew continues to look down at his tablet, thoug hhe speaks, a green light on his blue tooth now, giving the illusion that he is talking on the phone. "Correct answer, so, what's the deal?" He says, his voice is soft, and there is a hint of a texas Drawl to it, as if he just can't shake the last bit of his texan small town accent. He doesn't look up, or even make a move to register that anyone is there, his voice low enough to carry only far enough for his client to hear him.

"Got someone I want their communication watched. Phone messages, most likely. These days everyone does everything on one of those things, right?" says the werewolf to Andrew's right. The hacker may or may not recognize him as the bartender of the Bottom of the Barrel, and may or may not know anything about the man. "You can do iPhones, I imagine? I have the number."

"Iphones, androids, PC's even the crappy apples, no sweat for me." Andrew replies. "Go ahread and write me the number down." he hands the client as white pen and a white card, apparently, the card will showq the number when put under a black light. "So, any other info on this person I should know about? I could probibly pull up a completed background, unless they decided to go completely off grid." he says softly.

Finnegan nods and takes the card, writing down the number in a hand with two split knuckles still healing. "Don't need the details of bank accounts or jobs or that stuff." His own voice is tinged with the South, but from further east than Texas. "Looking to see who's and when's, if you get my drift."

The card and pen are handed back to the other man. "What'll that run me? A weekly run-down of messages? I suppose I should've started with that." The last is ruefully added, perhaps suggesting this is the first rodeo the wolf's been to in terms of hacking.

Putting the pen and paper away, Andrew nods. "Five Hundred a week." he states, it being his 'Fey Discount' and all. Turning off his blue tooth, he finaly looks up… and up, at the man. "I'll send you a text message in one week's time telling you where to meet, once you get, and read the message, please delite it from your phone, remember, you never saw me, I was never here." he says, with a smile, and a mental 'yippie' for useing a line from one of his favorite sci fi sagas.

It's definitely his first rodeo, as Finnegan's brows furrow a little at the price. If Andrew knows who he is, well, it's understandable — the guy is a bartender at a crappy bar in South Central, after all.

"Probably won't be a long term thing. Once I get what I need, it'll be through," Finnegan says. "Do I pay you now or at the end of the week?" His eyes flick down the length of the pier to make sure the other three people are still minding their own business.

Andrew gives a smile. "Pay me next time we meet, just remember, you don't know where you got any of this info from." He says as he turns to walks off, twoards his motocycle. Though, one his way there, he is once again looking down at his tablet, and watch, "Hmmm, thirty minutes before the raid starts…." he says softly.

"The first rule of Fight Club," Finnegan drawls back, and heads the other direction toward the far end of the pier, as if just on a leisurely stroll.

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