ArchivedLogs:The Shadow Net

The Shadow Net
It's for porn. Lots of porn.
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Doug
In Absentia	2013-06-20 Murphy hires a codemonkey.
Location <NYC> 503 {Doug} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is, for the most part, laid out like most of the others in the building. A small entryway opens up into a living area occupied by a worn-looking leather sofa covered in a multi-colored afghan. In front of that, a low cost-effective coffee table is generallly littered with tech and gaming magazines, post-it flags stuck to various pages. The kitchen is separated from the living area by a bar-island with two high stools. Down a small hallway, two doors stand face to face, vigilant in keeping the bedrooms beyond secure, while a third, facing the living room, leads to the bathroom. Throughout the apartment, various gaming posters have been framed and hung carefully, most of them classic arcade titles. Whump, whump, whump. The postman might knock twice, but MURPHY-FRIGGING-LAW knocks once. And if you don't answer, it sounds like he might just boot the door down. The man's a broad, towering figure of GRIM-DARK-NOIR; a scowling asshole waiting for Doug on the other side of that door. He hasn't shaved for a few days, coating him with a thin layer of stubble -- he's got on a black wool coat (because FUCK YOU, Summer), white collared shirt, black tie -- dress slacks -- and a plastic bag. Full of. Technology parts. Bits and pieces of shit he's /scavenged/. "You Doug," Murphy says, an instant after the door opens -- like he's saying 'YOU JANE, ME MURPHY'. Doug isn't long in opening the door, revealing the mostly-undressed state which is his resting position. In a pair of loosely-laced blue football shorts, he doesn't have on much else. He is like sunlight to Murphy's noir. The greeting gets a small uptick of the blonde's eyebrows, and his mouth tips in an amused smile. "Yes. Me Doug. You Murphy Law." He motions at the bag. "You bring Doug gift?" Okay, he might be mocking the man, a little. Murphy proceeds to /chuck/ the bag full of technology at Doug's chest. Like, HERE. It's made of SCIENCE. TAKE IT. The bag's full of -- jesus christ what has Murphy been up to? It's some sort of -- just a black box, actually. With two or three USB ports and -- some other ports? on the back. Looks like a computer. There's also a really cheap wi-fi USB device in there. Once he's tossed it to Doug, Murphy's just -- /shoving/ his way forward, as if he intends to push Doug aside and wedge his way into the apartment. OUTTA THE WAY. Murphy coming through. He's here to drink all your drinks and eat all your food. "I need you to code somethin' for me," Murphy informs him as he attempts to accomplish this feat. "Wi-fi network hub. Connect a bunch of computers together. One of 'em gets online, sends access to all the others. Like a chain. Need it fast, too. Will pay." Murphy /squints/ at Doug, then. "How much." Doug catches the bag, stepping back as Murphy enters and pulling it open to peer inside. "Jesus, what did you do, shoplift a Radio Shack?" he asks, peering at the components as he closes the door and follows, setting the bag on the kitchen counter. His apartment is remarkably clean, although there are three laptops open on his coffee table, only one of them with a lit-up screen showing a black-and-yellow robot creature moving through an alien landscape. Beyond that, the only things immediately visible are Doug's backpack dangling from the back of a chair and Alt and Delete, both of whom are watching the newcomer with wide-eyed alertness. "How much depends on the amount of work. Building a hub network isn't /that/ hard," he says. "Unless you want it in such a way that avoids the internet. Then that's a bit trickier, and the price goes up." He moves to the refrigerator, and opening it. "You want some water or juice?" he asks, scratching idly at his chest. "I can make tea, if you want that." "Wasn't a Radio Shack," Murphy responds, without missing a beat. "Booze. You ain't got that, do you." He's moving in behind Doug as he approaches that fridge, kind of /shoving/ his head in the way, as if to investigate. Hands reaching into the fridge to /rearrange/ things. "Some sort of health freak, I bet. Fuckin' hell. Internet's fine. But I want whoever gets online with it to have anonymity. By /default/. Can you do that? Route it through a Tor network or somethin', /automatically/." His head swivels back up -- looking at Doug, almost /apologetically/, after using the word 'Tor'. "...I read an article. About it. Once." He steps away from the fridge, moving to EXPLORE Doug's homelife. Memorizing. "I've got booze," Doug says, unflinching when Murphy appears behind him. In fact, he stands his ground firmly, stretching his body up to open the cabinet above the refrigerator and extracting a bottle of Jack Daniels. "I'm a college kid, we're practically required to have /some/ sort of alcohol around for cutting loose." The bottle doesn't look like Doug cuts loose all that often, still more than three-fourth full when he holds it out for the older man and SLIDES between him and the fridge to get to the cabinet with glasses. He doesn't actually laugh when Murphy mentions a Tor network, and wrinkles his nose. "Um. Yeah. No. I won't be using one of those," he says, putting the glasses on the counter. "I like to use my own code and programming; it makes it hard for anyone to crack into shit." He waves a hand at the glasses; maybe he's summoning Murphy back before he discovers the stack of gaming guides on the bookshelf or something equally geeky. "How many terminals are you wanting to connect? Or are you wanting it to be like the internet was when it started? Where you have to know the IP of the actual Mother terminal, and connect through a ping system or the like?" Watch out, Murphy. Doug will get his geek ALL OVER you. "Dunno. As many as it takes," Murphy responds, /eyeing/ that bottle. Closely. "Could be twenty. Could be a hundred. Point is, there'll be one computer that gets online. It'll send a signal to all the chainlink machines, which'll send a signal to all /their/ chainlink machines, until they get to -- a final link. Which'll just be a standard wi-fi router for anyone who wants to get online." He's approaching those glasses that Doug produces, a hand already extending out for one of them, like, GIMME. "I need it /soon/. Real soon." Murphy's knowledge of computer lingo is absent; what he knows is what he's cobbled together from a lifetime of remembering EVERYTHING HE HAS EVER READ. Which actually, isn't a lot; for Murphy, computers are just boring books. Doug's eyes narrow as he considers the information, wrinkling his nose as he pours. "Wait. You want all these terminals to be hooked together, or just to the main wifi router?" This seems to be important, and he rubs a hand across his chest thoughtfully, scratching just below his nipple as he considers, pushing a glass towards that questing hand. "I can cobble together a skeleton in about three days," he says, moving to pull the bag open and peer at the contents once more. "I can have it up and running in about a week." He grimaces. "/Maybe/ ten days. I'll have to get a different wi-fi router," he says, pushing the bag closed and taking up his own glass. "That one would probably burn out in forty-eight hours, after I got finished setting you up." "Nothing's gonna be hooked together," Murphy says, just, /waving/ his hand at Doug, kind of. Flimsily. "No wires." Like this bit is /very/ important. Just to emphasize this point, he repeats it -- again. "/No/ wires. Just terminals. All of 'em got wi-fi. The main terminal gets online, somehow. MAGIC. Who the fuck knows, who cares. Then, it sends a signal out, via wi-fi. Encrypted. Other terminals with wi-fi pick it up, then pass it along to /other/ terminals. Until you get to the last terminal," Murphy adds, "/that/ one's just." The poured whiskey is gone already; one shot. GULP. "A wi-fi router, lets anybody get online, so long as they know the password." His eyes narrow a little at the mention of the wi-fi USB hub burning out, peering at the bag. "Whaddya mean it'll /burn out/ these things are like /light bulbs/ or somethin'?" "That one being...where? Your office?" Doug doesn't seem fazed by the cyber cloak and dagger stuff that Murphy seems to be laying down. Instead, he just tips the bottle to the empty glass when Murphy slams his first drink back, splashing more amber liquid into the void. "You're not plotting anything strictly illegal, are you?" he verifies, but his eyes crinkle in amusement. "Not that I object to illegal computer doings, but CYA requires that I ask." He leans on the counter, then, resting his elbows and LEANING at Murphy with a small tilt to his head. "Sure, anything can burn out, if you pump enough into it," he says. "And I'm going to assume that you need something with a strong, solid signal, right? Well. /that/ piece of plastic won't hold up to what I'd do to it to get it screaming." His smile slips into something playful as he sips his whiskey. "My stuff is too hot for the average...hub." "Next to my toilet, so I can porn-surf while I'm taking a shit," Murphy /fires back/. "Th'fuck it matters. Nothing illegal. Just gettin' some hard-to-reach fuckers some internet, s'all." When the glass is refilled, GULP. Gone already. When it comes to drinking, Murphy doesn't waste much time. That being said: "Ain't you got something cheaper? Rougher?" /Glaring/ at the empty glass. Like it's offended him. "Don't get it screaming, then. I'm on a fuckin' budget, I can't afford high-end shit. We're doin' this with paperclips and duct tape, not the fucking Gibson." THERE YOU ARE, DOUG. Nerd-reference. See? Murphy knows what he's -- okay actually he might have just accidentally heard that from a terrible movie, once. Doug makes a sad sort of noise. "Porn surf? That's a waste, with a guy like you. You should be making that shit, not looking it up." His smile goes wider at Murphy's request, and he lifts a shoulder. "I can do rough and cheap," he says, driting back to the cabinet and pulling out a bottle of whiskey that honestly just says WHISKEY on the generic white label. This he brings back, setting it on the counter. "I don't do shit half-assed, Mister Law," he says, allowing his eyes to rake sort of blatantly over the rumpled man. "You want stuff from me, it's going to be high-end, top-dollar, take-the-whore-to-polo-and-stay-the-night kind of work, or you can cruise the Radio Shacks." One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. "I won't break your wallet, and I promise you'll walk away feeling /really/ good about it." Murphy /eyes/ Doug. Maybe in response to the porn comment; maybe in response to the GENERIC WHISKEY bottle; maybe in response to the 'I won't break your wallet' bit. Maybe /all/ of it. "There's a good chance," Murphy tells him, "that I'm gonna need a /shitton/ of machines for what we're trying to accomplish. Unless you got a spare million under your mattress -- cheap and dirty's probably gonna be the way to go. On top of that, there's a good chance a lot of these machines'll get busted up. We don't need top-end; we need shit that doesn't break -- and when it does, it needs to be easy as fuck to replace. Also," Murphy adds, and /now/ he takes the bottle, "the more expensive it is, the more likely it is to get stolen." Doug's grin turns downright impish when Murphy mentions where he might be keeping extra machines, and he tilts his head in the general direction of his bedroom. "I can't remember how many I have under there," he says, lifting his glass to sip at his whiskey with an innocent look over the rim. "Wanna help me look and make sure?" It /might/ be a sincere offer, only the way Doug licks a drop of whiskey from his lips is just a bit too playful. "I like cheap and dirty as much as the next guy." He slides away from the counter, stretching his torso idly. "I can give you shit that doesn't break, and won't draw attention to itself," he promises, and points at the bag. "I can use the shell of that sorry bastard to rig a higher-end machine to be your ninja porn-bot." He tsks, and shakes his head. "What a waste of talent," he says a bit mournfully, and when he looks at Murphy it's pretty obvious he's not talking about his computer ability. Murphy tilts his head; an eyebrow /jumps/ up. "You're gonna do that to one machine, fine. But I'm talkin' about," and he waves his hand outward, as if to implicate the /world/, "dozens of machines, maybe more, I don't even know how many we--" He stops, suddenly. /Peering/ at Doug. Before reaching up to sling the bottle up to his mouth and just, SWALLOW. Straight from the neck. When he finishes, he wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, and states, rather /firmly/: "You're hot, kid, but I ain't gonna fuck you. Just so we're clear here. I just want you to do some coding for me." The bottle comes down on the countertop; CLINK. "You said ten days, max. Alright. How much izzat gonna cost." One eye narrows, the other popping open. "And if you offer me a fuck-buddy discount, I'm gonna go take a shit in your shower." For realsies. Murphy don't make idle threats. He's been gobbling down jalapenos, too, DOUG. Doug's expression goes immediately flat at the mention of any kind of discount. "I don't give discounts for good dick-slinging," he says in a tone to match his expression. "You don't want to fuck a hot blonde nineteen year old jock nerd, that's fine. That offer's good any time." He waggles his fingers in the air. "In the meantime , you can go find your online porn and beat it to fat bears or whatever else turns your crank. But just so we're clear, you'd have to be one amazing fuck for me to consider fucking up my nest egg." He lifts a shoulder, and wrinkles his nose as he considers, stepping back. "Ten days, a program for easy distribution, dedicated encrypted server, and a mother terminal..." he taps things on his fingers, and /peers/ at Murphy, narrowing one eye slowly. "Two thousand." "Done," Murphy fires back, and -- oho. He's pulling an envelope out of his coat pocket, crisp and white; he's scooting it open and -- well, /fuck/. Apparently Murphy's giving Doug the money in advance! He's soon counting out nice, sharp, clean twenties. One, two, three, four... "Power's gonna be another problem. The machines we're gonna be linkin' up, they won't have access to an outlet. But, I'll fuck that problem's mother when I get there." Doug's eyes widen as Murphy produces the envelope, and then he's quirking a hard grin to one side of his mouth. "Wow. Now I'm glad we haven't fucked, yet," he says. "Because this would /totally/ wreck after-glow." He accepts the money, thumbing through it as he counts it. "Solar chargers," he offers idly, nodding as the amount comes up correct and folding it up. Then he TUCKS it into the front of his shorts. Deeply. It might be unintentional. Maybe. "You can get 'em fairly cheap, and they'll give enough of a charge that the responding machines would have enough power -- an hour or so -- to send whatever clandestine shit they wanted to." "No light," Murphy replies; there's apparently more money in that envelope -- it's a /thick/ envelope! -- but it's now going right back into his coat. "I'll figure something out. Always do. We brought water to the desert; we can bring porn to the darkness." And then he's hupping back up to his feet -- he's got a /slight/ limp in his left leg, but it's not particularly pronounced -- as he moves back toward the door. "I'll call you soon. For an update," Murphy mentions, before -- as he reaches for the knob -- he adds: "Also, keep your yap shut about this. Less anybody knows, the better. Ain't illegal, but it'll piss some shitfuckers off." Doug nods, his brow furrowing as he considers this wrinkle. "There are wind-up chargers, too," he says. "You need a little bit of arm power to use 'em, but they're pretty effective. Plus, they're cheaper than the solar chargers." He purses his lips. "I'll put together a list of places I know that sell cheap laptop refurbishes," he adds as he follows Murphy to the door. "I can build /some/ stuff, but that's a bit beyond my ability. Since you said you needed a lot of machines." He pauses at the door, rolling his eyes at the admonishment. "You want my yap shut, you come over and plug it with something," he says, eyes dancing, then he's waving his hand. "Don't worry your handsome mug about it," he says, shaking his head. "Eighty percent of the stuff I do would piss someone off if they knew, so I'm not in the habit of shooting myself in the foot." There might be a pointed look at Murphy's left leg. "/I/ am," Murphy replies, almost -- /boredly/. "Keep your head down. Shit's gonna get surreal," he adds, and: "I'll call you for that list, too." Then he's limping out the door, /glaring/ as he walks.