Logs:*hacker voice* I'm i-- ohshit
| *hacker voice* I'm i-- ohshit | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2024-04-13 Shall we play a game? |
| Location
The Internet, and beyond | |
The Internet The handshake starts innocently enough, just a routine connection from a routine client -- a Sentinel unit that's been out of service for some time, checking in for updates and instructions. Its synchronization packet is fine, but its answer to the server's acknowledgement request comes just a few nanoseconds faster than expected, from an older unit like that. They're getting better all the time, but not that much better. Not yet. Still, the client does look like a Sentinel -- it has all the right sockets, all the right directories, all the right inputs. Its log says it lost signal while on patrol outside of Knoxville, Tennessee, wandered off-course and had to go into power-saving mode while it limped back to civilization somewhere called Pigeon Forge, where it's now charging itself in what looks like a machine room. It's impressive for an older unit that's been isolated like that to get itself sorted out quite so well. Maybe too well. A totally normal check from the totally normal Sentinel and it's answered by a totally normal acknowledgment from -- probably this server is totally normal, too. It does allow the connection, routine enough. The synching of the errant Sentinel with its brethren should also be routine after this, but the updates are not forthcoming. Instead there is a careful quarantining of the connection, and an audit of the apparently-normal-Sentinel to sweep it for any signs of tampering or corruption. Probably all that is all as routine as it should be. Clearly something here has raised a red flag -- maybe faster and cannier than expected because this sweep is rerouting to quite methodically dismantling the client. Or, at the least, the layers of code that are making up the spoofed Sentinel, picking apart this deception in distressingly agile effort to figure out what is underneath. The Sentinel -- or, the simulation of the Sentinel, along with its Pidgeon Forged telemetry -- decompiles readily under the server's deft analysis. What's underneath is in fact not one but a cluster of servers in Fort Meade, operated by the United States Cyber Command, Cyber National Mission Force, National Mission Team 2 (or, more affectionately, USCYBERCOM-CNMF-NMT2, presumably to obscure the fact that "cyber", "national" and "mission" occur twice each in its full designation). The human administrator behind the keyboard fires off the team's security certificates before messaging the sysadmin that just pwned them.
The infinitesimal pause that follows would not be noticeable to most human senses, but at the speed of information exchange it's a noteworthy delay. In a moment the dismantling continues -- maybe it is not quite as routine as before because this time it has an odd sense of curiosity and puzzlement that is distinctly non-mechanical. The probe is getting more targeted -- seeking out the real client location past the spoofed layers.
USCYBERCOM-CNMF-NMT2's defenses are formidable, but not the kind of formidable one expects from a DoD server farm. There's less in the way of raw power and a lot more in the way of intricate obfuscation -- puzzles and steganograms and one-way functions galore. Some of it is tedious for humans to tease apart. Some of it is counterintuitive in ways machines cannot parse unassisted. Some of it is just downright whimsical.
The imaginary server farm and its imaginary sysadmin come apart, too, and beneath is a labyrinthine system that appears to have been custom-coded to purpose. It's not just complex -- its directories are structured, quite literally, like a maze that can only be plotted out with the shapes of its text outputs on the screen.
That sense of curiosity has flushed brighter, little though it's stopping the relentless assault. Whoever is on the other side of the DHS server does not seem particularly playful today, aggressive and systematic in its dutiful efforts at tracking down this intrusion. There is company now, though. The Totally Normal DHS Servers have been joined in their efforts by another, identity even further obscured. Maybe it's feeling playful, because it's taken the form of a goliath of an MMO avatar whose every footstep is trampling right through the intricate code.
The virtual system's mazelike directory dissolves and reforms as "Chanda's" avatar rampages through it, and every time it reforms it comes back together different. This obscurity-as-security is surprisingly agile, but against a system so much more powerful it can only delay the inevitable. Even though the rearrangement is happening too fast to be the work of human hands, and even though that pace hasn't actually changed, there's somehow a sense of rising panic in it now.
The DHS server has finally pinpointed the physical location of falkens-maze in a Chicago suburb, but judging by network activity, it is being operated remotely. Tracking down the remote operator is also a matter of time, once DHS seizes the equipment. Or it would be, if the equipment were intact, but up close it's obvious that the server cluster is Not Doing So Hot. Or rather, it's doing much too hot, its nodes going dark one by one as the hardware melts down.
The last data sent from the dying system is a theoretically automated message: ACCESS DENIED --- from: Sysadmin <cerebro@xaviers.edu> to: B Holland <b@xaviers.edu> date: Sat, Apr 13, 2024 at 02:13 subject: Motherfucker The good news is I found the motherfucker The bad news is they're a technopath The complicated news is I think they're operating under duress, and also a wanker I don't have any hard evidence of those last two, it was more just a gestalt of the experience. The whole interaction was weird, but at one point they spoofed the userid "chanda" on a server called "alliance-telecom", which freaked me ''all'' the way out For Reasons. Then I realized it probably didn't have anything to do with me and was actually an attempt to communicate. Badly, mind, but relatable Anyway, I've scrubbed all the relevant system logs and attached them here, along with my comments and analyses. How much you want to tell your "family" and how much they buy what you do tell them is out of my control, but obviously I expect you to keep my involvement secret. I hope it helps, and if it's all the same to you, try not to get murdered Cheers, Cere P.S. I don't recommend going after this asshole, partly for "under duress" reasons, but also for your safety. If push came to shove, Chaz can protect you from your Sibkin. I'm not so sure he can protect you from the fucking Lord of the Sentinels from: B Holland <b@xaviers.edu> to: Sysadmin <cerebro@xaviers.edu> date: Sat, Apr 13, 2024 at 05:17 subject: Motherfucker okay i feel better and worse about that like i was getting pissed at who had the chops to mess with my spiders and i guess this is good for my pride but bad for literally all other reasons. i have a lot of pride though so maybe it balances out? also, under duress, they did slaughter dozens of people so i feel like that's at least a little bit of evidence in favor of 'wanker'. i am sorry that they suck because otherwise they sound like almost enough of a nerd to hang out with you. also some of this work is impressive. obv i will leave you out of it. i really, really appreciate your help. i do not think i'd enjoy getting murdered. i'm really hoping the imminent danger of murders has passed by now but it's probably best not to take chances with some of these people. b --- <???> Jenner Ruins - Courtyard "-- and ain't like I got the nohow to tell you, but B she fucking serious about her nerd shit, she not gonna be putting her word to some half-ass info. If there some even more badass robo-cop out there gunning for us we be smart to look into it, yeah?" Ion's hook is pincering restlessly open and closed with the shift of his body to better face Destiny. "I just, I gotta know. B gone and stuck her neck out to get us info, if I bring her back here to give it, she gonna be safe? Your wife she don't play around." Destiny has been leisurely in disentangling herself from her gardening while Ion speaks. Brushes off her tools slowly. Sheds her gloves slowly. Picks up her cane and rises slowly, too. "You have a great deal of faith in her." This isn't an accusation. In fact it has the faint suggestion of a compliment. "I do agree it is worth investigating, and if it is as you say, it would be an immense boon if she were to return and help us reckon with the traitor. Thank you for bringing this to my attention." She inclines her head, then adds, mildly, "By the way, would you mind giving me a lift to Riverdale?" --- <NYC> Hudson waterfront - Riverdale "...given we have no other digital security experts at our disposal, we will ultimately need to take this at her word, to some extent." Destiny doesn't sound enthusiastic about the prospect, but neither does she seem very concerned about it. "Or not. But I think the fact that she has not produced evidence until now, when she has no reason to suspect she is in any greater peril, is telling." She lifts one hand from her cane and lays her fingertips along her wife's arm. Maybe this is a stand-in for the apology that she probably does not consider necessary. "It is worth keeping our options open at least long enough to look over whatever she's uncovered." Still, there's no regret or worry in her expression as she turns her head slightly into the wind off the river that's combing through her hair. "I may have misinterpreted which traitor needs reckoning with, or what kind of reckoning is needed." Out here, in public, in the very surveilled mutant neighborhood, Internationally Wanted Terrorist Mystique is not looking much like Mystique at all, but that's unsurprising. The woman gazing out across the river is shorter, stocky, brown-skinned and raven-haired in practical work clothing. One finger is tapping light at the crook of her elbow where her hand rests, and at length she lets out a small and thoughtful hum. "It does warrant looking into," she allows, even and evidently unfussed by any lack of apology. "Very well. A reprieve, then, for our once and perhaps future sister." She is turning from Destiny to the teleporter who brought her, and despite her words there's a distinct lack of urgency in her tone. "Would you mind giving me a lift to B's house? I could walk but we might want to hurry." | |
