TRANSDERMAL 7.02 (Patreon)

Aaaand we're back.

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Transdermal: relating to, being, or supplying a medication in a form for absorption through the skin into the bloodstream 

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I’m not a hacker. I know some really bare minimum bullshit about some of the absolute basics, like how a vpn works, how to disable cookies and stuff, but the rest of it is beyond me. I thought about fulfilling the trans-girl stereotypes at one point, but I only got as far as the knee-high socks, never into the coding aspect of things. HTML is not my friend, in spite of my dearest wishes that it were so. 

So I’m not hacking. And technically, neither is friend-computer. Technically, we’re both just… looking at a part of its own internal pages. 

Which it has access to because Richard was an overconfident piece of shit, and left just a little bit of himself behind. A show of force, or of arrogance, or just trying to be a fucking showman, left me alone in a room with a computer, a manifested aspect of his power in a place of metaphor. And then I put a manifestation of my power, blended with that of friend-computer, right the fuck into his metaphor. 

All of it only manifested through such a series of coincidences that it would be impossible for him to guess at. Even I had no idea what was happening as I did it. Without the Bloodlings acting weirdly in the altered space of Dick’s power, I wouldn’t have had multiple bodies. Without multiple bodies, I wouldn’t have been able to pry friend-computer’s massive wrist-computer from a dead body’s arm, half-melted into such a shape that it could be improvised into something new. And then, I had to pressure the asshole into leaving before me. 

All leading to this exact moment where I open up the computer and click on the app-prompt that just showed up on my screen. 

A big square block, awkward as hell and old-looking, clunky, suddenly dominates the screen. A pixelated little computer appears on the bottom-right, like Clippy, that old assistant-program thing microsoft used to use back when I was a little kid. A speech bubble appears above it.

“W0W13 FR13ND0 7H47'$ $0 [00L | G37 70 $33 Y0U 4G4N $0 $00N 7H47' $ $0 N1[3!”

“It sure is, friend-computer,” I say. I… don’t actually know what this thing calls itself beyond “Your friend silly!”, which is a bit of a mouthful. “How does this work?”

“1 DUNN0 1 ]U$7 L1V3 H3R3!”

Ok. Unhelpful, but sure, why not. 

“Alright… So can you… pull up something?”

“L1K3 WH47?”

“Ok… pull up Richard’s bank statements.”

A big whirling ball of pixels, a little too red and squishy for my liking even in their 8-bit format, rolls across the screen, the universal animation for “loading” in a funky new format. It takes about a minute of just staring blankly at the screen before anything happens, but eventually, it changes. Friend-computer’s icon makes a little exclamation mark appear on its screen-face, and a big colorful old-fashioned file-folder icon appears in the middle of the page. Underneath it, there’s a simple title: BANKSTATEMENTS_RICHARD_1. 

About as basic as it gets, but hell if it isn’t self-explanatory. And clicking on it… 

Well honestly, I’m no financial guru. I don’t even have a savings account right now, much less the sort of investments that someone like Richard would have. But from what it looks like?

I have opened up a file folder with a lot of zeroes in it, connected to some “name-and-name” type institution that I’ve never heard of before. 

It’s not a video or any kind of live-feed. I don’t even think it’s the actual webpage, just a snapshot picture of it from when I asked for it, if I had to guess. But even in the snapshot, there’s some little markers I recognize as stock tracking data, little three-letter acronyms with red and green signs next to them, and a bunch of potential applications for different kinds of accounts. 

I can’t make heads or tails of it, but I don’t have to. 

“Ok. Oooook. Ok. Can you… can you get me his personal emails?”

The little bloody loading icon pops up again, but this time it goes for well over six minutes before anything happens. Unfortunately, when it does, it just pops up a big old error message. 

“$0RRY FR13ND! 7H47 $TUFF PR1V473! 1 D0N'7 W4NN4 83 M34N 70 MY FR13ND$. WH3N $0M30N3 L0[K$ 7H31R D00R$ Y0U $H0ULD 4LW4Y$ 83 P0L173 4ND N07 G0 1N.”

That… is also not helpful. Except how it is. Fuck. 

Alright, I’m not going to get anything done by complaining to friendo here about it. I don’t know what it’ll do if it decides that I’m a bad friend, and I don’t really know how to convince it that someone isn’t its friend. This can be something I deal with later, if ever. 

It’s still information, though. His bank accounts and emails both are part of how his powers work, which ties into my theory about what manifestation-concept he has, but his bank account is less protected than his personal stuff. However.

“Ok. Can you find some emails from inside the company?”

“$UR3 7H1NG, P4L!”

This time the loading screen is a lot faster, and what pops up is a file titled EMAILSCOMPANY_RANDOM_1. And it really is random, unfortunately, which sort of sucks, but is also completely my own fault for not asking something more specific. I open the file and find more still images, some of them from what sound like executives, others from what might be interns for all I know, all at varying levels of professionalism. One guy by the name of Vince is, apparently, using his company email to just send non-stop invites to what he’s calling “a slop-fest jamboree”, implied to involve a lot of drinking and some club I’ve never heard of. 

So it’s just Richard’s emails that are protected, then. Or maybe I’ll find more. I’m sure there’s plenty of shit he has some extra protections on. But this is a start. 

I spend the next two hours entering prompt after prompt to Friend-Computer, ignoring the blatant irony of using a magical artificial intelligence while so dearly despising the tech-bro’s version. That shit’s crashed the economy badly enough as it is. Bit by bit, folder by folder, I compile a list of dozens upon dozens of personal profiles, email chains, bank statements and company-wide memos. There’s invoices for flights and personal expenses, talks of mergers, even a snapshot of a video call once or twice that I build folders out of, though I’m not sure how useful it’ll be to just have still images of who’s in the call. I’m not an investigative expert, but I ask every question I can think of, and do my best to organize them into folders that make sense at least to me. 

Pretty soon, I’ve compiled a couple gigs worth of downloaded images, which will probably take days or a lot more hours to sort through than I’m willing to spend right now. This isn’t perfect, and it isn’t much just yet, but beyond Dick’s personal files, I’ve gotten everything I could ask for. I have an insight into his company, his employees, his records, that probably even his shareholders don’t have, and while I don’t doubt he’s got more hidden away, so long as I’m careful, he shouldn’t find out that I have this window. And eventually, I’m sure I can find a way to convince Friend-Computer to help me crack whatever security he has on his personal shit. 

It’s not a kill-shot, but it is an ace in the hole. You’re going to spy on me? Fine, motherfucker. I’ll spy on you right the fuck back. We’ll see who finds something first. 

And then, I sign out of the program and say goodbye to Friend-Computer, shutting the laptop lid and sighing.

Ok. Day’s started. Now for next steps.

I reach for my phone to text Jay.

Hey, can you come over?

His response is instantaneous, and I wince at the unread messages above the one I just sent that I never replied to. 

Be right there.

I’m pretty sure today’s his day off, or that he’s not on shift around now, but I could be wrong. I guess it doesn’t make much difference to this; I’m pretty sure he would be coming over right now even if he was at work. Because he’s a good person who cares about me and who I care about very much.

And who I am going to keep showing weird shit to.

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The first thing Jay does when he sees me is go to hug me. 

The second is to stop and flinch at how I take a step back and away. 

“I–”

When I lean forward again rather than speak, he stops hesitating and wraps his arms around me. 

It’s… well actually, I guess it’s not embarrassing at all, how I basically fall to tears immediately. It might, in fact, be construed as a very human response to an overwhelming amount of stress, followed by touching another person in a positive context for the first time in at least a week. Maybe. I don’t know. 

I let out one big sob, then hold the rest of it in. But I let the tears flow, staining his shirt. 

A good thirty seconds pass before I’m put together enough to pull him in from standing in my damn doorway and walk us both inside, shutting the door behind him.

“You look like shit, girl.”

I laugh, though it comes out as a harsh bark of sound. “Thanks, Jay. Exactly what I want to hear.”

“Bitch you left me unread for like three days, I was about to break into this place to try and find you. I… fuck, Ilia, you had me worried that you might be hurt or dead or something. Last time we had a big talk was–”

“A while ago, I know. And… good news on the being-dead front. I’ve got at least three extras.”

“Ok, what the fuck does that mean?”

I sigh, letting out the air in a stream of released stress. With a chuckle, I shake my head, then tilt my head towards the kitchen. 

“Let’s walk over. I’ve brought some supplies down to the table, some stuff I’ve written, which is going to be easier than just listening to my dumbass ramble.”

I walk him over, pulling out chairs for each of us. “Tea?” I ask, waving a hand at the mass of mess on the table. 

A few rolls of duct-tape, for one. My notebook, obviously, where I spent quite a few hours writing down theories and mechanics and my current “setup”. Last but not least, my laptop, with some of that same duct tape placed over its microphone and camera, adding just that little bit of manual security to the whole thing.

And two bottles of two different types of painkillers, one half-full, the other entirely. 

“What kinds do you have?” he asks, taking his seat and looking cautiously at the stuff put before him on the table. “Chamomile? Earl?”

“I’ve got peach and raspberry.”

“Oh you fruity– fine, I’ll take peach. With honey, please.”

“I have splenda.”

“Every day I experience burdens meant for the harshest of sinners, stoically and with saintly grace. No splenda, please, I’ll just take it straight. Knowing you, it’s probably come sweet enough out of the package.”

Unfortunately, he’s probably right. Sweet tooth and all. I put the electric kettle on, much to Jay’s ongoing disappointment in my tea-making skills, and set out two mugs with the tea-bags in them. By the time I’ve turned back to the table, Jay has rearranged the notebook to right in front of him, turning the computer sideways and away. When I raise an eyebrow, he shrugs.

“I mean, if you’re blocking all this stuff, I don’t want it near me, right?”

“...right.”

“So. What’s happened, since all of this went… however it’s going?”

“Badly. It’s going badly. But I’m… being proactive, now. Not really interested in breaking down right now.”

“That is absolutely not how that works, in any way, at all. But sure, go on.”

“Ok. So. I’ve written down some stuff in the notebook. It’s messy, but if you go to the pages in the middle, the last few, it’ll have the most up to date stuff. I’ve got some notes about what I think is going on, and some notes about what’s going on with me, specifically. We can work our way through that. Then, I have some stuff on the laptop to show you. Then, we’re gonna use the duct tape.”

“We’re going to… use. The duct tape.”

“Yeah. Honestly, we might end up doing parts of it out of order. You’ll probably have a better time with it after you’ve read some of my notes.”

The kettle starts whistling, and I fill up our cups, adding a generous dash of splenda to mine and nothing at all to Jay’s. I haven’t exactly had much chance to go grocery shopping lately, or to go to a pharmacy, but I doubt the painkillers mixed with the tea would do much more than jus taking them normally. Maybe it would be less effective, I don’t know. 

Facing new situations really makes it so loud to me, just how little I know. Just how big the world is, and how most of us just coast through it on assumptions. Maybe I should start pirating some biology textbooks or something. I’ve heard of people educating themselves about that sort of thing before, fuck medical school and however millions of dollars it costs. Surely nothing bad will happen, right? 

Definitely something bad will happen if I start assuming I’m as good as someone who’s actually gone to medical school. But it’s a damn fine idea to have just… more information, a better understanding. 

I give Jay his tea, sit beside him, and wait as he opens the notebook up and starts reading. 

He takes sips of his drink at first. He grimaces, but he doesn’t mind all that much, going by the fact that he doesn’t complain out loud, which he is quite comfortable doing. Then, a few pages in, he’s left the cup to one side, letting it cool as he keeps reading. And reading. And reading. 

I wait. I sip my tea. 

I watch the eye at the back of his head swiveling to stare at me, then at the kitchen walls, then back at me. Facing away from the notebook and from the laptop, for now. 

I don’t know if the eye can read minds, or even if it can send information directly to Dick and his big fuckoff bullshit corporation. I doubt it, though. A step too far. He’s a surveillance state, if his power manifestation is any indication, but mind-reading doesn’t quite… fit. Not the right vibe, and vibes are a big chunk of what I’ve even got when it comes to figuring all this shit out. 

I wait. 

I stare back at the eye. 

I think it wrinkles, sort of like a smile without a mouth. But it might be all in my head.

Jay doesn’t say anything until he’s made it through the back few steps of the notebook. All in all, it takes a good fifteen minutes of reading and skimming for him to finish it, reach for his mug, and discover that the water’s gone lukewarm. He pushes it away, sighing. Deep breath in, deep breath out, deep breath in. 

Then he turns back over to me. 

“Ilia, what the fuck.”

I shrug. “Yup.”

“I mean I know the mill is like, weird, and had all this gross fungal stuff to it, but this is… this is a lot. And this is all real? The fucking… the stuff in the game? The kid? The doll-man and stuff?”

“Every bit of it. As accurately and completely as I can tell. Happy to explain about it later, if you like.”

“Later why?”

“Because there’s some stuff that I can’t explain yet. Not until I do… not until I take some next steps. Which might involve the tape, but will definitely involve the painkillers. I’m getting better, but I’m not that good at it yet, definitely not good enough that I think it won’t hurt at all.”

Jay sits there quietly for a moment. 

“Ilia, are you going to hurt me?”

It breaks my fucking heart. Before I even have time to get behind the glass again, there are tears coming down from my face. 

“No, Jay. Not… not like that. And I’m sorry you’re so worried about me. And I’m… I’m so fucking sorry that…”

Silence lies heavy on the table.

“Remember that eye I told you about?”

He nods slowly, hand raising almost unconsciously towards the back of his head.

“You’re compromised. So I can’t be really precise or clear. But I’m not doing this to hurt you, and I’m not going to force you to do this. You can still help me without me doing this, it’ll just… it’ll be less.”

He takes a long, deep breath. Another exhale. It’s a familiar effort, one that I’ve imitated quite a bit while learning to meditate and manage my own emotions. I really, truly wish he didn’t have to do it so much around me. That I didn’t elicit that in him.

But that one deep breath is all it takes, apparently. 

“Ok. Do it.”