SOTF: Cyber: Teaser #3 — "Out of Place"

#1

04/02/2023
"TH30'S SERVER"
101.183.164.███.

Out of place.

As Theodore Chandler came face to face with his newest customer, that was his first impression, the first three little words that flashed into his mind. How else were you supposed to describe someone like that? Someone who would come to a black market deal with their Avatar dressed up like a hard-boiled sleuth? Chrissakes, it took a lot of work to read him. Was it a dumb joke made in bad taste? Or was it just some vain attempt to get under his skin? Chandler swallowed. He couldn't tell.

He had to admit, though, for better or for worse, the other man—at least, Chandler assumed it was a man—pulled off that old-school film noir vibe pretty accurately: trench coat hanging cape-like off his back, fedora pulled down over his shadow-framed face, skulking along the road towards the warehouse, cigarette drooping on his lips like a second tongue. That said, this server was strictly for business, not pleasure; nicotine didn't work like it did in the real world. It was just for aesthetics.

Chandler showed no signs of contempt on his face, though, concealing the suspicious feeling that burned up in his chest. After all, this wasn't his first rodeo. Many strange characters came to him for his services, wanting something or other. It came with the turf. This one, whoever they were, wasn't the first; as far as Theodore was concerned, they wouldn't be the last. All he had to do was keep up that customer-service smile and get the deal over and done with. He was a professional. It was his job.

Once the man in the trench coat, his Avatar practically dripping with that cinema-esque black-and-white palette, was close enough, Chandler gave him a curt nod, extending his hand to the silhouetted, heavily-clad figure. "Good evening, Mr. Lincoln," he said, pausing on the name as if something was on the tip of his tongue. It was likely a pseudonym. Given the nature of things, everyone involved had one or the other. That said, it struck out funnily. He wasn't sure why. "I'm glad you could make it here on time."

Before he answered, [LINCOLN] held the cigarette in his mouth with two fingers—index and middle—then took it out and dropped it, not even bothering to snuff it under his boots. Then, he turned and glanced back at the road he had just traveled towards the Sahara-like sands that stretched to the horizon and beyond. After that, he let his cold, vacant, fake eyes wander back to Chandler, scrutiny in his empty, plastic gaze. He shifted in his robes, adjusting to a model that was bigger than he was.

"I wasted fifteen minutes of my life walking through nothing—a bunch of barren desert and asphalt—for this," the gumshoe spat out angrily, a grumbling rumble reverberating in his throat. "Couldn't you have just set the spawn location right here and saved me some of the trouble? Or was that too much work for you?" Then, he gave an ugly sneer at Chandler, contempt for the man in front of him displayed almost openly. His fingers darted to the brim of his hat and lowered it, framing his mug in the shade.

Chandler didn't even flinch. Another rude customer, he thought, sighing. He gritted his teeth, swallowed, and prepared to put on that sugary-sweet salesman voice that had carried him this far. "Some of my clientele appreciate a little ambiance before we get to serious business. Truly, it makes me a little sad that you feel otherwise. Nonetheless, I assure you, my wares are worth the effort you spent getting here." Then, he gave a slight, showman-like bow, followed by a nod towards the warehouse.

[LINCOLN] tsked in response. "Fine, then. Show me what you've got."

Chandler merely clapped his hands once. As soon as he had, the warehouse's shutters, the metal roll-up doors that kept them closed, rolled up with a slow, metallic screech as they pulled themselves up, revealing what lay beyond. From there, a dim hallway was visible to the naked eye. A moment later, with a dum-dum-dum sound, the warehouse's lights gradually flickered on, starting with the ones nearest to the door and ending in those on the side the furthest away from the entrance.

"Let's take a closer look, shall we?" Chandler said, offering a fake smile.

[LINCOLN], like a vampire receiving their invitation into the household, wasted no time making good on it. He slipped his pockets into his coat and began to walk, boots clattering on the ground as he stepped through the warehouse doors. His stride was confident, as if he already owned the place, his movement quick but leisurely, unconcerned with anything—as if there was no weight on his too-large shoulders. It would not be easy to piece together that this body's frame wasn't the same as his.

From the outside, the dingy-looking, slightly rusted warehouse couldn't have been longer than two hundred meters or so and couldn't have been much taller than about two stories. Like the TARDIS, though, Chandler had once noted, it was bigger on the inside. Easily one square kilometer in every direction and four stories high, with more than enough potential to expand further if necessary, the warehouse was large enough to store just about anything. And, as Chandler knew well, they needed the space.

As soon as they entered, the reason was evident. Rows upon rows of vehicles stretched throughout the warehouse, bestrewn in an even grid across the concrete floor, shielded from the simulacrum of sunlight by the metal panels that composed the roof. The largest of these vehicles in terms of sheer quantity were ordinary cars, ones that one would expect that they might find on any street in the country, but there were some oddities sprinkled here and there, scattered evenly among their peers.

In one dark corner, there was a double-decker AEC Routemaster bus. In another, a 1961 Lincoln Continental limousine identical to the one President John F. Kennedy was shot in, complete with little bits of bone and blood and brain matter strewn across its cushions and seats and dashboard. A Panzerkampfwagen IV sat unattended on the far side of the warehouse. There were bicycles, motorcycles, unicycles, and all manners of things. All of them were spread evenly apart, ready to be driven away.

Chandler stood there, smiling to himself. He was proud of himself, his work, and even the things other people might've balked at. Nothing could top it. He turned to the other man, watching as [LINCOLN] stood still for several seconds, the investigator seeming to take in the scenery. His shadowy expression was impossible to discern, an enigma clad in a trench coat and fedora. After about half a minute of silent contemplation, though, [LINCOLN] passed judgment and gave his final verdict.

"Nice collection you've got here," the man said through his garbled voice.

"Oh," Chandler replied smugly. "You haven't even seen the half of it yet." As he spoke, he walked towards the nearest car, an Aston Martin DB4 GT Zagato in metallic green. "See, usually, when someone makes a virtual car, only the visible elements are present. The physics are just an illusion, bits of code and what have you, a half-baked imitation of the real thing." He placed a hand down lovingly on the hood of the car, smiling unseen to himself as he basked in the opportunity. This place was his pride and joy.

"My products, on the other hand," he said, opening the car's hood to reveal an entire engine, "aren't quite like that. I've reverse-engineered them down to the smallest bolt. They work exactly how they do in the real world and look the same, too, down to the tiniest pixel. Even their creators can't tell my virtual machines apart from the real deal." His voice was conceited but not arrogant. "They've even got fuel inside their tanks. Well, aside from the EVs, I guess. Those ones have batteries, of course."

[LINCOLN] gave a good gander at the engine for a moment before turning away, his attention seemingly drawn elsewhere, gaze passing along the ephemera of the warehouse's contents. He took a steady breath through his nose and swallowed something, a question on the tip of his tongue. After a moment, he raised his long arm and, with it, his index finger and pointed directly at the olive-green Panzerkampfwagen IV on the other side of the room. "What about this—" he gesticulated, "—thing? Can it drive?"

Chandler raised an eyebrow at his hard work being called a thing. Nonetheless, he steeled himself. "Yes, of course it can drive. You'll need some proper ammunition for it to fire, just like a real tank would, but aside from that, it should work to any specifications you need it for—military simulations, parades, whatever you need. It's not hard to drive at all, either. Teenagers could do it—hell, I'm pretty sure, during the war, some teenagers did do it. It was a crazy time; I wouldn't be surprised."

"Teenagers, huh?"

For reasons that Chandler didn't quite understand, [LINCOLN] smirked.

"Well, well, well," [LINCOLN] continued. "I'm impressed, you know—really, I am!" His voice was gratingly insincere, a sickly contempt hanging on his words. Chandler put up with it for the promise of pay. "It seems that your rather boisterous promises weren't altogether unfounded. This collection of yours will be useful to me and my associates, and we're more than interested in acquiring it." [LINCOLN] smiled at Chandler. Chandler smiled back, but not at [LINCOLN]. He smiled at the thought of the man's money.

This part—the sale itself—was the most straightforward portion of the process.

"Well," Chandler wheedled and spun, "I'm glad that you want to purchase my—"

"No," [LINCOLN] said bluntly, like a hit to the dome. "I'm not purchasing anything."

"...what?" Chandler said, puzzling together the clipped tones of the words.

"I'm not purchasing anything," [LINCOLN] said, anger rising, "asshole."

A tense silence hung in the air for a few seconds, reigning like a tyrant, as Chandler, the black marketeer, tried his best to avoid screaming at him.

"...what?" Chandler said again.

"Didn't I make myself clear the first two times?" [LINCOLN] said, as if the question was the stupidest thing he had ever heard in his entire life. "I'm not buying anything. I'm not paying. I am taking—" he motioned vaguely at the warehouse, "—all of this, your entire collection, the whole thing, every last car and bike and scooter, and whatever else you have in this entire goddamn warehouse. Comprendes, mi amigo? Habla inglés?"

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Chandler said, his lips twitching. "I run a business, not a charity."

Instead of responding, [LINCOLN] just reached his left hand into his coat pocket and pulled something out. As soon as he did, Chandler saw what they were. It was a bundle of white-paper polaroids, many of them, and [LINCOLN], as if he were laying pocket aces on a poker table, cooly tossed them onto the hood of the car, where the dealer could see the images printed on the paper, seeing what those pictures depicted.

A sordid assortment of scenes that Theodore Chandler knew all too well.

"Funnily enough, me and my associates? We had every intention of paying you for your hard work at first," [LINCOLN] said, his voice ice-cold. "But then we ran a cursory background check on you, just like everyone we do business with, since we're responsible citizens. We've got to do our due diligence as an organization, you know? Well, funny thing: it didn't take us very long at all to find out exactly what kind of a sick fuck you are."

Right then, Theodore Chandler gave up any attempt to feign politeness, scoffing right back at the man in the trench coat. He dropped that sickly-sweet customer-service tone like a bag of rocks. "So, tell you this, what I do in my spare time is, to be quite frank, none of your fucking business. Or, what," he said, sneering, "do you expect me to feel guilty for the brats in those videos? I'm one of thousands of customers. It's supply and demand, buddy, trust me. My purchases have nothing to do with—"

"Can it," [LINCOLN] snapped angrily, interrupting him. "I don't want to hear your shitty excuses. Just give me the passcodes for every file on the goddamn server. And I mean the cars, not the shit that you've got rotting on your hard drive. Unless, of course," he continued, almost relishing in the chance to put Chandler in his place, "you want these photos to end up on the desk of your local sheriff. And, before you ask, we've traced your IP—your proxy sucks. It took about a minute to crack the whole system."

Under his digital breath, Chandler swore like a sailor, his face twisting up into angry knots. For a moment, he was silent, seething in his skin. But, after a few seconds of considering all his options, there was only one way to avoid the devastating consequences that were coming. There was no fighting it anymore. He wasn't one to accept this kind of blackmail against him, but, in this case, there was no exit strategy, no way out of the situation, except to comply with the demands placed upon his shoulders.

"The code is..." Chandler mumbled under his breath, resigned to his fate.

"What's that?" [LINCOLN] said. "I can't quite hear you. Speak up, buddy."

Chandler glared at him. Then, he spoke up. "...the code's W1KOD5FCB."

For a moment, [LINCOLN] just stared off into thin air, clearly checking something on his heads-up display. Chandler stared at his shoes. A few seconds later, [LINCOLN] spoke again. "Thank you for your cooperation," he snickered. "I'll be heading out now. For your safety, I recommend you forget everything that happened to you today. Trust me," he said, winking wickedly, "You don't wanna see what happens to you if you don't listen to us. We're much more powerful than you realize; I guarantee it."

"Just go away."

[LINCOLN] complied, the gumshoe's body fading into a fine mist of pixels as he logged out of the server, a message in the chatlog noting that he had disconnected. All that remained on the server was the giant sandbox of a desert, a long, empty stretch of barren asphalt road, a decaying warehouse bigger than it had any right to be, and one very, very, very angry Theodore Chandler. He mouthed a bitter "log out" under his breath, feeling the screen go dark as he pre-emptively reached for his head.

04/02/2023
LAFAYETTE, LOUISIANA
129.81.225.███.

Chandler was beyond angry as he jerked awake, tearing himself up from his body in a burst of energized fury. He was furious. With little care, he ripped the Cyber Reality Device from his head—too frustrated to notice that it felt just a little bit lighter and a little bit looser on his head than it had an hour or so ago—hands not feeling any of the warmth that usually remained from contact. He swallowed, breaths shaky and fast, and stormed over to the wooden desk nearby—missing some splinters.

The only thing that he could see, in that flurry haze of emotion, was the TracFone Alcatel A206 burner he kept on his desk, saved for just such an emergency as this. Grabbing the device with a balled fist, Chandler raised it and flipped it open with a flick of his wrist, thick thumb mashing the buttons on his phone until he was on the right screen. Then, he dialed a number that he had memorized only in his head because writing it down somewhere someone could spy it was far too risky for his tastes.

It took barely a ring before he heard a click as someone picked up on the other end.

"Parker," he said with an unseen nod, his voice quick as lightning and cracking like thunder. "It's Chandler here. It's urgent. Some prick's trying to mess with me, going by the name 'Lincoln.' I'm gonna send you everything I know. I need you to tell me everything you've got on this bastard, and I need it A-S-A-fucking-P, before he has the chance—"

Chandler's heart nearly jumped out of his chest when he heard the voice—that voice—chiming in from the other side of the line, there with all its sneering condescension. All of a sudden, his stomach dropped into his shoes, bile rose inside of his throat, and he began to sweat, feeling a sudden wave of horrible nausea come on as the terrible realization that something had gone truly, horribly wrong had begun to dawn on him.

"I warned you. Buddy, you really should've listened to me when I told you to forget everything. I don't screw around."

"Wha—" Chandler sputtered, astounded by everything, head now pounding, "—how the fuck did you even—!"

"—oh," [LINCOLN] said, a calculated amusement in his voice. "You don't need to know, Chandler. See you never!"

Theodore Chandler dropped the phone and spun on his heels, sprinting for his apartment door, locked now, somehow. All of a sudden, the murky lamplight soaking through his apartment—wait, why were the shadows pointing that way, that didn't make any—flickered, and he turned, blinked, opened his eyes, and there was only darkness—why was there only darkness where did it go what the fuck was happening why why why—

And that was the last thing that Theodore Chandler ever saw.

04/02/2023
LAFAYETTE, LOUISIANA

Meanwhile, his actual apartment—not the copy they had so cleverly made for him as a test—had begun to resemble something more akin to a tomb. Theodore Chandler's body remained on the bed, where it had not moved the entire time, convulsing. It continued as such, spasming on top of the greasy mattress, blood tricking out from under the Cyber Reality Device on his head, for about twenty long—excruciatingly long—seconds.

And then it stopped.

It took until the end of the month—when his landlord entered the apartment to collect his monthly rent and to deal with the occasional complaints he had received about that weird smell in Apartment 52—for anyone to find Theodore Chandler's rotting corpse. A few minutes later, the Lafayette Police Department arrived at the report of a body. An hour later, they had sent a telegram to their colleagues all the way over in San José.

By the time it reached their ears, it was too late to save any of the victims.

Codename: [LINCOLN]
Real Name: ████ █████████
Role: Announcer
Gender: Male
Age: 25

Appearance: [LINCOLN] is a young adult male of Caucasian ethnicity, his ancestry being of primarily English and Scottish descent. He is just a little bit shorter than average, at 5'7", and has an average weight of 147 pounds. While not precisely thin, his build is somewhat slender, with little meat on his bones, owing to a good diet and an exercise regimen; there is a thin veneer of muscle to accentuate his frame, resulting in an attractive figure.

His black hair is curly, with a messy, frizzy texture, and bearing more than a passing resemblance to the famous style of a young Albert Einstein, something he deliberately cultivates. He has a round face with a good complexion, two round blue eyes, a long nose, a wide mouth, and a slim jawline that makes him look like a model. One will likely see his face twisted up in a bemused smile, with raised eyebrows and a sly smirk.

As a result of his work with [INITIATIVE EARTH], [LINCOLN] spends most of his time in Cyber Reality, focusing little effort on his outfits in real life. In the digital world, however, he wears many guises, playing exactly the right part to suit the organization's goals. Whatever the task required, he can slip effortlessly into the role in his looks, posture, and manner, wearing different masks constantly, as if every day is Halloween night.

Biography: [LINCOLN]—real name ████ █████████—was born in the sprawling city of Los Angeles, California, the only child of a moderately famous actor and his trophy wife. Being their only child and born into wealth at that, [LINCOLN] was pampered, wanting for nothing and barely receiving discipline for any infractions he committed. As a result of this careless arrangement, he grew up entitled, with a strong sense of self-importance, never experiencing any form of adversity or hardship in his early life.

Like his father, [LINCOLN] became a proficient actor at a young age, partly because of the many classes he took as a child at his parents' insistence and partly because of a naturally glib and loquacious demeanor that suited his work well. While his parents expected him to follow in his father's footsteps and become an actor in nearby Hollywood, [LINCOLN] felt unsure about this role, believing that even the most star-studded life would be beneath him. He wanted nothing but the best.

As a result of this unwarranted conceit, [LINCOLN] looked to other means to satisfy his desires, not content with the easy life set out before him. He spent his teenage years experimenting, trying to find fresh and innovative ways to apply his trade and talent, most with varying success. During this time, he took various partners, a few of whom he was loyal to, enjoying brief periods of romance before tiring of them and moving on to the next. Overall, [LINCOLN] is satisfied with the course he took in adolescence.

At the insistence of his parents—who were bankrolling his lifestyle then—[LINCOLN] attended the University of California, Los Angeles's School of Theater, Film, and Television (UCLA TFT), where his education continued. He was acquainted with political activism and social media there by some of his roommates in the school's dormitories. Both these topics resonated with him, being the means and the method to achieve those high levels of influence and importance he had always strived for as a young man.

In weeks, [LINCOLN] gradually accumulated personas, creating many social media personalities—each with associated accounts on several platforms—representing differing political views. As a result of the fact that these characters catered to different audiences and parts of the political spectrum, as well as having other appearances and voices, nobody could tell that he ran them. He often has his personas clash on social media. Two of these channels have subscriber counts approaching half a million each.

Aside from that, [LINCOLN] dabbled in financial fraud here and there, sometimes in the form of multi-level marketing (MLM) schemes or cryptocurrency scams, using his charisma and acting skills to talk gullible people into forking over their money to him. As a result of these activities, [LINCOLN] has amassed a small fortune, though he has never actually needed to work a day in his life, owing to his family's wealth. For the most part, the wealth is simply a score for him, a means to gauge his success.

After he graduated from university, [LINCOLN] moved out of Los Angeles, California, bouncing aimlessly around the country in a jet-set lifestyle. His contact with his parents was minimal, only interacting with them when they appeared valuable and willing to hand over their money to him. Around this time, [INITIATIVE EARTH] became interested in [LINCOLN]. After background research, the organization contacted him directly, and he was recruited voluntarily into the position of the game's announcer.

At the time, several members of [INITIATIVE EARTH] expressed mild concerns about [LINCOLN]'s recruitment, calling into question his integrity and ability to conduct himself properly. Any doubts on this front were quashed by [KENNEDY], who insisted on [LINCOLN]'s hiring, citing his authoritative say in the operation's organizational process. Since then, there has been no reason to question [LINCOLN]'s continued value to the organization, as he has remained cooperative and honest with the group.

In addition to his role as the game's announcer, [LINCOLN] has been assigned a secondary objective at the behest of [INITIATIVE EARTH]. He has been dispatched to Sycamore High School as a deep-cover operative, posing as a transfer student named "Zeph Newman." ███ █████████ █████████████ ███ ████████ ██ [INITIATIVE EARTH] ███ █████ ████████.

Personality: [LINCOLN] is the archetypal narcissist, though he has never received a formal diagnosis for the associated personality disorder. In particular, he displays mixed tendencies of the Unprincipled (associated antisocial features) and Elitist (a variant of "pure" elements) subtypes of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He is unscrupulous, amoral, and fraudulent, a compulsive liar and a charlatan, empowered by an unmatched ego and an entitled pretense that bears little resemblance to anything genuine.

Most of his actions, both in the past and presently, are performed with the explicit intent to feed his turgid ego and, with it, the belief he carries in his own supreme "specialness," swollen by pseudo-achievements and points of pride that, for most people, would instead serve as marks of shame. In this same vein, he sees his role within [INITIATIVE EARTH] as another opportunity to prove himself superior and unmatched by others, and, like everything else, takes immense pridefulness in his work.

As a classically trained actor and thespian, [LINCOLN] makes for a professional liar, an expert at donning masks and putting on veils. He has no compassion for those he deceives—he views them as entirely inferior to him, deserving only of being exploited and discarded by someone as superior as he. Through [LINCOLN]'s perspective, they are akin to small insects, unquestioningly flying about the world, and he is akin to a spider, weaving a web and entrapping them within it to later get consumed.