Chapter Text
It’s a Monday afternoon in early May when he first hears that name: samsepi0l. He’s sitting in the school computer lab—the janitor lets him stay until he has to lock up, and his father doesn’t care what he does after school as long as he’s home to do his chores before dark—and it’s the year 2000, and he’s 17 years old, and every IRC server and BBS chatroom is abuzz with gossip about a computer worm that started spreading over the weekend.
Tyrell only just started taking programming two years ago, to the great disappointment of his father. He’s tall, and years of manual labour have made him strong and fast, but he has no interest in sports or trades work.
[17:23] <repus> you guys here the latest on that worm going around?
[17:23] <SaberSlayer> It’s spelled hear, idiot
[17:23] <repus> f off.
[17:23] <aeon> what worm???
[17:23] <SaberSlayer> Do you live under a rock
[17:23] <SaberSlayer> Love Bug
[17:23] <repus> yeah its got over 7 million machines infected already. even the pentagon is nervous rofl
[17:24] <L3SH1> u think the guy who did this is trolling or wut??
[17:24] <SaberSlayer> Probably some destitute fuck stealing internet access passwords because he can’t pay his bill
[17:24] <SaberSlayer> Or a troll
[17:24] <SaberSlayer> There was a similar one a while back where a dude sent pics of a stripper around
[17:24] <repus> definitely an unemployed everquest addict who hasnt been outside in a year lolololol
[17:24] <repus> wasn’t that on alt.sex
[17:24] <repus> that place is full of scams
[17:25] <L3SH1> hows it possible its even spreading this fast?
[17:25] <repus> because people are dumb as shit lol
[17:25] <SaberSlayer> It’s probably all old people on iMac
[17:25] <samsepi0l> windows 95 lets you write script in microsoft outlook. im guessing thats where he started. once whoever receives the email opens the attachment, the script executes, and it sends copies of itself to everyone in your outlook address book.
[17:25] <samsepi0l> not only will it spread fast, but anyone can modify the base code too, as long as they know VBS. i bet theres already a few variants of it out there that were added by hackers who received the original email and decided to modify it.
Tyrell rarely participates in this server, but he does lurk, and still, he’s never seen this username before.
[17:26] <repus> yoooo its sam
[17:26] <SaberSlayer> Here comes the know it all
[17:26] <L3SH1> hey sam
[17:26] <L3SH1> so how long u think before they catch whoever did it?
Whoever samsepi0l is, everyone here obviously treats him as an authority where computers are concerned. This catches Tyrell’s interest. He’s always had the urge to gravitate towards the most powerful person in a room, watching how they spoke and carried themselves so he could learn the key to commanding that same level of respect. Online, though, those details fade away. It’s only your words and knowledge that matter. And clearly, samsepi0l knows what he’s talking about.
[17:27] <samsepi0l> theyll be able to figure out who first sent the email, and then his ISP will give the cops his address
[17:27] <samsepi0l> the hack itself wasnt very complex. all just social engineering
Tyrell has never heard this word before. Most of his classes so far have been on QBasic, writing conditionals and loops and arrays, without much focus on implementation. He’s curious, though. Finding new terms like these is the reason he started surfing through IRC servers in the first place, and he’d been dismayed to find most of the topics of discussion were just gossip.
[17:27] <tyrell> What is social engineering?
He watches his cursor flicker on the screen, hardly blinking through his rampant curiosity.
[17:27] <repus> is this dude for real
[17:28] <SaberSlayer> I thought we were kicking noobs
[17:28] <samsepi0l> its manipulation
[17:28] <samsepi0l> the love bug worm shows up in your inbox as a text file that says “love letter for you”
[17:28] <samsepi0l> anybody would want to open that. its designed to make you curious
Tyrell reads over the reply several times, eyebrows furrowing.
[17:29] <tyrell> But why? I don’t see what the creator of the bug stands to gain.
[17:29] <samsepi0l> the internet password theory might be right. but who knows.
[17:29] <samsepi0l> momentary chaos?
[17:29] <samsepi0l> seeing your work on the news, knowing the worlds greatest law enforcement entities are after you? its fame and power, i guess, without having your name attached to it
[17:30] <samsepi0l> yet, anyway
[17:30] <samsepi0l> they’ll catch him soon. theres no way they wont. the virus wasnt very complex
Something about that sounds haughty, as if samsepi0l is saying I could do better.
[17:30] <tyrell> He’s caused a lot of damage. He might be smarter than you think.
[17:30] <samsepi0l> preying on people’s stupidity doesn’t make you smart. if that were true, einstein would have worked on wall street
[17:31] <samsepi0l> i think whoever made this has no idea what theyve gotten themselves into
[17:31] <samsepi0l> the only people who are really winning right now are the antivirus companies
[17:31] <L3SH1> how long do you think until they get him?
[17:32] <samsepi0l> wont be more than a few days
[17:32] <repus> prisons gonna suck for a guy like that
[17:32] <SaberSlayer> I doubt they’ll send him to jail. He didn’t steal any money
[17:32] <repus> $$$$$$ in damages tho
[17:32] <samsepi0l> making arrests in cases like this forms legal precedents
[17:32] <samsepi0l> they might want to make an example out of him too
[17:33] <repus> ffs
[17:33] <repus> ppl on other servers have been saying the same shit about napster
[17:33] <repus> that dumbass metallica lawsuit is gonna fuck up my p2ping
Despite Tyrell’s prior ignorance about the figure of samsepi0l, he’d be an idiot not to notice the high regard with which he’s treated here. That intrigues Tyrell. samsepi0l is clearly smart, and a hush fell over the server as soon as he sent his first message, like nobody feels important enough to interrupt him while he talks. Tyrell can’t imagine it. If people took him this seriously, he wouldn’t be able to resist gloating. samsepi0l acts like he doesn’t even notice.
The janitor pokes his head in and tells Tyrell he’s got five minutes before it’s time to lock up for the night. Tyrell powers down his usual computer with a frown.
Who is samsepi0l?
He spends the long walk home wondering, allowing his mind to fill in the gaps. samsepi0l is probably older; maybe a professional programmer, or a computer scientist. He’s probably been on that particular server for a while. Maybe he even created it. Everyone seems to know him. Nobody, on the only hand, knows Tyrell.
The sun sinks below the mountains in the distance as Tyrell does his nighttime chores. He brings the feed into the barn, stacks up a tower of firewood near the backdoor, and ties up the young snow peas against the sawed-off PVC pipe his father steals from work to use for staking. By the time Tyrell hears that familiar blue truck grumble up the driveway, it’s already dark, and he’s on the other side of the property bringing the sheep in from the field.
Wind blows over the long grass, making it undulate and sway like verdant waves. They’re so far from the city here that Tyrell can see every star in the sky. The tiny pinpricks of light are reflected in the smooth face of the lake, sitting at the bottom of the valley like a flat, glassy mirror.
Tyrell hates it. He can’t think of anything worse than being stuck here the rest of his life.
Thankfully, he has a plan: he’s going to go to college, graduate top of his class in the software engineering program, get a good job, make lots of money, and never step foot in this shithole town again. He will never have to pull a lamb out of an ewe, his hands covered in blood and embryonic fluid; he will never have to clean the guts from a fish; he will never have to hang his clothes up to dry in the sun. He’s going to live a good life, far away from here, and he’s never going to talk to his father again.
So even though the icy metal gate latch stings his palms, and he’s covered up to his shins in mud and sheep shit, it doesn’t matter. In a few years time, he’ll be so rich that all of this will seem like a distant memory.
“You’re sure that gate’s locked?” His father asks him when he steps inside.
“Yes,” Tyrell replies.
“You’re sure? Didn’t look like you locked it to me.”
“I did,” Tyrell says.
“Well, it’s your fault if that lynx gets in here again and takes a sheep. You know I can’t afford a mistake like that, not this year.”
Tyrell stands there, fists clenched behind his back, and nods.
His father is a pessimistic, wiry man who does nothing but work. He’s stupid, in the same way that everyone in this town is stupid: too stuck in the past to see that the future is creeping up on them, ready to make them obsolete.
His mother doesn’t exist. She died giving birth to Tyrell—he never got to meet her. Although he’s never said it out loud, Tyrell is certain that his father hates him for it. You can see it in his eyes, that look of vague distaste. Tyrell had been twelve when he’d finally figured out there was nothing he could ever do to earn his father’s respect. His existence itself was the source of disappointment.
The next morning, Tyrell lingers close to his father’s sputtering truck, listening to the reports on the news: the love bug hacker has been found in Manila, a young computer science drop-out who’d identified the same exploit samsepi0l pointed out in Outlook’s email system and used it to his advantage. In just a matter of days, his worm had spread to over fifty million computers worldwide, shutting down hospitals, universities, and even banks. A few lines of code and some social engineering, and one man, not even five years older than Tyrell himself, had unleashed chaos.
When Tyrell logs onto that same IRC server again after school, samsepi0l is nowhere to be found. The conversation has moved on, the culprit found, but Tyrell doesn’t stop thinking about it. The love bug worm was one thing, but the real mystery is samsepi0l.
The second time they cross paths, it’s following a 24-hour Capture The Flag tournament hosted by one of the hacker message boards Tyrell has only just recently discovered. Having no computer of his own, Tyrell couldn’t participate, but he sees the fallout in their IRC server after school.
[15:31] <viciousCamel> those teams were STACKED. unfair. one of the mods definitely rigged it
[15:31] <sleeperagent89> ur just mad u lost lolololol
[15:32] <viciousCamel> no way. the blue team had us beat 4 hours in. theres no way that happened organically. blue team cheated
[15:32] <gingerblue> Blue team got samsepi0l. You guys were doomed before it even started. Just the luck of the draw
[15:33] <viciousCamel> idk who samsepi0l is but maybe he should be banned from competing then. hes obviously a cheater
[15:34] <sleeperagent89> watch what u say man. samsepi0l dropped dox on a mod a couple months back. he’ll hack ur shit
[15:34] <gingerblue> Come on. Everyone knows that was just a rumor. Sam never said he did that
[15:35] <sleeperagent89> just cus he didnt admit it doesnt mean its not true
[15:35] <sleeperagent89> hes probably lurking right now reading this u guys
So samsepi0l is here, too? How many servers and communities do they have in common? Judging from the way people talk about him, samsepi0l is obviously a big deal. Tyrell feels stupid for not knowing about him sooner.
[15:36] <samsepi0l> we didn’t cheat. your team just wrote a shitty password cracker
[15:36] <sleeperagent89> ooooo damn
[15:36] <sleeperagent89> viciousCamel just got pwned
[15:37] <viciousCamel> he definitely fucking cheated! i dont care what he says. i want a rematch
samsepi0l doesn’t respond to that; as quietly he slips into the conversation, he slips back out. Tyrell finds himself wishing he wouldn’t go so soon, though. He has questions he wants to ask, things even his own programming teacher doesn’t have answers to, and he’s sure samsepi0l will know.
He decides to message samsepi0l privately.
[15:38] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l Do you have AOL? I want to talk to you.
He waits. Five minutes go by, then ten. As it becomes increasingly clear that samsepi0l doesn’t deem him worth responding to, Tyrell’s frustration grows. If this were happening in the real world, samsepi0l wouldn’t be able to ignore him so easily. Behind a computer screen, though, there’s little Tyrell can do to get his attention.
He doesn’t see samsepi0l for another week, even though he scours every programming server he can think of with fervent curiosity. In the meantime, he tries to figure out who samsepi0l is.
Cross-checking that username against the usual forums, Tyrell can find only three instances where samsepi0l has ever publicly posted: once to give someone help setting up their Linux distro, once to give a link to a digitised copy of Gibson’s Neuromancer, and once to sign up for that CTF tournament Tyrell had seen people talking about last time. samsepi0l is quiet—unlike most of the trolls and attention seekers on IRC, he seems to only speak up when someone asks a question, or when his name is directly mentioned. It gives the impression that he’s always just there, silently watching everything.
When he sees samsepi0l’s name pop up in the chat again, it’s in the server where they’d first met. Everyone’s talking about the upcoming American election—Tyrell’s been hearing about it on his father’s radio, too—and samsepi0l, surprisingly, seems to have strong opinions.
[17:21] <L3SH1> all im saying is, the candidate names this year are hilarious
[17:21] <L3SH1> george BUSH and DICK cheney
[17:21] <scarletprincess> its so freudian
[17:22] <EqUatOr> maybe its a subconscious manipulation thing. like after the democrats had the monica lewinsky scandal, the republicans are using sex in their campaign as a subliminal tactic to show theyre just as sexy and scandalous
[17:22] <scarletprincess> haha maybe
[17:22] <scarletprincess> personally i cant think of anything more boring than another guy from the bush family. cant we get some new blood
[17:23] <EqUatOr> it perfectly captures the myth of meritocracy and the plague of nepotism in america though
[17:23] <scarletprincess> im definitely voting for al gore anyway. hes the only politician ive ever seen that thinks we have a right to the internet
[17:23] <samsepi0l> im sure bush will push for more internet access too. the alphabet agencies know its the best way to get wiretaps in all our houses
As per usual, samsepi0l’s response is paranoid and borders on conspiracy. Tyrell wrinkles his nose, but sees this as his opportunity to connect once more. He pings samsepi0l privately.
[17:24] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l Do you think Gore is any better?
Truthfully, he doesn’t care about the answer, but he hopes it will give him an in.
[17:25] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell yeah but he’ll never win
[17:25] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell and besides im not sure voting does much good anyway
Finally, Tyrell thinks, a response.
[17:25] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l Give me your AOL handle and we can talk about this in private. You’re clearly more knowledgeable than the rest of the people on this server.
There’s a disturbingly long silence on the other end. The conversation moves on without them in the background, but Tyrell keeps his gaze unblinkingly on samsepi0l’s username, feeling his jaw clench as the seconds tick by.
[17:26] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell i remember you. you asked for my aol last week too
[17:26] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell what do you want
[17:26] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l Just to talk.
[17:26] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l I’ve been thinking about you since the LOVEBUG virus. You predicted everything perfectly.
Tyrell’s shoe is tapping loudly against the linoleum, and the sound echoes through the empty computer lab.
[17:27] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell i dont know you
[17:27] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l You’ll know me if we talk more.
[17:28] == samsepi0l [[email protected]] has quit [Client Quit]
Tyrell’s teeth grind together.
He waits, until the sun begins to set and the janitor kicks him out, but samsepi0l never comes back online.
That night in bed, Tyrell stares up at the ceiling, the hard metal cot digging into his spine, and silently fumes.
After that outright rejection, Tyrell abandons all pretence and strategy in favour of simply harassing samsepi0l every time he’s online.
He sees samsepi0l helping someone in the general server of their shared programming forum community, and pounces immediately:
[15:01] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l Add me on AOL.
samsepi0l doesn’t respond.
A few days later, he sees samsepi0l asking for pirated music disk rips, and pesters him again:
[16:48] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l Add me on AOL.
[16:48] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell can you quit stalking me
[16:49] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l I’ll stop if you add me.
[16:49] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l I just want to ask you some questions.
[16:49] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell if you werent such a fucking weirdo about it maybe i would have
[16:49] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell now i definitely dont want to
And he’s consequently ignored, again.
It takes two weeks for samsepi0l to speak up in the server again. This time, he’s on the verge of an argument with someone about how shitty Windows 2000 is when Tyrell swoops in.
[17:33] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l Add me on AOL.
[17:33] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell dude, seriously
[17:33] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell im going to have to change my handle because of you
[17:34] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l I’m not asking for much.
[17:34] == samsepi0l [[email protected]] has quit [Client Quit]
The constant rejections and refusals do little to stop Tyrell, though. He doesn’t care if his behaviour is childish. He's going to get samsepi0l to talk to him, and given how rare samsepi0l’s participation is in group settings, Tyrell figures one on one conversation will reap the best results.
One day, though, samsepi0l finally gives in.
Tyrell hasn’t even seen him speak up in the chat yet, but he knows samsepi0l is here. The past few weeks have been spent studying samsepi0l’s behaviour, following him across servers, figuring out what times he’s online, what topics of discussion spur him into talking. It’s early afternoon in Sweden—which means it’s nearly the middle of the night in America, where samsepi0l must live—so he should be watching the chatroom right now, if Tyrell’s hunch is correct.
He sends a private message out of the blue:
[15:19] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l Hi, samsepi0l.
[15:19] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell how did you know i was here
[15:20] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l I’ve been watching you.
[15:20] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell what the hell do you want from me
[15:20] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell why wont you just leave me alone
[15:21] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l I just want to talk.
[15:21] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell fine. whatever
[15:21] <samsepi0l> /msg tyrell ill make an aol account
[15:22] <tyrell> /msg samsepi0l Good. I’ll send you my username. Then, we can talk.
True to his word, samsepi0l adds him on AOL.
samsepi0l: so what is it you wanted to talk to me about
The question gives Tyrell pause. He’d been so caught up in chasing samsepi0l down, he’d never had time to put much thought into what it was he actually wanted to say.
His pause must have been a tad too long, because samsepi0l adds:
samsepi0l: did you even have a real question or are you just trolling me and wasting my time
Tyrell: I want to know more about you.
samsepi0l: why
Tyrell: You seem to know a lot about computers. I want to learn.
samsepi0l: go read a book then
samsepi0l: theres plenty of guides out there
Tyrell: I’ve read all of the books I could find. They don’t know as much as you do.
samsepi0l: so then start figuring shit out for yourself
samsepi0l: thats how everyone learns
samsepi0l: why do you even care so much
The truth is, Tyrell feels a compulsion to be the best at everything that borders on obsession. If he were born somewhere better, to a family with money, he could have achieved great things already, but he’s a prisoner of circumstance. He’s smart, he’s known that for years; he’s the top of his school in Math, he’s so fluent in English that most people online assume he’s a native speaker, and he’s already beginning to surpass his IT teacher. He has potential, but that’s not good enough—he can always be better, learn more. How could he ever expect to reach his goals otherwise?
Tyrell: I want to study software engineering in university, move to America, and work for E Corp.
Tyrell: The people where I live know nothing about computers.
Tyrell: I want you to teach me.
samsepi0l: e corp is evil
samsepi0l: why would i ever help you go work for them
Tyrell’s eyebrows furrow.
Tyrell: Surely, you must work for a similarly large company.
samsepi0l: me?
Tyrell: Yes. You must be a professional, right?
samsepi0l: why do you think that
Tyrell: Why else would you know so much?
There’s a long pause. Tyrell wonders if he’s going to be ignored again. After a few minutes, the response finally flashes across his screen.
samsepi0l: yeah
samsepi0l: definitely
samsepi0l: do you want to see my resume? ill send you a link to my website
samsepi0l: qsng-12.cn
samsepi0l: there. if you click on that you can learn all about me
This is just what Tyrell has been looking for. Finally, somebody competent has entered his life. He can only imagine the projects samsepi0l has worked on—maybe he’s secretly somebody famous. If Tyrell could get the endorsement of an industry superstar, there’s no way any company would be able to refuse him. Giddy with excitement, he clicks on the link.
The monitor instantly turns bright blue. Tyrell skitters backwards in his chair, horrified, watching as text fills the screen:
STOP: 0X00000024 (0X001902FE, 0XF791E948, 0XF791E644, 0XBA6805CC)
Ntfs.sys - Address BA6805CC base at BA645000, DateStamp 41107eea
BEGINNING DUMP OF PHYSICAL MEMORY…
He scrambles under the table and rips out the power cord from the socket. The monitor fizzes into black, inert and dead.
…What the fuck? Did samsepi0l just hack him?
Tyrell has the urge to go back online and confront him, but the fact is that he’s still just a kid hanging around in the computer lab after hours, and if samsepi0l crashes this computer again, it might break for good. There’s no way Tyrell will be able to pay to replace it.
He plugs the computer back in and tries to assess the damage. On boot, it looks the same as the rest, and he can’t find any suspicious new files. Whatever samsepi0l did, it was clearly designed to scare Tyrell rather than permanently fry his machine.
The night air nips at him, and his worn old coat offers no relief, but Tyrell spends that evening smiling through his chores anyway.
That was incredible. He felt like an idiot for falling for such a cheap trick, but he couldn’t deny samsepi0l’s skill. How could he have written that program so fast?
He falls asleep excited, anticipating the next afternoon, when he would be able to talk to samsepi0l again.
Elliot has a stalker, and an annoying one, too.
He’s only been on IRC for a little over a year, but he’s grown disenchanted with it already. The chatter is always mindless, and he still finds it hard to speak up, just like in real life. Why does he stick around, then? He’s not really sure. Maybe because he’s bored, or maybe because he thinks this is his last chance at forming something like friendship.
At school, he’s picked on and bullied. It started when he was eight, and now, five years later, not much has changed. He’s smaller than all of the boys in his class, and painfully shy—with Darlene and Angela in different grades, he hardly ever sees them, and so he spends most of his school days sitting in a corner, waiting until he’s allowed to go home again.
He’s an easy target. With no social net, who’s he gonna ask for help? He has nobody.
He sprints home everyday and always locks the door behind him. He’s been followed before, and he’s sure his tormentors know where he lives, so he’s always paranoid they’ll somehow make it there before him. The worst part is that they really don’t even hate him enough to try that hard. Elliot’s just an object of entertainment for them, something to play with and then discard when the fun wears off. Still, he can’t be too careful. He has to look out for himself, because it’s not like anyone else will. Even his mom has seen him come home with strange, unexplainable bruises, but she just shakes her head and looks away, like she’s disappointed in him.
Having long since given up on the real world, Elliot now lives his life shuttered away in the basement, tinkering with his dad’s old computers and books. At only 13, he’s beginning to outgrow anything his dad could have taught him. The cold blade of intellect in his mind is tempered with an unnamable sort of fear that goes beyond typical teenage angst. He has no friends and no hope and in him already broods a deep distrust for everything.
It’s a familiar story, almost a cliche, even: asocial, disaffected, lonely kid with terminal curiosity starts messing around with computers and starts figuring out things he shouldn’t. At school, he has to keep his head down and play the game, pretend he gives a shit about reducing fractions and why the electoral college is supposedly democratic. At home, he can tie up the phone lines, find anyone’s address and number through his county’s poorly-protected library database system, and steal any book or movie he wants, once he figures out where to look.
With a machine, he has total control. There are no outside factors holding him back. If the computer makes a mistake, it’s because he fucked something up. He only has to deal with his own incompetencies, and nobody else can bother him. Every problem he faces in the real world melts away, and it’s just him and the switches and electrons and bauds that make the whole thing work.
Thus, his stalker is a problem. The persistence and the demanding remind Elliot too much of the very things he goes online to escape from. It’s like the tufted milk straw wrappers blown at the back of his head in the cafeteria or the sharp sound of his name called in class when he’s spent too long staring out the window.
He was willing to ignore it, for a while. But then, the guy revealed he practically worships Evil Corp, and, well. Something had to be done about that. The wound of his dad’s death is still raw and Elliot is vindictive, more even than one expects from children his age, vengeful and angry as they are.
The virus Elliot had sent him wasn’t anything serious, just enough to send his computer into shock. Still, he’d been certain that would be the last time he’d hear from “Tyrell.”
It’s not.
Sometimes, Elliot doesn’t go to school. His mom works long hours, and she tries to ignore her children as much as possible, so as long as he deletes the voicemails from the school secretaries announcing his absence and doesn’t eat too much out of the fridge, she doesn’t notice. This morning, he’d snuck down to the basement early, eager to get to work on his latest project. He’s been trying to figure out how to make a cross-site scripting worm that would be able to replicate and deliver its payload whenever somebody accessed a browser page. This latest Love Bug worm has given him ideas. It’s still a work in progress, but his stalker proved a useful testing ground. It’s been almost 9 hours since he’d clicked on Elliot’s infected link, and Elliot doubted he’d hear from him again.
When Elliot boots up his computer, he finds a message waiting for him on AOL.
Tyrell: How did you do that?
Tyrell: Did the URL you sent me transmit a rootkit?
Elliot can’t believe what he’s seeing. Why would Tyrell keep trying after what Elliot did? Didn’t he get that Elliot wasn’t down to talk?
samsepi0l: dude seriously?
samsepi0l: what part of “leave me alone” do you not understand
Tyrell: It didn’t infect anything else on this network. I checked. So I know you weren’t seriously trying to hurt me.
Tyrell: Just tell me what you did.
Elliot takes a long sip from the mug of cold coffee at his elbow leftover from last night, his eyes never leaving the screen. It would be easy enough to ignore Tyrell and move on. For several minutes that’s exactly what he does, scrolling through his usual forums like a morning newspaper.
Tyrell: Please.
Elliot stares at the new blinking message and sighs.
samsepi0l: if it were a rootkit you wouldnt have known about it
samsepi0l: the whole point of a rootkit is for it to go undetected
There’s a few beats of silence, like Tyrell is either embarrassed, or trying to find something smart to say. Elliot gets an eerie feeling, halfway between the sensation of being watched and the odd empathic notion that he can feel how hard Tyrell is thinking.
Tyrell: You based that on the Love Bug virus, didn’t you.
Tyrell: The script ran in the background while I thought I was clicking the link. You injected something into the webpage. Then you made me want to click on it.
Elliot scoots closer in his chair, his fingers running over the keyboard.
samsepi0l: and you didnt get even the slightest inkling that i was trolling you
Tyrell: Is that an insult or an actual question?
samsepi0l: both
Tyrell: You might help people in the server when they ask questions, but you’re very rude, aren’t you?
samsepi0l: is that an insult or an actual question
Tyrell: An observation.
Tyrell: I’ve been observing you a lot.
Elliot worries his bottom lip with his teeth. The windows full of open forums populating the back of his screen have been forgotten.
samsepi0l: and what conclusions have you made
Tyrell: I’ve concluded that I’d like to learn more about you.
samsepi0l: im nobody
samsepi0l: what you should learn is how to be less naive
samsepi0l: dont click on links random strangers send you
samsepi0l: consider that your first lesson in hacking
Tyrell: So you’ll teach me?
samsepi0l: when did i ever say that
Tyrell: You said “first lesson.” Implying there would be more.
A long silence follows in which Elliot considers just how stupid this would be. This Tyrell guy is annoying enough already, and Elliot knows that if he engages, Tyrell will probably only latch onto him further. But he’s already made the decision to skip school today. And his mom is working a double. And he’s at a standstill with his project.
It is boredom that prompts him to send the next message. Boredom, and the assurance that if Tyrell gets on his nerves, he can just delete his AOL account and use a new handle on IRC.
samsepi0l: if you wanna learn you should teach yourself
samsepi0l: replicate the virus i sent you yesterday and we can talk more
Such a thing would be impossible, of course. There’s almost nothing like it out there, and it had taken Elliot days to figure out the logistics. Tyrell didn’t even know what a rootkit was.
But the answer comes back instantly.
Tyrell: I’ll do it.
Over the years, Tyrell has become an adept student in the game of class. He has observed his peers, learned to pick apart whose parents make what sort of salary based on clothing, posture, vocabulary, gesture, affect. Learning the pecking order was only one reason for his rapacious gathering of data in this field; the main goal was to imitate the popular in order to become likeable.
Given his unfortunate parental circumstances, it’s no easy task. Even still, he’s managed to cobble together a decent disguise using the second-hand clothes and lack of connections he’s been afforded. Teachers and cashiers seem convinced enough by his good manners and rehearsed jokes, but the kids his own age are not so easily won over. There’s something robotic in his delivery, something insincere in his cold friendliness, something awkward in the way he treats others—like business colleagues, not friends. Which they aren’t. None of them are. Despite stooping to emulate them, nobody in this backwater town has anything Tyrell wants, especially not companionship.
Until now, of course. Recreating samsepi0l’s virus requires a test dummy, and Tyrell can’t risk breaking one of the computers in the school lab. The janitor would never let him back in if he fried a machine. But he needs an AOL contact to send the program too, one that he can speak to IRL, to know whether or not his script worked as intended.
There are only five people in his class who might reasonably own a PC, based on what Tyrell has gleaned of their socioeconomic situation. Of those five, it’s easy for Tyrell to pick his victim: Tjaase Wulff. Tyrell’s hated him for years, simply for the fact that their initials are the same, they are always placed next to each other in seating arrangements, and because Tjaase goes by Ty, which is, Tyrell thinks, with typical pettiness, a nickname that he is more logically worthy of. But unlike him, Tjaase has friends, friends who like him enough to come up with a moniker for him and obnoxiously crowd around his desk every day calling him by it. Go figure.
Due to their unfortunate forced proximity, Tyrell has made small talk with “Ty” every morning since year nine. When “Ty” shows up late the morning after samsepi0l’s ultimatum, missing the entirety of their first class, mathematics—which Tyrell happens to know “Ty” is failing, since he flicks his eyes over to compare scores every time they get a test back—it smacks of opportunity. Tyrell offers to send “Ty” the answers to that night’s homework over AOL, and “Ty,” despite his brief confusion as to how some sheep farmer hillbilly like Tyrell has a computer, passes over his handle easily.
As soon as school lets out, Tyrell walk-runs to the computer lab. Some cursory research had revealed that all samsepi0l had done was send him a file so large and demanding it outpaced the capacities of his RAM. Pretty benign, for someone who claimed to be so bothered by Tyrell’s messages. More like a slap on the wrist than anything. Perhaps it was part of a test, the first stage in making sure Tyrell knew enough to at least unplug his computer before samsepi0l could completely fry it. As he waits for his favoured PC to boot, chin tucked into his curled hand, he wonders if samsepi0l was just playing hard to get. With how frequently he’s online, and how well-known he is in virtually every server Tyrell’s managed to stumble into on IRC, it’s improbable samsepi0l really has much better to do. In his mind’s eye, Tyrell pictures a bored IBM engineer, or a bleary-eyed Harvard professor, hunched over his office rig whiling the work hours away with hackathons and script-kiddie gossip. Someone who could really see his potential, refine whatever diamond-in-the-rough talent would otherwise wither away in this deadend town. Like a master craftsman rescuing a dirty urchin from the gutter to be his apprentice.
Well, no. Tyrell’s pride wouldn’t allow for a comparison that disparaging.
He plunks around for a while on the keyboard, frankly unsure of what he’s doing, and too wary to ask in any of the usual servers for fear that samsepi0l may be silently watching.
Even this sense of constant surveillance is thrilling. Nobody’s ever given Tyrell much attention, despite his best efforts. The thought that samsepi0l might be keeping tabs, scouting him out, weighing approval, has Tyrell’s stomach hot.
In truth, Elliot has completely disregarded his stalker within 24 hours. There’s no way this “Tyrell” has the chops to replicate Elliot’s parlour trick—in everything besides being annoying, the guy seems clueless. Elliot’s had a lot of people bother him over the years, and while Tyrell may be the most persistent, he possesses the same wannabe disposition half the idiots on IRC start rocking after employing their first script or cracking their grandmother’s landline. His expectations are low, and when several hours pass without any more messages, he assumes Tyrell has given up.
The next day passes much the same as usual: he wakes up, goes through the motions of getting ready, rides the bus to school with Darlene, spends the first period hiding in the bathroom, then slips out the window and walks right back home.
No welcome could be better than the blue glow and soft dial-up beep of his PC as he curls into his chair in the basement. It’s his dark cocoon, warmed by working, whirring servos and stressed circuits. Still, only in the depths of summer is the heat enough to coax him out of his hoodie.
As predicted, Tyrell’s claims he would fulfill Elliot’s conditions for further discussion remain unsubstantiated. His inbox is empty and his usual servers are dead. Too early for the 9-5ers still stuck at work, too late for the unemployed basement dwellers who slink off to bed with the sunrise. For lack of anything better to do, Elliot decides to spend the morning burning CDs.
Since his father died, the basement has become like a tomb. Dad’s stuff litters the place, old stock from the computer store and boxes of clothes and faded baseball cards. His body had barely been cold in the ground before Mom started throwing everything Dad owned down the stairs, into the dark and humid, to the sepulchre where Elliot now spends all his time, like a living memorial to everything his father taught him.
And a good portion of that teaching was in the art of theft. Back then, any movie or TV show Elliot wanted had to be hunted down on IRC; Elliot would watch over Dad’s shoulder as he navigated the piracy servers, feeling that thrill he always gets when he knows he’s doing something bad. With Napster, P2P sharing is practically on-demand. Elliot collects albums on CDs like a hoarder, padding out the plastic slips in his binder just for something to do. The novelty of stealing has long since worn off. To Elliot’s mind, copyright law is about as made-up as laws get.
He still chases that high in other ways, though. Pocketing cigarettes and nickel candy from the corner store, cutting class, listening to his neighbour’s conversations over the landline, changing his grades in the school district’s shared Excel spreadsheet. Small stuff, insignificant stuff, the sorts of things a moody, rebellious teenager does, simply for the thrill of doing something at all. He knows it’s lame. He also knows he wants to do something even worse. He just doesn’t know what, yet.
Hours pass in that suspended state, so invested in his task that the pesky outside world fades away. This is where Elliot’s truly comfortable—when he can ignore everything else. The whir of the fan and the squeak of Sharpie over acrylic as he meticulously burns, labels, and stores his newest treasures is meditative.
By the time he’s done, the sky outside is darkening. It takes a moment to realize the gnawing ache in his stomach, and a moment more to connect that to hunger.
He walks up the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. The basement door creaks open, and he creeps into the kitchen, watching the silhouette of his mother shadowed by the flicker of the TV in the living room. She sits in her armchair, still in her work clothes, a cigarette between her fingers. The news is on. Something about the election—every few seconds, she wrinkles her nose in disgust, scowling as the candidates on the screen say the usual bullshit about uplifting the middle class and cutting taxes.
She must hear the clank of ketchup bottles and glass tupperware when he opens the fridge, because she calls out, “Elliot?”
“Yeah?” he replies.
“Come in here,” she demands.
He shuffles into the living room, shoulders already tense. His mother is bitter, vindictive, and unpredictable—she hates him, and Darlene, and she lets them know it, too. Motherhood was a burden she never wanted, and now that Dad’s gone, all she does is work to keep them all alive. Sometimes Elliot wishes the cancer was contagious so he could have gotten sick too and died the same night his father did. There’s been nothing good in his life since Dad came home from the doctor’s office, the test results in hand, and said to Elliot, kiddo, there’s something I have to tell you, and you gotta promise to keep it a secret between us, alright?
From where he stands in the doorway, his mother’s face is nearly obscured. She ashes her cigarette in the old saucer on the coffee table, a bone-white antique that’s been meticulously scrubbed. His mother has always been strict where cleanliness is concerned. She irons her faded button-up shirts and thrift store slacks every morning on the kitchen table, keeps all of her good jewellery and dishes wrapped up in newspaper in the attic where nobody can touch it. Whenever she leaves the house, she carries a packet of bleach wipes with her, clucking her tongue at the dirty shopping cart handles and the plastic benches at the bus stop. If Elliot or Darlene forget to take their shoes off at the front door, it’s enough to get her spitting insults for hours. The only area she doesn’t dare touch is the basement. She can’t even bring herself to look at what’s down there. Maybe that’s why Elliot likes it so much.
“Your principal called today,” she says, not even turning away from the TV screen to look at him. “He says you’ve missed 14 days of school this month.”
But how? How did she find out? He’s been deleting all of the voicemails as soon as they come in, and his mom is always gone during school hours; there’s no way they’d be able to get a hold of her.
“Oh, don’t act so surprised,” she drawls, as if she can read his thoughts. “I know you must have done something to the phone to block those calls. But they have my work number, too.”
Shit.
“You’re smart, Elliot. But you’re lazy,” she shakes her head. “Lazy and useless, just like your father.”
She takes another long drag of her cigarette, and as the smoke plumes out around her, her head tilts back over her shoulder, her black eyes filled with disgust.
“I work. I feed you, I clothe you, I pay the mortgage on this house. What do you do? You sit in that basement all day surrounded by those computers, wasting your life.”
She curls her lips at him, whispers something under her breath he can’t hear. He’s got a pretty good guess, though.
Experience has taught Elliot that it’s best to just nod and walk away. He knows his mom hates him. Most people hate him—it’s a fact he’s grown used to. There must be something wrong with him, some reason he constantly finds himself alone and unliked. The partition separating him from others has been felt for years, even if it remains invisible.
He makes himself a sandwich, quietly as he can, the thinnest possible layer of deli meat, the heels of the bread. Nothing provokes mom’s ire quite like excess. Consume above whatever ration she’s decided he’s worth that day, and he will be subject to a verbal calculation of how much money he costs her, how many hours of work she must toil through to maintain his worthless existence.
The phone rings, and he hears his mother scowl before standing to pick it up. The conversation is muffled, quick, probably some telemarketer or bill collector.
The hollowness in his stomach momentarily sated, Elliot creeps back down the stairs. Lately, he’s even been sleeping in here, curled up in a nest of his dad’s old work uniforms. Whenever Elliot sees the ironed crest of that big, imposing E on one of the black polos, he feels vaguely nauseous. E for Elliot. E for Edward. E for E Corp. E for evil.
When he wiggles the mouse to wake his computer, a notification warns him a new message is waiting on AOL. Brow furrowed, he clicks.
Tyrell: 59 Barclay Drive, Washington Township, New Jersey, USA.
Tyrell: Is Magda Alderson your wife or your landlord?
Elliot feels his heart still completely, and then begin to pound.
Did Tyrell fucking doxx him?
Tyrell: I can see you’re online now.
Tyrell: I won’t share that with anyone. I just needed to get your attention.
samsepi0l: you got it wrong. thats not my address
Tyrell: Yes it is. I checked.
samsepi0l: what
Tyrell: I know you probably don’t use AOL regularly because someone could find your ISP and modem. That’s why most people prefer IRC. But you added me on here, probably because you think I’m too stupid to be a security risk.
Tyrell: But I know it’s you. And I know the information on your utility records is correct, because Magda Alderson just picked up the phone.
Elliot remembers. He remembers the ring of the landline, the muffled voice of his mother answering. Tyrell had been right there , practically in his house.
He feels violated. Nobody online has ever done this before, let alone tried. It’s an unspoken agreement that they’re there to be anonymous, not to have random fucking strangers calling their mother. What did Tyrell say? What is he trying to do?
Elliot could just deny Tyrell found anything. Say it was a setup, a decoy, that Elliot covered his tracks with a fake utility account routed to a dummy house. Who the fuck would believe that, though? For once, Elliot feels caught. And worst is that Tyrell was right—he would have never stooped to using AOL if he weren’t curious about the idiot dogging his heels in every IRC server.
Tyrell: So who is she? Your wife? Or your landlord?
Elliot sighs. No use fighting this. Besides, part of him is flattered at the thought of someone going to such lengths to stalk him. It’s the sort of thing he’s usually the perpetrator of, not the victim.
samsepi0l: my mom
samsepi0l: if you ever call my house again, ill do a lot worse than blue screen your computer
Beats of nothingness stretch on like the parallel points of a road fading into the night. His cursor pulses in the text box like a clenched fist. Elliot can feel every point of his body shocked out of its comfortable numbness, from the ache of his bony slouched spine to the pounding in his head.
He can’t decide if Tyrell is merely satisfied at having spooked Elliot, busy posting his address everywhere, or if Elliot’s weak threat scared him off. Whatever the case, minutes pass before he begins typing again.
Tyrell: A/S/L?
samsepi0l: seriously?
Tyrell: I’m Tyrell. I’m 17. I’m a boy. And I’m from Sweden.
Elliot sighs. There’s something disturbingly earnest in spite of it all, using your real name to stalk and doxx someone. Tyrell’d probably even give Elliot his own address, if Elliot were to ask.
samsepi0l: what do you want from me
samsepi0l: theres no way you did all that just to chat
More silence from Tyrell. Elliot feels his nerve ground down into a fine dust.
This feels dangerous. More dangerous than Tyrell calling his landline, hearing his mom’s voice. He’s never said anything personal online before, always so careful to keep his real identity separate from samsepi0l, even though there is very little that’s real about Elliot Alderson .
The worst case scenario has already come to pass. Introducing himself is more of a formality now than anything, a concession Tyrell wants to be given willingly. Why the guy even cares so badly, Elliot still can’t figure out.
samsepi0l: fine
Elliot types it as he thinks it, uncharacteristically impulsive.
samsepi0l: elliot. younger than you. boy. you know where im from already.
Tyrell: Younger than me? That’s not possible.
samsepi0l: dunno if you’ve noticed but its mostly students on the undernet
Tyrell: How old are you?
samsepi0l: does it really matter
Tyrell: Yes. How did you learn all of this in less time than me?
samsepi0l: i thought your whole thing was that you wanted me to teach you. so it sounds like you havent learned much at all
Tyrell: I take classes at school. They’re not offered for younger grades.
samsepi0l: if youre waiting to learn something useful at school, then you’ll be waiting a long time
Tyrell: So you will teach me, then?
samsepi0l: i didn’t say that
Tyrell: Tell me how you did the blue screen trick.
Elliot sighs.
samsepi0l: fine