Post by Bobbi on Jul 14, 2022 17:23:42 GMT -5
Quotes from this post were taken from a -very- old transcript found here: swrpforum.proboards.com/thread/1107/slice-life
Leaving Jurai had not been the happy parting he had hoped it would be. It wasn't so much the words that weighed Solomon down as it was the memories. Grief was a powerful thing, reaching out to snag and tear when you least expected it.
There had been assurances from everyone -- him, Darien, and Kabel -- that they were all doing alright with what had been found. It was an understanding that it would just take time.
Leaving Jurai, even with that weight on his shoulders, meant getting back to work. He had a friend to help. His flight path took him to a midway point where he took a bit to switch ships, leaving the Justicar behind in favor of something not quite so him. The vessel he bought there was used, signed over and delivered to Trevor Keaton. When it was released to him, Sol was waiting with his face wrapped and covered in folds of fabric, his eyes hidden by a pair of darkly colored glasses. His hands were covered with gloves, his hair hidden beneath the same wrapped fabric around his face. His clothes: he'd managed to get his hands on an old and faded shockball shirt in the horrendous colors of maroon and gold. The splash of the team's logo ran down the length of his left arm sleeve and by that time there was nothing left to be seen visually of the man known as Solomon Tekal.
He wouldn't exist again until after he was on board his new-used vessel with all checks and sweeps for security taken care of. It was only then that the fabric would come off and only in the privacy of that ship.
From there it was just a short ride to a dusty old space station where, once again, Solomon disappeared into the hidden likeness of Trevor Keaton.
Here there was a workshop waiting for him, bought and paid for under the very same name his ship was registered under. This was where he'd be putting his talents to work.
Entering the shop was as easy as remembering the security codes. He'd left the place looking as ill appetizing to any thieves as he could. The only thing of value within stared him straight in the face as he made it past the door only to stop dead in his tracks.
There were twelve of them, all standing straight and stiff with photoreceptors that were as dark as the Justicar's paint job. He found himself watching them, breathing into the silence. Not a single one moved and Sol found himself relaxing. He'd forgotten about the damn battle droids he'd been building!
First things first. He turned to secure the door, then began unwrapping himself, pulling the glasses free in the process. Then, it was down to work. A computer terminal was set up in a corner of the workshop, and that was where his work was going to be accomplished.
"You're getting the nuts and bolts, you're getting a hang of your tools--the coding itself--but you need to start thinking like the thousands of people who designed the systems you're trying to crack. Solomon, much as I hate to say it, you need to immerse yourself in their paranoia with the same dedication you use when immersing yourself in the Force. When you slice, you need to be as warped as that collective protectiveness is--the fear that you're going up against that was used to fill in every gap. That sounds deep, but it's not. Be paranoid, and those things that paranoid minds created will cease to be so perplexing."
The voice came to him from behind, just a whisper within that little workroom. With his hands flying over the keys of the console before him, Sol frowned and spat the words “Shut up, you’re distracting me.” Into the air around him. But the words continued.
"They will find every flaw. They will find every tiny way in. If you miscalculate once, they'll sniff out that tiny fissure and force their way in. If they see us, we're finished. 'They' are charging at us with the mindless ferocity of creatures with only one purpose: find us through our imperfections. Because that's all 'they' are; programs. There might be some living thing out there trying to home in on us, but mostly it's the systems themselves that will find us if you forget even the tiniest most insignificant point. Go over everything. They'll find us if you don't. Go over everything again. Did you consider also any flaws I might have missed in the ship's basic systems? What if I made a mistake somewhere? They'll tear us to pieces. It's all on you, every second. You have to be perfect. The slightest flaw will kill us both...."
His fingers didn’t stop, his eyes never left the console or the information that was streaming past it. “I told you to shut up. I’m getting there.” He growled out, shoulders hunched over as he wove his way through lines of code and the layers of security systems.
But that voice wasn’t going anywhere. It continued softly, a thrum of noise at the back of his mind and filling the little workshop with it’s dull essence.
Did you remember to check… and it went on from there, a spiral of seemingly maddening reminders from a voice that floated just behind him.
“Knock it off. I know, I got it.” He breathed, his jaw shut tightly against itself while his fingers continued their dance at the console’s keys. “You’re making me nervous.” His jaw loosened and he breathed out.
It was a whole new game, one he was learning on the fly as he sat there working from that little locked away room on board that space station. By the time he was done, everything had been taken care of and eventually everything was ready to go.
One last flinch of his finger had the financial information for New-un's shell account routed to a courier who would independently deliver the funds to the Hutts. The sum drained two of Sol's numerous accounts, which had been disguised through various means to keep the connection from surfacing. He put extra care into making sure that wouldn't happen. The money would get delivered, and it would not be traced backward in any way that could endanger him, Trinity, or the kids. Time was put into making it as clean as possible without flagging any defenses along the way. Things had gotten tighter in that regard since the war with Celestia Vikas-Buffton, Maltez, and the AI that called Matlez their father.
"Tomorrow, we'll try something with guns."
Well, not everything was ready. Pushing himself away from the console, Solomon sat back and rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands before turning to look toward the twelve droids that stood at attention across the room. Little did they care that he had just broken several laws, little did they care that the reasons for him doing so were rife with good intentions. From those unseeing eyes there was no judgment.
Leaving Jurai had not been the happy parting he had hoped it would be. It wasn't so much the words that weighed Solomon down as it was the memories. Grief was a powerful thing, reaching out to snag and tear when you least expected it.
There had been assurances from everyone -- him, Darien, and Kabel -- that they were all doing alright with what had been found. It was an understanding that it would just take time.
Leaving Jurai, even with that weight on his shoulders, meant getting back to work. He had a friend to help. His flight path took him to a midway point where he took a bit to switch ships, leaving the Justicar behind in favor of something not quite so him. The vessel he bought there was used, signed over and delivered to Trevor Keaton. When it was released to him, Sol was waiting with his face wrapped and covered in folds of fabric, his eyes hidden by a pair of darkly colored glasses. His hands were covered with gloves, his hair hidden beneath the same wrapped fabric around his face. His clothes: he'd managed to get his hands on an old and faded shockball shirt in the horrendous colors of maroon and gold. The splash of the team's logo ran down the length of his left arm sleeve and by that time there was nothing left to be seen visually of the man known as Solomon Tekal.
He wouldn't exist again until after he was on board his new-used vessel with all checks and sweeps for security taken care of. It was only then that the fabric would come off and only in the privacy of that ship.
From there it was just a short ride to a dusty old space station where, once again, Solomon disappeared into the hidden likeness of Trevor Keaton.
Here there was a workshop waiting for him, bought and paid for under the very same name his ship was registered under. This was where he'd be putting his talents to work.
Entering the shop was as easy as remembering the security codes. He'd left the place looking as ill appetizing to any thieves as he could. The only thing of value within stared him straight in the face as he made it past the door only to stop dead in his tracks.
There were twelve of them, all standing straight and stiff with photoreceptors that were as dark as the Justicar's paint job. He found himself watching them, breathing into the silence. Not a single one moved and Sol found himself relaxing. He'd forgotten about the damn battle droids he'd been building!
First things first. He turned to secure the door, then began unwrapping himself, pulling the glasses free in the process. Then, it was down to work. A computer terminal was set up in a corner of the workshop, and that was where his work was going to be accomplished.
"You're getting the nuts and bolts, you're getting a hang of your tools--the coding itself--but you need to start thinking like the thousands of people who designed the systems you're trying to crack. Solomon, much as I hate to say it, you need to immerse yourself in their paranoia with the same dedication you use when immersing yourself in the Force. When you slice, you need to be as warped as that collective protectiveness is--the fear that you're going up against that was used to fill in every gap. That sounds deep, but it's not. Be paranoid, and those things that paranoid minds created will cease to be so perplexing."
The voice came to him from behind, just a whisper within that little workroom. With his hands flying over the keys of the console before him, Sol frowned and spat the words “Shut up, you’re distracting me.” Into the air around him. But the words continued.
"They will find every flaw. They will find every tiny way in. If you miscalculate once, they'll sniff out that tiny fissure and force their way in. If they see us, we're finished. 'They' are charging at us with the mindless ferocity of creatures with only one purpose: find us through our imperfections. Because that's all 'they' are; programs. There might be some living thing out there trying to home in on us, but mostly it's the systems themselves that will find us if you forget even the tiniest most insignificant point. Go over everything. They'll find us if you don't. Go over everything again. Did you consider also any flaws I might have missed in the ship's basic systems? What if I made a mistake somewhere? They'll tear us to pieces. It's all on you, every second. You have to be perfect. The slightest flaw will kill us both...."
His fingers didn’t stop, his eyes never left the console or the information that was streaming past it. “I told you to shut up. I’m getting there.” He growled out, shoulders hunched over as he wove his way through lines of code and the layers of security systems.
But that voice wasn’t going anywhere. It continued softly, a thrum of noise at the back of his mind and filling the little workshop with it’s dull essence.
Did you remember to check… and it went on from there, a spiral of seemingly maddening reminders from a voice that floated just behind him.
“Knock it off. I know, I got it.” He breathed, his jaw shut tightly against itself while his fingers continued their dance at the console’s keys. “You’re making me nervous.” His jaw loosened and he breathed out.
It was a whole new game, one he was learning on the fly as he sat there working from that little locked away room on board that space station. By the time he was done, everything had been taken care of and eventually everything was ready to go.
One last flinch of his finger had the financial information for New-un's shell account routed to a courier who would independently deliver the funds to the Hutts. The sum drained two of Sol's numerous accounts, which had been disguised through various means to keep the connection from surfacing. He put extra care into making sure that wouldn't happen. The money would get delivered, and it would not be traced backward in any way that could endanger him, Trinity, or the kids. Time was put into making it as clean as possible without flagging any defenses along the way. Things had gotten tighter in that regard since the war with Celestia Vikas-Buffton, Maltez, and the AI that called Matlez their father.
"Tomorrow, we'll try something with guns."
Well, not everything was ready. Pushing himself away from the console, Solomon sat back and rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands before turning to look toward the twelve droids that stood at attention across the room. Little did they care that he had just broken several laws, little did they care that the reasons for him doing so were rife with good intentions. From those unseeing eyes there was no judgment.
