Illustration by Joi Rudin.
The kid advanced methodically through the infinite vastness of the Grid. Whenever he entered a new node, he performed all the necessary infiltration tasks to open every door in his path, resetting his camouflage software to remain undetected. His breathing was easy, and his rhythm was good. Every input he entered into his console was textbook; it was all just smooth sailing.
In his mind, the Runner's Pocket Guide's words played on a loop: "In the Grid and on the streets, the Stray's guile is not to be there." He moved stealthily for a while, feeling his nerves twitch ever so slightly, worried he'd make a mistake and blow his cover, but still with the confidence of the young and the bold. "A Stray Dog is what the situation requires, a scalpel or a mace," the Pocket Guide said, and he took it to heart. He'd been gliding over this Grid like a thin blade over smooth skin, a precise scalpel, too small to be noticed, too accurate to make mistakes.
He'd been preparing for this Run for months. A Sentinel deactivation job. The Stray Dog pack that took him in after they found him hungry, sick, and almost dead in the wrong part of Nueva Buenos Aires had given him the contract. It'd be his Running debut, and he didn't want to let them down. "Strays Run alone or in packs. If you're in a pack, you owe to them, and they owe to you." He liked that, that sense of belonging. And it was due time he gave something back.
He was distracted by that thought when his console pinged him that an ICE had been detected somewhere close. The kid cracked his neck and prepared to apply in practice everything he'd learned in theory. The ICE materialized in front of him in just a few instants; his console had interpreted it as a robotic figure, armed to the teeth, four times his height and twice his width. This ICE was no practice dummy; the kid understood that immediately.
"Hesitation leads to elimination," the Pocket Guide's teachings echoed in his brain. He queued an offensive hack that would break his camouflage. Scalpel hour was over; it was mace time now. The ICE had begun a deep scan of the node, and the kid knew his best chance was to hold his attack until the last nanosecond, right when the ICE was busy processing its scan results and would take the longest to react to his attack. "Dogs are all bite, no bark. If you have to show your teeth, you must go for the neck." His console estimated the ICE was ninety-nine percent done with its scan when he executed his hack.
The Grid shook around him. Just as the ICE had materialized before him, something else began manifesting. A sequence of pixels, an uninterrupted chain of zeroes and ones, of brackets and hashtags, seemed to emanate from his console. Every bit of code, of digital information, joined the previous, and together, they formed something that moved almost organically. First, he saw a blade, then the blade became the edge of teeth, and after that, a whole jaw. By the time the head of the wolf-like program had formed entirely, the ICE had locked in the kid's location in the Grid.
A robotic arm raised what looked like a rocket launcher. A digital fang sank into the robotic arm, tearing it apart and throwing it away. The ICE recalculated its best course of action, but the kid's hack was already on top of it, mauling it until it glitched out and defragmented.
The kid grinned. His first Sentinel deactivation. He would have taken a moment to celebrate, but his console started pinging frantically. "Trace Level Critical. Connection compromised. Disconnection is advised." If the Pocket Guide said anything about what to do when your location was compromised, he'd missed that part. The kid tapped at his console and disconnected.
Exiting the Grid was like being slingshot into the meatspace. The kid felt like someone had just reattached his head to this body, only now it was twice as big as it used to be. He removed his visor and unplugged his console, which felt scorching hot. The kid threw up on the floor of the abandoned apartment he'd been squatting in for a couple of months now and staggered towards the door. He was one step outside when he heard the boots running up the stairs at the opposite end of the hallway. The kid had planned for an emergency escape, and he executed that plan almost instinctively: he opened the out-of-service elevator shaft and slid down the cables until he reached the base floor. After leaving through the building's back exit and getting lost in the crowd, he looked back at all the Wardlord Defense Industries antiriot wagons surrounding the apartment complex. The other Strays would love this story; he was sure of it.
In his mind, the Runner's Pocket Guide's words played on a loop: "In the Grid and on the streets, the Stray's guile is not to be there." He moved stealthily for a while, feeling his nerves twitch ever so slightly, worried he'd make a mistake and blow his cover, but still with the confidence of the young and the bold. "A Stray Dog is what the situation requires, a scalpel or a mace," the Pocket Guide said, and he took it to heart. He'd been gliding over this Grid like a thin blade over smooth skin, a precise scalpel, too small to be noticed, too accurate to make mistakes.
He'd been preparing for this Run for months. A Sentinel deactivation job. The Stray Dog pack that took him in after they found him hungry, sick, and almost dead in the wrong part of Nueva Buenos Aires had given him the contract. It'd be his Running debut, and he didn't want to let them down. "Strays Run alone or in packs. If you're in a pack, you owe to them, and they owe to you." He liked that, that sense of belonging. And it was due time he gave something back.
He was distracted by that thought when his console pinged him that an ICE had been detected somewhere close. The kid cracked his neck and prepared to apply in practice everything he'd learned in theory. The ICE materialized in front of him in just a few instants; his console had interpreted it as a robotic figure, armed to the teeth, four times his height and twice his width. This ICE was no practice dummy; the kid understood that immediately.
"Hesitation leads to elimination," the Pocket Guide's teachings echoed in his brain. He queued an offensive hack that would break his camouflage. Scalpel hour was over; it was mace time now. The ICE had begun a deep scan of the node, and the kid knew his best chance was to hold his attack until the last nanosecond, right when the ICE was busy processing its scan results and would take the longest to react to his attack. "Dogs are all bite, no bark. If you have to show your teeth, you must go for the neck." His console estimated the ICE was ninety-nine percent done with its scan when he executed his hack.
The Grid shook around him. Just as the ICE had materialized before him, something else began manifesting. A sequence of pixels, an uninterrupted chain of zeroes and ones, of brackets and hashtags, seemed to emanate from his console. Every bit of code, of digital information, joined the previous, and together, they formed something that moved almost organically. First, he saw a blade, then the blade became the edge of teeth, and after that, a whole jaw. By the time the head of the wolf-like program had formed entirely, the ICE had locked in the kid's location in the Grid.
A robotic arm raised what looked like a rocket launcher. A digital fang sank into the robotic arm, tearing it apart and throwing it away. The ICE recalculated its best course of action, but the kid's hack was already on top of it, mauling it until it glitched out and defragmented.
The kid grinned. His first Sentinel deactivation. He would have taken a moment to celebrate, but his console started pinging frantically. "Trace Level Critical. Connection compromised. Disconnection is advised." If the Pocket Guide said anything about what to do when your location was compromised, he'd missed that part. The kid tapped at his console and disconnected.
Exiting the Grid was like being slingshot into the meatspace. The kid felt like someone had just reattached his head to this body, only now it was twice as big as it used to be. He removed his visor and unplugged his console, which felt scorching hot. The kid threw up on the floor of the abandoned apartment he'd been squatting in for a couple of months now and staggered towards the door. He was one step outside when he heard the boots running up the stairs at the opposite end of the hallway. The kid had planned for an emergency escape, and he executed that plan almost instinctively: he opened the out-of-service elevator shaft and slid down the cables until he reached the base floor. After leaving through the building's back exit and getting lost in the crowd, he looked back at all the Wardlord Defense Industries antiriot wagons surrounding the apartment complex. The other Strays would love this story; he was sure of it.
Written by Espeche, original idea by Brulo.