Strange how the galaxy works, one minute your life is fine, then it all goes down the tubes. The daily routine is monotonous, like usual; your coworkers are annoying, your boss ignorant, and you wondering how the company stays afloat with the horrendous management.
You get up, eat, do the daily hygiene, and hop on the bus, take the interplanetary shuttle, and you’re at work. Halfway through the workday you begin to daydream about getting home, to a wife who loves you, and kids who think you’re the bomb.
The usual two-o’clock meeting is, like usual, a complete waste of time. Three o’clock and you are bombarded with frantic questions from that one coworker that never, ever, starts his work until an hour before it’s due. Four o’clock, and you pack up, leaving the job for the four-five taxies. It’s errand day, naturally, and the groceries go over budget, again. With five kids, it’s expected to, now and then… but, every time? You should probably take a look over the budget, again, and see where all the food money is going, again.
Oh well, what can you do. The four-thirty interplanetary bus is late, like usual. You really should consider getting a private shuttle. The costs though, getting certified, licensed, and then the taxes. Oh, those taxes. Remember to dig up the receipts tonight; you have to fill out the tax forms tomorrow.

Home sweet home. The neighbors are noisy, the doorstop needs fixing, again, but it’s still home. You’re pretty lucky to have it, you know. Not many people get a nice place like this, in the country. The extra drive may be long, but it’s worth it. You’re home, another day in the never ending cycle is finished.
Once inside, you begin to wonder, where is everyone? No one came out to help with the packages, and it’s deathly silent here. Deathly silent. There’s a note on the fridge, yellow sticky. You take it, your eyes scanning, the first impression of the words striking fear to your heart.
“I’m leaving you. The kids are with me, you’ll hear from my lawyer.”

Shock.

Perhaps… perhaps it’s a practical joke. Why, just yesterday you two were laughing over dinner, the kids off to bed early. Hadn’t the spark flared up again in your marriage? What have you done?

That’s how separation is supposed to go, right? At least you have the chance to talk it over, perhaps come to a deal; and, hopefully, whatever went wrong can be healed.

It’s not supposed to happen, like this…

The floor covered in blood, the love of your life lying dead, brutally murdered in her own home. The children, gone - a yellow sticky note on the fridge. “Amcron”. It’s not supposed to happen like this. You had always planned on being the first to go, when the two of you are old, having lived a full, rich life.

Then the shock sets in. Everything is a blur, the inquest, the trial, and the sentence. Thirty years hard labor, not a chance of parole. The evidence seems so convincing, so perfect. You had the opportunity, the ability, and the motive. Motive? Jealousy, you imagined she was… seeing someone else. Ability, yes, opportunity, again, yes.

But what of this… Amcron? The note! Doesn’t that prove anything? It’s your own handwriting; you should have used your left hand for that bit of the ruse. Amcron, there are only thirty galactic companies called Amcron. Your honor, its a common name, and another common ploy by wife-killers.

What of the children? Where are they? Please, search for them, find them!

Probably ditched them in the waste processing plant Your Honor. No one would ever find them there. He was seen at the waist processing plant the other week, talking with several of the workers.

Yes, all so incriminating, so perfect. But you know it’s too perfect. There are holes, holes glossed over by the prosecution, holes the Judge prevented the defense from exploiting, stating some obscure statute.

The shock wears off after the first week of your sentence. The work isn’t that bad, just boring. Stone. Cold. Boring. Not only that, but your fellow workers are all convinced felons. You are on a chain with four other men, a rapist, a larcenist, and two murderers. They all protest innocence, but you know better. All prisoners are innocent; they haven’t done a thing. Everyone knows this, it’s in the commercials, all the holo-shows display it. You refrain from speaking with these, scum. This foolish act earns you the title of being aloof, and you are given name that you would strike your children for uttering.

The weeks wear on, and gradually you realize that you can’t continue being antisocial. Your survival depends upon you becoming close with your “chain brothers”. Slowly, your guard begins to slip, and you allow cracks to form in the mental wall around you.

“These reports all need your signature, these reports all need reviewing, these papers need to be signed for submission, and this shipping transcript needs your review.” The secretary dropped the entire bundle of papers on the desk. Kas watched them fall, almost in slow motion, the signal of today’s doom. The overlarge bundle hit the desk with a dull thud, but to this man’s ears, it was the sound like the shackles of chains, yards upon yards of chains.

His secretary turned on her heel, and marched out of his office with a crisp “tap tap tap”. I think I hate her… He didn’t, he knew, but somehow she always managed to make him feel like he did.

Grabbing the stack of papers, Kas dove in, muttering under his breath as he stared at the boring pile in his hands. Shipping transcript… why the frill and I looking over a shipping transcript…

It would be another long day, which he could see quite easily.

Kataskopos. In an ancient language it meant “scout”. He had changed it to Kattaskopos, for reasons of his own. DarkScout was what he called himself, when amongst the circle. And, in a way, he was a scout, one far in advance. It had taken years to get himself and his small group to the positions they were at now, and finally, finally, things were beginning to shape. The mold was coming together, the source of power strengthening.

Within a few short days, his small underground group would explode into the open, slaying an already crippled galaxy. They would mercilessly take control of key contributors to the economy, and military, and then they would strangle the life out of this wretched place.

A tall, slim man stood from his chair, and looked out of the window behind his desk. Bonadan, the seat of power for the galaxies largest controlling corporation; it was here that the first strike would be made, here where the giant would begin to fall.

Cocking his head to the side, ‘Skopos craned his head out the open pane of glass, and peered up the side the Vinda Corporations headquarters. Two floors above him the Secretary of State had his office. One floor above that, Vinda, the man himself. ‘Skopos pulled his head back in, and returned to his desk. With a wry smile he pushed a button on the smooth black glass that was his desk surface. As he waited for his secretary to arrive, the “darkscout” wondered if he would be here when Vinda fell, and his cabinet with him.

Aron walked quickly towards Kas' office, just coming down the steps from a meeting with Mr. Vinda. Vinda had sent him to see Kas; evidently the lower workers of the State Department enjoyed changing the access code for the Treaty Archive. Until the treaty, which Aron had finished negotiating the day before, was entered in the archive, it was not valid, and Vinda Corporation didn't leave invalid treaties laying around. Aron slowed his pace when he saw the Kas was extraordinarily busy.

"The devil take it, Kas. Sorry to bother. That treaty we signed yesterday. Evidently the archive code's been changed again. I can't validate it. If you'd just give me the new one and give your subord's a slap on the wrist, I'll go back to Schloaf and file this joker."

“Meh, that’s why.” Kas shook his head. “Approval for twelve shipments of military grade Isotoicide. Who the frill needs military grade Isotoicide? … Pharmaceutical, figures.” With a quick sketch, the document went to the finished pile, official signature contained therein. “Now, this report…”

His head came up as Aron walked in. “No problem Aron, the trouble is on our end.” Kas replied to the question that was put to him. “ Seems we’ve had another break in. This one was serious, the slicer almost got through.” He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, and pressed his index finger against the lock. “We’ve doubled up on Virtual Guards, hope that keeps them slicers out.”
The drawer beeped, and Kas opened it. Putting his hand down inside, he felt around, continuing to talk. “I wonder what’s with the sudden surge of slicing attacks. Fourty above par this last week. And ten of them halfway decent too.”
His hand found what it was looking for, and promptly closed the drawer, and returned to the desk. “Here you go Aron. One code cylinder, newly updated. It should get you in with no trouble.” Kas reached out with the cylinder, placing it firmly in the Diplomats hand. “Don’t loose it, ok? This one will update automaticly with archive code changes."

Aron wasn't thrilled.

"Slicing, eh? Well, that's a problem that was never a big one at my previous places of employment, but then they weren't Vinda Corporation. Thanks a lot."

Kas: "..."

Aron walked out of the office, downstairs, and went outside to his transport. "Back to Schloaf," he thought. He almost knew how Kas felt. Aron had never worked for a more liberal (government-wise) company in his life. There was an indisputable method of doing things, and when you didn't, there were only about a kilo of departments you had to answer to. PR, State, cripes, even Vinda himself wasn't a big fan of people without respect for the rules. Upon arrival, Aron walked into his embassy and walked into the elevator, heading for Level 7; Vinda Treaty Archive Network (V-TAN). He reached in his pocket and pulled out the cylinder given him by Kas.

"Just another day at Vinda," he said aloud, knowing that his next diplomatic assignment might be months, or hours, away.

The doomsday load of paperwork didn’t seem so large now, and though sifting through piles of flimsy wasn’t exactly his cup of caf, Kas kept at it.

Halfway through, a small beep came from his computer. Glancing over, Kas saw that the code cylinder he had given Aron had just been used. Pushing a few buttons, Kas over rode a few security measures, and granted the cylinder permanent access. A couple more keystrokes, and a back door shut down was installed. Just in case…

tap tap tap

Oh no, here she comes again.

tap.. tap… tap……taptap

“Mr. Secretary, I’m so sorry, but I made a little mistake in your schedule. You have an appointment today with Mr. Vinda. You are going to inspect the prisons on Breental, and you are due at the spaceport in twenty two minutes.”

Really? Kas felt a large weight lift off of his shoulders. A trip sounds nice, even a trip to some prisons. “That’s fine, no harm done. Message my house, and have a droid pack me a day bag and ship it to the space port.”

“Already done Sir.”

Efficient, even when she makes a mistake. Good. I’ll need my portable, and a standard issue palm scanner.”

“Yes Sir, they will be in your carry on.”

Good, good. Perhaps I don’t hate her, that much… “I’ll head on up to Mr. Vinda’s office and check with him.” As Kas turned to leave, another thought occurred to him. “Oh, and, please try to keep the work from piling up? Try siphoning some of that stuff” He pointed to the pile on his desk “Off to Mr. Skopos, or Mr. Vent, they are both cleared for most of it.”

“High ho bunny, get moving you lazy skorf.” The whip burns a razor straight cut in your already tattered shirt. Once you had been proud of it, brand new, latest style. Only one other person at the office had an Amos Galactic shirt, and he had spilt caf on his.
The shirt had cost you two hundred credits, all from your lunch money. Small treats to nurture your self-esteem.

Now, now it was dirty, sweaty, cut, wrinkled, and generally unrecognizable as a fashion statement. It looked vaguely like you.

“C’mon bunny, we ain’t gots da time” Your chain mates pull you along, painfully yanking the shackles to awaken you. “Bunny” is the new name. After what you had done to the one who gave you the first…
Suffice to say they wouldn’t call you that again. A strange smile spreads along your otherwise lax face, and you shuffle along obligingly.

“Mieky, I da na like da way ‘e keps liken et me.”

“Meiky” glances back, and shudders. “Hes off hes grav Chippy, gone off ‘th grav.”

If you cold only see your face, see what your chain mates are so disturbed about. If you cold only see yourself, so changed.

But you can’t see yourself, you can’t possible know what is slowly changing you.
So it goes unchecked, transforming; morphing.

Mr Vinda's office



"...Another one?..."

Vinda's face frowned as he heard about the lastest security breach... this was getting ridiculous.

"...have they managed to access anything?..."

"..not as yet , we have doubled our security measures, and we have increased our team of slicers...the next time someone acesses the system illegally we'll have a trace on them so fast they won't know what has hit them..."

The face on the Corporate leader seemed to soften a little in response to these comments, and he ushered the gaggle of security advisers away. As the last one left the room, Vinda addressed a figure who had been listening quietly behind them.

"..Mr Soom, what is Section's take on this?..."

As Vinda spoke Kaneda stepped forward to respond, his voice was measured, and surprisingly, quite softly spoken...

"...we do not really have any viable leads at this moment in time, but due to the frequency, the complexity, and the increase of the attacks we believe we are dealing with something much bigger than just some solo computer slicer..."

Kaneda rested both his hands ontop of his walking cane...

"...we have already dispatched several operatives to the usual sources but as yet nothing has presented itself..."

Pausing for a moment , he chose his words carefully...

"...it is our opinion that these attacks are merely the buildup to something bigger, perhaps another full scale assault, or terrorist attack..."

Vinda's face seemed to sour, and Kaneda watched in amusement as the CEO reached for a Cigarra...

"...do you think this could be CSA?..."

Kaneda took a moment to reflect on this thought...

"...it is indeed a possibility, but without more information, it is important for us to keep our vigilance...."

Vinda nodded in agreement, and as he lit his cigarra , he took a short measured drag, before continuing...

"...I have sent for Mr Kas Katta, I would like for you to work closely on him with this, I think we need to pull all our resources on this, I am not being caught off-guard again..."

Kaneda nodded in acknowledgement. He had heard a lot about Mr Katta , and certainly knew a lot about him, (as this was his job), but he had yet to actually meet him. Vinda's secretary interrupted these thoughts as she rang through on the comms...


"...Mr Katta to see you sir..."

As he stood up , Vinda straightened his tunic, more out of habit than anything else, and replied...

"...ah excellent, send him in..."