MKSEARCH, Subproject 55

Tuesday, June 15th, 2010 by Vanity Kills

Posted in Lethal Style |

MKSEARCH, Subproject 55

Story written by: Dan Barrett. Being the subject of the photos, I thought it would be fitting if he were to write a kick ass cyberpunk story.We make a pretty good team, eh?

It was 2:07:15 PM and the trains had stopped running. I don’t know why the trains continue to run, and I don’t think anyone really knows what they carry; they simply run autonomously in sync to some archaic schedule, a testament to an industrial age forgotten. For now, the silent air was all that accompanied me, save for the distant hum of automobile engines on the motorways far above. The fact that I was being followed was obvious; however, the magnitude of their operation was still unclear. In the shadow of a colossal pillar, I made a quick side glance down into the dimly lit concrete chasm behind me, but it was seemingly empty in its droning vastness. Any movement now would be easily detectable by ultrasonic sensors, so I remained stationary for a moment to catch some semblance of breath. In two minutes and forty five seconds the underground metro line should run through this area, providing a brief veil of noise to cover my bounding footsteps.

***

This was supposed to be my last job; something to grant me enough financial stability to finally move away from this festering cesspool of urban rot. A guy by the name of Ring (weird guy, probably ex-military, and trying to live off the grid) had called me up with his usual order of running some “initial reconnaissance” on a new, ‘secret’, government startup operation. These always turned out to be a case of the CIA getting an extra multi-thousand dollar bonus grant and setting up shop in a decrepit warehouse, in one of the more obscure districts, to test a new, experimental drug cocktail on a few unsuspecting suckers in need of a few bucks; these tests consistently seemed to fail, and the space would be sold through public auction several weeks later. This time, a supposedly black ops branch of the military, purported to be conducting shadowy activity related to the HAARP program, had bought some warehouse space in the SW harbor, and I was needed to find out what and why.

Unfortunately, from the look of things, this guy Ring had managed to stumble onto something ominous. The initial exploration is simply using my custom-built & untraceable ZYKLON terminal to probe their systems and sift through their cyber trails of ones and zeros to find some purpose for the establishment’s existence. Usually there is nothing of significance to be found: unclear consent forms, mildly censored results of lab work, or bios of staff members; but this time there was something else. The initial red flag was that the data was encrypted more heavily, much more heavily than usual. The typical low-level government agency was using 512-bit encryption, but these guys were using the nearly unheard of 2056-bit. It required the use of tools I’m not fond of, but it didn’t present too much of a problem. Beyond that, the type of data was different. There were a number of files whose types I was not able to identify, nor could they be recognized by any of my software. The things I was able to snatch were heavily corrupted from the cracking process, but the output files had recognizable fragments of text such as:

## SUBJECT B723 METACOMMUNICATION STAGE 4 #### SUCCESS #### ALL MEMBERS OF TEST FUNCTIONED AS PREDICTED ###

While not profusely indicative of anything nefarious, there could be something here. When I returned my report to Ring, he requested that surveillance be taken to the next level and placed a reasonable fee on the table. I was burnt out from endless identical days of political skullduggery and needed this way out.

Sneaking into the facility was relatively easy, considering the difficulty of obtaining information on the net, but this in no way meant their surveillance was lax. While inside, I managed to swipe a classified dossier from a locked filing cabinet before deciding that exit was of utmost necessity. Immediately upon subsequent reading, I knew that I should not have taken on this job. From the sheets the report contained I was able to ascertain that this building was set up to conduct a program similar to that of the MK Ultra program in the 1960s. However, the difference was that the tests for this new mind control project were able to be conducted from an undisclosed remote location and, most terrifyingly, were successful. One hundred percent of the time. This wasn’t something they were just going to let slip out the door.

Getting to the point of transaction to exchange these documents for money was the only stock I had in this operation. Although knowing that the government had perfected the ability to bounce amorphous electromagnetic particles off other unseen particles in the sky and redirecting them into your head where they would manipulate pulses in your brain was terrifying, however my employer or someone like him would be better at exposing this, not a mid-level cyberthief. I just had to make it out and erase any connection I had to these events.

There was a warehouse a few blocks away that a friend of mine had owned years earlier. He left town to pursue other business ventures, and the building had been abandoned ever since. Ring knew about the place, and if I managed to get myself inside I could stash it somewhere for him to pick up later. If, on the off chance, the datajacks and electricity were still hot, I could tap into the mainframe with my Hosaka deck and reboot the place’s security equipment.

I had no other plan, so the warehouse would have to be viable. The rumble of the metro came fifty three seconds ahead of schedule, and with little hesitation I booked in the direction of the crumbling edifice that would provide sanctuary, keeping the dark brown folder tight under my arm. Most of the journey was encapsulated in the dusty tunnels and vacant parking lots beneath the highway, so at least detection by aerial fixtures or satellite was at a minimum. It took about twenty minutes to get the warehouse through the void of the old metropolitan corridors which extended like decomposing entrails through the grim remains of the old industrial park. A brief, undisturbed run up a slight incline took me to my destination. The building remained boarded up for its long slumber, with no identifiable point of entry from the front. I went around back where it closely bordered another similar structure, and with the additional wall in conjunction with the shadow produced by the overhanging roof, I was virtually invisible to eyes or optical lenses more than ten feet away. I imagined that the hundreds of layers of terrible cheap paint, derived from a smorgasbord of suspicious materials, would mask infrared and/or x-ray sensors. There was a narrow service entrance in the back, sealed by two Baldwin locks that were easily picked. I was inside quickly, and was greeted by a stuffy and overwhelmingly immense emptiness. The discolored float glass windows were veiled by a thick layer of dust which let in just enough light to allow me to navigate through the warehouse, but little more. There was a room upstairs that had been an office, and inside it was a hole in the left wall which could be used to store this dangerous file. I dropped it off, satisfied that my work was complete, and decided I would place a call to have the folder picked up as soon as I could confirm that I was off the radar of any possible pursuing agency. I waited for about an hour in the stale air of that place, watching the darkened clouds move across the lifeless, static-grey sky, before I dared return to the outside and face any tailing entity.

At last, I decided that enough time had elapsed, and that I could safely exit the structure with minimal detection. For a brief few seconds I celebrated in triumph, but it quickly came to a crashing halt. Not halfway down the hill I saw them; there were so many of them, in every direction. Armed guards with automatic weapons and overhead ARDDs (aerial robotic detection devices) throughout my field of vision. And in the middle of them was my employer, although his military jacket now bore a new name on the breast: Renfield. The program had either gotten to him or perhaps he had always been affiliated, but their test was a success. They had not only controlled a single subject, but they were able to use that pawn to influence and direct the actions of others. The man in the Renfield jacket clapped his hands slowly. “Very well done.” He smirked, “The dossier you stole was obviously a prop, but the information contained within it is real, but just the tip of the proverbial iceberg, and you couldn’t possibly comprehend the full breadth of our work. But maybe you will shortly.”

The shock of the taser burning into my back brought me to the ground as the world drained out of my optic nerves.

Congratulations! You picked up a dog eared copy of Neuromancer at your local used book emporium, and somehow managed to devour the whole damned thing throughout the course of your typically miserable 9-5 shift. The completion of this task required secretively retrieving the aging paperback from the confines of your back pocket in the privacy your cubicle’s walls; taking advantage of your boss’s extended lunch break for once; and indulging in unnecessarily long bathroom breaks while filling your cranium with terms like “jacked in cowboys” and “razor girls”. And long before you lay your non-surgically augmented eyes on the phrase “He never saw Molly again”, your brain will suddenly come to a halt as you find yourself saying “Holy shit, Gibson is awesome”. This revelation will most likely dawn on you with within the cold confinement of the bathroom stall, as you seemingly barricaded yourself in for hours.

Matter of factly, you kind of want in on this cyberpunk thing. I mean hell-o, who doesn’t want a fucking brain-computer interface? And isn’t running from an evil megacorporation just slightly more exciting than those TPS reports?

Alas, before you rush back to your desk and type “cyberpunk fashion” into your search engine of choice, in hopes of forking over that sweet, sweet available checking balance to a random Internet purveyor of so-called futuristic wares, allow me forcefully push my sartorial opinions down your throat as usual.

Cyberpunk ≠ raver

A look based around literature, which primarily zeroes in on the denizens of a techno-scientific society’s seedy underbelly, doesn’t quite mesh well with Care Bears t-shirts and ten thousand neon-beaded bracelets. Sorry to burst your bubble, but there is a HUGE disconnection between Molly Millions and Rainbow Brite. Pairing humongous pants, tricked out with bondage straps, studs and zippers with glow-in-the-dark goggles, doesn’t make for a logical amalgamation of “cyber” and “punk”. It just makes you look like you belong in a room full of people on MDMA who play with blinky lights as they sway oddly to DJ Tiesto.

Cyberpunk ≠ post-apocalyptic

Some folks, in their “infinite wisdom”, use the terms interchangeably. You know, because all things that portray a futuristic dystopia are clearly indistinguishable. In mainstream cinema, the aforementioned genres are best exemplified by The Matrix(first film only) and Mad Max respectively. Thus, if confusion rears its ugly head, I highly recommend that the perplexed party rents both movies and plays a little game of “Spot the differences”.

And if you still fail to differentiate between the two genres, here’s a handy little “cliché cheat sheet”.

Cyberpunk = Socially awkward hacker pilfers sensitive data from a corrupt corporation which previously employed him , thusly leading to goons being hot on his trail and ruining his good time.

Overall aesthetic: Retractable razors conveniently implanted under fingernails, utilitarian-meets-fetish, post-human perfection, technology encroaching upon all facets of life.

Post-apocalyptic = Near extinction level event rips Earth a new one, leaving hordes of factionalized grungy outlaw biker gangs in charge. They loot, rape and pillage to their hearts’ content, which naturally ruins everyone’s good time.

Overall aesthetic: Not so artfully disheveled dreads and/or mohawks, deconstructed fabric, tribal body modification. Oh, and if we’re talking Beyond Thuderdome here, throw in the accompanying stench of manure for good measure.

Okay, so, what are you saying here, Vanity Kills? Are you telling me in a not-so-roundabout way that my UV reactive ventilator mask is more suited for the daunting task of house painting than looking like “high tech low life” antihero?

Why, yes, I am. Still…have no fear, future 1337 hax0r, here’s a (relatively) quick-n-painless guide to casual cyberpunk.

For the ultimate in versatile “cyber” menswear, get your hands on an Operation: Replicant Scanning M16-315 Organic or Machine Men’s Hoodie in the black/grey colorway. The neutral color palette combined with the hoodie’s zipped front, rib knit contrast, and mechanical snap tab details make for an easy to wear piece that is laid back enough for a quick trip to the post office in the afternoon, yet plenty industrial for your nighttime clubbing activities. The knives carefully integrated into the barcode screen print are neither tacky nor ostentatious; they steal just the right amount of spotlight without playing the whole “Look at me, I’m an attention whore, my shirt says ‘Fuck You’” card.

Oh, and I guess you can wear it while spending several hours trying to hax0r your ex-girlfriend’s Facebook account. That counts as +5 cyberpunk points right there, my friend.

Remember those “humongous pants, tricked out with bondage straps, studs and zippers” that I told you not to wear earlier. I was serious. Wear cargo pants instead. Why? Well, for starters, cargo pants contain large pockets that you can easily utilize as a portable storage facility for all your cool cyberpunk gear. Like magnets, which can be used to wipe out other peoples’ hard drives. Your roommate better watch what he says or the next time he insults your Justice League underoos, or there will be hell to pay. He can just kiss all those Suicide Girls .jpgs goodbye. You don’t fuck with a cowboy and his magnet. Discreetly stashed in the pocket of his cargo pants.

Black ankle boots with polished metal accents. That is all. Notice how they’re devoid of flames, chains, spikes and other mallgoth-esque tchotchke. The tactful simplicity is precisely what makes them glorious.

Accessorize with faux eyeglasses for the highly esteemed IDM producer look. This is proven to make you appear 50% smarter and 90% more pretentious. Take extra care to pose in front of high rise glass paned office buildings, while perfecting your best “I’m so fucking bored with you” look. NEVER look directly at the camera!

Get the skinny on Dan’s hair here.

Note: I feel that most of your garden variety emo/hipster/br00tal metalc0re dude hairstyles would work rather well with this look.

Skinjob

Even the most fashion-forward male isn’t likely to be dicking around with powders and foundations when the thermometer hits the dreaded 90 degree mark. Yet he needn’t forgo coverage and the illusion of flawless skin for comfort’s sake. Boy meets tinted moisturizer: behold the most critically acclaimed summer romance of 2010.

To apply:

1. Wash your face with a cleanser formulated especially for your skin type. Rinse thoroughly and pat dry with a soft cloth.
2. (Optional) If you’ve got a particularly pesky blemish, feel free to gently pat concealer over the trouble area. Follow by blending with your ring finger.
3. Dampen a clean cosmetic wedge with a tiny bit of water. Squeeze out any excess moisture.
4. Start by dabbing small dots of tinted moisturizer onto the center of your face, the same way you would apply regular foundation, and proceed to blend outward using even, circular motions.
5. If you’re feeling frisky (a.k.a. don’t mind undertaking an extra step) you can help to set the tinted moisturizer in place by finishing off with a thin coat of translucent powder. Use a full, round shaped powder brush for optimal results.

Tip: Prevent your face from turning into an oil slick by keeping blotting sheets in one of your cargo pants’ many pockets. They’ll soak up excess grease in a pinch.

Credits

Photography:Lanya B

Model: Dan Barrett

Location: Southwest Washington DC

<3

Vanity Kills