Search For Justice
Genevieve gets a search result she wasn't suspecting on a case she has been working on for years.

Genevieve's Office - MI6

April 6th, 2013

"My my what a flatterer. I'm sure the rest of your anonymous sources would be green with envy if they could hear how you write to me."

The Quartermaster's office isn't really much in the way of an office. It's mostly just a bunch of computers and strange equipment scattered on shelves and workbenches. There's a much larger room just outside where they test their new inventions through the doorway. However, the sound of loud wind machines and cars revving is blocked out by the sound (and blast) proof door. There is a desk, however and it's kept relatively clean with a few splashes of decoration. A vase of fresh flowers sits on one corner and a dish of fresh (home made!) cookies is always nearby. Genevieve Elwick sits at the keyboard of one very powerful computers, typing in strings of code and commands. She has a snickerdoodle hanging out of her mouth that she takes a thoughtful bite out of and then puts down next to her, chewing as she continues to type.

An innocuous little icon in the corner of a monitor to her left pops up into an equally unnotable box with a plain script: New Message.

Continuing to chew thoughtfully, Genny swallows and finishes typing her string of commands. Once her train of though is finished, she re-reads what she wrote and nods. Only once she's satisfied with what she had does she click on the 'New Message' icon.

At her touch the box transforms into another, chat commands lining the simple rectangle in which default font reads:
lockeandkey » Government has no other end, but the preservation of property.

While some might think this is a strange way to start a chat or an email, Genny gives a bit of a smile and quotes back:
themis » Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just.

lockeandkey » Nice to hear from you, justice. How are things?

themis » It's been a while, locke. You know, same old same old. Think I've finally got the original KFC recipe. You?

lockeandkey » Doing the job. Working the system. What's original anymore anyway?

themis » Nothing any more! That's why I'm trying to get back to the basics. Plus, twelve secret spices is just asking for someone to try and crack the code. The supposed 'just as good' recipe on the web is just false. So, nothing interesting going on in your neck of the woods?

lockeandkey » Of course it is. If something were just as good as the original, the original would no longer be. It cannot be both. And you know nothing's ever as interesting as you.

themis » My my what a flatterer. I'm sure the rest of your anonymous sources would be green with envy if they could hear how you write to me.

lockeandkey » Justice is the only one for me.

Footsteps, once in a while; a couple of doors opening and closing. The bustle around Genevieve's set-up, a strange near fictional world for most, is benign and ordinary to her. It'd be easy to assume that the alert noise that sounds once from a paneled screen below the chat belongs to nothing more than office dribble.

Genevieve knows better. Even if it's been a year.

themis » Sorry, my dear, Justice is for all.

When a person works in the same place and the same noises and people are around them, it's easy to adjust to the hustle and bustle. Ears tune out the regular chatter and noise. However, they are attuned for that singular tone. Sitting up straight, she can't believe it. Though she didn't give up hope, it had been so long. Quickly, she clicks on the alert window.

SEVERAL POSSIBLE MATCHES. blares the screen at her as it jumps to the forefront atop a scurry of numbers. Patterns picked out amongst them spell out at least a dozen potential references, buried, layered over a thousand times by coding. The program chugs along at its own pace.

Gasping, Genny watches the program she put together do its job. This is wonderful news! It had been so long since the program had any sort of activity whatsoever. Joyously, she grabs another snickerdoodle and takes a large bite, watching the patterns and words appear as if this were prime time television.

A program, the computer's discerning. It whittles away without optimism or pessimism to stall or hurry its course. But neither does it deal in grey areas or subtleties, and only minutes pass before its begun to pile up too many instances to sort, threatening the alert to vanish as its search, failing to narrow down, begins to widen again.

Hitting a couple of keys, Genny keeps the search narrow. Glancing through all the results found, she attempts to sort through them. Do any of them relate to previous mentions? Almost gleefully, she starts to pull every mention apart to see where this will take her next. This could be it!

Human touch interferes, as she takes command, as the computer hands over the reins to her to a sea of nearly impenetrable to look at code representing a myriad of different kinds of digital communication happening all the time.



Then, her persistence begins to see instances falling away. A dozen becomes four. Slimmed down, the search expands in scope, not variables, extending searches for similar keywords in the same area, near the same dates. Coordinates pass into another window, showing Genevieve four potential locations— huge, vast, unsearchable locations. For now.

Under her fingers, and cookie crumbs, one of them falls away. And then there were three.

One seems to be the only communication out of that location for months. It rings, a strange lone figure in its radius of no other points of interest.

Two's wording matched the closest, out of a report of some kind still waiting to be translated, buried under a pile of other mundane military-grade reports.

Third almost looks like a glitch. If the coordinates are correct, it pings not in her country of search at all, but much closer to home.

Frowning, fingers typing letters and words in combinations that would make no sense to someone not well versed in computers, Genny narrows and narrows. She focuses on each separate instance, swiping windows to different monitors when they end up being of no use to her. Absently, she munches on more cookies as she studies. The first of the last three doesn't seem to do her much good. Putting it in a corner close to the second monitor, she puts it out of mind for now. The second hit is exciting. She copies and pastes into a translator, setting it aside to see what that will turn up. In the mean time, she studies the third. It seems like an anomaly, but she's known to not take anything for granted. The program she wrote is quite specific. And so, she starts plugging in coordinates, seeing if something more interesting will show up.

It's a roller-coaster a hacker is not unfamiliar with: tossed place to place, citing off of dummy locations, and ones that look real but, after minutes, fail to fool her. A good job, but not a clean one. Lazy, maybe, with time. It's been a year. The map eventually unfolds… to Britain. Checked and double-checked, that where #3's path ends.

Not only that, but the message doesn't show signs of having been received yet.

Huh. Genny puts down her cookie and leans forward a little. Then, she continues to delve further into this ping. Britain? That's almost too ridiculous to be right. But, then, when all reasonable things are wrong, the unreasonable may be right. The message hasn't been received yet? Oh, this is almost too delicious to be believed. Quickly, she starts another anonymity program, ready to open the message while making it look like it still hasn't been touched.

A fluster of code— not computer, but spy language— hits her, as well as the loud sounding of a clock somewhere, carrying the realization that she's been there much longer than it felt. This message wasn't easy, but it is engaging, and now that she's in: possibly incriminating. But what could it mean? Even the computer hits a wall when it comes to carefully crafted codes, designed against its very cracking abilities. It could mean more time. What it does notice, and pops out and highlights for her, is a definite reference to the instance of #2.

Then it attempts to delete itself, against her wall of protective programming hiding her interference.

Wuhoh. Should the message actually delete itself, it will be much easier to track down that someone was tampering. Genny quickly enters a few key commands, attempting to freeze the message and then put it behind a protective firewall. As she does so, she screen captures her desktop so that she can - at the very least - study the spy code later. This is linked to another ping. Also, it is attempting to delete itself. This has to be something. No one puts in this much security for something that is useless.

It freezes. Looking nothing like itself anymore. If it was code before, now it's gibberish; imploded so that, even if dragged out of the annals of computing history, it will mean nothing to any eyes.

"Crap!" Genny futilely punches in a few more keys, hoping that she can restore the message to what it used to be. However, she knows at this point it's a meaningless endeavor. She doubts the screenshot even did anything. But, at least she knows that it links back to ping #2. Glancing over at said ping, she turns to see if it has finished translating.

Finished translating: it has. Probably before she'd finished unlocking the message she just killed. What she sees is half of a shipping receipt. Military supplies, as well as some luxury items for upper-ranked soldiers.

Sighing, Genny looks at the receipt and attempts to figure out how in the world it relates to the gobbeldy gook that she just witnessed. And, uh, also what will happen if/when someone figures out that she was meddling in those files. Welllll, she'll figure that out later. Pulling apart the receipt, she attempts to see if there's anything else hidden underneath. There's got to be something if it relates to her search!

It's the computer that finds it first— and since it was programmed by Genny, results come full circle when a secondary ping suggests that the brand name of one of those fancy bottles of rare-stocked wine is four points similar to her keyword.

Attempting to cross check that fancy bottle of wine to other previous searches, Genny tries to link things back through to a singular course of events. A highly classified document that she couldn't even properly get through has been sent to Britain with keywords back to ping 2. Ping 2 involves a shipment with her key word basically splashed across the receipt. Could that mean…could that mean they're moving the goods? Are they attempting to set up a ransom? She types in a few more searches, hoping.

Things get sketchier as she dives in. Layers upon layers. From the wording, the computer decides that the classy wine is no known stock ever sold from any vineyard on this earth. Words pop out: solution, gift, amongst the typical military protocol. The wine's considered to have been given its finest, final stamp and will very soon be moved from ping #1 to an undisclosed location where the recipient will 'hopefully very much enjoy knocking it back.'

Gift, final solution, knocking it back? That…that doesn't sound good. Either they are ransoming the package or it's about to be eliminated. Genny frowns and sits back for a bit. Only that stupid message that encrypted will be able to tell her. Going back to her screenshot, she takes a look at it, hoping against hope that there is something at all usable there.

Her program can no longer make heads nor tails of the information, because there's no longer any logical pattern to it. Utterly random, defeating technology. All she has is a questionable location in the middle of nowhere, and a time limit.

Cursing, Genny taps her fingers on the table absently. Typing in the coordinates, she attempts to figure out where this so called place the 'wine' is currently at to see what she may even be able to do - if anything.

Time trickles by— people by— one maybe even calling Genny's name several times before giving up. Even the message bar on the higher monitor seems to have stopped flashing. While the general ping narrows in and in on what looks like nowhere in the middle of nowhere until… there. Metal. Signs of humanity. She's hit up against the vague ghostly echoes of an abandoned dairy farm, without a lick of technology to tie her down to it except the fading path of that codeword which her program nearly discarded.

Perhaps the codeword is nothing, however, how can she discard this? It's been her adult life's work - even if that hasn't exactly been a long time. The people come and go and she just dismisses them, attempting to make them realize she's onto a very important project. Finally, Genny just stares at the abandoned dairy farm and then attempts to look up facts about it. Who owns it now, who used to own it, when was it built, where does it deliver its milk? If there's anything fishy - just one little thing - she is going to find a way to get people there. Even if she has to go herself.

It's been abandoned for some time, dates proclaim. Or has it. Or do they. Because there's little to dredge up, suspicious or no— which, in turn, becomes a suspicion. For a building dependent on outsider business, it's developed very little propaganda. Her computer skills offer a grainy, years old satellite photo of the area, where all the barely identifiable grey blocks of buildings truly do look ghostly.

But Genevieve is searching for her life. Hers, and—

Under her fingers, the computer again selects a piece of the picture, blowing it up. This, it suggests, model of car maybe parked near one of the medium-sized processing buildings is newer than when the place was supposedly cleaned out. Years ago.

This is wine that wouldn't have gotten better with age.

It's very little to go on. Just a picture of a car that might have been older than when it was cleaned out. She's already here, so she attempts to look up the car model as well as anything else that might go with that dairy farm. Maybe there's a police report or something of the like that may lead her to believe that shady business is going on there. Can she even go to anyone with this to convince them to send a rescue?

With the picture grainy, the computer seems to bicker with her: no license, so no model, no year. Until it finally relents, unable to realize, as it is only a computer that this mattered to her: no identifiers to find, because the car is a military vehicle.

A military vehicle! Now this is something! This is something Genny can actually use to argue the need for a rescue. Of course, she's not supposed to be poking around in other government's files and she really wasn't supposed to open some message not intended for her, however, how can she not assemble the troops? They'll thank her when they've retrieved a long presumed dead Agent from enemy clutches. This will be her finest moment! She may have just saved someone's life! Printing out what she needs - higher ups are so far behind the times - she is going to talk someone into this. Now.

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