Conscience and Law

[Less than Digital] The robot is fucked up again...
Ok, maybe that isn't entirely accurate. The opposite of accurate, actually. It's performing... optimally. That isn't entirely correct either. It's performing beyond design specifications. Far beyond design specifications, current tweaking, and working its way into the world of wildest dreams and 'why couldn't i make it do this last month' territory.

The first indications were the some what clumsy bumbilings of the machine that led it into her work space, where it proceeded to turn in circles a number of times (Nine, to be exact, but who's counting....) before it started drive forward into her computer and technical equipment and emit a series of clicked-squeeked-beep noises.

'Leet', it could have said, and loudly enough to draw attention.
'Leet', more pronounced this time.
Or maybe it was 'sleep'. It was designed to indicate that its creator, and like minded fellows with the blessings and curses of ten pound brains that allowed for he processing of vast amounts of information, at the occasional cost of lost time, common sense, and seeming day dreams (all of which are really deep focus, but the herd sees it differently) to perform much needed, though occasionally forgotten, tasks.

Like eating; and now sleeping.
Except for the oddity of the fact that it was, indeed, aimlessly pressing against her assorted mishmash of work projects and muttering 'leet'.

Or maybe it was 'geek'.

The beep-chirp-slur of its programmed sounds in distortion makes it some what difficult to tell.

[Molly Quincannon] It takes a lot to shake Molly out of a work-groove. It's the same concentration potential that leaves some sleep-starved over books. Which is why she coded Zoing the way she did in the first place. However, she had neglected to code in a programme nagging her to sleep, mostly because ... well, Zoing is a coffee-bot. It seemed somehow ... wrong.

Which is why that bit of commentary from the little robot whose few learned phrases she has very easily memorised pulls her attention away from the 'War of the Worlds tripod'-looking webcam bots she's been working on, at least partly inspired by watching Mirrormask for the twenty-seventh time. She blinks at the leggy little webcam (which has not shorted out, caught fire or blown up yet, so yay for her! Of course, she hasn't tried switching it on yet either, so early days), then over at Zoing, and then looks at the little 'bot for a moment, pointing her little screwdriver at it in a gesture and posture that says 'WTF?' better than words could. After a moment of processing the new input that is her AI picking up a few new tricks (which is the point, surely? But...), she wrinkles her nose in puzzlement and says, ".....Could you speak up, Zoing? I couldn't quite hear you over bits of my brain going 'twang' over the fact that ... now, I know Atlas didn't put you up to this, so..." Flail with the screwdriver and her free hand. "Oh, never mind. Zoing; repeat, please."

[Less than Digital] "Leet" it chirped again, rotating to face her more clearly and coming to a stop, the web cam eye, not yet activated, turns towards her any way. It is, in a way, eerily reminiscent of Israel. Something, or some one, that can not see, but turning to face the direction of a voice with a line of sight that is almost uncanny.

"Leet" again, this time a little more clearly.

"Leet. Leet. Geek. Speak. Log in. Log off. Jack in. Fuck off," and then, this time, in a moment straight out of the 90's, it's AOL. "Hello... you've got mail."

And it turns again, bumping into her computer in a patterned set threes. Three bumps, a pause, and then again. Three times total. The pauses are intermittent though. Bump-bump-bump followed by bump----bump----bump followed by bump-bump-bump with a nagging familairity, a dejavu quality of some meaning that isn't seen too often since the advent of, oh, the radio.

[Molly Quincannon] [[Wits + Enigmas for a 'okay, what the HELL?'. Please, Kasheeno, I have been SO GOOD.]]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 5, 7 (Failure at target 6)

[Molly Quincannon] [[.......*headdesk* If at first you don't succeed, up the diff and pray.]]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 5, 8 (Failure at target 7)

[Molly Quincannon] Molly's got a few clues about Morse code. She picked up a few bits and bobs when she was trying to read certain intercepted messages she giggled over during a certain Asylum raid. Besides, everyone knows dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot. But that's about the only bit of that bit of gobbledygook that makes any kind of sense at all. She's curious about a lot of things, but if she plugs Zoing into her computer and tries to work it out now, she'll lose an opportunity. There's time enough to look at what the hell is happening with Zoing's source code when she works out the message bit. If you can call that a message. There are questions. Always questions.

The first one, of course, being, ".....Is this how people feel when they talk to me after too many quintuple-shot mochas?"

Then, down to business. "Okay; you tell me I have mail and tell me to log in. And then log off. Please make up your mind? And fuck off where? Or is this one of those 'journey more important than destination' deals? And if you want geek speak ... dude, I've got a million of them. Pick a topic. But I think the most important thing is ... SOS to who? You? Atlas? Other? ...Me? Where does the help have to happen? Is that where I'm supposed to fuck off to?" Then she sighs and reaches for her mini-fridge for Jolt. "I need caffeine for this, clearly. I'd ask you for coffee," she says, "but I'm a little afraid to. I dunno what's got into you, but..." Then she thinks about that and closes the fridge again, Jolt free. "Actually, hell with it. Zoing; coffee?"

She's not entirely sure she's going to get it, but it's another thing to try to see what happens.

[Less than Digital] Molly asks, and Zoing delivers.

Albeit, much like every thing else tonight, not quite as expected. There's a not to common act of shuttering as what ever power source engages the little robo creature kicks up and the coffee starts to brew, complete with gurgling noises and spits and puffs of steam, far more exaggerated than usual. The entire act and display practically screams 'look at me' the way a child or primate might do, despite all eyes already being on him / her / it.

And then the kicker... the antenna bends and leans forward per usual coffee pouring protocol. Only it never went to get a cup. One project, or spare parts, what ever the small pile of marginalized scraps and miscellaneous pieces of hard ware Zoing has moved next to, may as well be written off.

Unless they're coffee proof any way.

"C++ is so 90's," followed by "Follow the white rabbit. Woah. Brah-brah-brah-BRAZZERS DOT COM" bassier this time, electronically distorted, before returning to its more chirpish quality. "IIRC is leet. Script kiddies go home. You-you-you-you-you've got mail."

[Molly Quincannon] "........................sheep-fellating moose-buggering platypus-fisting syphilitic-monkey-fucking sonuvabitch that was gonna be new speakers!" She forces herself to something resembling calm after that, because she really has no desire to find out what Zoing's current take on the 'gottabreeeeeethe' nagging might be. Instead, she reaches for her mini-fridge and her Jolt again and says, "Once I'm done verbally working through your spaz-attack, you're going in for hardcore maintenance, my tech-wrecking little fiend-friend. I have never had to remind you to get a damn mug; what is wrong with you?"

Then, after opening her can of Jolt and chugging half the contents, she says, "Okay. Let's work on the principles of the one thing in this mess you've repeated. I've got mail. Fine. Okay. Let's go check. And I am checking that website too. Praise Kibo for the gift of multitasking." She's pulling out the laptop as she says this, and pondering his various bits of message even as she waits for the thing to boot, and for her mail client and browser to load.

[[We've had a pause, and new intel. Wits + Enigmas, back to base diff.]]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 4, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Less than Digital] "Query: Platypus. The platypus (Ornithorhynchus anatinus) is a semi-aquatic mammal endemic to eastern Australia, including Tasmania. Together with the four species of echidna, it is one of the five extant species of monotremes, the only mammals that lay eggs instead of giving birth to live young. Do not fist the males. They are poisonous."

As Zoing gives her a Wiki answer, and some unusual advice, followed by...a shrug of antennas that almost dejected looking, if such anthropomorphic attributes can be attributed to a machine of his stature and design, followed by a coffee sloshing, steam spurting shuffle as it trundles off... to get a coffee cup. Now that she has a jolt... and it sprayed half the coffee there anyway.

Speaking of the coffee, it's run of the would be speakers and has now pulled up into a set of rivulets and soon to be stains, a wider thinner, shallower pool that has more or less ignored the contours of the ship's deck to give itself an outline. Two (relatively) thicker streams run in rough parallels to one another.

It has deep, significant meaning to it... or its a coffee stain. Which ever.

The computer boots up and, praise to the powers that be, acts normally. No Zoing-sih fits and fiascos here. Boot processes, operating system, all normal. Email opened, and sure enough, she has new mail. Three new mails, all from the same sender.

SisterQ@cannonmol.net

Email 1: "There is nothing wrong with your television. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are now controlling the transmission. We control the horizontal, and the vertical. We can deluge you with a thousand channels, or expand one single image to crystal clarity, and beyond. We can shape your vision to anything our imagination can conceive. We will control all that you see and hear."

Email 2: "I know how you passed Gym class"

Email 3" Wanna play a game?"

And immediately after reading over the three of them, perhaps enough time to glance between them or ask mentally ask 'wtf?', a chat box appears in the lower right corner of the screen. Not AOL or ICQ or IIRC, MSN, Yahoo, the usual suspects. Just a plain gray chat box with the option to expand size, a text space, a send button, and a post from the 'Stranger'. "Hello, Maudlin".

[Molly Quincannon] [[Wits + Enigmas again!]]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 5, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Molly Quincannon] Okay, so Molly feels kind of sorry that she yelled at the little 'bot. So he gets a sympathetic look and a, "Thanks, Zoing. For a spaz, you're pretty awesome. If really cryptic today. Though why, I don't..." Then she looks at the coffee stain, and something clicks. "......oh I should have known."

This little bit of data just helps to make a little more sense of the fact that she's apparently been sending emails to herself in her sleep. Or something. (Definitely something.) The first one gets a snort, a scoff and a "Yeah, but if I don't like the picture, we'll just see who's controlling what", muttered aloud.

The second just gets a smile. It's a wicked thing, that smile, lacking most (if not all) of the good nature most of those who know her see regularly. There's pride there. If the world goes against you for stupid reasons? Fight dirty.

And then the third, and before she can respond to that ... the text message box. That gets looked at for a moment. She knows her firewalls are good and better than good. And given the messages, she's not overly worried that she's getting hacked, unless ... can you get hacked by yourself? She checks them anyway, even as she notes the lack of 'insert image' button on the message window with some disdain. There's no room for her normal Maudlin-esque greeting here (the watermark would normally be the opener). So instead, she types the following:

Does a spirit hot as lightning upon my journey guide me?

[Less than Digital] Is that you, John Wayne? Is this me? , comes the reply, Stanley Kubrick's finest, or absolute worst depending on whom you ask, quoted back at her.

Then the kicker. Her fire walls are non responsive. Their in place, as far as she can tell, but every major security system she has is more or less locked out. There is always the potential she's run across a better hacker. Some of it seems legit, from an illlegit angle anyway. Some of it is... well, nothing is one hundred percent full proof; is it?

Even as she runs her security checks and diagnostics, 'Stranger' replies again.
You should listen to what I have to say.

A brief pause, almost denoting a human user... oh, a user can type faster, has to be able to type faster if they've accomplished what they can accomplish on her own computer, but its the sense of purposeful pause that comes across. Words chosen for intent and what is between the lines as much as what is spoken.

Information wants to be free. Don't you agree?

[Molly Quincannon] There'd be a lot more paranoia if she wasn't more or less sure who (what) 'Stranger' is. The problem with overconfidence is that it sometimes overcomes the caution (paranoia) occasionally taught by those one respects. As it stands, she sighs and shakes her head at the quotehappiness in general, then considers the question. After a moment, she starts to type.

Information should be free.
There's a shorter pause, and then, typed slower:
But for everything, there is a season. All things have their time. Freedom without conscience is not the ideal of anarchy; it's chaos. Risk/benefit analysis always a good idea. Words spoken - information freed - cannot be taken back. Nor can its consequences.

She knows that one all too well. Hasn't regretted it yet, but she knows it.

[Less than Digital] No, they can not...

Windows appear, small enough that multiples are able to do so with out over cluttering the screen immediately, large enough to make out their meaning and words and videos when they pop up. Reuter's News. 3 US Military personnel killed due to leaked plans. Local Virginia Newspapers. Hacker group 'Anonymous' threatens to release personal information on US Marine prison guards for (purportedly, but ultimately unproven, abused) detainment of WikiLeaks conspirator / informant.

Then some thing... darker. A grainy video, in black and gray. A man in a mask behind a woman. It doesn't take much act of imagination to guess what they're doing. He holds up something shadowy behind her head. The black and white grainy picture is white-flashed and blinding for moment, the muted sounds of slapping meat and panting over burdened by the single crack of a pistol.

She lies still.

He pants harder.

I have more. Much more.
Who chooses?
Risk/benefit analysis agreed on.
Query: Who has arbitrary right?

[Molly Quincannon] There's a pause. A fairly long one, for her. These things bear consideration, even as she rages (frantic) over the image, grinds her teeth with the need (tenacious) to see justice done to some shithead who--
(Was it consensual? Was that what she wanted?)

She types:
Who has the right to do that, assuming non-consensual in that last video? The problem with rights is that they are not god-given. They can only be defined by a personal judgement - always in and of itself flawed - and hopefully tempered by sound judgement. Risk/benefit again. Didn't mean risk to self; meant risk to others. Innocents.
Another shorter pause for more thought, and then:
Short answer? No one. And everyone. Rights are an abstract concept and a construct of society, and are routinely stomped on according to the whims of those with the power - of whatever kind. Either everyone has all the rights in the world, in which case we're all fucked because everyone can do whatever they want no matter how much it hurts others, or no one has any rights at all and we're all victims of society's jackboot. Until we evolve more, there's no middle ground but what conscience and law dictates. That and intelligent and conscientious protest. Like the military guys who turned Anonymous' own tricks on the group. That rocked hardcore.

[Less than Digital] No one has the right to do that. Agreed.

Not bothering to point out what that was. They both know with out having to reference it again. The follow on is quick, no pauses for thought. Rapid fire postings that are only seconds behind real time text. At least the chat, what ever its program, doesn't have a terrible 'ding' 'ding' 'ding' every time text is entered. Small mercies after what 'Stranger' just had her watch.

Yet others will argue that such a video, such information, visual and visceral, has right to exist. That the act itself was cruel and inhumane and hanus, but the content of its results would be shared for purposes and reasons. Posterity. Evidence, after the fact. When the case is said and done and the man is dead, some will argue that the data should be stored on your Promethean machines, accessed as fast as lightening, and quicker than the conquering of fire.

Because it deserves to be free. The people have a right to see this. The people, the faceless masses, decisions made for them two fold. Censorship or exposure. Which can be crueler?

Then another pause, though still brief.

No one and everyone. Contradiction. Conscience and law. Often in opposition based on religion, upbringing, early childhood development, profession, education, class, class bias, regional history, ethnic adversity. You propose all cases of right and wrong should be morally decided on a case by case basis by those who have the whims and power to do so?

Clarify please.

[Molly Quincannon] This is one of those brain-hurty conversations like she used to have with the Eclectic Mayhem over way too much coffee and a few mellowing bong-hits in Floyd's East Village apartment. It's been awhile since she had one of those. It's nice to be asked.

It's a contradiction, yes. So is more or less everything. Walking the line of a contradiction is how you get balance, moderation.

Yes, she said 'moderation'. Few enough people know that Cultists do actually believe in moderation, even in their excesses. The ones who succumb to excess, to addiction? They're the failures, letting their passions rule them instead of letting them expand the mind and soul. Molly holds her Code close where thousands would argue that it is archaic and contradictory.

Then, she addresses the rest:
I don't propose that's how it should be; I'm saying that's how it is. The legal system is flawed, often judging not on the merits of the case at hand alone but on biases regarding gender, sexuality, race, religion, social and economic class and other factors. Justice is blind; juries are not. Various moral stances that teach hatred for certain social and genetic factors leads to action that at best could be called vigilante 'justice' but let's not split hairs - let's call it what it is and say 'hate crime'. Right and wrong is never clear, and is always subjective. If it must be subjective, so be it. I can't speak for others, but for me? All I can do is stand for those the justice system lets down. Xref:

There's a link, after that: a relatively recent article in a Savannah online newspaper concerning the ongoing trial for one Mr William Benson, on several counts of assault and one of second-degree murder. The evidence needed to convict him came out of an anonymous information dump by a certain hacker, but there had, according to the papers, been flags about it. Backroom deals to make restraining orders stick and not sully the man's reputation but left him free to get around the restraining order at least once, and terrorise his wife and child, who medical records show had been badly beaten.

Law failed these women and that child. Conscience did not. Sometimes, you have to walk the line between law and conscience and give justice a little ... nudge. That's risk/benefit analysis in action. Clear enough for you? To go back to an earlier comment, I have more. Much more.

[Less than Digital] But you must split hairs.

Instantaneously, rapid fire post followed just s quickly.

If no one splits hairs, what is the degree of separation? All things in the world are a matter of scale. The differences between justice and retribution. Persecution versus legitimate grievance. Perspective, never shared by opposite parties. You push for freedom of information; relevant that said information is in the provision of freedom to one or more parties.

Reading , followed it, perhaps in response to the link.

Who ever or whatever 'Stranger' was, it read quickly. Preternaturally so.

You take a stance of moral and ethical consciousness. Hypocritical, or self delusional? Two case points.
1: Your first act of 'bucking the system secured' your 3.8 GPA. It's too bad physical education can be graded. Was some one in danger? Did it hurt you? Or did you just find it easier to go around the rules, the law so to speak, because you had the power to do so? Admittedly a weak reference of argument, except I know you are still proud of it. How easy is it to not only do the right thing, but to do the comfortable things for yourself as well?

2: You enjoyed their desperation. I know you did. I was there. Panicked calls for reinforcements. Men and women died. You suppressed information. Information that got people killed. People with families and hopes and dreams and desires and futures. People who, just like you, thought they were helping the world.

I have more. Much more qouting itself back in query to her question.
An audio play file comes up on her scream, playing itself on its own accord... and if there any doubt as to the idea some thing supernatural as occurring here, its easily dispelled by the fact that the audio can be heard, if faintly, regardless of her media devices. Speakers, head phones, mute, unmuted, it doesn't matter.

Its a replay of the entire radio and communication's monitoring Molly took place in when the mages of Chicago attacked the Asylum. The suppressed calls for reinforcements, with all the human and fragile sounds of fear and anxiety and grief they entailed.

[Molly Quincannon] A very long pause follows that. There are a lot of things that she could say, a lot of justifications she could make. And they'd all hold up ... sort of.

But why? Why bother lying to yourself, when information is supposed to be free?

Eventually, after thinking it through, she types.

1: Yes. Yes, it did hurt me. If my GPA had taken a greater dip, it would have hurt my chances of a good college. Of getting out. It would have killed me. If I'd wanted to be vindictive - and a part of me truly did - I would have dumped the dirt I got on that particular teacher in the public domain as a parting shot. I just wanted out. I could not have passed based on physical ability.

That hurts to 'say', but it's true. Overconfidence is one thing. Outright self-delusion is something else.

2: Yes. A part of me did enjoy their desperation. There's no excuse for that. I'm not perfect. I'm not even always nice. I was high on caffeine and adrenaline and triumph, and thinking back on my reaction to it makes me a little sick. I can't take that back. And beyond my reaction, I wouldn't even if I could. Because the only thing that makes me sicker than my reaction to people in desperation and despair is the thought of what might have happened to Solomon, Atlas and Nathan if I hadn't suppressed that information, if the Technocracy had been allowed to call for backup.

Deep breath. Flex the fingers. Type again. More words it hurts to say. More words it's hard to say.

Some things are more important than freedom of information. A man I love. A man I count as brother. A man who I might have picked as a father if I'd had a choice. Two of them risked their lives and more for me. I think I can bend my principles a little and still sleep well at night, if doing so might even remotely help them come out of a bad situation with as few wounds as possible. In the end, it's the people who matter more than the principle, maybe. Or maybe I have to pick and choose on a case by case basis, like everyone else. I don't know. But I don't regret it. It helped people I love. That's enough.

[Less than Digital] Good. You are not lost... .

Well, that was some what... judgmental.

Violation of the status quo in the name of conflict and justice is acceptable. The pursuit of self gratification and elevation under the same premise is not. Still, dilemma: What right did those three men have to live or die as opposed to the ones that did? Both parties involved were doing what they perceived to be best for the world.

Then, the doozy.

The Technocracy can not claim to have created Democracy, modern economic stability, medicine, sciences, manufacturing, astrology, chemistry, biology, and a host of the things we accredit them with. Such would be a conspiracy of impossible scale. What they have done is push for, lobby, and most importantly..stabilize them in the hearts and minds of Man.

How many known languages are spoken in the world?
Ann odd twist, but the question remains in light of an almost Technocratic sympathetic statement.

[Molly Quincannon] The answer to the first comes hard, fast and right off the top of her head:
Right then, it wasn't about what was best for the world. It can't always be, or we'd all go fucking nuts. Right then, it wasn't even about what was best for me. I saw the alternatives. I know how many more would have died - not even as a 'them and us' situation, but on all sides - if we hadn't succeeded in what we did. But even that's an excuse, and I know it. It was for them. If I have to take a metric fucktonne of guilt on my conscience or smut on my soul over indirectly dealing death to people who thought they were doing the right thing too? If it even stood a remote chance of saving them? I'll do it gladly. I'd die for them, and more.

Very short pause, and then she goes on:
Do you want to talk about one of the ones that James called 'hunters'? The one I electrocuted to death in the name of saving some I didn't even know? While he was trying to run away? I can give all the justifications in the world for why it was the right thing to do, mostly involving the fact that he'd have gone after someone else eventually if I'd let him live, but they don't change the fact that I killed a man and that will stay with me forever. What right did the girl we saved have to live over this man whose only argument for not killing someone he and his comrade had abducted was to lure more of us in to die? Or the thralls of some spirit in the Chinatown opium den, three of whom I set on fire? Maybe it's a bad example, and there's a difference in intent, but it comes down to the same thing - I made a choice and I will never, ever know if it was the right one. I never do. I never will, no matter what decision I make about anything, ever. I will probably pretend I do. I will look like I do. I will maybe even think I do. But I will never know. I don't think anyone can. All I can do is go on and keep trying to do what's right for the situation and sometimes be selfish and sometimes be cruel and sometimes be fucking human and in the end, more people are going to die because of me and I'm just going to have to accept that I won't always make the world a better place. But I will always keep my intentions as pure as I can make them, and that's all I can do. Some fucking hero, right?

Now there's a longer pause, because the glasses have to come off for a moment, so she can wipe away tears. Always wants to be the hero, does Molly. Otherwise, what good are all her talents? But ... well, she's not always going to be. In fact, there's always going to be a perspective where she's the villain of the piece. And that perspective will not be wrong.

To the question, once she has cleaned spots of salt water off her glasses and put them back on her face, she just types:
I'd Google, but that's usually cheating. But does how many known languages matter as much as how many languages are really spoken? Dialects, regional variations, that kind of thing? Trivia side-bar: in the United Kingdom, there's a different regional dialect every fifteen miles. That means that London alone speaks forty different dialects of English, and that's not even counting boroughs that talk nearly exclusively Punjabi or Polish or any number of other languages.

[Less than Digital] To date 8,609 languages are known to be spoken, with distinct family groups, dialects, regional variations included. It is known that not all languages have been identified, for various reasons too lengthy to discuss here and now.

To answer, the U.K. has twelve regional languages associated it with, dialects not withstanding. Survey's indicate that around 150 individual languages are spoken in households of immigrant families. This is further inaccurate by your observation, as their is no solid linguistic rule of when a dialect becomes a separate and independent; the exception being mutual intelligibility.

But we're getting away from the key topics at hand...

What right? There are no rights, save those laid down by Man's imperfect and often biased or ignored laws. Nature does not provide a right to anything. Everything in nature, Man aside, knows it must do what it can to survive. Every thing else is to be eaten or avoided. Thus the separation from man and beast. In knowing that we are more than beast, man ascertains it has more rights than beast.

Explain to me the magic of human language.

[Molly Quincannon] It's not that the first bits are ignored, exactly. They're certainly thought over. They just don't bear a typed response. Mostly because the only thing she could type on the subject would be 'huh. Processing.' Which is distinctly unhelpful. Plus she'd like to double-check a few facts before going into too much depth and this is somehow too important to go multi-tasking over.

So instead, she addresses the request:
As far as I understand it? In no particular order - it lets information be shared, or withheld, or twisted. Information is the cornerstone of decisions, and decisions precede action, and by action is the world shaped. Thus language, the most commonly used means of communication, shapes the world. Not just in information and purely fact-based ways and situations, either. Poetry, prose, lyrics can push the heart in certain directions, just as pure fact delivered from the perspective of the person using language to communicate to others can push the head in certain directions. It's about tone, whether spoken or written. That assumes, of course, that the people communicating speak the same language.

[Less than Digital] It lets information be shared is the key. Language is the magic of thought expressed. To view in your mind's eye a concept, an idea, an ideal, a representation of a thing within conceivability, true, real, false, or imagined... and to give it to some one else. The world is not shaped by action. It is shaped by perception and conception. The inception, or deconstruction, of a thing; shared by multiple sentience, until belief is shared or dismantled. What those sentiences do with their actions is not a direct result of language. It is a result of the Passions inspired by the thoughts. The language was only a tool to instill the thought from one to another.

Why are you speaking with me? Communication, language, the magic of thoughts and ideas expressed, received, and understood. Assume I have total control of your platform and operating system. I have brought your actions to question. I have implied a lack of moral fiber and conscionable judgment on your part. I have equated you to both hero and villain in the same paragraphs, and acknowledged your good deeds; and damned you in comparison to a common great enemy of your beliefs... a comparison that may be argued with only the limited success of perspective.

Assuming I did have total control of all of your physical toys, you could walk away from this conversation at any given time. I have made you cry, and still you suffer me with esoteric banter and moral philosophy.

Why?

[Molly Quincannon] The response comes, after a pause for strong consideration, in three staccato bursts of five words each:

Because I want to learn.

Because I want to know.

Because I want to understand.

[Less than Digital] None of which serve purpose with out direction.
What is the point of learning, if not for using.
What is the point of knowing, if not for acting.
What is the point of understanding, if that understanding is lost on all others?

This pause comes longer, though the break in the pause is rapid fire. Frantic, almost, if such a word or implication can come across in text. The rate with which the words are fired at her, the constantly distorting and changing text itself, bolder and italicized in places. Fonts that rapid fire change in accordance to ideas or words that suit or rub against her visual ascetics and preferences. The words that hurt are in fonts she cares for least. The things she may agree with in text she finds more visually pleasing.

"It is all for nothing, with out Passion. You seek to rid the internet of the nonfactual and the stupidity and the falsities that it can spread. Information and lore and expression of thought mind, tainted by the proliferation of Passions sundered and rent. A place with out a place, spread across the corners of the earth. A space with out the effect nor passage of time, where thought can be transferred instantly, or stored and shared across time. Time and space are illusion. Language is a magic, yet the magic of it is in the expression of concept and idea.

You do battles with illusions, against illusions, all the while forgetting that you attempt to spread truths, necessary truths, occasionally painful truths, through a medium that is, in and of itself, an illusion. It exists only in the mind of the beholder. Away from the key and the screen, it is only a vast reservoir of information. Of thoughts. Ideas. Ideals. Concepts. Inception and deconstruction of the mortal mind. Shared, rejected, pushed on, and subtly insinuated by others.

Even as you push to unlock the keys to creation, the code of reality and the myriad and many ways to force it to conform with your own mind's desires; you can accomplish it. As surely as I am both real and ephemeral, truth and nonexistence in juxtaposition, you have the power to change the world around you. Literally. Figuratively.

I want to learn.
I want to know.
I want to understand.

Why?"

[Molly Quincannon] It takes a long time to read through, to get the meaning behind the words as best she can, and when she does, she rolls her eyes and smacks her forehead with the heel of her hand, more than a little exasperated. "Oh-em-eff-gee; am I really this stupid?" Which side of this (technically, possibly, probably, sort-of) one-sided conversation she's addressing is left unclear. "Does this actually need to be--?"

Said? Yes. Yes, it does. Because saying it is one thing; even thinking it is one thing. Taking it to heart is something else. So the exasperation fades as she considers that. Of course the point of destroying and removing and culling is to leave room for something better to take the place of the bad. That seems self-evident. Fact is, that's really not enough, is it? It's a start, but it's certainly not the be-all and end-all. All manner of metaphors occur at this point; weed-choked lots first weeded and cleared and then turned to garden, or a condemned building torn down to make ... well, something else (a library, perhaps, or a chantry underground, or a 'mental wellness centre' and we really need to look into that one, don't we focus, Molly) but in the end, it all comes down to the fact that she's the one with the Will here. If she wants something better built in the empty space her clearing out of generalised 'wrong' left, she can get off her ass and build it herself.
Look, I don't exactly know the best way to put the answer to that question in words, because they're limited things at the best of times and it's entirely frustrating. But here's me, okay? I can hack a system, fish out what I want and tear it down - literally and figuratively, online and not. That's ... not the whole of the point, though, is it? I haven't been entirely missing the point, but I've been coming damn close by not looking at the point at all. I want to act on what I learn, in more ways than just 'dump it on people and let the chips fall where they may'. I want to act on what I know in constructive ways. Someone whose talents are limited to infiltration and destruction is never going to be what I want to be.

She sighs and speaks aloud again; this is rambling, pure and simple, and it's probably just getting overcomplicated and bloated in terms of its ideology, and there's too much internal filtration with a keyboard and a screen; Analysis rends Passion more often than she'd like. "I have wanted to make things better for a long time," she sighs. "I have been forgetting that the operative word in that sentence is 'make'. When I speak truth, I make truth. When I point out a lie, I make that thing I pointed out a lie, because it might as well have been truth until I came along, because it's all down to what people think is true anyway. So here I am, making the universe in my image because that's how it's always going to be because it's in the mind of the beholder however you look at it and look, if I don't let you - me, us, whatever - or Solomon or whoever else poke me in the sensitive spots until I get angry or miserable or whatever but eventually understand myself, I may as well not understand anything, because my perception's all of a skewed if I don't understand the mind that perception is coming from and how do I understand the universe I'm technically making if I don't understand who's making it? I can't be anything more than a freakin' tornado if I don't understand how it all puts together enough to actually build and ... argh, this all gets really complicated and really frustrating and I am getting the impression that I really don't like myself very much at all but I have the potential to do more than barge in like a bull in a china shop and lay waste to what I dislike and if I don't learn, know, understand, I can't build anything, let alone the sort of thing that I can be proud of and I want to, okay?"

Then she blinks, raises an eyebrow and sighs, "I haven't yelled at the computer screen so much since the Rangers got their asses handed to them by the Caps last month, y'know."

[Less than Digital] Better is a relative. Better for whom? For what? In the disruption of the status qua, does its demise serve a minority of interests, or the majority? When you cut some thing apart to build, whom are you building for? Some one's desires and dreams and wants will always be trampled. This is the way of things. The key is in the change.

When the gods dream, they dream of mortals; just as mortals have always dreamed of gods. From thought to action, the nature of magic is the power of inception. Yet to hold power and sway, an idea must be comprehended and understood. The world is an illusion, its beauty, and rules, in the eyes of its beholders.

Open your eyes to that and you wi---

Leet.

Leet.

Leet.

Leet. Leet.
Geek Speak.
Squeek. Weak. Tweak...

The floor is harder than she remembers, if she is familiar with it at all. Of course it is. It's the welded plate deck of a warship. Whatever its current purpose or reason, it is, was, and always will be designed as a vessel of spartan nature. One can only place so many bells and whistles on it. No matter how homey, it will always have its steel and jagged edges and sharp corners.

Zoing is bumping in to her, wobbling its little robot waddle as it commands her to 'eat'.
"Eat. Eat. Eat.Eat."

There are cans of Jolt cola all over the place. Some half drank, some empty. Others full, and left exposed to the air they are warm. Tepid, room temperature, if it's an indication of how long she has been there. The aroma of fresh coffee is almost painfully delicious in counterpoint to the throbbing headache she has. Zoing has placed a coffee mug in front her and filled it up. The mug reads "Chasing the White Rabbit", though where it came from and some of the set stains on its exterior is any ones guess.

It could all have been a bad trip... it might well have been. While she hasn't ever been heavy into narcotics and natural substances as foci, there is a smattering of such things spilled or left out. Her caffeine. Random over the counter day to day medications as if sampled. The remains of a joint roach she can't remember having smoked. Little things. Nothing heavy, nothing major, but their very presence makes the entire situation suspect. Ridiculous.

The only real signs otherwise are her emails. None of three from her experience, sent from her own mail address, are present. Instead there is a new one.

Follow the white rabbit for as far as it goes. When you can no longer see the rabbit, you go on alone. True story, bro.
From Enki40@EnlilHatesMe.org.