The ghost at the table – Draft 03 – Chapter 8

Logan

The door creaked, a low moan in the silence. I stepped into D@@Mladen’s lair, eyes taking a moment to adjust to the flickering fluorescent light. Concrete and cables; the place felt like the belly of some cybernetic beast. Racks of hardware hummed, throwing heat that contrasted with the basement’s chill.

“Close the door,” her voice cut from the shadows. A command, not a suggestion.

I obeyed, the click of the latch sharp in the crowded space. I looked at the numerous hacking manuals that seemed to multiply like a tech-inspired fungus. The air smelt of metal and stale coffee.

“Sit.” D@@Mladen pointed to a chair nestled between two towering servers. Like some cyber raven, all dark eyes and sharper-than-knife-edge intelligence, she perched on the edge of a desk.

As I sat, the chair groaned under my weight. I tried to ignore the flush creeping up my neck. It wasn’t just the computers that were oversized here—I stuck out with my bulk and my blotchy skin. But this was about brains, not beauty contests. I reminded myself of that.

“First things first,” she said, swivelling a monitor towards me. “Coding. Encryption. They’re the backbone.”

“Got it,” I muttered, hands hovering over the keyboard. The keys were slick, worn from use. This was where the magic happened. It could be seen as a crime or not, depending on who you asked.

“Start with Python.” Her finger jabbed at the screen, pointing to an open editor window. “It’s clean. Readable. We build from there.”

“Python,” I echoed. I knew the basics, could wrangle loops and variables. But this was different. This was real.

“Encryption’s next. You need to understand systems. Break ‘em down. Build ‘em up.” D@@Mladen’s gaze was unrelenting. “If you don’t get this, forget hacking. You’ll be just another script kiddie.”

“Understood,” I said, though my throat tightened around the word. The pressure was on. This wasn’t military rigidity; this was survival.

“Good.” She nodded, once, sharply. “Let’s begin.”

And with that single word, my training started. Lines of code became my new language, encryption my alphabet. The understanding of systems—their pulse and rhythm—would be my lifeline in the shadowy world I was stepping into.

D@@Mladen watched, always watching, as I fumbled and learned, her presence a constant reminder of what was at stake. And through the glow of screens and the clack of keystrokes, in the dim, forgotten basement, a partnership formed—a friendship, even—forged in the crucible of ones and zeroes.

Fingers flew. The monitor’s glow etched shadows on my face. Hours bled away—coding exercises stacking like bricks in a wall I was building between me and my past.

“Focus, Logan,” D@@Mladen’s voice cut through the silence. “You’re not just typing. You’re crafting an arsenal.”

Her eyes never left my screen. Every keystroke scrutinized. She saw through my errors before they materialized, guiding with sharp, clipped feedback. “There—syntax. Clean it up.”

I corrected lines. My skills sharpened with each command entered, with every problem solved. D@@Mladen’s approval was rare, but when it came, it felt like victory. A nod was all it took. Validation.

“Enough.” Her hand pressed down on mine, stilling my frenetic typing. “Coding’s one thing. Now, we dive deeper.”

She turned her screen to face me—a window into minds, not machines. “Social engineering,” she said. “The art of manipulation.”

“Manipulation?” I echoed, uneasy with the weight of the word.

“Exactly.” Her lips curled, not quite a smile. “It’s about people, Logan. Understand them, you control them.”

“Control.” The term felt foreign on my tongue, tasting of power and danger.

“Watch,” she commanded, pulling up profiles, histories, breadcrumbs of online lives scattered carelessly across the digital landscape.

“Everyone’s got a weakness,” D@@Mladen whispered. “Find it.”

“Feels…” I hesitated, “wrong.”

“Wrong?” She laughed; it wasn’t kind. “It’s survival, Logan. In this game, sentiment’s a liability.”

“Liability,” I repeated, mulling over the notion. It was clear—emotions were vulnerabilities, chinks in armour waiting to be exploited.

“Remember your training,” she reminded me. “Your typing speed, your attention to detail. Use them.”

“Got it.” My resolve hardened. This was more than codes and ciphers; it was chess with human pieces.

“Good.” Satisfaction tinged her tone. “Now, let’s see what you’ve really learned.”

I leaned in, my gaze fixed on the screen as I began to weave through the fabric of lies and truths. Friendship mattered, sure… but in this new world, it was more than camaraderie. It was trust, a lifeline in the vast, uncharted waters of cyberspace.

As the night stretched on, the boundary between student and mentor blurred. With each lesson, with each shared secret, we became allies in a silent war fought in code and whispers.

“Your turn,” D@@Mladen said, sliding the dossier across the table. “Be me.”

I eyed the document. A profile—a life spelled out in data points and preferences. I swallowed hard.

“Hello, is this Mr. Jenkins?” My voice wobbled, feigned concern lacing each word.

“Who’s asking?” D@@Mladen’s tone was gruff, sceptical.

“Jim from tech support.” I improvised, leaning into the role. “We’ve noticed unusual activity on your account.”

“Unusual how?”

“Possible breach. We need to verify your details. Can you confirm your date of birth for me?”

“July 15th,” she answered, eyes narrow like a hawk’s.

“Year?”

“Nice try.” She broke character, smirking. “Too obvious, Logan. Play on fears, not facts.”

“Right.” I reset, mind racing. Twist the fear. “We’re seeing attempts from overseas. It’s critical we act now.”

“Overseas?” Her posture slackened, the hint of panic believable.

“Exactly. Your vigilance could prevent identity theft.” I pushed, feeling the shift.

“Okay, okay,” she conceded. “What do you need?”

“Birthdate, then we proceed.”

“March 22nd, 1976.”

“Gotcha,” I said, a tiny triumph flaring within.

“Better,” D@@Mladen nodded. “Now, let’s dive deeper.”

She transitioned seamlessly, screen alive with lines of code. SQL injection, cross-site scripting—terms that danced on the edges of my understanding.

“Watch closely,” her fingers flew over the keyboard. “This is about finesse.”

“SQL injection,” she began, “is an art. You’re slipping queries past the guard.”

“Like a Trojan Horse?” I ventured.

“Exactly.” Approval in her eyes. “Craft it well, and the gates open wide.”

“Show me.”

“Inject here.” She pointed at an input field. “Trick the system into spilling its secrets.”

“Cross-site scripting?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“Deception,” she explained. “A masquerade. You embed malicious scripts where they don’t belong.”

“Hide in plain sight.”

“Smart.” She tapped the monitor. “It’s all about the unseen angles.”

“Consequences?” The word felt heavy on my tongue.

“Jail time. Reputations ruined. Lives undone.” Her gaze met mine. “This is no game.”

“Understood.”

“Remember,” D@@Mladen’s voice softened, “it’s us against them. Trust is our currency.”

“Us against them,” I echoed, the weight of her words sinking in. Friendship wasn’t just a comfort; it was a strategy.

“Keep practicing,” she said, pulling up another simulation. “And stay sharp.”

“Will do.” I nodded, the digital landscape sprawling before me—a battleground where trust was both weapon and shield.

Fingers dance. Code cascades. The cursor blinks—a silent dare. D@@Mladen’s dummy websites sprawl across the screens like a digital labyrinth designed for my proving. I breathe, recalling her lessons, and plunge into the cyber maze.

“Start simple,” she says. “Use what you know.”

SQL injection first. I weave queries into the fabric of the database, a subtle intruder coaxing secrets from its depths. The screen flashes an error, then yields. Data pours out like an uncorked stream. Elation surges through me, raw and fierce.

“Good. Keep going.” Her words are terse, spurring me on.

Cross-site scripting next. I craft the deceitful script, mask it in innocence, and slip it into one of the website’s pages. It embeds with a whisper. A fake login page emerges, a trap set for unsuspecting prey.

“Smooth,” she nods. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

The thrill is addictive, the rush of victory over virtual walls. Every successful breach is a hit, every line of code a step closer to prowess. I hunger for more.

“Time for the real game,” D@@Mladen breaks into my reverie. “Network security.”

She outlines the terrain of invisible battlegrounds, nodes and networks pulsing with life. Vulnerabilities lurk behind firewalls, waiting for the keen-eyed predator.

“Scan. Identify. Exploit.” She speaks like she’s loading bullets into a chamber.

“Firewalls?” I ask. My arsenal is growing.

“Paper tigers,” she smirks. “Find the weak spots. Strike there.”

“Got it.” Confidence swells.

“Remember, Logan,” she leans close, her gaze cutting through the dim light. “This goes beyond code. It’s about knowing your enemy.”

“Know them,” I echo, grasping the gravity beneath her words. “Outthink them.”

“Exactly.” She retreats, leaving me with the glow of monitors and the scent of opportunity.

I attack the simulated networks, each node a challenge to be unravelled. Patterns emerge; defences fall. With each conquest, a piece of the world bends to my will.

“See?” Her voice holds a hint of pride. “You’re learning.”

“Learning,” I agree, but it’s more than that. I’m evolving, adapting. In this binary wilderness, friendship isn’t just critical—it’s survival. And D@@Mladen, with her hacker’s heart and warrior’s mind, is my ally in the shadows.

“Stay sharp,” she warns, and I nod.

“Always,” I reply, because in the vast expanse of rural Australia, where the land is as open as the sky, it’s the unseen connections that keep us tethered—to each other, to the mission, to the relentless pursuit of control.

I slice through another network. Virtual walls crumble. I’m in, deep in the simulated guts of a corporation’s lifeline. D@@Mladen’s lessons echo in my head—cover your tracks, erase your steps. Like tiptoeing backwards through wet sand, leaving no imprint.

“Good. Now clean it up,” she commands. Her eyes never leave the screen, watching my every move.

Commands flash under my fingertips. Logs wiped. Entry points sealed like they were never there. A ghost in the machine, that’s what I am. Or becoming.

“Again,” says D@@Mladen. “But this time, think like you’re already being watched.”

The challenge sets me on edge. I start anew, weaving through digital pathways with the stealth of a snake in the grass. Can’t let them see me. Can’t give them a hint.

“Better.” The corner of her lip twitches, almost a smile. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

“Feels like second nature,” I admit, pride swelling but keeping it checked.

“Overconfidence is a hacker’s downfall,” she reminds me. “Stay paranoid.”

“Paranoid,” I repeat and nod. It’s the shield that keeps us safe, keeps us breathing in this game.

She throws a new scenario at me. Banks, government systems, intricate webs that demand more than just technical skill—they need cunning, guile.

“Think, Logan. They’ve seen it all before. Be something they haven’t.”

My mind races. I remember Meningie’s vast horizons, how the winds shift unexpectedly, how you must adapt or be swept away. That’s how I must hack.

“Divert their attention,” I mutter to myself. Crafting a distraction, a digital mirage while I work behind the scenes.

“Exactly.” She’s pacing now, restless energy that I feel vibrating in the air between us. “Make them look left, then strike from the right.”

Hours bleed into each other. She feeds me problems, and I break them down, build them back up, find the thread that unravels the whole damn thing. Every victory is a shared triumph; every setback, a lesson etched into my brain.

“Friendship,” I muse aloud after cracking an especially tough system. “It’s not just about trust—it’s strategy.”

“Survival,” D@@Mladen corrects softly, her face lit by the glow of screens. “Out here, it’s all we got.”

“Survival,” I echo, feeling the weight of her words settle on my shoulders.

We’re allies in a land that demands resilience, bound by codes both written and unwritten. And as the night stretches on, our shared quest for mastery over these invisible realms cements a bond that rural solitude alone could never forge.

The clock ticks past midnight. Screens flicker, casting a dance of shadows across the room. D@@Mladen’s fingers fly over her keyboard; mine echo the rhythm. Side by side, we’re lost in lines of code, a silent symphony of hacking prowess.

“Try this sequence,” she says, voice low. I nod, understanding without words. Our bond tightens with each keystroke, two minds entwined in digital warfare.

“Good,” she murmurs when I crack a firewall. Not praise but acknowledgment—recognition from one warrior to another. We’re comrades in arms, fighting a battle that rages beyond the confines of this basement.

“Your turn.” She leans back, eyes scanning my work. Her trust is tacit, unspoken. It’s a lifeline thrown across an ocean of isolation that once threatened to drown me. With it, I’m buoyant, invincible.

I glance at her profile, etched in the dim light. There’s something about the way her brow furrows in concentration, the faint smile when a puzzle yields to her intellect. It’s magnetic, this pull between us, more than respect—deeper.

“Focus, Logan,” she chides without looking up, and I snap back to the task. Can’t let these feelings slip. They’re dangerous, distracting. The mission, the code, survival—they have to come first.

“Right,” I grunt, burying whatever’s simmering inside. Survival. In Meningie, it meant reading the sky, predicting the storm. Here, it means locking away the heart behind walls of logic and reason.

“Next challenge.” She pushes a new simulation toward me. It’s complex, layers upon layers. But I’m ready. She made me ready.

“Bring it on,” I reply, fingers poised. I’ll conquer this, just like I conquered the loneliness of the flat, open land. I’ll keep my feelings hidden, buried beneath the surface like the secrets we steal from the net.

“Good man,” she says, and the pride in her voice wraps around me like a warm blanket in the cold Meningie night. Friendship. Strategy. Survival. That’s what matters. That’s all I allow myself to feel.

She catches my eye. Holds it. “Logan, we need to talk.”

Her voice slices through the hum of machines like a clean code cut. I stop typing, heart hammering code of its own.

“About?” My attempt at nonchalance comes out more like static.

“Us.” She doesn’t break eye contact, and something in me frays.

“Us?” The word is a glitch in the system.

“Sit down.” She gestures to a pair of worn office chairs, relics from a world far removed from our digital cave.

We sit. Close. Too close. I can see the resolve in her eyes; it’s firewall strong.

“Your focus has slipped,” she says. It’s not an accusation, just a fact. Like a line of code that won’t compile.

“Hasn’t.” Denial is my default setting.

“Has.” She mirrors my brevity. “Your emotions are… loud. They’re risking the mission. Risking us.”

I swallow. Hard. “It’s nothing.”

“Logan.” Her tone softens. “I know what you’re battling. But this—what we do—it’s bigger than how we feel.”

“Feelings…” I start, but my vocabulary fails me.

“Are vulnerabilities. And in our line of work, they can be fatal.” She’s right. Always is.

“Can’t help it sometimes,” I mumble, feeling the weight of Meningie’s vast sky on my shoulders.

“Control it. Channel it into the work.” She leans back, a clear signal. Boundaries drawn.

“Right.” I straighten up. “The mission.”

“Exactly.” A ghost of a smile flickers across her lips. “We’ve got too much at stake.”

“Fine.” I stand up, feeling the finality of her words settle in. “Back to the grind?”

“Back to the grind.” She nods, already turning back to her screens.

I take my place before the keyboard, the keys cold under my fingertips. Focus. Survival. Mission. In the end, they’re all I’ve got.

“Ready when you are,” I say. And I am. Ready to bury everything else beneath layers of code and the relentless pursuit of the hack. Because survival in rural Australia isn’t about the heart. It’s about the hustle. And I’ll be damned if I let anything, even this, get in the way of that.

Fingers fly. Code streams across the screen. It’s a new language, but one I’m fast mastering. D@@Mladen’s eyes are on the monitor, her approval more vital to me than air.

“Good,” she says. “You’re getting it.”

“Thanks to you,” I shoot back.

“Thanks to you. You’re the one putting in the work.” She doesn’t smile much, D@@Mladen. But when she does, it’s like the sun breaking through Meningie’s relentless winter drizzle.

“Next lesson?” I ask, eager.

“Patience, Logan. A hacker’s best friend.” She’s tapping on her keyboard now, pulling up files. “Now, watch closely.”

I lean in. The digital world unfolds before me, layers upon layers. I’m diving deeper than I’ve ever gone before. There’s a thrill in this, a rush that beats any high. I’m hooked. Not just on the hack. On her brain, her drive, the way she pushes me.

“See this?” She points at a string of text. “It’s your entry point.”

“Got it.” I nod, absorbing every word.

“Try it.” D@@Mladen steps back, arms folded. Watching.

My fingers dance again. The code bends to my will. I’m in control here, shaping this virtual reality. It’s power. Pure and electric.

“Nice.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice.

“More.” I’m hungry for it.

“Easy, tiger.” She laughs, a rare sound. “There’s always more.”

We grind away, night bleeding into day. The bond between us is our lifeline. It’s what keeps us going. Here, in the dim glow of monitors, friendship means survival. We’re a team, locked in step, moving towards something bigger than ourselves.

Hours pass. My mind races. Problems present themselves; solutions follow. D@@Mladen’s beside me every step of the way. Her brain’s a fortress. Mine? Becoming one.

“Break.” She calls it suddenly.

“Already?” Time flies in the basement.

“Even hackers need to eat.” She’s standing, stretching. I follow suit.

“Food sounds good.” It’s mundane, normal. But nothing about us is normal anymore.

“Then let’s go.” She moves toward the stairs.

As we ascend into the less shadowed parts of the world, I know this: Respect is earned in the trenches. Admiration, in the sweat and code of shared pursuits. And maybe, just maybe, in the silent understanding that blooms in the thick of battle, where words are unnecessary, and bonds are forged in fire.

“Back to it after?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” D@@Mladen replies without looking back.

“Neither would I,” I murmur to myself. Neither would I.