Ram's Apartment: Java
In the living room, Java sat on the couch, chewing on her lower lip and staring at the wall. The paint had long since withered, flaking in tiny strips of sickly white lead along the floorboards, and she looked at the chips on the edge of the carpet as the old couch creaked slightly beneath her.
Ram had laughed at her, had laughed after fucking her.
The tip of her pink tongue ran across her lips, as her eyes, half-focused on the paint chips, darkened.
No one laughed at Java.
Who did he think he was? She shifted her weight slightly, the ancient wooden frame of the couch protesting, and crossed her arms. You didn't keep a girl waiting nearly five years just to glare at her when you finally took refuge in her; you didn't laugh at her when you were done. Especially when you yourself were a cripple, only very recently (and very suspiciously) cured; Java had spent a lifetime perfecting her body, and he should have counted himself lucky to have had his crooked form blessed with her at all. She thought back to the years he'd spent with her at his side, toying with her, chuckling at her expense, keeping her in the dark. She thought about the night he'd thrown her out of the apartment, the night Mega's goons had dragged her off to be tortured. He was no Caesar. He was no King.
He was nothing now, except a fool and a mark. And he wouldn't laugh at her again.
Her jaw worked for a moment, and then she was on her feet, pacing the living room like a panther in a cage. Perhaps the nights in the dark had pushed her a little too far toward the realm of madness. Perhaps there was only so much a body could bear before it all became too much. Or perhaps he'd just taken her for granted for too long. She ached from him. Bastard.
In his bedroom, his laptop was still on his desk, and Java devoted a few minutes to by-passing his security codes. She'd learned a few things from her keeper in the years she'd spent under his thumb; she could navigate Ram's security overrides (if not the raw program data) as well as anyone on his roster. Java had always, after all, been quite skilled at surviving.
The computer chirped access, and she smiled darkly at the screen as she connected to the old Techno servers. She'd had storage space there, once; Ram had given her quite a lot of space, actually, to aid in her work as his public relations chief. "How considerate of you, my love," she murmured, typing in an old password and watching her file hierarchy emerge. Mega would, of course, have perused her files by now; Java knew full well that any digital property to which she'd laid claim under Ram's reign was now (and had probably always been) fully accessible to those who knew the right tricks. It was compromised space, but it would only have to remain untouched for a short time. So long as Ram himself didn't happen to notice what she was doing in the hour or so this would take (and Java was willing to take her chances there), things would be fine.
She navigated to a hidden subfolder deep within an archive of old data, labeled to blend in with the rest of the information about fatalities and skull sizes and other technicalities from the power plants, and accessible only through a particular usage of their version of Terminal. A few keystrokes created a new subdirectory, equally discrete.
Leaning back, her eyes narrowed, Java systematically began the rather tedious task of uploading the contents of Ram's harddrive in full.
They'd see how laughable he thought she was when this was over.
Ram had laughed at her, had laughed after fucking her.
The tip of her pink tongue ran across her lips, as her eyes, half-focused on the paint chips, darkened.
No one laughed at Java.
Who did he think he was? She shifted her weight slightly, the ancient wooden frame of the couch protesting, and crossed her arms. You didn't keep a girl waiting nearly five years just to glare at her when you finally took refuge in her; you didn't laugh at her when you were done. Especially when you yourself were a cripple, only very recently (and very suspiciously) cured; Java had spent a lifetime perfecting her body, and he should have counted himself lucky to have had his crooked form blessed with her at all. She thought back to the years he'd spent with her at his side, toying with her, chuckling at her expense, keeping her in the dark. She thought about the night he'd thrown her out of the apartment, the night Mega's goons had dragged her off to be tortured. He was no Caesar. He was no King.
He was nothing now, except a fool and a mark. And he wouldn't laugh at her again.
Her jaw worked for a moment, and then she was on her feet, pacing the living room like a panther in a cage. Perhaps the nights in the dark had pushed her a little too far toward the realm of madness. Perhaps there was only so much a body could bear before it all became too much. Or perhaps he'd just taken her for granted for too long. She ached from him. Bastard.
In his bedroom, his laptop was still on his desk, and Java devoted a few minutes to by-passing his security codes. She'd learned a few things from her keeper in the years she'd spent under his thumb; she could navigate Ram's security overrides (if not the raw program data) as well as anyone on his roster. Java had always, after all, been quite skilled at surviving.
The computer chirped access, and she smiled darkly at the screen as she connected to the old Techno servers. She'd had storage space there, once; Ram had given her quite a lot of space, actually, to aid in her work as his public relations chief. "How considerate of you, my love," she murmured, typing in an old password and watching her file hierarchy emerge. Mega would, of course, have perused her files by now; Java knew full well that any digital property to which she'd laid claim under Ram's reign was now (and had probably always been) fully accessible to those who knew the right tricks. It was compromised space, but it would only have to remain untouched for a short time. So long as Ram himself didn't happen to notice what she was doing in the hour or so this would take (and Java was willing to take her chances there), things would be fine.
She navigated to a hidden subfolder deep within an archive of old data, labeled to blend in with the rest of the information about fatalities and skull sizes and other technicalities from the power plants, and accessible only through a particular usage of their version of Terminal. A few keystrokes created a new subdirectory, equally discrete.
Leaning back, her eyes narrowed, Java systematically began the rather tedious task of uploading the contents of Ram's harddrive in full.
They'd see how laughable he thought she was when this was over.