Pet Hacker (DC)
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Tim’s control center --a windowless computer lab in the basement of the local office for the FBI-- is usually quiet.
Tim is can count on one hand all the time that he's been alone in his makeshift office without one or more lackeys looming over his shoulder to make sure that he isn't hacking into places that the higher ups haven't approved of yet. Day in, day out, Tim is used to spending eight hours underground, digging up dirt on the FBI's least favorite suspects while a detail of trained underlings keep him from doing anything that the bureau can't keep track of.
The FBI office has rules for Tim, things that he's not allowed to do and places that he's not allowed to enter on the internet. He's not allowed to visit any of the backdoors that he's set up all over the internet. He’s not allowed to keep in contact with his old friends under any aliases. Tim isn't allowed to keep a computer at his rented apartment. He's not allowed to use the bureau computers for anything outside the points spelled out on the exacting lists that his handler gives him.
Worst of all... Tim has a handler and so even when his cavernous computer room is devoid of nosy agents who think that they know what he's doing because they've successfully played Minesweeper on one of the ancient desktop computers upstairs, Tim still doesn't have the freedom to make this space his own. He doesn't even have the freedom to choose his own music in the room.
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The first lines of Tim's favorite song filter out of the expensive speakers that rest on speakers above Tim's main workstation. It gets halfway through the first verse before Tim's handler muscles into his personal space and hits the button that changes the song to something else --something loud and bright that has to be older than everyone currently working in the building.
"What'd you go and do that for?" Tim asks, scowling and making his displeasure known without turning his head away from the scrolling lines of code that represent the personal correspondence of some homegrown anarchist group. "That was a good song! We've talked about this, Agent Todd."
When the agent leaning over Tim's shoulder scoffs, Tim can smell the coffee on the other man's breath as it ruffles the dark hairs at the nape of his own neck and he has to resist the instinctive urge to flinch away from the older man. "I told you how I feel about people touching my computers, Jason."
Tim hisses the other man's name out in a low voice and narrows his eyes as though the agent can actually see the way that his eyes narrow into slits and his mouth remains pursed out into a frown. His fingers come down on the keys a little harder than they should and Tim mentally apologizes to his computer for how he's treating it.
Jason makes a rude noise, blowing air out of his lips in a way that feels as though he's blown a raspberry on the back of Tim's neck, and then rests one heavy hand on the back of Tim's neck. "You were listening to Taylor Swift," Jason says in a disgusted tone that Tim is more than familiar with after several months of working in close quarters with him. "Do you even listen to the lyrics? I can't stand them."
Tim bites at the inside of his mouth with his teeth and then forces his fingers to unclench.
"You have headphones for a reason," Tim says in a low tone of voice as though they're working in front of a full house instead of an empty lab. "Either you use them to listen to your music, or you give them to me. I don't care what you do as long as you stop touching my computer." Tim's voice shakes with barely suppressed rage and he jabs the keys of his work keyboard hard enough that the little plastic keys shudder and a line of extraneous text appears onscreen for a moment before Tim deletes it. "You don't see me touching your things..."
Jason sucks his teeth and then lets out a quiet laugh that is almost overtaken by the hum of several dozen processers working all at once in the laboratory. "No can do, short stuff," Jason says, shifting so that his weight is resting on the heavy desk that supports Tim's workstation rather than on the man himself. "Word from the higher-ups is that you can do some pretty high tech tricks with headphones and they don't want you getting your hands on a pair."
Tim scoffs and finally turns his face up so that he can look at Jason instead of his computer screen.
"What do they expect me to do?" Tim asks, barking out the question with far more heat than intended. "If they're worried about me somehow getting in touch with my old crew... Well they all know I'm working for you suits now. I'm lucky that they haven't tried to hack me here just to say that they got one over on the FBI's new pet hacker."
If Tim is a slightly bitterer than he's been letting on in regular conversation, he doesn't acknowledge it. "I could jury-rig a makeshift mike from spare parts, but they’re two bucks at the grocery store and besides, who would I talk to?"
"I know, short stuff," Jason says with a look in his eyes that hints that he'd be ruffling Tim's dark hair if they weren't in a room that was covered with cameras. "I trust you, but what I think doesn't count unless you decide to commit a crime."
Tim turns back to his computer without a word and then taps a few keys without appearing to have any real end goal in mind. When he turns back to Jason, his eyes are solemn and he can feel the tension around his mouth. "I'm done," Tim says and he has to raise his voice to be heard over the whirring fans of the computer processors in the room. "The servers will be busy downloading all night and I can't do anything else. I'd like to go home now."
"Are you sure?" Jason asks, casting an uncertain look down at the fast changing lines of code that streak across Tim's monitor. "I thought that you wanted--"
Tim stands up from his desk chair and starts grabbing his things --a pathetic blue lunchbox and several books. "I want a lot of things," Tim says as he shoves his things into his worn black knapsack without care for how his books are bending. "But that doesn't really matter to the FBI does it?" Tim smiles a little to take some of the sting out of his words and then yanks the zipper for his bag closed. "Since you people won't even give me a microwave --and I really want to know how you expect me to hack anything with that-- I'm going to need you to take me for takeout before you take me home."
"You don't have to get take out," Jason offers with a hopeful note in his deep voice. "You don't have to eat alone. I know a place with good vegetarian food if you're interested."
Tim shakes his head, knowing that Jason is only asking out of the goodness of his heart and that he really should take the offer and eat dinner that isn't deep fried or cooked on a griddle for a chance. "I'm sorry, Jason," he says softly, "I'd like to get fast food and go home. I'm tired."
Tim’s control center --a windowless computer lab in the basement of the local office for the FBI-- is usually quiet.
Tim is can count on one hand all the time that he's been alone in his makeshift office without one or more lackeys looming over his shoulder to make sure that he isn't hacking into places that the higher ups haven't approved of yet. Day in, day out, Tim is used to spending eight hours underground, digging up dirt on the FBI's least favorite suspects while a detail of trained underlings keep him from doing anything that the bureau can't keep track of.
The FBI office has rules for Tim, things that he's not allowed to do and places that he's not allowed to enter on the internet. He's not allowed to visit any of the backdoors that he's set up all over the internet. He’s not allowed to keep in contact with his old friends under any aliases. Tim isn't allowed to keep a computer at his rented apartment. He's not allowed to use the bureau computers for anything outside the points spelled out on the exacting lists that his handler gives him.
Worst of all... Tim has a handler and so even when his cavernous computer room is devoid of nosy agents who think that they know what he's doing because they've successfully played Minesweeper on one of the ancient desktop computers upstairs, Tim still doesn't have the freedom to make this space his own. He doesn't even have the freedom to choose his own music in the room.
----------
The first lines of Tim's favorite song filter out of the expensive speakers that rest on speakers above Tim's main workstation. It gets halfway through the first verse before Tim's handler muscles into his personal space and hits the button that changes the song to something else --something loud and bright that has to be older than everyone currently working in the building.
"What'd you go and do that for?" Tim asks, scowling and making his displeasure known without turning his head away from the scrolling lines of code that represent the personal correspondence of some homegrown anarchist group. "That was a good song! We've talked about this, Agent Todd."
When the agent leaning over Tim's shoulder scoffs, Tim can smell the coffee on the other man's breath as it ruffles the dark hairs at the nape of his own neck and he has to resist the instinctive urge to flinch away from the older man. "I told you how I feel about people touching my computers, Jason."
Tim hisses the other man's name out in a low voice and narrows his eyes as though the agent can actually see the way that his eyes narrow into slits and his mouth remains pursed out into a frown. His fingers come down on the keys a little harder than they should and Tim mentally apologizes to his computer for how he's treating it.
Jason makes a rude noise, blowing air out of his lips in a way that feels as though he's blown a raspberry on the back of Tim's neck, and then rests one heavy hand on the back of Tim's neck. "You were listening to Taylor Swift," Jason says in a disgusted tone that Tim is more than familiar with after several months of working in close quarters with him. "Do you even listen to the lyrics? I can't stand them."
Tim bites at the inside of his mouth with his teeth and then forces his fingers to unclench.
"You have headphones for a reason," Tim says in a low tone of voice as though they're working in front of a full house instead of an empty lab. "Either you use them to listen to your music, or you give them to me. I don't care what you do as long as you stop touching my computer." Tim's voice shakes with barely suppressed rage and he jabs the keys of his work keyboard hard enough that the little plastic keys shudder and a line of extraneous text appears onscreen for a moment before Tim deletes it. "You don't see me touching your things..."
Jason sucks his teeth and then lets out a quiet laugh that is almost overtaken by the hum of several dozen processers working all at once in the laboratory. "No can do, short stuff," Jason says, shifting so that his weight is resting on the heavy desk that supports Tim's workstation rather than on the man himself. "Word from the higher-ups is that you can do some pretty high tech tricks with headphones and they don't want you getting your hands on a pair."
Tim scoffs and finally turns his face up so that he can look at Jason instead of his computer screen.
"What do they expect me to do?" Tim asks, barking out the question with far more heat than intended. "If they're worried about me somehow getting in touch with my old crew... Well they all know I'm working for you suits now. I'm lucky that they haven't tried to hack me here just to say that they got one over on the FBI's new pet hacker."
If Tim is a slightly bitterer than he's been letting on in regular conversation, he doesn't acknowledge it. "I could jury-rig a makeshift mike from spare parts, but they’re two bucks at the grocery store and besides, who would I talk to?"
"I know, short stuff," Jason says with a look in his eyes that hints that he'd be ruffling Tim's dark hair if they weren't in a room that was covered with cameras. "I trust you, but what I think doesn't count unless you decide to commit a crime."
Tim turns back to his computer without a word and then taps a few keys without appearing to have any real end goal in mind. When he turns back to Jason, his eyes are solemn and he can feel the tension around his mouth. "I'm done," Tim says and he has to raise his voice to be heard over the whirring fans of the computer processors in the room. "The servers will be busy downloading all night and I can't do anything else. I'd like to go home now."
"Are you sure?" Jason asks, casting an uncertain look down at the fast changing lines of code that streak across Tim's monitor. "I thought that you wanted--"
Tim stands up from his desk chair and starts grabbing his things --a pathetic blue lunchbox and several books. "I want a lot of things," Tim says as he shoves his things into his worn black knapsack without care for how his books are bending. "But that doesn't really matter to the FBI does it?" Tim smiles a little to take some of the sting out of his words and then yanks the zipper for his bag closed. "Since you people won't even give me a microwave --and I really want to know how you expect me to hack anything with that-- I'm going to need you to take me for takeout before you take me home."
"You don't have to get take out," Jason offers with a hopeful note in his deep voice. "You don't have to eat alone. I know a place with good vegetarian food if you're interested."
Tim shakes his head, knowing that Jason is only asking out of the goodness of his heart and that he really should take the offer and eat dinner that isn't deep fried or cooked on a griddle for a chance. "I'm sorry, Jason," he says softly, "I'd like to get fast food and go home. I'm tired."