Grey opened his eyes to the sight of an off-white popcorn ceiling. It was similar to his bedroom's but had around a million pops instead of two hundred thousand. He sighed, looking around the regular-sized room, praying he wouldn't be there long enough to count them.
"Ugh... Alyx?" a drowsy voice called out from beside him.
Turning, Grey spotted a familiar face resting on the edge of the bed. "I'm awake."
"Alyx!" Tricksie exclaimed, bolting upright and staring at him with wild eyes and disheveled red hair. "You're okay!"
"It seems so," Grey smiled, flexing his fist to test his body's response. "In fact, I feel better than before."
"I bet you do," she replied, her voice distant. "You were gravely ill when you arrived. Most people didn't think you'd make it."
"Is that so?" he asked pensively, replaying the events in his mind.
While many struggled to recall past events, Grey couldn't forget them. Grey had hyperthymesia—highly superior autobiographical memory—a disorder that allowed a person to recall nearly everything that happened to them in minute detail. It was a brutal disorder he had to train his mind to ignore and filter. However, he couldn't filter it effectively in moments like his current predicament.
"What happened to you in there, Alyx?" Tricksie asked, observing his contemplative expression.
"Faraday," Grey mouthed silently before speaking up. "I don't remember."
Tricksie's eyes sharpened, and she nodded silently. "How boring," she frowned without skipping a beat. "After worrying about you for days, I figured you'd at least come back with a fantasy story."
"Hmmm… now that I think about it...." Grey smiled mysteriously. "I visited a hot spring where gods clashed. I drew the attention of a pixie who wanted to be my slave and turned down a ménage à trois with an angel and a high elf demigod. Then I woke up."
Tricksie's eyes deadened, "I asked for you to make up a fairytale, Alyx, not an age of gods porn parody."
"Apologies for my lack of creativity," he smirked playfully.
"Sometimes I forget you're a teenager," she conceded with a smile. "But I'm glad you're okay."
***
"Is there anything wrong with my body?" Grey asked seriously. "I don't have any damage to say… my kidneys?"
A nervous doctor with thinning hair and a white coat swallowed hard, avoiding Grey's gaze. "No, there's nothing wrong with you or your kidneys."
"Your guilt and fear suggest you've known something for years but couldn't tell me," Grey smiled, his tone chilling. "However, I'm a key figure in the organization silencing you now, Dr. Moore. So I advise you to consider the consequences of withholding information from me."
Warmth drained from the doctor's body, leaving him pale and shivering. "M-Mr. Grey, I'm not...." he gasped. "You really don't have kidney damage… not anymore, anyway."
"Those last three words are what English professors call 'nuance,'" Grey smiled thinly, peering into the man's soul. "Important nuance."
"P-Please understand, Mr. Grey..." the doctor stammered. "I wouldn't normally—"
"And they call those three words a 'qualifier,'" the teen added, oozing bloodlust.
"Y-You arrived with Stage 2 kidney disease, Mr. Grey..." Dr. Moore said, his eyes trembling. "Kidney disease is permanent, and the damage is irreversible. However, your body defied the odds... It reversed the damage. We wanted to study you further, but... you understand."
"I do," Grey replied, relaxing his expression. "Was there anything else wrong with me?"
"N-No, Mr. Grey..." the doctor answered nervously. "You had related organ damage, but your body healed everything as if by magic. Please don't make me elaborate further, Mr. Grey; I have a family..."
"I won't blame you for being rational," Grey declared icily. "Since I'm healthy, relax and expedite my discharge paperwork."
Dr. Moore took a deep breath, feeling icy sweat drip down his shoulder blades. "At a minimum, we must keep you—"
"Somewhere professionals can diagnose the cause of my kidney disease?" Grey asked fiendishly. "On second thought, maybe you shouldn't expedite the discharge."
"I'll process the discharge immediately," Dr. Moore croaked, his heart pounding. "You'll be out in twenty minutes."
***
"If there's anything you need, let me know," Tricksie said, unlocking the door to a small room.
Despite being located in a mansion with twenty rooms, the space the door led to was only large enough for a desk with three monitors, a twin-sized bed, and a closet. There were no windows.
In the corner was a sink with a single glass to fill with water. The sight always stirred anger and hatred for Maxwell within Tricksie. Now, it ignited a murderous rage.
"Actually, there is something I could use your help with if you don't mind," Grey said apologetically. "I have a tear in one of my shirts. Could you take a look at it?"
"Of course, take me to it," She nodded.
Grey led Tricksie into the closet and moved to the corner. On the surface, the space was unremarkable—white walls and barely enough room to stand. However, he broke the walls 'by accident' and had trusted associates fix them with drywall containing a copper wire net, creating a makeshift Faraday cage.
Copper blocks transmissions, rendering internet access and electronic eavesdropping impossible. So building it was proof he was long aware he was bugged and monitored. He just didn't expect his tap water to be poisoned!
"Maxwell's been poisoning me, but I'm not dying," Grey whispered, stunning Tricksie. "Tell me what happened with Casper."
"I let him go," Tricksie replied. "He knew Maxwell was poisoning you and that something in that game would help you. I don't know his motives, but he wants you to have this," she said, handing him a business card.
-
═─┈─═─┈─═─┈─═─┈─═
Casper Jones
Email: friendly.doe.jones@nextgendegen.dev
═─┈─═─┈─═─┈─═─┈─═
-
"Do you think you can fix the shirt by Friday?" Grey asked, emerging from the closet.
"I can, but...." Tricksie sighed, looking at the shirt. "Can't I buy you a new shirt? I'm sure Maxwell will agree that you should look nice now that you're participating."
"Please, Tricksie?" he pleaded lifelessly.
"Give it to me," she conceded, taking the shirt while in view of the camera.
"Thanks, Tricksie," Grey nodded gratefully. "This makes 827 [ones] I owe you."
"Just stay alive, you fool," Tricksie scoffed, exiting the room and shutting the door.
Alone, Grey sat at his desk and studied the card with a foreboding grin. "This card is as pretentious as you are, Casper," he chuckled, holding the gold-leafed business card. It was printed on 32 pt paper, making it as thick as a 21st-century credit card.
"You know I'm an info broker, but you gave me a card with an SMTP server written on it?" Grey smiled murderously. "A famous poet couldn't express the depths of your arrogance."
The teen pressed the 'on' button on his modified gaming computer, but it wasn't for playing games. A cascade of white text filled the black screen before a basic charcoal gray display appeared. Grey entered his username and password, and a blue screensaver with the Kali Linux logo emerged—the most popular hacking operating system worldwide.
Grey opened a 'terminal' on each screen and typed commands to start the Tor proxy network.
═─┈─═
root@kali:~# service tor start
root@kali:~# service tor status
Tor.service - Anonymizing overlay network for TCP (multi-instance-master)
…
April 03 18:55:35 kali systemd[1]: Starting Anonymizing overlay network for TCP (multi-instance master)
April 03 18:55:36 kali systemd[1]: Started Anonymizing overlay network for TCP (multi-instance master)
═─┈─═
Having activated Tor, Grey's IP address and computer information were anonymized and connected to random computers worldwide. Combined with other security measures, he was now anonymous to law enforcement and his enemies.
Finally, he clicked on the Maltego logo, an open-source intelligence-gathering tool, and entered the email: friendly.doe.jones@nextgendegen.dev.
Several colored circles popped up around the email bubble, revealing an IP address, a website, an SMTP server, and another email: greg@nextgendegen.dev.
"Obtaining leverage and blackmail is my full-time job outside event work," Grey smirked arrogantly. "You might as well have just handed me your contact information."