[h2][center]Hacked: A Deal with the Devil[/center][/h2]

[color=gray][i]The Present[/i][/color]
A young woman sat perched in a window seat on the downtown No.9. She was unremarkable in every way and things that should stand out were all too easily dismissible. Her odd perched posture—with her feet up on the seat with her, touched into a defensive ball—could easily be explained away by the morning's chilly air. The same could be said about the hood of her hoodie being down over her face. As she leaned her head against the window it swayed gently with the morning commute occasionally causing her big thick black rimmed "hipster glasses" to tap against the glass. She had completely checked out and they did little to hide it. Explaining the expression was a cable that ran from her ears into the phone she clutched in her hands where an internet streaming app seemed to be running. The only thing that was even remotely remarkable, about this otherwise unremarkable girl, was the fact that she didn't seem to be going anywhere since she had already been on the bus for an hour and let every stop pass her by. This too could be explained by the state of her attire, and the fact that the phone was plugged into a charger on the bus. These were difficult times for everyone and it was human nature to want to stare, but also a unwritten rule of society not to. Little did anyone realize they couldn't even if they wanted to. ℝoot made sure of that. 

In her favorite table-top it was called 'Obfuscation' but she doing nothing so involved as generating a perception filter. No. She simply dressed the part of a homeless woman, and simply didn't make an effort to correct others assumptions. It was true that she was somewhere else. Someone else. While she let her body drift through Lost Haven's public transit circuit her mind running a test through a different network.

She smiled all her hard work as it payed off. This one had proven a bit of a challenge. She of course knew exactly how she would have done it before awakening to her powers (with blackmail, extortion, after hacking the evidence of course), but needed to know the limits of her new 'systems'. This which meant she had to do it without any of her conventional tech, or tools of the trade, and it really was her crowning achievement thus far.
[hr]
[color=gray][i]Two Weeks Ago[/i][/color]
A sharp suit stepped out of an expensive car and walked into the front door of a large intercity home. He carefully set his brief-case down by the door and less-than-carefully tossed his keys on the end-table in the hall while calling out to his maid. He was a wealthy investment banker that had done very well for himself this quarter due to the gray areas in which his company of employ operated. He had just sealed the deal with a prestigious new client earlier that day or, at least, nearly had done so when he had found the requisite paperwork to do so was not anywhere to be found and the meeting was put off until tomorrow. 

It was in this moment of contemplation that his phone rang. "Jackson," he spoke his name in introduction.

"Mr. Street. This is Mr. Smith. Our mutual acquaintance–" the voice on the other line began but was cut off.

"You have the wrong number. I'm Mr. Jackson," Mr. Jackson said. 

As hung up the phone the voice on the other end simply said: "For now."
[hr]
[color=gray][i]The Presen[/i]t[/color]
"One task," Mr. Street said to Mr. Smith as he tapped the gun to the side of his head. Mr. Jackson had long since been unraveled by this new role he was forced into. The frayed and frazzled mess of a man then pointed the gun at his companion. "That's what you said. Just one." The sound of sirens closing closer forced the question of what was real, and what was imagined. He violently thrust the gun again toward Mr. Smith as the duo stood on the sales floor at the firm in the dead of night. "If I'm going down then I'm taking you with me!" the former Mr. Jackson said as he closed the distance between the two of them and thrust the gun deep under Mr. Smith's jaw.

"Mr. Street," Mr. Smith said in response "We both know that the weed of crime bears bitter fruit."

"Stop saying that!" Mr. Street repeated over and over again as he pulled the trigger and nearly emptied his gun into Mr. Smith's soft tissue; hollowing out what was left of his skull one bullet at a time.
[hr]
[color=gray][i]Ten Days Ago[/i][/color]
Mr. Jackson's life had been spiraling wildly out of control ever since he had gotten that mysterious phone call. The deal with his prestigious client went to a competitor. That was the least of his concerns, however, as he was now suspended over it. No. Those were not the worst parts. The worst part is what came after that 

Once again, for what must have been the seven hundredth time today, Mr. Jackson dropped the keys to a car he no longer owned on his table and they glowed. Whenever they were not in his possession they glowed. When he could not see them he could feel their radiating warmth. Such a thing was not possible as they were simple aluminum. He had already seen a number of specialists and none could find a source for this phenomenon, and each time he thought he could put it out of his mind his phone rang. When it did he could taste it. His phone didn't actually ring when he could taste it; he could just [i]hear[/i] it ringing. He had long since put it on silent mode, and now felt it ringing, when it really rang just as it was doing now, and that sensation was never accompanied with taste. 

"Mr. Street," Mr. Smith said as Mr. Jackson answered the phone. "I have a proposition for you. If you agree my organization make everything right in your life."

"And, if I don't?" Mr. Jackson responded.

"Please, Mr. Street. You're an intelligent man. I'm sure you'd rather use your imagination than ask me to use mine."
[hr]
[color=gray][i]The Present[/i][/color]
Mr. Street, when confronted by the sounds of sirens switching off outside turned his rage inward. This wasn't the man he was. He was a player. A man who cheats the system, and not a common place thug. It shouldn't have been possible for Mr. Smith to utter that last line with ten nine-mil slugs in his brain be did. "We have the building surrounded!" came from a megaphone from outside, quickly adding, "Release the hostages and come out with your hands up."

[i]Hostages?[/i] As Mr. Jackson looked around the thin veneer cracked around the world he had been living it. He placed the barrel of his weapon in his mouth. "The Shadow knows..."

[color=#00FF00]"The Shadow knows,"[/color] the young woman on the bus muttered again—under her breath, and after the fact—as somewhere across town a gun was turned on its owner, and three shots filled the quiet morning air. 
[hr]
[color=gray][i]Eight Days Ago[/i][/color]
The place was a total dive. Somewhere neither suited up men would ever expect to be found let alone find themselves. Mr. Smith sat across from Mr. Jackson. "Two hundred seventy million," Mr. Smith repeated, "Let's face it: the window on this deal is closing quickly. That little drug deal that went down in your company's mail room has opened up all manner of investigations, any which of will take you down." Mr. Smith slid an envelope across the table to Mr. Jackson. "One task, and when you're done, Mr. Street will be sitting on a beach sipping mojitos in the non-extraditable country of his choosing."

Mr. Jackson looked into the folder to see one prophecy come true: it contained his likeness on some fake IDs for one Mr. Street. "You set me up?" 

"Yes," Mr. Smith said plainly. "I also know the cause for your synesthesia. You should know, being in the business we're in, that inside information is worth a premium."

Mr. Jackson thought long and hard about the situation he was in with the cops, and the street breathing down his neck. He had also been riding a desk waiting for his employers to come up with grounds for termination that he couldn't contest in court. "I'll do it." Mr. Jackson said.
[hr]
[color=gray][i]The Present[/i][/color]
The glazed expression slowly left ℝoot's face as she checked her phone. There was breaking news filtering in complete with witness testimony. 

"I just don't get it," said one witness whom a camera was shakily pointed at as the cameraman steadied himself for the long list of interviews to come. "Jackson came in for work like any other day but walked right past me. He ignored everyone and just sat down at his computer like he didn't even see us." There was a hard cut to another coworoker, a smartly dressed woman, "Yeah, and in front of everyone he just starts emptying the corporate accounts." Another heavier set co-worker questioned continued the story in one-on-one interview form, in its exact events but with his own take on them. "He was talkin' like someone was there. Talkin' 'bout how The Shadow knows." Co-worker after co-worker relayed their own take on that line before the juicy bits were focused. "Then Jackson just pulls this gun and waves it around. Fires ten shots into the computer before..."
[hr]
[color=gray][i]Four days ago[/i][/color]
Everything was wrong. The money was gone. No one had seen Mr. Smith. His symptoms were getting worse as the whole world made no sense to his senses. There was no money. Well, there was, but he didn't get any of it. He needed to get a hold of Mr. Smith. To confront him. He scrolled through his phone failing to find any trace of the numerous calls they had made back and forth. Every trace of Mr. Smith was gone but they had one last scheduled meeting before the hack. He had to hold out until the very last minute. He had time to decide, and decide he did. He would need a gun to get the answers he needed. He needed to get his money and get out. Back to his investments. To get his life back to normal.
[hr]
[color=gray][i]The Present[/i][/color]

ℝoot closed her phone and slid it into the front pocket of her hoodie. It was done. Mr. Smith had been the most complicated projection she had ever constructed and, had she not paired her phone to his earlier, she would have had no link by which push the telepathic interactions into Mr. Jackson's mind. The synestesia was an important first step. Convincing the man that his sense couldn't be trusted was of paramount importance, and a simple task by which to stretch her super-powered self. That's because it would have been impossible to life-spoof a complete human being, but much simpler to spoof a "mental video" of their interactions and trigger the memory in real time.

The grim smile faded from her face as she gave consideration to what the police would find when they investigated further: the same thing she found that made her target the man in the first place. It was one thing to skim money from the cartel's pocket lawyers. It was another entirely to use that money to engage in human trafficking. While she did swear to limit her digital interactions with Mr. Jackson, she had no qualms about turning over his entire network to the Malaysian authorities and Interpol. After all, the sex slave business was bad enough without the involvement of children.

ℝoot liked to imagine there was still some honor among thieves. That, if the cartel knew, then they would have delivered a similar fate upon the man.