Caprica Six (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} numbersix) wrote,@ 2008-01-10 22:58:00 |
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Creating an identity
It feels far more uncomfortable than Caprica expected, but there seems to be no other way to directly access the systems here. It's well after hours at the "internet cafe"— such a strange term— that she had found with Iago, and she sits at one of the computer stations, though she has not turned it on.
She hasn't bothered to wipe the sharp kitchen knife clean yet. First she had cut the connecting end off of the fiber-optic cord, exposing the lighted core. Freeing the light was necessary; the metal connector made it interface with these computers, but a useless barrier for her. Then, carefully, she held the knife and cut into her left palm, grimacing with the pain of it. Once she'd made the incision, she fed the fiber-optic cable through it and up into her arm.
Feeling the cable inside her is nothing like simply placing her hand to the lighted panels that painlessly interface with her light-sensitive cells. Deviating from human cellular design in that respect was considered more acceptable than having physical access ports; it's so much easier and painless that way. Directly introducing the light through her arm is much less so. She wipes her brow with her other hand, feeling the sweat breaking out. It's too dark to see the redness of the blood on the knife, only a black impression of it. She knows this method has worked before— didn't one of the Sharons use it on the Galactica? But as she sits there pushing the cable further, she isn't sure it's going to.
The connection activates, and she smiles grimly to herself. Good; the pain isn't wasted. The light carries the data; the light-sensitive cells receive it and transmit in turn. The computers here, as they did among the Colonies, apparently exist to call up data as needed and translate it to more human-understandable forms of text, images, sounds; they have specific programs and protocols designed for this. She doesn't need computer intervention for that.
While it's more sluggish than she hoped for, it doesn't surprise her, considering that these connections weren't specifically designed to interface this way. She'll do less critical research later. She clamps her other hand over her bleeding palm to help staunch the drips; the cable itself helps to hold back some of it.
She calls up information on local residences, banking, identification systems. It's all so connected, more like a Cylon database than she expected. The humans were so terrified of networking after their first war with the Cylons; they sometimes created internal networks, such as on their battlestars, or wider networks like the defense mainframe, yet there was no one network that might join a home to a bank to a military outpost to a server... And here they have this internet, connecting so many systems. They have even intentionally programmed and enabled means to remotely control other systems, by way of this internet. It's a digital age and it's shockingly exploitable. The throbbing in her arm is distracting and tiring, but she works through it. After a few discomforting experiences with pulling sounds through and some checks into relationships with the United Kingdom, she decides on using the country Canada as her birthplace to account for the different accent. The encryptions are easier to break through than Colonial ones; they are not designed to keep out Cylons, after all, but other humans and human computers.
She taps into databases for identification, finds the citizenship records and passport systems. The information is slotted in, dated, logs changed to seamlessly appear as if the records have been there for longer and already approved. As far as it knows, her identity was verified long ago. She collects and organizes pixels into a straight-on image of her face, and pushes it into the photograph space. To account for the lack of travel stamps, she marks it to be a replacement for a missing one, previously applied for, through processing, and now simply waiting to be reprinted and mailed.
She does not take long to decide what false name to provide. Some of the other Sixes used human-style names in their work, and it seems a fitting homage to borrow one of theirs since the woman herself could never be resurrected. At least the name would not die.
With the identification in place, it is a little easier to manipulate the banking system into believing there is an existing account with existing funds previously transferred from another bank, that there was never a discrepancy in the money available. Convenient, how they do not back it with actual hard currency on hand. She cannot touch any paper records, of course, but this should suffice. New bank cards will need printing due to accidentally losing the ones issued some years ago. The bank information is then used to provide payment for the passport.
That in place, she soon finds the available local apartments— "flats," they're calling them— with listings managed digitally as well. She selects an appealing one, converts it to sold, marks the newly created identity as the purchaser, and notes that it was purchased through an internet listing without her actually touring it so they won't wonder why they don't recognize her. The records for the transactions are tweaked slightly, of course, and a series of bank transfers later deposits the payment into the seller's account. She just needs to come to collect the key, sign one last document in person, and it's hers. The passport will be sent to the flat's address.
The basics laid out, she allows herself time to clean up various additional details that could tip someone off to how they were falsified. She has done it before in the Colonies, after all; it is a little trickier here in some respects since it is another world, but the basics are the same.
Her hand feels gummy when she finishes, and she can't decide if the cable felt worse going in than it feels as she pulls it out. She retreats to the ladies' toilets to thoroughly wash the blood off. Working with her right hand, she painfully stitches the incision shut. The fiber-optic cable is less easily cleaned or repaired, so she cuts away the bloody portion and a good deal extra. Leave them to wonder what happened to damage the cable and repair or replace it. She rinses it in the bathroom and stores it in the metal case she brought with her. The knife itself, she also cleans and then tucks into the case as well; she will dispose of it later if she feels it necessary. With those taken care of, she goes back into the cafe to clean up the floor, the computer counter, any other place where blood may have dripped.
She'll have to stay with the Heavy Raider for the rest of the night, and give the businesses time to get started in the morning. After that, she will collect the key for the flat and get situated in it, get the bank card and some cash from the bank branch, and see where the rest of the day takes her.
And give her left arm a rest. It's quite tingly and sore, and she does not want to try that again soon.
She doesn't make much note of how she leaves the cafe locked and secured behind her. She's concentrating on carrying the case in her uninjured hand and ignoring the lingering discomfort as she heads back towards the beach.
It feels far more uncomfortable than Caprica expected, but there seems to be no other way to directly access the systems here. It's well after hours at the "internet cafe"— such a strange term— that she had found with Iago, and she sits at one of the computer stations, though she has not turned it on.
She hasn't bothered to wipe the sharp kitchen knife clean yet. First she had cut the connecting end off of the fiber-optic cord, exposing the lighted core. Freeing the light was necessary; the metal connector made it interface with these computers, but a useless barrier for her. Then, carefully, she held the knife and cut into her left palm, grimacing with the pain of it. Once she'd made the incision, she fed the fiber-optic cable through it and up into her arm.
Feeling the cable inside her is nothing like simply placing her hand to the lighted panels that painlessly interface with her light-sensitive cells. Deviating from human cellular design in that respect was considered more acceptable than having physical access ports; it's so much easier and painless that way. Directly introducing the light through her arm is much less so. She wipes her brow with her other hand, feeling the sweat breaking out. It's too dark to see the redness of the blood on the knife, only a black impression of it. She knows this method has worked before— didn't one of the Sharons use it on the Galactica? But as she sits there pushing the cable further, she isn't sure it's going to.
The connection activates, and she smiles grimly to herself. Good; the pain isn't wasted. The light carries the data; the light-sensitive cells receive it and transmit in turn. The computers here, as they did among the Colonies, apparently exist to call up data as needed and translate it to more human-understandable forms of text, images, sounds; they have specific programs and protocols designed for this. She doesn't need computer intervention for that.
While it's more sluggish than she hoped for, it doesn't surprise her, considering that these connections weren't specifically designed to interface this way. She'll do less critical research later. She clamps her other hand over her bleeding palm to help staunch the drips; the cable itself helps to hold back some of it.
She calls up information on local residences, banking, identification systems. It's all so connected, more like a Cylon database than she expected. The humans were so terrified of networking after their first war with the Cylons; they sometimes created internal networks, such as on their battlestars, or wider networks like the defense mainframe, yet there was no one network that might join a home to a bank to a military outpost to a server... And here they have this internet, connecting so many systems. They have even intentionally programmed and enabled means to remotely control other systems, by way of this internet. It's a digital age and it's shockingly exploitable. The throbbing in her arm is distracting and tiring, but she works through it. After a few discomforting experiences with pulling sounds through and some checks into relationships with the United Kingdom, she decides on using the country Canada as her birthplace to account for the different accent. The encryptions are easier to break through than Colonial ones; they are not designed to keep out Cylons, after all, but other humans and human computers.
She taps into databases for identification, finds the citizenship records and passport systems. The information is slotted in, dated, logs changed to seamlessly appear as if the records have been there for longer and already approved. As far as it knows, her identity was verified long ago. She collects and organizes pixels into a straight-on image of her face, and pushes it into the photograph space. To account for the lack of travel stamps, she marks it to be a replacement for a missing one, previously applied for, through processing, and now simply waiting to be reprinted and mailed.
She does not take long to decide what false name to provide. Some of the other Sixes used human-style names in their work, and it seems a fitting homage to borrow one of theirs since the woman herself could never be resurrected. At least the name would not die.
With the identification in place, it is a little easier to manipulate the banking system into believing there is an existing account with existing funds previously transferred from another bank, that there was never a discrepancy in the money available. Convenient, how they do not back it with actual hard currency on hand. She cannot touch any paper records, of course, but this should suffice. New bank cards will need printing due to accidentally losing the ones issued some years ago. The bank information is then used to provide payment for the passport.
That in place, she soon finds the available local apartments— "flats," they're calling them— with listings managed digitally as well. She selects an appealing one, converts it to sold, marks the newly created identity as the purchaser, and notes that it was purchased through an internet listing without her actually touring it so they won't wonder why they don't recognize her. The records for the transactions are tweaked slightly, of course, and a series of bank transfers later deposits the payment into the seller's account. She just needs to come to collect the key, sign one last document in person, and it's hers. The passport will be sent to the flat's address.
The basics laid out, she allows herself time to clean up various additional details that could tip someone off to how they were falsified. She has done it before in the Colonies, after all; it is a little trickier here in some respects since it is another world, but the basics are the same.
Her hand feels gummy when she finishes, and she can't decide if the cable felt worse going in than it feels as she pulls it out. She retreats to the ladies' toilets to thoroughly wash the blood off. Working with her right hand, she painfully stitches the incision shut. The fiber-optic cable is less easily cleaned or repaired, so she cuts away the bloody portion and a good deal extra. Leave them to wonder what happened to damage the cable and repair or replace it. She rinses it in the bathroom and stores it in the metal case she brought with her. The knife itself, she also cleans and then tucks into the case as well; she will dispose of it later if she feels it necessary. With those taken care of, she goes back into the cafe to clean up the floor, the computer counter, any other place where blood may have dripped.
She'll have to stay with the Heavy Raider for the rest of the night, and give the businesses time to get started in the morning. After that, she will collect the key for the flat and get situated in it, get the bank card and some cash from the bank branch, and see where the rest of the day takes her.
And give her left arm a rest. It's quite tingly and sore, and she does not want to try that again soon.
She doesn't make much note of how she leaves the cafe locked and secured behind her. She's concentrating on carrying the case in her uninjured hand and ignoring the lingering discomfort as she heads back towards the beach.