So he does that, and it's easy to keep their attention. It's not so much that the work is good, though it is that, he supposes; it's that it's so different. The habit of discretion has isolated him so completely his code is like Darwin's finches: a divergent species.
John taps in again and says, "I've got eyes on the suit but I can't bluejack his phone."
"Well I should hope not," he replies primly. But he thinks for a second-- this damned display mirror is a cramp-- then says, "Send a picture, Mr Reese, and I'll see what I can do."
He'd written the bots to cover Mr Finch while he sat in meetings as Mr Wren. Harold knows the value of at least the appearance of omniscience. He looks around surreptitiously, subvocalises to his phone, forwards the picture to an unlisted number. His bot hacks the ID card printer at the front desk, tracks back into the client list and runs that through Maltego. (Harold is inordinately fond of Maltego; he sometimes feels guilty for crippling it so comprehensively.)
The bot finds the weakness and sends back the exploit. He executes and John confirms, "I'm in." And then they both demonstrate their competencies, for hours, until Harold feels almost breathless from it.
When the evening rolls around they go into the ballroom arm in arm. John's tux slides over the gun at his hip and you can't tell at all unless you know precisely where to look. Of course Harold knows where to look because he'd chosen the jacket, he'd had it made to move in precisely that way and he'd held it out for John to put on this evening before they'd left. He dresses John these days; he's not sure when that began. Harold watches the tiny movement and, though he doesn't love the gun, he finds he loves knowing this secret. It feels like a secret about John's body, known only to the two of them, and that is, well, it's something.
The show he'd put on in the conference hall had done its work. People were looking at him like, like–
John murmurs, "Not enjoying the attention, Finch? Shoulda held back a little this afternoon." John's voice changes a little. "Hey, what did you pull in there anyway? We can't attract too much–"
Harold smiles tightly. "It's nothing. It's old actually–a decade old idea I had; it looks impressive but it's flawed; it won't scale. They'll see it eventually."
John is shaking his head. "Well I'd say Mr Rivera is the envy of every investor here." He presses a hand to the small of Harold's back and guides him to a table. "Let's hope they don't see it too soon. I think I kind of like having the biggest brain in the trophy cabinet."
Re: FILL: 6 REVISIONS [RINCH] [Unr] [CNTW] 4/?
John taps in again and says, "I've got eyes on the suit but I can't bluejack his phone."
"Well I should hope not," he replies primly. But he thinks for a second-- this damned display mirror is a cramp-- then says, "Send a picture, Mr Reese, and I'll see what I can do."
He'd written the bots to cover Mr Finch while he sat in meetings as Mr Wren. Harold knows the value of at least the appearance of omniscience. He looks around surreptitiously, subvocalises to his phone, forwards the picture to an unlisted number. His bot hacks the ID card printer at the front desk, tracks back into the client list and runs that through Maltego. (Harold is inordinately fond of Maltego; he sometimes feels guilty for crippling it so comprehensively.)
The bot finds the weakness and sends back the exploit. He executes and John confirms, "I'm in." And then they both demonstrate their competencies, for hours, until Harold feels almost breathless from it.
When the evening rolls around they go into the ballroom arm in arm. John's tux slides over the gun at his hip and you can't tell at all unless you know precisely where to look. Of course Harold knows where to look because he'd chosen the jacket, he'd had it made to move in precisely that way and he'd held it out for John to put on this evening before they'd left. He dresses John these days; he's not sure when that began. Harold watches the tiny movement and, though he doesn't love the gun, he finds he loves knowing this secret. It feels like a secret about John's body, known only to the two of them, and that is, well, it's something.
The show he'd put on in the conference hall had done its work. People were looking at him like, like–
John murmurs, "Not enjoying the attention, Finch? Shoulda held back a little this afternoon." John's voice changes a little. "Hey, what did you pull in there anyway? We can't attract too much–"
Harold smiles tightly. "It's nothing. It's old actually–a decade old idea I had; it looks impressive but it's flawed; it won't scale. They'll see it eventually."
John is shaking his head. "Well I'd say Mr Rivera is the envy of every investor here." He presses a hand to the small of Harold's back and guides him to a table. "Let's hope they don't see it too soon. I think I kind of like having the biggest brain in the trophy cabinet."