Chapter 2: The Rain, The Request, and The Reluctant Hacker
The rain made a steady, gray rhythm against the window, a sound that usually meant quiet editing days for Chad. Today, it was just background static to a different kind of tension. He stood over the couch, looking down at Kevin, who was curled in a nest of blankets, his bare back a pale curve against the fabric, a laptop balanced on his thighs playing a hamster ballet.
“Got a client request,” Chad said, his voice cutting through the buzz of the fluorescent light and the tinny ballet music.
Kevin didn’t look up. “Kevin is optimizing the rotational axis of the dancing rodents. Priority is high.”
“It’s from Sara. At Starlight Company.”
A pause. The hamster on screen pirouetted into a pixelated companion. “But Kevin is busy.”
Chad dropped the slim client folder onto Kevin’s bare lap. The paper was cool against his skin. Kevin’s nose wrinkled in annoyance, his fingers pausing mid-air. He glared at the manila intrusion, then at Chad. But Chad just nodded toward it, his expression flat, a sure sign this wasn’t a casual ask.
With a sigh that was more performance than feeling, Kevin flipped the folder open. Inside were printouts. Photographs. Three men, muscles taut and shiny under the riotous neon glow of Akihabara at night. They wore elaborate, colorful helmets. And absolutely nothing else. Their nudity was complete, clinical, exposed by the unforgiving camera flash amidst the buzzing electric wonderland.
“Oh,” Kevin said, his annoyance melting into analytical interest. He leaned closer. “Hero-friends had a costume malfunction. Common in dynamic situations. Kevin estimates ninety-seven percent humidity that night. Fabric adhesion failure.”
“It wasn’t a malfunction,” Chad said softly. He knelt beside the couch, his own pendant swinging forward. He tapped a fingertip on one of the photos, where crude, digital red circles had been drawn around each man’s groin. Numbers were scrawled across their thighs in a messy font: ‘8.2’, ‘7.8’, ‘6.5’. On the photo of the man in the red helmet, someone had written in all caps: ‘BETA MALE ENERGY LOL’.
“Sara says the photos leaked from a private server. Her friends were just… over-excited. Celebrating something. They didn’t mind at first. The helmets kept them anonymous.”
Kevin’s brow furrowed. He traced the red circle on the ‘8.2’ man. “This is poor data visualization. Culturally reductive. And,” he squinted, “anathematically imprecise. This is clearly a flattering angle.”
“That’s not the point, wizard prince.” Chad’s voice was a low murmur, woven with the rain. “Someone started this. Comparing them. Ranking them. Now it’s harassment. The comments sections are… vile. And this one,” he pressed his finger firmly on the red helmet, “is getting death threats. From insecure trolls who’ve decided his… measurement… is a personal affront.”
Kevin’s eyes narrowed. The playful light in them dimmed, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. It was a switch flip Chad had seen before, rare and total. The hamster ballet on the laptop screen froze, the programs in the background halting as Kevin’s cognitive resources violently redirected.
“Names,” Kevin stated, his voice losing its singsong quality. It was flat. Direct.
“The client is Sara, Starlight Company. Her friends wish to remain anonymous to us, identified only by helmet color. Red, Blue, Green. The request is to trace the point of original leak, identify all subsequent hosts and reposters, and provide a full digital footprint of the harassment campaign’s origin.”
Kevin shoved the folder off his lap. It spilled onto the floor, the photos splaying across the hardwood. “Too many names. Sara. Starlight. Red. Blue. Green. Kevin cannot remember arbitrary human labels. The request is inefficient.” He crossed his arms, a petulant gesture, but his gaze kept flicking to the fallen photo of Red, the cruel numbers defacing his image.
Chad didn’t move to pick them up. He knew this dance. Kevin’s genius was a wild, untamed thing, allergic to bureaucracy and simple asks. It needed the right fuel. A puzzle. A wrong to be righted.
“They’re being hunted,” Chad said quietly, shifting to sit on the floor, his back against the couch near Kevin’s hip. “For having the audacity to be happy and naked. Someone took a private joy and weaponized it. Turned it into a… a public ranking chart.” He let the disgust seep into his words. “Sara’s friend, Red, he can’t even log into his favorite game forum now. The threats follow him everywhere.”
Kevin was silent for a long minute. The only sounds were the rain and the faint hum of the stalled laptop. He stared at the ceiling, at the water trails on the window.
“Chad’s Knight remembers names for Kevin,” he said finally, his voice smaller.
“I know,” Chad said. “I will.”
“Kevin requires optimal parameters. Not names. The harassment vectors are primary. The visual data of the hero-friends is secondary. The violation is in the commentary, not the original image.”
“Agreed.”
Another pause. Kevin uncurled, swinging his legs off the couch. His feet touched the floor next to Chad’s thigh. He reached down, not for the folder, but for his laptop. He pulled it onto his knees, his fingers hovering over the keys.
“The hamsters do not like bullies,” Kevin declared, as if stating a fundamental law of the universe.
“The hamsters do not like bullies,” Kevin declared, as if stating a fundamental law of the universe. His fingers, which had been hovering, now dove toward the keyboard. They didn’t start coding. They closed the lid with a definitive click. He looked at Chad, his eyes that eerie, focused gray of a storm cloud. “Chad will bring Kevin to meet the client. Kevin requires the example leaked photos from the source terminal. Physical access is optimal for a deep trace. Then Kevin will make all the photos and the bad comments turn into dust. Like they never existed before.”
Chad knew in an instant. He saw the whole precarious equation. Kevin, in an unfamiliar room, surrounded by stressed strangers, asked to perform his most delicate, destructive magic. The variables would spiral. He would shut down. Or worse, he’d get distracted and accidentally make the building’s power grid forget it ever existed.
“Okay,” Chad said, standing up. His mind was already composing the email. “I’ll set it up. But we need conditions.”
Kevin tilted his head. “Conditions?”
“For the hamsters. To make them work properly. Their environment must be optimal.” Chad picked up his own laptop from the coffee table, moving to the less-cluttered kitchen island. “Only a few people can be there. Perhaps not more than two. From Sara’s side. Otherwise, the hamsters get stage fright. They won’t delete properly.”
Kevin considered this, nodding slowly. “Stage fright is inefficient. Two people is acceptable.”
“And,” Chad continued, typing as he spoke, “there must be provisions. Hamsters, obviously. Snacks. Sweets. Everything Kevin likes. So the coding hamsters are… allured. To work at peak efficiency.”
“Allurement protocol,” Kevin agreed, his seriousness making the absurd terms sound technical. He padded over to the fridge, pulled out a juice box, and stabbed the straw in. “Proceed.”
Chad’s fingers flew. The email to Sara was blunt, a direct reflection of Kevin’s own operational language.
Sara – Hamsky agrees to consult. Two conditions for onsite work: 1) Only two people from your side present in the room. 2) Hamsters, snacks, and sweets required for system optimization. Confirm location and time.
He hit send. The rain blurred the world outside into watery neon smears.
Across the city, the coffee shop near Anne’s house smelled of roasted beans and damp wool. Sara frowned at her phone screen, the email notification glowing. “It’s them. Hamsky. They’ll do it.”
Maya leaned over from the next seat, her sharp eyes scanning. “Conditions? What sort of conditions?”
“Two people max. And… hamsters, snacks, and sweets.” Sara read it aloud, her tone lifting in confusion.
Priya nearly choked on her latte. “Hamsters? Are they debugging with rodents now? Do we need to rent, like, a circus?”
David, sitting across from Mike, exchanged a glance with his partner. A silent, quick conversation passed between them—a raised brow, a slight tilt of the head. David cleared his throat. “We’ll handle it. Mike and I. We can meet them.”
Mike nodded, his placid demeanor undisturbed. “I’ll source the snacks and sweets. The high-grade allurement stuff.”
“And the location can be my condo,” David added, already mentally inventorying his space. “It’s neutral, quiet. As for the hamsters…” He trailed off, a problem to solve. “I’ll figure that request out somehow. There’s a pet store three blocks over.”
Sara looked between them, relief washing over her features. “Are you sure? You don’t have to—”
“It’s better this way,” Mike said, standing up and pulling on his coat. “Fewer variables. You and Maya focus on damage control with your friends. We’ll manage the… technical eradication.”
David was already texting, probably to check the pet store’s hours. “Send them my address. Tell them to come in two hours.” He stood, following Mike to the door.
They left the shop, stepping into the misty afternoon. The bell on the door jingled behind them, leaving Sara, Maya, and Priya in a bubble of stunned silence, staring at the empty chairs and the remains of their drinks.
Outside, Mike zipped his coat against the drizzle. “What kind of snacks? Savory or sweet?”
“Both. Extensive variety. This feels like appeasing a deity,” David murmured, pulling up a map on his phone. “And the hamster. Do we get one? A prop? What if they need it to, I don’t know, interface directly?”
Mike offered a rare, small smile. “We’ll get a very friendly one. And a backup bag of treats. For all the mammals involved.”