Schuylkill Dogs
BY
thesneakydragon
CHAPTER_01
OPERATION_ATTRIB
DISCLAIMER: All trademarks are properties of and belong to their respective owners, including Watch_Dogs to Ubisoft and Ubisoft Montreal. This is a work of fiction. Any use of or resemblance to persons, places, things, or actual events or incidences is used in a fictitious manner and is entirely coincidental.
"Emboldened by the sharp reduction of crime in Chicago, CtOS spurred other cities across the country to adopt municipal operating systems. Even though it has been in service for a little over six months, Philadelphia's own CtOS-based PhilOS has caused the crime rate to fall dramatically. See the incredible stories tonight on Eyewitness News at six."
Walking down Market Street in the afternoon seemed like walking down any other major city in the United States. Surrounded by skyscrapers, traffic, and the hustle seemed normal. Mixed with the cacophony of the sights and the noise of the city, I could imagine if I was in New York or Chicago sometimes. Except that everyone said "youse" all the time, Center City, Philadelphia didn't seem that different. With the weather being mild tonight, I did not need a jacket. A subdued baseball cap, some cargo pants, and a pair of comfortable sneakers worked out well.
To be honest, I ain't from here. Because I don't pronounce "youse" and "wooder", I never had that recognizable Philadelphia accent growing up. Cheesesteaks, hoagies, soft pretzels, and water ice were things I wasn't raised with. Worshipping on the Eagles' Sunday was not a weekly ritual and demonizing the Cowboys wasn't either. Don't get me wrong, I like sports, but I wasn't going to reach a true Philadelphian until I got old and wrinkly. But overall, Philadelphians have welcomed me I guess.
With smartphone in one hand and coffee in the other, Samantha Trimble was one of them. Freelance technology journalist and blogger by trade; she was my host, a source of dirt, the naughty things people think they can hide on the internet. With her bright yellow blouse, khaki capris, and sandals that were picked from a thrift shop, I guess she looked the part. Briefly glancing up from her phone, she pocketed it and walked toward me. That goofy grin on her face seemed to follow her wherever she went.
"Hey, Nathan," she said, pulling me in to a hug. "Did you eat?"
"Not yet, Sam," I shrugged. "I was going to find some fast-food somewhere on 17th."
"Well, I'm going to change that. Let's find you a hoagie," she chirped, whipping out her smartphone and browsing through with her nimble, lanky fingers. "Found one on 18th street!"
I rested my arm around her neck. "Good. You can take me there."
"Why do we have to act like we're married?"
"Because," I quipped. "I'm not a sex offender?"
She laughed and spun around, her mahogany handbag nearly hitting me in the face. "Oh stop it, you smart-ass. You aren't the type for boasting."
"'Cause I'm not," I shrugged. "I just don't find the need to."
If someone boasted he was a hacker, he wasn't really a hacker. There were only two people who came out of it, script kiddies or people who sold out to corporate or government. Both were equally dangerous. They squealed too much and caused too many problems. It was like a deal with the devil, freedom in exchange for profit. Why not reject them and have both instead? The best hackers wisely stayed away anyway, joining a network where their talents could run unhindered.
We settled down in a busy hoagie joint after a ten minute walk toward City Hall. No true Philadelphian would walk into a Subway. They'd rather eat a bad hoagie than a half-way decent generic foot-long. I couldn't fault them for stubbornly clinging to their traditions to a fault. I had one made of prosciutto, salami, and drenched in olive oil. We sat down, hopefully passing a bit of time before setting off to do our business.
"Is Daemon going with us tonight?"
"Don't worry, Nathan," Sam said, between bites. "He'll be joining us just in time."
I snorted. "Hmph. He'd better be. I can whoop his ass at any batting cage."
She pointed at me with a naughty smirk crossing her lips. "Don't be boasting about who can do sports better. Remember the time you spun and crashed on the go-karts?"
"Psh. Says the lady that fell off the mechanical bull before it even started."
"I can't say the same for the man that tripped over a stick on the ice rink."
"You fell down with me!"
We laughed. These innocuous conversations were something that was undoubtedly necessary. We had to assume we were being watched in City Center. Instead of trying to act like spies in the movies, we acted like normal people having a good time out. According to the government, if we had nothing to hide, they'd have no reason to spy us. Might as well try to beat them at their own game.
I took another bite. "I heard you have a date tonight."
"Mmhmm."
"Who's your man this time?"
Leaning in closer, Sam slipped me a small photo, about the size of a postage stamp. "Marco Carranti. I can't say I wish there were fewer people like him in the world; successful investor by trade and charity scammer on the side. Some say only 20% of donations ever goes to his charity."
Oh my god, it looked like a guido had just grown up and was just shoved into a suit. I guess he insisted on keeping the slicked-back hairstyle and the gold chain that managed to poke out of his shirt. His smile crooked awkwardly revealing some shiny, bleached teeth.
I chuckled. "Well, somebody's got to run it. Which one?"
"You know those ads for North Star Charities they run on TV?" Sam said.
"Yeah, I've seen those," I said, sitting back into my seat. "'Providing hope for North Philly' is one hell of a bold claim. Wasn't that kid on TV they always use from Fairhill?"
Her chestnut eyes narrowed. "Before you go knocking on neighborhoods in North Philly, some good does come out of Fairhill, okay?"
"Okay, jeezus, calm down. Everyone else talks smack about it anyway. So why this guy?"
"Unfortunately, he can't back that up," she said as she tidied up her rubbish. "He said he works in the area but all internet traffic comes out of an IP in Liberty Place."
I pointed outside. "That's like a block away from here."
"And City Hall, probably where he gets his funding."
"I knew that," I said. "Time to get to work. Anything else?"
She slung her handbag across her shoulder. "It's up to you how you handle it," Sam shrugged. "Outside influence should be low. Call Daemon or I if you need help."
She went one way and I went another. For what it's worth, the public put on such a complex and flimsy façade to their predictable routines. To me, it was almost comical. We knew what was happening all around us; the government spying controversies, the leaks, and the intrusions onto the PhilOS were in the papers every day. We saw how the world turned to shit, pushed by men who just wanted to see the world burn. And yet, we didn't seem to care one bit. We more immediate issues, like feeding a hungry Italian family, how much the price of crack was on the North Side, and who to boo at the next Phillies game.
Sitting underneath the glistening rotunda underneath the Shops at Liberty Place left me to my detective work squinting over my phone. Hacking had become more accessible to the average person, if people knew where to look. The deepweb was a part of the internet where search engines and google-fu were useless. It supplied everything from worms, jailbroken phones, profilers, and other goods and services that would rile a few people in the FBI. If anyone was that desperate, hiring a professional hacker, fixer, or a mechanic was only a few coins away. Thankfully, because the average computer user wasn't that smart; my job was safe. To the multitude that didn't know how to re-install their operating system, hide behind a proxy, or got their cyber-security scare from mainstream media, my work was as indistinguishable as magic. Only people who were truly interested in finding it got in.
To save money in the soul-sucking recession, it was beneficial for government and private companies to share more of the same infrastructure and its capabilities in the past, eliminating redundancy, speeding communications, and improving network stability. But this meant placing a greater burden of network security in hands of the willfully ignorant computing masses. IT guys must have pulled all their hair out. Imagine the horror the founding fathers would have encountered where they signed the Constitution with their own bloody hands. Politicians in City Hall would like to think they're doing a favor by remodeling the Constitution Center and disregarding the 4th Amendment at the same time. Classy as hell.
"What are you hiding?" I mused.
Sifting through documents and spreadsheets on his workstation, I found what I was looking for. Only 5% of it went to actually working for the charity. Plans for TV and radio spots, invoice to New York, and even season tickets to Eagles games on a logged-on email through an open browser caught my eye. It certainly beat taking a stroll off Broad Street. Any competent prosecutor would nail this guy for a charity scam, after all the murder cases were sorted first.
It was good enough for most whistleblowers, but I needed a more personal touch, something to put a face or a voice to the money laundering. Snooping around the network ports for a while, I found what I was looking for. Call incoming, call intercepted. I put some headphones in and hit record. This was going to be good.
"Boss, we're only using 5% toward the charity," a caller said. "There's no way we can sustain ourselves running all this flashy crap on TV."
"We need donors from the people and that's what's keeps us alive," Marco explained. "No smart-ass businessman wants to invest in a ghetto filled with crackheads and anchor babies."
"Umm, we can't call ourselves a charity if were only give 5%."
"Calm down, I've bought us some time from City Hall," he reassured him. "Once donor revenue increases, we can give more back."
"That isn't how a non-profit is run, Marco. W-we can't keep going on like this. If anything, we should've started smaller. I'm struggling to raise capital as is."
"Raise more," Marco ordered. "We need to compete, like it's a business. Those monies that gets collected on TV? It doesn't go to Philly; it goes to a starving kid in Africa."
"That's not the point-"
"That's exactly my point! That is what we have to sell people on. It's working for politicians, but they can't guarantee us funding every session."
That was it. I was done here. As far as I was concerned, it was just a matter of pushing him into his own grave. Not being the type to actively participate in mudslinging someone's reputation, I was more satisfied at helping the process along, if you know what I mean. Some really thought that they could change the world with these types of shenanigans, waging anarchy in the digital universe. However, I liked to keep my expectations under control. Computers never design or change policy, men with inflated egos do.
Using SQL exploits in the network, I watched through the security cameras as he hurried off work a bit early. He paced quickly toward the elevators, checking his phone every few minutes, expecting another call or a text message. Flash a few cheeky smiles at the hot blonde, office ladies trying to scam out of work was a touching gesture. He really thought he could pick them up for dinner or casual sex. For me, that was the signal to hack into his cell phone GPS and go for a walk nearby.
Gathering myself up, I headed toward the nearest exit, dumping me on South 16th Street. Diving to a little hole-in-the-war bar for Quizzo nights sounded tempting, but I needed to be focused. I looked up and wondered who the hell could afford to live in Center City. Getting a decent neighborhood to live in was such a pain in the ass. I have to admire that some managed to go places beyond North Philly, but I haven't met someone like that yet. Leaving the hood behind was an alien concept to most.
Checking my cell phone, the pale blue dot that signaled Carranti's cell phone was heading toward the corner of 17th and Market. Although I could look up where he lived, I was more interested in where he was going. Timing was key; whether he lived in South Philly, across the Schuylkill, or even past the freaking Delaware River made no difference. He'd have to run to Suburban Station, or at least through the underground concourse beneath downtown. I was not in the mood to tail this asshole for very long.
It would be nice to have backup. Time to call the expert specialist, Daemon Rodriguez.
"Hey, Daemon," I said. "Where you at?"
"I'm online," he said. "I'm loving the new game you gifted me, ya hear me? I get to ride a dragon!"
I chuckled. Whatever makes him happy. "How many hours have you sunk into it?"
"Just a couple. I'll probably let my kid brother join me on raids if I can gain a few more levels."
"Can you cover me in co-op?"
"I'd thought you'd never ask," he said, as muffled yells and screeches filtered through in the background. "You were never the type. Ready to jump in when you are."
Certain I could catch my man in time, I jogged down the stairs. "I'm heading to the suburbs. Follow me there."
I put Daemon on hold. He would be on any moment to connect my heavily proxied phone through his virtual server, enabling me to bounce any traffic under a completely different identity. Even though I could probably get away with spoofing or hijacking IP addresses, Daemon was better at this job than I was. Every group had to have a technical expert. It was best that I left the black magic to him.
I stopped at the first security camera I saw and shuffled to the side, out-of-the-way of commuters trying to return home. Up, down, left, right; it was hacked alright. I jumped into the security camera and took manual control, on the off-chance he was nearby. Checking my cell phone again and the pale blue dot was heading north, toward the SEPTA regional rail platforms. If the timing was right, I could catch him in the main atrium.
"You still there, Daemon?" I said.
"Uh-huh," Daemon said. "I see you and your mark. Gotta catch it quick, holmes."
"Easy man, it ain't leaving town. Have your loadout ready?"
"Before you even asked."
"Good. Wait for the code."
"You know me. Don't worry about it."
Through the sounds of the street performers' guitars strumming and a-cappella voices crooning, I weaved my way through the station focused on that pale blue dot. I was waiting for it to stop, for Marco to take just one more important phone call. Just one more thing to delay him. A text message, a call, a notification, something to distract him so I can do my job and shut him down.
As I turned a corner, I saw him, strutting down ever so pompous with his hands in his pockets and his head pointed straight up at the ceiling. He stopped in the middle of the atrium and pulled out his cell phone. I had him where I needed to be. His thumbs darted all over his phone. My thumbs decided his fate.
ATTRIB.
And just like that, Marco's face pops up on every SEPTA-owned screen in Suburban Station. Accompanying that sniveling face of his, was that conversation I was only too happy to record and loop. He just stared at it, eyes open wide, seeing his venture burn in front of him. Cell phone dropped, like a judge's gavel, confirming his judgement to the world.
"Hey, isn't that the guy on TV?"
"I thought he looked sleazy, but this?"
"You're right, it is him."
"I knew it was too good to be true."
And the doubts kept flowing. The may actually see it on the six o'clock news when they get home tonight. If I found out he would be working as a dishwasher for the rest of his life, so be it. There was no underlying reason it had to be him. Sam may have chosen him for the Watch Dogs Network, but I did it for the lulz, to watch someone who genuinely thought they could get away with it for my pleasure. A sadist that indulged in such petty Schadenfreude was appalling to those who really believed the internet would make us better human beings. Who were they kidding?
Navigating through the sea of weary people, I deftly made my escape through the corridors of the underground pedestrian concourse. If I was right, the system would log and detect the intrusion and the police would swarm this area. I scanned the signs, hoping to find a platform within easy reach and the quickest way out of here. Chestnut Hill or to Manayunk? Trenton or the Airport? A man like me had to have options. Just not Camden; I'd be murdered if I was trapped in the armpit of New Jersey.
Browsing through my phone, I headed for the El platforms, as metro lines stopped more often, I could get off faster. Catching a regional rail line meant having to deal with conductors and more police the longer I traveled.
"Police. Put your hands up and face the wall."
I stopped. Philadelphia Police. Only the ignorant believed that the Philadelphia or Transit Police were out to serve the public good. It seemed like every month there was another story about police brutality or corruption. I've seen the videos people post on the internet. A kid slammed on the hood of a police car, a defenseless man beat up on the ground, a woman inappropriately frisked, cops taking drug money for bribes, and the offenses they get away with multiply every year. The police harass and beat people up so much every day that I think their public affairs department has given up.
"Man, I ain't done nothing," a man said. "This is bullshit, I'm telling you."
"There was a hacking attempt recently and we believe it came from your device."
I looked back. Okay, completely different person they're bullying. The tall, black police officer was frisking another black guy in a tan Wawa polo shirt and dark brown slacks. Hands up against the grimy yellow walls, just like he was told to do. Pulling out my cell phone again, I pretended to browse through my texts.
Daryll Webber. 29. Convenience store manager. Asthma. Detained by SEPTA Transit Police.
He stripped Daryll's brown Wawa cap off his head and dropped it on the floor. "Is that your cell phone?" he demanded.
"Yeah, it is. I don't hack. What the hell does it have to with it anyway?" Daryll sighed, his frizzled hair moving with his head. The officer patted and frisked him. He turned to the officer, "Look, if you excuse me, I'm exhausted and I gotta get home tonight in Chester. I missed the last train thanks to you and I gotta catch the next one."
As he tried to walk, the cop forced him back to the wall. "Stop. Sir, get your hands back on the wall. If you resist again, I'll arrest you for disorderly conduct."
I turned and walked away, but two more cops, black and Hispanic, ran down and shoved past me without a word of apology. I don't know what was said after that. But when I turned back around, I saw chaos.
"Hey. Hey! What y'all doing? Get off of me!" Daryll pleaded.
"Get your hands behind your back!"
Four cops in their starched blue uniforms dog-piled all around him and wrestled him to the ground, forcing his hands back into chrome handcuffs. His face was squeezed onto the floor, held down by another cop's elbow. It surprised me that none of the cops "accidentally" kicked or sucker punched him.
"I don't know what you're doing," Daryll cried. "I know my rights!"
As much as I sympathized with him, I was not intervening. Citizens' Arrests were not part of our job. If we really wanted to, we could to hack into the cameras, record the surveillance footage, and upload it online. But the risks always outweighed the benefits. The police officer would never get the punishment they deserved and we exposed ourselves to far more prying government eyes. Hoping that someone caught it on their phone and posted it publicly to the internet was the best solution. A much more legal exercise of 1st Amendment rights I'm sure.
"Help! I have asthma!" Daryll gagged and coughed. "I can't breathe! I ain't playin! I'm gonna die!"
Cell phone in hand, mission complete, I reached the El platforms of 15th Street Station in one piece and without further harassment. I called Sam again. Maybe she'd want to know how things went down.
"Sam?" I asked.
"Mmhmm, Nathan?" she replied.
The El train squealed beside me as it pulled in. "I'm done here. Where should I meet you?"
"Feeling adventurous? How about Chinatown?"
"Not tonight," I sighed. Getting lost among obnoxious, English-deprived FOB Chinese was not my idea to end my day. "How about by Penn's Landing?"
"Okay, see you in a bit."
"Yeah, you too," I said, hopping on before the doors closed and I was sped away from the platform.
When the public could not influence policy through legal means, it was only natural that the hacking movement exploded. The Watch Dogs Network was organized to coordinate legitimite hacking across the nation. Every successful hack by local cells gave us reason to continue the fight. Everyone that took advantage of other's trust and welfare were frightened and rightly so. The movements, rallies, protests, and petitions never worked. Outcry had run its course as we were continually disappointed by the system. We constantly yearned for the end of all this misery, but that never came. It only created more divides, mostly between the connected and the disconnected.
I can't say good things came out of my decision to hack, but I understood the risks and its consequences. An honest living was something that was off the table to begin with. Maybe things will get better and things will change, maybe. Hope, optimism, and faith were things I believed in. In response to all of this uncertainty, I embraced calculation, fact, and rationality. In this age, people got exactly what they deserved. Humans lied all the time, but logs never did. But that's what drew me in, I trusted the data and liked the certainty.
I emerged from 2nd Street Station feeling good, but had to keep that to myself. Old City didn't seem as welcoming as it once was.
But maybe that was just my imagination.
Rule of the Internet #12: Anything you say can and will be used against you.
AN: Ubisoft chose Chicago, I chose Philadelphia, birthplace of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the United States itself. The irony of putting a surveillance state in the birthplace of freedom seemed fitting. I visited Philadelphia myself and I liked being surrounded by the history and diversity. Any technology used, especially hacking, will lean a little closer to Hollywood's depiction rather than hardcore realism. This keeps me from overwhelming you with technobabble and killing pacing. However, hacking will try to keep as much plausibility to make it believable. Sources include information gathered from Wikipedia, journals, and the Deep Web. Uplink has probably been my go to game for my inspiration of hacking mechanics. A lot has been gathered from gameplay trailers and footage but it'll probably turn AU as release approaches. Nevertheless, there is plenty of room for Aiden or other key characters to appear.
Any feedback is appreciated.
