2014-05-06 - Cutscene: Riddle Me This - A Good Day

“The game has only begun.”

A sickly green glow illuminates his face. It is a face that few might have seen, but those who have would not mistake it. The green hues from the computer monitor highlights the angles of his countenance...the chin, the cheekbones...casting his face into the semblance of a mask. Much like the mask avatar of a certain individual he had the pleasure of speaking to.

One that calls itself Oracle.

The emerald countenance is courtesy of the laptop before him. A smartphone sits beside the laptop, acting as a wifi hotspot for the portable computer. A window on the smartphone shows the routing of the IP address, monitoring the path the precious digital data takes from the laptop to its designation. Its home. So many data points. Each one of them highlighted green on the phone. Each one responsible to deliver the individual’s message while yet keeping him in the shadows, for now. The window shows the extent of his planning, his genius.

So many sites. Encircling the globe. All lit green. It is as if he is holding the world within his green-clad grasp.

It is only when the digital path is secured, with all of its twists and turns and redundancies in place, when the man begins his work.

He turns to the laptop and starts in. The screen on the laptop shows a much more simple interface. Simply a green background, with his own avatar spinning lazily in the upper right corner. On the bottom of the screen, a toolbar with only a recording button, left there for the convenience of others...to leave a message. To seek audience with the webmaster. The figure at the laptop muses for a moment, noticing that there are no messages. Finally, there is a single file, located in the upper left corner, opposite the spinning avatar. It itself has a smaller version of the same avatar. A simple solid black 3-D character. Nothing as contrived as a green mask, but still instantly recognizable as being his.

A question mark.

Soon, another file joins the first. The file icon is the same...a simple black question mark, spinning slowly upon the green background. He checks the file, perusing the message he had just left for the Oracle and those the Oracle chooses to share it with.

< -- >

A word from the wise is not something to dread, Sometimes you must look behind to be able to move ahead.

< -- >

ld, sm ymu lqn inlqkfkc! amkcqltuiltfmks! mb amuqsn, tdlt wls l qltdnq qurfjnktlqy qfrrin, sm rm kmt tdfkh ymu lqn jmqn ainvnq tdlk f. km, tdlt wls gust tdn wlqj uo!

kmw tdlt ymu dlvn olssnr tdn oqnifjfklqfns, f suoomsn f sdmuir qnwlqr ymuq nbbmqts, ls olitqy ls tdny jly en. l cifjosn fktm jy cnkfus, fb ymu wfii. ft fs qnliiy puftn sfjoin. sm sfjoin tdlt nvnk ymu sdmuir bfcuqn ft mut.

nvnk oqfaninss ftnjs dlvn l oqfan. lkr f oilk mk stnlifkc tdlt wdfad fs jmst oqnafmus. f lj cmfkc tm stnli hkmwinrcn.

rm tqy tm hnno uo.

< -- >

With the digital message securely in place, a hand reaches over and taps the window on the smartphone. Within moments, the network of relay hubs disconnects, the green lights dropping in rapid succession. At the same time, the personal avatar on the laptop, the spinning question mark on the right-hand side vanishes into non-existence. The message remains, tucked away safely on the secured website for the Oracle to find. He trusts that the information will get to his target audience..and, if not, then all the better.

After all, people need to see. It is a privilege to have a chance to match wits with him.

The laptop closes, powering down as it does so. The smartphone is slid into a pocket...the laptop into a plain-looking briefcase. A gloved hand reaches out, picking up the briefcase, while the other tucks a green envelope into an inside suit jacket. So many things to do...including a visit to a particular courier service. He has a letter to deliver to the police commissioner, containing the very same message he just left behind.

The more players, the merrier.

Finally, a hand reaches out, fetching a green bowler hat, which is placed at a jaunty angle upon the figure’s head. As he turns to leave, he whistles lightly a indiscriminate tune. A happy little song.

Today is going to be a good day.