APRIL 15, 2016
A BILL
TO PROVIDE EFFECTIVE PROSECUTION OF OFFENSES AGAINST INDIVIDUAL IDENTITY ON THE INTERNET.
1.SECTION 1. SHORT TITLE
2.THIS ACT MAY BE CITED AS THE STOP OFFENSES
3.AGAINST PERSONAL IDENTITY (SOAPI)
4.SECTION 2. DEFINITIONS
5.(A)"NETWORK" MEANS A SERVICE FACILITATING
6.COMMUNICATION BETWEEN INDIVIDUALS OR GROUPS.
7.(B) "USER" MEANS AN INDIVIDUAL COMMUNICATING
8.ON A NETWORK.
9.SECTION 3. POSITIVE IDENTIFICATION
10.A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR UPON REQUEST SHALL
11.PRESENT POSITIVE IDENTIFICATION FOR ALL USERS.
~~~~~
FOUR
Nomad, what the fuck?
"I want to talk to you." His words screamed at her from the screen. They weren't in caps. Weren't accentuated with anything. Weren't accompanied by emoticons. Just quiet words sitting on the page in front of her.
But they yelled in her mind.
"I want to talk to you."
Her fingers had frozen. Stuck in the air, half an inch above the keys, they waited, paused a moment for her mind to catch up. After a minute, they responded, a reflexive, panicked response.
And closed the window.
Talk... Nomad, what do you want?
She flattened her hands against her knees pressed her fingers flat, trying to stop the shaking.
Talk?
It was different.
She rolled the word over in her head. They talked every day – or just about. But they didn't call it that. That was different. Something had shifted.
And that shift sent a chill through her stomach.
"Talk?"
On the phone or... outside? She shook her head, shivering. Either way...
Here, inside her apartment, comforted by four walls, the anonymity of the Unnamed networks was powerful, safe. Or, well, safer than Safe. Safer than the sanitized networks that asked for everything but a blood sample. But outside? Even phones were Safe. The phone networks, like the sites, were Safe places that kept records and registries to protect clients identities.
She squeezed her eyes shut as if she could blink away her trembling.
But she couldn't.
One hand reached out and slammed her laptop shut. She got up, paced over to the window and looked out. Outside were police. Right now, one strolled the streets outside her apartment whistling, donut in hand. Outside, there were informants, well-meaning citizens trying to maintain order in their city – in her city. Outside, there were jails and police cars and...
She tried to distract herself. She got in the shower and stood under it until the stream was cold. She paced around for a while after and tried to think about work. She cooked spaghetti sauce from scratch, boiled some pasta and sat at the table picking at it. She looked over her To-Do list for Monday, then reorganized it.
But by evening she was staring yet again screen, this time with an empty chat window open.
Her fingers drummed against her neck, the heels of her hands pressed into her collarbone, as she hunched in her desk chair, eyes fixed on the screen. It was dark. The sun had gone down, and she hadn't been able to muster up the energy to break away and get up to turn on the lights. It shouldn't have mattered. She should be asleep in bed hours ago - there was a budget meeting Monday morning and she had to prepare, but at this rate she'd barely be able to keep her eyes open, let alone talk coherently about staff spending.
Instead, she stared at the empty chat window.
The words still glowed in her mind's eye.
"I want to talk to you."
**********
Dumbass.
The word circled in his head again and again.
He was under the covers again, but not remotely tired – he'd slept all of the morning away and some of the afternoon. But after milling about the stuffy apartment, alphabetizing his one row of books and dusting the shelves, folding a heap of t-shirts at the end of the bed, poking at some leftover-from-whenever tuna salad and doing anything else to avoid the computer, he'd crawled back into bed to hide.
His laptop stared at him from the nightstand. It was closed, but its little prick of light blinked slowly in and out accusingly. He rolled to his other side to avoid it's glare.
What were you thinking?
He couldn't answer, but whatever it was, whatever it had been that had moved his hands to type so forward a suggestion, he was still thinking it. He wanted to meet the girl behind the avatar.
He stared at the solid wall beside his bed. A crack in the paint ran vertically halfway up the wall until it forked and disappeared
His phone chimed.
He twitched at the noise, and his heart thudded into his gut. He rolled over to look at the sleeping laptop. Then he opened it.
Evade...
She was there. Silent, but there.
He touched the keyboard.
Don't– "Can we talk?" his fingers were already repeating the question from the morning. His brain cringed at his own impulsive typing. He waited.
"We are talking."
At least she didn't run this time... He smiled at that. He couldn't help it. She was still there, still on the other end of... somewhere, still listening. So he obliged and typed back, "No..." His fingers hovered for a moment. Then, "I want to TALK to you," they rushed ahead.
~~~~~
October 27, 2016
COMPLAINT
National Digital Identity Initiative (NDII), seeks reparations for willful infringement on NDII's identity rights by Mr. Broc Coli.
NDII is the world's largest news and advocacy group on digital identity issues. The publications NDII are done by experts in the fields of technology, sociology, law, and many other fields. NDII invests significant time and resources into bringing digital identity issues to the public eye. A significant portion of NDII's revenue is attributed to the high regard with which our reporters and experts are held.
ACTS OF THE DEFENDANT
Defendant has made repeated and disruptive comments, across several platforms, against NDII. These disruptive comments offend the integrity and do harm to the identity of NDII and its reporters and experts.
CLAIM FOR RELIEF
Although NDII cannot determine the amount of revenue that it loses as a result of damage to its identity, the amount is enormous. For example, one post by Mr. Broc Coli has amassed more than 260 comments. Such widespread disruption – and instigation –does harm to the esteem in which our reporters and experts are held, and therefore puts the revenue of NDII in grave jeopardy.
NDII request damages of $150,000 per offense as compensation for past incidents and deterrent from future incidents.
~~~~~
FIVE
She stared at the capital letters. They weren't just in her imagination this time, but glowed on her screen, commanding her attention.
TALK
A cold shiver ran from her gut up her spine through her fingers, which froze, scared, useless, resting on the keyboard. She shook her head. One finger moved, then another, slow, letter by letter, then paused.
"Like..." She hesitated.
Her pinkie hit return and the useless response sat there. She pictured him on the other end of the connection, waiting while she struggled with the word.
TALK
"Like..." she tried again, "like on the phone?" she finished hopefully.
For a moment, he didn't answer. She waited. Then,
"No."
Of course not.
She shook her head. Of course he didn't want to talk on the phone. She didn't either, when it came down to it. Her phone, unlike her profile and her generic avatar and all her communications with Nomad, was registered and identified.
"Right," she typed back, "never mind that. So... TALK?"
"Like over lunch? Monday?"
"So you are in New York?"
There was silence for a moment then,
"..."
Oh damn, he's offended. "Sorry, I didn't mean..." So not a liar then. "Sorry, it's just some people on those sites..."
"I know. It's okay."
Again, her fingers hovered, frozen, above the keys then, her fingers rushing ahead of her brain, her words tumbled onto the screen.
"So what did you have in mind?"
"Well, there's a cafe on 8th..."
**********
He smiled. It was nearly completely dark in the tiny apartment. The curtain glowed eerily with the streetlights' light on the other side, and the computer glowed happily in front of him. He hadn't turned on a single light and everything else was pitch black, as if he had blinders on. He didn't care. He wasn't even remotely tired.
Monday's lunch plans glowed on the screen, and he smiled at them.
Somewhere in his stomach there was a tendril of unease, but as he looked happily at the plans, he didn't really care. Besides, he was used to the unease by now. At least now, there was a happy edge to it.
He flipped through a few pages of news, but he couldn't concentrate on any of it. Eventually, he watched the sun come up on Sunday, and for once, he couldn't wait for the next day to come.
SIX
She shivered, but shrugged to cover it up. Under her bright smile and wave no one would notice anyway. The non-waving hand lay flat against the cool desk top, fingers pressed against the fake wood grain to stop their trembling. She kept her eyes wide and friendly over her big smile and stared innocently up at the coworker leaning on the cubicle wall.
"I'm fine" she said, and waved a nervous hand again in an attempt to look not nervous. "Go on without me, I've got tons to do anyway."
"Are you suuure?" The coworker tugged at a long strand of red hair and tilted her head. "Are you on a diet, or...?"
"No, I just have a lot to catch up on." Dammit! She tried not to roll her eyes at herself. Now I'll have to actually get work done....
"Okay. Well... okay."
"Have fun." She waved yet again at the posse of coworkers headed out the door.
Finally, they were gone, the office was empty, and she let the smile slide off, and shivered openly.
Skipping lunch was just the first hurdle.
Missing out on lunch with the coworkers she'd gone to lunch with every day for the last year was sure to raise a red flag. She glanced at the clock. Her hands absently shuffled papers on her desk.
Should have gone with the diet excuse.
She looked around her cubicle trying to figure out something to work on, because she'd said she had something to work on. Her eyes slid over the disarray of paper and office supplies.
Could use some cleaning.
It was a messy desk, and cleaning it seemed like a plausible and responsible thing to do. She picked up a stapler, put it in the corner of the desk, shifted the papers so they resembled a stack.
She looked at the clock.
Nomad...
Her hands trembled, and all of a sudden putting the stapler in place and piling papers and maybe even sanitizing the fake wood-grain desk seemed immensely more appealing and her stomach twisted, nerves wriggling, palms sweating at the thought of abandoning the mundane tasks.
But she smiled.
She chewed on her lip and blew out a shaky breath and tightened her hands into fists to stop them from shaking, but she smiled.
One hand moved to the back of her chair where a taupe trench coat was flopped. The other idled towards the purse at the corner of the desk. And then the coat was around her shoulders, then the belt done up, then the strap of her purse – red suede and matching her shoes – in her hand, and then she was walking out the office door, away from the stapler and the fake wood-grain desk top.
And then, outside, she headed towards 8th.
Her arms crossed, reflexively tightening around her chest, pulling her coat close around her as if her kind of contraband were on display, hanging out for all too see.
Which.... it kind of was.
A light turned green, and she paused, hunching into her coat, waiting for the walk light.
A chunk of bangs slid into her eyes and she swiped them aside. She turned, out of habit, to the dark window of the corner store to check her reflection. Her reflection stared back at her. It was perfectly neat, but–
Why?
The image of her own avatar, glowing in a tiny square next to her dialogue, rose in her mind. It had the same short brown hair she had. Brown eyes. White. She'd even tried to replicate her makeup in the bland, cartoony face.
Why the hell had she made it look anything like herself?
She shuddered as the light changed to red, the WALK sign came on and she crossed the street.
At least avatars weren't admissible in court.
**********
Ow.
Someone laughed. He glared in their direction and rubbed his toe where it had whacked into the doorjamb. The yellow folder slipped out from under his elbow, landed upside down and open on the floor and spilled white paper over his throbbing toe.
Just sit down... just sit in the chair and don't make trouble.
He squatted down for a moment, one hand massaging his sore toe, the other pretending to shuffle the papers back into the folder.
He steadied himself, his fingers pressed against the grey carpet.
And he took a breath.
Just sit down...
He shook his head and blinked a few times to unstick his eyes, which were staring blankly, somewhere in the direction of the carpet and the papers. He made his hands move around the fallen papers, shuffle them into order, tap the stack against the ground to even out the edges and slide the pages neatly back into the folder. Then he pushed himself up.
His hands were shaking, he was sweating, he was distracted to the point of utter klutziness, and he would cause a lot more attention than a few laughs if he didn't just sit in a corner, shut up, and pretend to work for a while.
So he did.
He took in a long breath. He let it out slow, through pursed lips.
He opened the yellow folder, slid out the papers inside, flattened them against the desk to have something to do with his hands, and mindlessly eyed the rows and rows of numbers.
Despite all the shadowy figures he'd met under his many fake names carousing on the news sites, he'd never actually brought the communications offline.
One by one the smells of processed vegetables, boxed Asian noodles, and leftover whatnots filled the office. Microwave beeps and humming punctuated the quiet. The door slammed as a few people got up one by one to go get lunch out.
He looked at the clock.
Again, again, again.
Then he got up, zipped up his hoodie and walked out. No one looked up from their takeout or noodles or leftovers.
Outside in the chill wind, he dug his hands deep into his pockets. His fingers closed around the sleek case of his phone, but shifted around awkwardly in the pocket - more roomy than usual.
He'd left his other accessory at home in the nightstand. He didn't need another liability.
~~~~~
Mr. Broccoli @BrocColi
Nov. 16
NDII = morons. Fuck off and die.
~~~~~
SEVEN
She flinched as the door slammed behind her.
Relax.
She took another step into the cafe.
A poufy chair without a back sat in a corner facing the door, and she went towards it and sat down. Her own back curved a little like she was sitting at an invisible keyboard. She pulled herself up, but after a few minutes found her shoulders rolled back into the comfortable position. She put her purse between her feet and leaned her elbows on her knees, playing with the straps.
She leaned back against the alien green cinderblock. Her head rolled to one side, stretching her neck, attempting to loosen the tension there. Then to the other side. She tilted her head back, her hair catching slightly on the rough wall, and
looked up. A bare tree with long fingers reached overhead on the other side of a skylight.
Bells tinkled and she shivered in the cool breeze from the door.
She breathed in the grassy smell that wafted over to her on the breeze. She closed her eyes and took another calming breath. More bells tinkled overhead and the metal frame clanged against the closing door.
Grass?
There wasn't much of that in New York.
She opened her eyes and looked around the cafe. Her gaze rested on the homey details she had nervously skittered over on her way in.
Grass grew in long narrow boxes beside the picture windows on either side of the door. Marigolds, bright orange balls like handfuls of crepe paper, bobbed slightly in time with passing coffee-drinkers. She wanted to hold them.
A machine screamed and customers chatted. A cheery barista bobbed around behind the counter.
Something pattered overhead and she leaned her head back, looking up at the skylight.
A sun shower.
Blue sky shone above the drops of rain, above the skeletal tree. She smiled.
Stop it.
Her neck stiffened up again and she stifled the smile, looking back down at his chosen meeting place, remembering that she wasn't here to relax with a coffee and watch the rain. She couldn't afford to relax.
She was here to... talk.
The thought sent shivers down her spine, even as the smile began to creep back onto her face, just a little, despite her efforts.
Nomad... It's not a dark alley.
She wanted to laugh at his choice of meeting place.
The cafe was so bright. The blue and green antique lamps threw dancing light around the cafe, onto the poufy chairs, onto the bright walls, onto the grey streamers of rain still streaking down the windows. The picture windows and the marigolds and the cheery barista were a far cry from the dark spots that were supposed to house these sorts of dealings. But of course that was the idea. Clandestine locales drew scrutiny.
Nomad... who are you?
She looked around carefully at the visitors and wondered what kind of man it was that chose this place.
No one looked her way, all filing into line bending to look at the pastries under the glass counter, or squinting at the menu that spanned the entire wall behind it.
Her stomach grumbled.