Handshake
Details: Get in touch with the General about the foreign network.
Flood: Hmph. Apparently the General is still alive in that no-fly zone, and trying to contact us. He's so needy. If he could return data from a remote line that led to our discovery of a large foreign network, you'd think he could at least fend for himself in an area where the Machines won't even try to get close to him. Go see what he wants, operative. Just give it back to me sans the drill sergeant bravado and bluster.
Operator: If the General ever does buy it, I think Flood may throw the first party of his life. One of the General's commandos should be standing by in there to hook you up to the General's transmission.
Commando: Yes, sir. We've been waiting for you. Activating the transmission now.
Operator: Signal coming in now... There it is.
Holographic Projection: Sol-- ... ...
Operator: Oh, swell. Too bad the signal's too weak for us to tell him to try replacing that rubber beret with a tin foil hat. Flood's gonna eat this up.
Commando: ... Apparently the Merovingian's broadcast equipment is too weak to maintain a connection, sir.
Flood: Why, this is the best communique we've ever received from the General. He's outdone himself. If we assume that was Morse code, with those horrible bleeps and bloops he's uttered the timeless declaration "solms." Mm... Yes, like many of those affected by senility and the fear of impending death, he's obviously taken up religion. No, that was sarcasm, operative; I doubt the General even knows Morse code. If it was up to me, I'd leave him out there to find his god-- a rock in a particularly ludicrous shape, for instance. Unfortunately, certain members of this organisation think he's still worth salvaging.
Operator: Dot-dash-dot-dot, dash-dash-dash, dot-dash-dot-dot at Flood... Apparently Malphas has some sort of scheme cooked up.
Blood Noble: That skinny one, "Carlyne" I think it was--he hasn't turned up for weeks now. That means no more overrides. Mm... I'm so pleased, I could almost lick a Zionite.
Blood Noble: Bats... I'm glad we don't have to do *that.* Ugh.
Blood Noble: No, no. Even with elongated canines, biting someone is harder than you would think. Don't try it if you don't know what you're doing.
Malphas: The potential of the massive network discovered by the General merrits further investigation. This will require a functional line of communication. Our experiments some months ago on the Machine pod system revealed that pod clusters are dotted regularly across the planet's surface, and that humans in our virtual city tend to be held in pods relatively close to the Machine city--the MacHenry woman was an example of that. There should be some fairly close to the General's position. We also know that humans in the pods are connected to the Matrix in part by electroencephalographic wiring. These arrays--and the human body--can be used as makeshift transmitters. We will use this to our advantage.
Operator: He's talking about using EEGs as antennae? I thought that was just as crackpot theory.
Malphas: A special program will be provided to your operator. Contact Flood for details.
Flood: Ha-ha. Do you know what you have to do, operative? You have to go glad-hand bluepills to fire this program of Malphas' back into their pods, where it's supposed to to enlist their wiring and flabby bodies as a low-power, wide area broadcast system to the General. The chance that any one person you hit will have a pod within range of the General is relatively low, but the theory goes that the futility of one operative will add up to strategic gold when combined with that of our other operatives out there doing the same thing. So get out there and press the flesh, Mayk! I don't count on this working, but I expect I'll thoroughly enjoy watching it unfold.
Operator: All right. I've got Malphas' program loaded. You only have to make momentary contact with each bluepill. Supposedly this won't disruptive enough to their systems to alert the Machines.
Bluepill 1: Ooh... I knew I shouldn't have mixed maple syrup in with that...
Bluepill 2: Nothing ever happens at these parties. ... Sorry, you say something?
Bluepill 3: Oh! H-hi.
Bluepill 4: Mm... You just bought yourself a lawsuit, honey.
Bluepill 5: Whoa-oh! Hey... Do that again.
Bluepill 6: Ew! Pervert!
Bluepill 7: Ow! Jeez, you shocked me! Lift up your feet when you're walking across carpet, man.
Bluepill 8: Poked, prodded--just another piece of meat on display. Why do I come to these things? Do I enjoy degrading myself?!
Operator: Well... In theory, that's eight more points of light to bring us the General's wisdom. Get any phone numbers while you were at it?
Flood: I always knew you were grabby, Mayk. Try to contain yourself. I doubt the Machines would look kindly on you feeling up their batteries.
Operator: Ooh, professional scene this time. Ready to do some networking?
Bluepill 1: Hey, did th-- Ooh! Did the phone get fixed?
Flood: Are you actually doing anything, operative? We're still getting no signal. I knew this was a foolish idea...and it hasn't been nearly as amusing as I'd hoped.
Bluepill 2: Affirmative. ... Sorry, sugar. I can't talk right now.
Bluepill 3: Finally, someone who remembered. Nobody else did. I sent an email yesterday reminding everyone. I'm 30 today. I hate this place.
Bluepill 4: Oof... Sorry... I think I feel a migraine coming on.
Bluepill 5: What is that, a joy buzzer? Wow, that was cool...In 1950.
Bluepill 6: Hm...
Bluepill 7: Not here!
Bluepill 8: Busy, busy, busy...
Operator: Okay, they should all be functioning as human antennas. We still don't seem to be getting much except background noise, though... Well, you'd better get out of there, anyway. I don't think the Machines are onto us yet, but I didn't like the looks of a few of those coppertops.
Flood: Thousands of humans transformed into transmitters, and what do we get from it? Nothing but static. Quelle surprise, You're too weak, Mayk: too dense, too unfocused, too contaminated... Malphas has been fed for so long on the creme de la creme of your species, he's forgotten that most of you are so rotten that you're only worthwhile as disposable lightning rods. What the Machines keep all of you around for, I can't imagine. I suppose It's too much to hope that we can just let the General achieve nirvana out there after this...
((That's the end until next Crit.))
