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The first Internet communities were nothing more than dial-in bulletin board systems (BBS) that contained crude graphics (if any) and page after page of text. They were the first message boards, forums and quickly died away with the spread of the new means of communication: the Internet. Without warning the ‘net became saturated with boards of like-minded individuals thumping their collective chests over political issue, ogling over the up-to-the-minute exploits of their favorite idol or any number of equally important (to the users) or inane (to outside observers) topics.

From these came the virtual communities; game-like, computer generated worlds where the user created-avatars interacted with each other in what could only be described as a parody of ‘real’ human life. Users could command their ‘residents’ (as the personas were nicknamed) to engage in standard day-to-day behavior such as shopping for virtual goods, exercising and even (with the right plug-ins) sex. As the programming became more sophisticated it was possible for the personas to take on more and more complex actions (some ‘games’ touted complete facial customization up to expression) until the virtual world became so completely realistic that it was spoken of as one speaks of a country that one frequents during the off seasons.

The next step was total-immersion; users donned special equipment that fit over the eyes and fingertips and were instantly transported into a truly three-dimensional space of appearance limited only by the imaginations of the designers. Whole city blocks, dedicated to a certain type of data or idea, coalesced into existence seemingly overnight. Corporations designed ‘spaces’ to represent their businesses and the market for specialized world crafters (as they came to be known) skyrocketed literally within hours. Designs ranged from realms that were so elaborate that they were indistinguishable from their real world counterparts to scenes right out of fiction or some demented artist’s nightmare.

Ready-made virtual boardrooms replaced the teleconferencing as the prime choice for intercontinental meetings as they afforded greater security (the programs being molded into the ‘room’ and virtually undetectable) and access to information. The criminal element (or those that simply wanted to do something illegal) took to them immediately and cartels for the computerized world ran parallel with (or sometimes perpendicular too) their real world counterparts with surprisingly efficiency.

Right alongside the boardrooms was ultra-private meeting places and data havens that no security force could even hope to begin to penetrate. They were formed into loose ‘hotels’, ‘hostels’, and ‘clubs’ where people could meet to discuss anything without fear of being spied upon. The Intrusion Countermeasures Electronics (ICE) was spun by the elite of both corporate and hacker cultures and was, therefore, nearly impenetrable. One could, in theory, focus considerable computational expertise to eventually crack the site and expose it’s innards to the blinding public light, but there were quite a few people in lofty positions that didn’t want their dirty laundry aired out where everyone could see. Thus they became a known-but-tolerated blemish on the otherwise pristine surface of the ‘net.

One of the most sophisticated data havens was a place called Strobe Light Lies. The ‘main room’ was designed after the industrial-style clubs that randomly seem to spring up in the warehouse districts of large cities. Strategically placed flashing lights (some strobe and others of a yellow siren-variety) illuminated the carefully simulated grime, graffiti and gunshot scores that took the place of a conventional paint job. Since dimension and distance had no meaning in the virtual world it was near impossible to gauge the size of the main room, but it was known that it automatically adjusted to appear large enough to contain the total number of users that were currently ‘logged’. A deep, intense throb rattled through the air as if the busiest nightclub in the world with speakers the size of radio towers was banging away just past the single sealed steel portal that always seemed to be directly to the user’s immediate left.

The door itself did not open; instead the user positioned the avatar next to it, input their ‘room code’ (usually a pre-agreed on sequence with a minimum of eight characters and no maximum length) and was instantly transported to the specified location within the virtual space.

They sat across from each other because standing was considered as impolite as using all capital letters in correspondence was in generations past (and still is in places that hadn’t yet caught up to the proverbial Cutting Edge). The room in which they sat was perfectly square and done up in dark wood paneling. Walls were decorated with non-descript paintings framed in a slightly lighter wood-shade than the paneling and each of the windows were set with horizontal wooden slats which caused the ‘sunlight’ (which was set to afternoon-evening) to appear as yellow-orange bars wherever it fell. The carpet was dark green, short and looked like a lot of effort had gone into making it appear unblemished and very easy on the feet though it was impossible to feel such things without massive hardware / software combinations.

The shape that spanned the distance between them was an oval of non-reflective dark walnut that seemed to ripple when touched but was otherwise unremarkable. It served as a kind of whiteboard for conversations, giving users the ability to call up data and transfer / display it to all present. The laws of physics had been, apparently, told to take a flying leap because the flat, ovoid table did not seem to be supported by anything, but instead ‘floated’ at a height that either avatar could comfortably rest their elbows on.

The man sitting closest to the ‘door’ looked nervous, which meant he either presented his avatar that way or possessed the new peripheral that scanned facial features and allowed for a more ‘realistic’ avatar. Tiny pixels on the man’s face kept blinking and twitching which meant that the human operator was sweating and the connecting from flesh to machine was being disrupted. The man, who appeared Japanese and stuffed into the black-suit-white-shirt-and-tie stereotypical to the corporate workforce, mopped his digital forehead and spoke:

[ Anata ha tottemo -- ]

The other person present, who was a mass of shifting shapes and colors not unlike some Cubists’-drawing-come-to-life, held up a hand and did something with the table that caused a flat black line to extrude from the rippling walnut surface. The front of it puffed and slowly came to a stop in front of the Japanese man’s face while a second one did the same for the fractal. The translator program made the table ripple once more and then the fractal waved for the other to continue.

[ You came highly recommended ]

His words came through a fraction of a second after the avatar had finished speaking, a result of the translator functioning. It wasn’t perfect and it gave the speaker a flat tone, but it served to bridge the language barrier that had been an impediment to international business for many decades before.

The human-shaped mass of fractals and patterns did not reply and the unease in the Japanese avatar grew more pronounced. A cascade of pixels went grey and then snapped back into color: more moisture disrupting the contact surfaces. The silence stretched on for a very long time before the suit spoke again and his voice betrayed even more of his unease.

[ I see. You are not one for flattery or pleasantries so I will ‘come down to brass tacks’ as the American expression is, yes? ]

The persona across the table remained motionless but its body continued to shift. Bits and pieces of human, clothing, and non-descript geometry coming rapidly in and out of focus. The walnut surface of the table rippled as a paper-like icon with a clipart padlock slipped its way from the suit, across the table and disappeared into the flickering avatar. File transfers didn’t have to be represented in the virtual world, but it was a way to reassure the visually oriented that it had, in fact, been delivered. The pixilated lock on the document meant that the recipient either had to have the correct key or find a way to crack the encryption without causing a total erasure.

[ That is the task. I have specified a timeframe. Can you do it? ]

[ Yes ]

The voice that came from the shifting body was distorted in the same way that news channels ‘sources that did not want to be identified’ had been in the century beforehand. It sounded low, as if it had been slowed but came across at normal speed. The basso and nasal qualities totally destroyed any gender identification and, with the addition of a counter-balanced tenor that created a kind of whispering duality made any attempt to sort out which voice was ‘real’ (and, therefore could be undistorted) near impossible. Of course if there were any listening devices or programs attached to the room they would have been forcibly ejected and / or destroyed by a series of kill-specific ‘monitors’ that swept the virtual room several times a second.

[ I had not given you the key to the document ]

[ Don’t need it ]

The Japanese man sat upright as if he had been fed a dose of high voltage current and blinked rapidly.

[ I should have surmised as much. What of the price? ]

The fractal avatar reached out and ‘pushed’ something that resembled a business card toward the suit, which ‘picked it up’ and examined it.

[ This is much larger than … ]

The Japanese man fell silent and his avatar turned his head, speaking to someone in the (physical) room with him. When he turned back to the shifting thing across the table he wore a smile.

[ The fee is acceptable. I trust you will begin immediately and our business is finished? ]

In response the body-form split into dozens of twirling polygons, each still shifting pattern and color, leaving the suit alone for several seconds before he disconnected with an abrupt jolt. The room remained for several cycles before it too dissolved into a mass of pixels that disappeared into bright white light.

One week later a high-speed underground transport was re-routed onto a rail that was currently being serviced. The train, traveling at goodly speed, quickly ran out of rail and collided with a load-bearing support from the building above. The resulting explosion killed all aboard and four of the twenty workers on the ground instantly. The rest were killed when the support gave way and the five-story office building (owned by the Fujita / Nero zaibatsu) came crashing down. Peripheral injuries were many but minor and no additional deaths were reported.

The incident was being handled quietly until it became known that the third Binder of Binder, Binder, Shin, Parque and Binder was causality, causing the law firm’s formidable legal machine to swing into overdrive.

Independent investigation (on behalf of BBSPB) eventually revealed that the building sub-structure was unsound and was constructed with sub-standard materials and a second-rate construction company that had been known for shoddy business practices.

Public outcry was swift, loud and decisive; overnight Fujita / Nero stock prices plummeted and several top executives voluntarily resigned or were forced out in shame. Further investigation (prompted by an anonymous tip and again sponsored by the law firm that had so recently suffered a death in their legal-minded family) revealed that several high-rankers had rather seedy pastimes ranging from socially unacceptable taboos to insider trading to snuff-like scenes involving prostitutes with a cutout switch installed. Each new revelation was picked up by the media and touted so loudly that it was speculated that Fujita / Nero might never recover from what was deemed the worst PR fuck ever.

Most of the executives were arrested but a few decided to take the ignoble way out and commit some form of suicide. One such executive, Hideo Masaka, was so distraught that it came to light his affection for younger girls that he threw himself from his penthouse apartment window and created quite a stir (as well as splatter) upon impact.

Fujita / Nero, now deprived of most of it’s upper management, continued to crumble as infighting and jockeying for position turned hostile. When the zaibatsu was finally dissolved a sum of money was transferred anonymously to a numbered account in accordance with an agreement that never existed between a rival of Fujita / Nero’s and a man that never existed.

The train crash was eventually attributed to random computer malfunction.

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