Mitchell Art walked quietly in the dark, steeling himself for the punishment that was sure to come. He was out past curfew--again. This was his third foster home in as many years, and he didn't figure this one would work out any better than the last two. Nobody wanted a kid like him to begin with. Most people who get into foster care want the little kids, the ones who can still be molded into miniature versions of the adults who foster them. Teenagers? Forget it. They ping-pong between group facilities and fosters until they age out. Mitchell knew that, and at this point didn't really take it personally. His father had bailed when he was young, disappearing into the backwoods of the Ozarks to do God-knows-what. Mom spent the ensuring years at the bottom of a bottle, her neglect becoming so overt The System had to intervene. Last Mitchell heard, she was in rehab again. His case worker told him it might be another six months before she's sober enough for long enough to consider putting him back with her.
He knew that was never going to happen.
Then there was the whole incident with the computer crimes. A lot of fosters didn't want anything to do with him once they learned he had federal charges on his record. He was convicted in 1993 of numerous counts of computer fraud, illegally intercepting a wire communication, identity fraud, copyright infringement, and unlawful use of a private computer system. Most people wouldn't have had the first clue what a lot of that even meant, much less believe they could take on a kid like that. It was only on account of being a minor, and a very troubled one at that, that his sentence was suspended and he was mainly just subject to extra state supervision while in the care system.
Tonight, he was walking down the street on the way back to the Truman Estates, the mobile home park where his current foster parents lived. Joanie and Hank weren't bad people. Their double-wide was big enough that they could take in two, maybe three kids at a time. Mitchell was the only one they had right now, though. The extra scrutiny, he did not care for.
Trees flanked him on either side of the road. No sidewalks here. Streetlamps few and far between. He heard a little rustle in the woods to his right, but didn't think much of it. Probably the wind, like usual.
It wasn't.
Before he could process what was happening, a hand was over his mouth and another was tightly pulled around waist, dragging him backward into the trees. He kicked, he tried to stream, he grabbed at the hands. Whoever had him was a lot stronger. Bigger, too. All he could think was that he was about to become a statistic. In his usual angst, he would have thought that was fine. I don't care if I die. Nobody wants me to begin with. When the moment came, however, he realized he very much wanted to live, and fought desperately to do so.
It didn't help much. Soon, he was dragged into a clearing, where a light shined down on him and he found himself surrounded. A man with a fearsome expression and a tight ponytail aimed a sword at his throat. A fucking sword? Another man, and then a girl who looked just a little older than Mitchell himself, both drew down on him with semi autos. Behind them stood two older men, one of them with a rifle leveled at him, the other with his arms crossed. Mitchell realized the light came from a vehicle suspended in the air above--not a helicopter, but something different. More advanced. Silent.
But I haven't hacked anything in years. What the fuck? They're gonna disappear me now??
The people with the weapons parted ways so the older guy could step toward him. "Mitchell Art. Nice to finally meet you."
Mitchell was still white as a sheet. "Who the hell are you people??"
"Yeah, I guess I should introduce you to the crew. The guy with the sword is Taki. The guy in the robes with the Beretta is Luthos. The girl is Jennifer Reston. Rifle guy is Paul Rogen. I'm Robert Maxwell. So, now we've all been introduced."
"But what do you want?" he croaked through a trembling body.
"Well, funny thing. A friend of mine was gathering some intel, trawling a number of networks that, let's say, he technically shouldn't have been in. Got his system infected with a pretty nasty piece of software. Took him a little time to determine it was a self-replicating worm and he was able to isolate it and purge it from his own network before it destroyed all his data, but that's only because he's pretty good at his job. Stuff like this doesn't really happen to him, you see. So, he wanted to know who was behind it. Did some research of my own and, what do you know, this thing was the brainchild of one Mitchell Art, also known as 'Bluespark.' Dumb handle, if you ask me. But you've obviously got skills, and from what I've gathered, you don't care for your current living situation."
Mitchell glowered. He didn't like anyone presuming they knew a damn thing about him. "What the fuck do you know about it? Or care?"
"You could say I specialize in taking in strays and giving them a higher purpose. Have you got a higher purpose?"
"I don't even know what that means."
Robert walked around him in a circle, which Mitchell took as an attempt to intimidate him. It happened to be working. "Well, the way I see it, you're on a path to nowhere, kid. Broken home, federal convictions, bouncing around the foster system. You'll be lucky to make it to 25. Even luckier to make it without picking up a major drug habit, or suffering some other horrible shit I'm sure neither of us wants to think about. So, I'm here to offer you something a little different. You like computers, right?"
"Obviously."
"You won't believe this until you see it, but I've got the most advanced, most powerful computers at my disposal. There's literally nothing else on Earth like this. I'll give you the opportunity to poke around at it. In return, I'll just want you to employ your skills on my behalf occasionally. Now, I won't lie to you. You'll also have to learn how to handle a weapon. We're going to be in some fucked up, violent situations. I try to avoid those, but sometimes it can't be helped. I need someone tough, someone who won't choke when the shit hits the fan. And it's fine if you don't that's who you are right now. I'll train you. But you have to want to be that person. So, Mitchell Art, do you want to be a badass?"
He tried to stifle a chuckle. "Nice sales pitch. Who are you guys? FBI? CIA? NSA? One of the ones nobody's allowed to know about?"
"Oh, we don't work for any government. That's the beauty part. We just work for ourselves. We see a broken world and try to fix it. And I'd say we're not too damn bad at it so far."
"This isn't some police thing, is it? Entrapment is illegal, right? You have to tell me if you're cops, I think."
Robert had a belly laugh over that. "Holy shit, kid. So, first of all, we're not cops. If we were, we wouldn't have to tell you. And just technically speaking, this isn't entrapment. Well, OK, I guess it is. We've got weapons on you and I guess that could be construed as coercion. I guess. Look at it this way: do you think any governmental agency is gonna have some martial arts-looking guy with a sword doing field work? I hope we get a little credibility from that."
Taki scowled at Robert. "I do not appreciate being treated as an object of amusement."
"Relax, man," Robert said calmly. "I'm just saying, you don't get official types doing things this way. We're unique."
Mitchell nodded. "If you're trying to convince me you're paramilitary or independent or whatever, by looking and sounding completely insane, you've definitely pulled it off."
"Then are you in?" Robert asked, folding his arms.
"Sure. I don't see what else I have to lose at this point."
Robert reached out and shook his hand. The grip made Mitchell wince so hard a tear squeezed out of his eye. "Welcome aboard, Bluespark. You're one of the chosen now."