Ruined Earth. The near future.

Humankind, in its folly, allowed the ozone hole to grow too large. We feasted on ozone like Icarus and scorched the planet into an inhospitable wasteland.

The few survivors who remain are crowded into fetid, smog-choked cities. These wretched slums are petri dishes of suffering, where the bacteria are people and the agar is despair.

To escape the hellscape of reality, humanity now spends most of its time plugged into a virtual world called the Dataverse. Those who cruise its digital streets can find any experience the mind desires.

However, you are not just a random user. You are the greatest hacker in the Dataverse, a legendary cybercriminal who surfs the code. What is your hacker alias?

Yes, that is the cyberhandle by which you are known and feared. Over time, you have built a reputation as a ruthless mercenary willing to hack into any database in exchange for cold, hard moneycredits. The only thing you like more than money is hacking, and you only hack for money.

All your illegal money is spent on buying nice stuff for your high-tech hacker condo, and your stuff is all you care about. Friends and family are a distraction you don’t need. Love isn’t money, so it is bad.

You stare at your Sonic Rectangle, a cutting-edge harmonic amplification system. An elite hacker like yourself will only tolerate the best-sounding shreds when you’re thrashing to tech-metal alone in your apartment.

You admire your Tooth Blaster, a robotic dentist that screams in your mouth. There’s no need to ever go to a human dentist because they’re obsolete now. You haven’t left your apartment in five years.

On your kitchen counter sits a bowl of Time Fruit, the grapes that technology made immortal. This futuristic nourishment source will never rot or decay, which is important, since you have tons of it stockpiled in your apartment and never go outside.

You proudly stare at various things you own. This is a great experience for you.

Owning things is really the best. People without belongings don’t know what they’re missing out on. Possessions are the reason you hack, love is unnecessary, and you never go outside.

You jack into your computer, sending pulsing waves of sweet 0s and 1s directly at your frontal cortex. The walls of your nicely furnished condo melt away, and the glittering skyline of the Dataverse materializes in front of you.

Hidden somewhere in this lightwork lattice, a criminal needs a code surfer to crack a mainframe. All you have to do is find them and convince them to hire you.

You uplink into a pervert club, one of the many sin joints littered across the cybercity. Around you dance netheads, sex downloaders, gulch manglers, and all other types of indecent sickos. Freed from the constraints of reality, they meet here to engage in their darkest desires. It’s a seedy dive, but a good spot to meet criminal employers.

The pervert club’s waitress glides up and greets you with a cheerfully synthetic smile. “What drink would you like me to shit for you?” she asks.

The waitress climbs up onto the bar, squats down, and, with a moan of gross pleasure, craps out a piña colada. You take a sip. It’s not bad.

Suddenly, you feel a hand tapping you on the shoulder. You spin around to confront whoever it is.

“Yes, we’re all rude perverts here, so shit is a thing we like. It’s the fecal sensation we can’t get enough of. Everything on the menu gets squeezed out of my simulated ass. Do you still want a drink?”

“Suit yourself,” she replies before walking away and anally excreting a plate of cheese sliders for a nearby table.

Suddenly, you feel a hand tapping you on the shoulder. You spin around to confront whoever it is.

The man seeking your attention has his identity concealed beneath a meta-filter. If even your security protocols can’t pierce it, he must be a formidable hacker indeed.

“Hello. I am not a pervert,” he begins. “I want to hire you for computer crime. My name is Good Shadow.”

You walk on the glowing simstreets thinking about how the Dataverse has become our true home and the real world is but a half-forgotten nightmare. We outgrew our need for Earth, and now it only exists as a desiccated appendix, a festering, useless organ that we excised and discarded.

“I see you’ve heard of me. I’ve been hearing things about you too. People say that you’re the best code surfer alive, and I’m only looking for the best.

“Tell me, do you know who created the Dataverse?”

“Yes, Tokyo Corporation is the worst,” agrees Good Shadow. “Those villains are the brilliant geniuses who built and maintain the Dataverse we are all grateful for, and they must be stopped. I want you to hack their server.”

“There is an answer to your question—a pleasing, plump answer—but it isn’t safe to talk more here. Tokyo Corp. has been tracking this conversation, and they’re homing in on your location. They’ll be in your apartment soon.”

“There will be time to talk about your remuneration later. Right now, you’re in danger. Tokyo Corp. has been tracking this conversation, and they’re homing in on your location. They’ll be in your apartment soon.”

“Here, download this map file. It leads to the secret lair of the Resistance fighting Tokyo Corp. Did I mention that I’m their leader? Find me in meatspace and we can plan our assault.”

Suddenly, the Dataverse crumbles around you, Good Shadow and the pervert club disintegrating into white static, the angry hiss of severed data screaming in your neurons. Someone cut your hard line.

When you open your eyes, you find a Tokyo Corp. enforcer standing in your apartment. The fractured remains of your modem are scattered beneath his feet.

“I am Excel Hardcrash, chief of security for Tokyo Corporation,” he says. “I know you’ve been meeting with Good Shadow and plotting to hack us. Please don’t.”

“That’s great to hear. People hacking us is terrible; it makes lots of extra work for me. Now I can rest easy. Thank you.” Excel Hardcrash writes you a check to cover the cost of your modem and leaves.

Your clever deception tricked Tokyo Corporation and got them off your trail. Now nothing prevents you from heading to the Resistance’s secret base.

“Oh, that’s too bad. People hacking us is terrible; it makes lots of extra work for me. Now I’m going to have to battle you in the Dataverse. You cannot defeat me; I will crush you. This is very inconvenient. Have a good day.” Excel Hardcrash writes you a check to cover the cost of your modem and leaves.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Now nothing prevents you from heading to the Resistance’s secret base.

“That’s great to hear. People hacking us is terrible; it makes lots of extra work for me. Now I can rest easy. Thank you.”

Excel Hardcrash writes you a check to cover the cost of your modem and leaves.

You step outside into the acrid air, squinting in the baleful glare of the monoxide-filtered sunlight. A yearning to return to the Dataverse grows in your chest.

One quick tap to your wrist console’s datascreen opens up Good Shadow’s map as a 3D hologram floating in the air. It’ll lead you straight to the Resistance.

After a few hours of walking around, the navcoords eventually lead you to an open sewage manhole. You double-check the map to see if you’ve made an error, but this is definitely the right spot. “You have arrived at your destination,” helpfully chimes the wrist console’s geoguide.

You aren’t sure what to do. There isn’t a ladder to climb down, and you can’t see the bottom. Jumping in might be dangerous, maybe even fatal. Good Shadow wouldn’t give you wrong directions, would he?

Without the map’s guidance you get utterly lost, eventually wandering out of the city and into the surrounding wasteland. Your wristcomp’s chargepack runs out of juice, and you spend weeks or months—you can’t remember how long—stumbling across the barren desert.

Fortunately, your reclamation suit can recycle your urine and inject calorie-paste directly into your bloodstream. It keeps you alive, barely, until you finally see signs of a mysterious construct in the distance. Hoping for rescue, you eagerly limp toward it.

You plummet through inky darkness for several terrifying seconds, then feel your velocity instantly decrease as you pass through an inertia-field. The soles of your shoes hit the ground with only the slightest hint of impact.

Looking around, you find yourself in one of the old abandoned subway tunnels that run beneath the city. A woman’s voice calls out from behind you, “Welcome to the Resistance.”

“Hey, my name is Twenty-Two Over Seven, but my friends call me Pi the Number for short,” says Pi the Number.

“I’m an infojockey for the Resistance. I’m also a huge pervert who loves to get freaky in the Dataverse.”

“I get off on Photoshopping the covers of Stephen King books so they say they’re written by Dean Koontz,” says Pi the Number. “It gives me intense erotic delight to see Koontz’s name on a title by Maine’s master of horror.”

“Come, let me take you to meet Good Shadow. He is expecting you.”

Pi the Number leads you through a labyrinthine maze of train tracks and access tunnels. As she walks, she quietly and continuously whispers to herself, “Pet Sematary by Dean Koontz.”

After a few minutes, the two of you reach a doorway guarded by a tall, grim man, his skin covered in intricate tattoos. “So, this is the hacker that Good Shadow found to babysit us,” he sneers while examining you disdainfully. “As if we can’t smash code on our own.”

“Just ignore Toxzyk Playground,” says Pi the Number. “He’s jealous that Good Shadow thinks so highly of you. Underneath all that attitude, Toxzyk’s a pretty decent guy. He understands what it’s like to be different, like me.”

“No, I’m a huge racist,” explains Toxzyk Playground. “In my free time, I go on the Yelp pages of Bulgarian restaurants I haven’t eaten at and leave one-star reviews complaining about the poor service. That’s not a lie, though; Bulgarians are notoriously bad waiters, and I’m only saying what everyone’s thinking.”

“You shouldn’t keep Good Shadow waiting any longer,” says Pi the Number. “He’s right through that door.”

Now that you’re about to meet Good Shadow face-to-face, you can’t help but feel excited. His exploits are renowned across the Dataverse, and his identity is the subject of much debate. You’re about to become one of the few people alive who knows who Good Shadow actually is.

You enter Good Shadow’s lair and discover Harvard law professor and tech activist Lawrence Lessig. He’s staring at a bank of computer monitors where ceaseless torrents of blue numbers tumble downscreen.

“The Dataverse,” says the distinguished winner of a 2014 Lifetime Achievement Webby Award. “This is what we’re fighting for.”

“I am Good Shadow.”

“You no doubt have a lot of questions about who the Resistance is and why we’re fighting the evil Tokyo Corporation.”

Prof. Lessig clears his throat to begin telling a long story.

“Tokyo Corporation originally created the Dataverse to be a place of beauty and order. A perfect world to replace the one we had destroyed through our ozone madness.

“What they did not count on was the legions of perverts and racists that would soon overtake their network. We were given the power of gods and used it to create a mailbox covered with vaginas that orgasmed when you put mail in it. I saw that once.” Lawrence Lessig shudders at the memory.

“Personally, I think all these sex fiends and bigots are terrible,” Lessig quickly explains. “I’m a professor, and I love books and office hours, not nasty freaks or racism. However, I think people should have the freedom to behave how they choose in the Dataverse. Tokyo Corp. believes otherwise. They’re planning to ban everyone that isn’t polite and into normal intercourse.”

“Please listen to my speech about why we’re fighting Tokyo Corp. I spent all night rehearsing. It’s pretty important that you hear it.”

“What I want you to do is breach Tokyo Corporation’s mainframe and steal the source code for the Dataverse. Once we release it, Tokyo Corp. will lose their control over the Dataverse, and anyone will be able to create virtual realities that are as disgusting as they want them to be. Will you help us?”

“Good, let us begin,” says Lessig.

He leads you to another room, where a neuro-terminal is set up and waiting for you to jack in.

“Here’s the plan,” he explains. “You will travel to Tokyo Corporation’s virtual skyscraper in the Dataverse, which is where all their telecommuting employees go to work. Once there, you will have to find a computer you can hack to enter the Metadataverse, a simulation of the Dataverse within the Dataverse. Inside the Metadataverse, you will have to find another computer to hack into the Pseudometadataverse, a simulation of the Metadataverse within the Metadataverse, which is where they keep the Dataverse source code. All of that clear?”

“Pi the Number and Toxzyk Playground will accompany you to provide support, if necessary,” continues Lessig. “I know you’re a master code surfer, but Tokyo Corporation’s mainframe is unlike anything you’ve ever encountered before. You can’t just press some buttons and expect to win. To defeat Excel Hardcrash on his own turf, you’re going to have to understand the rules of the Dataverse and learn how to break them. Think you’re up to the challenge?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll have your back!” says Pi the Number. “Just ask us if you need help. Although it’ll be kind of disappointing if you do, since you’re the world’s greatest hacker and should be able to figure this out on your own. Needing us to hack for you would be as unsatisfying as seeing Stephen King’s name on the cover of Gerald’s Game.”

You jack back into the Dataverse, the rush of data flooding your brain like a syringe of ultra-cocaine straight to the heart. It’s good to be home.

The digitized avatars of Pi the Number and Toxzyk Playground coalesce beside you and wait for your lead.

You uplink to outside Tokyo Corp.’s virtual skyscraper, where you find two enormous 30-foot-tall security guards shaking hands and blocking the entrance.

“We are best of friends,” says the guard on the left. “I can’t get enough of this guy.”

“And we are best of guards,” says the guard on the right. “Only authorized Tokyo Corp. personnel or their guests are allowed beyond this point. It’s an honor to shake this guy’s mitt all day.”

The tallness algorithms the guards are using make them far too large for you to outrun or tackle. You’ll have to talk your way past them.

The guards step aside to let you pass, and you get ushered through the building up to the office of Tokyo Corporation’s human resources director.

“Hello, I’m Natalie. Thanks for coming in today.” She glances over your résumé on her monitor. “Wow, it says here that you’re the greatest computer hacker in the world? Very impressive. That’s just the type of go-getter that Tokyo Corp. is looking for.”

“Can I ask you, though: As an employee, what would you say is your greatest weakness?”

“Thanks, I value your honesty. Do you have any questions you’d like to ask me?”

“Sure, I’ll go get you one,” says the HR director. She exits the room, leaving you free to access her computer. You can use it to hack into the Metadataverse.

The guards step aside to let you pass, and you join up with a group of tourists waiting in the lobby. A tour guide walks up to greet you all.

“Hello, I’m Sharon,” she says. “Welcome to Tokyo Corporation: The Sinister Conglomerate That Cares.”

The tour guide leads you past a row of people sitting at computers. “Here’s where the magic happens. All of these employees are typing keys and doing work as we speak.”

The tour guide leads you through the cafeteria.

“Wow, we’re in for a real treat here. A bunch of our employees are having coffee together. Who knows what amazing work-related subject they might be discussing? Feel free to take a photo.”

“Shh, don’t scare him away. This is our intern, Greg. A magnificent creature.”

The tour guide gives you several minutes to admire him.

“That concludes the tour,” says the guide. “Please follow me back to the lobby to receive a souvenir mousepad to remember your visit by.”

You lose the tour group and enter an empty office. You can use the computer here to hack into the Metadataverse.

“PLEASE ENTER VALID ACCESS CODE,” intones the computer. You won’t be able to break in unless you figure out the password.

Mother’s maiden name: “Linda Amberson.”

“IMPOSSIBLE, HOW DID YOU FIND ACCESS PORT 70?” screams Computer God as he shatters into countless bytes. The wind picks up and carries the pieces away to wherever deleted programs go.

Stuck beneath the desk you find a Post-it with the number 80 written on it.

“INCORRECT PASSWORD,” says the computer. Too bad—that password works 90 percent of the time.

“PLEASE ENTER VALID ACCESS CODE.”

“VALID PASSWORD DETECTED. ERROR! INCORRECT FORM. PLEASE REENTER PASSWORD IN CORRECT FORM.”

It seems like “80” is the right password, but you’ll have to type it somewhere else besides the computer. Where, though?

“You’re going to give up that easily? Come on, you can do this!”

“Fine, but you’ve really let me down. I thought you were the world’s greatest hacker, but maybe I’m the world’s greatest hacker instead. What a disappointment.”

Pi the Number jumps behind the computer, and her fingers dance across the keys. Before long, she guesses the password, letting you proceed to the Metadataverse.

“That was amazing hacking!” exclaims Pi the Number. “I’ve never seen a code surfer smash code so well. Here, I made this for you as a token of my appreciation.” She hands you an image file.

The digital landscape of the Metadataverse shimmers into existence around you, currently programmed to look like feudal Japan. Warm sunlight shines through the simulated trees, and A.I. koi fish slowly drift across a lake. An ancient-looking temple beckons to you from across a footbridge.

Well done! You surfed the code and found an unlisted access port. Now you can proceed to the Metadataverse.

The temple contains an empty martial arts dojo. You eagerly look around for a computer to hack into the Pseudometadataverse, but find nothing but straw mats.

“You fool, you’ve already failed,” says a chillingly familiar voice.

Excel Hardcrash steps out from the shadows, guffawing mightily. “You won’t find a single computer left to hack in this entire world. I was expecting you, so I came here and ate all the computers. Now I am pure computer. The power is overwhelming...”

His body starts to distort and shift in grotesque ways, the processing power of a million CPUs flowing through his digital blood. Excel Hardcrash’s skin bubbles like hot tar as he morphs into a horrific new form.

“BOW BEFORE COMPUTER GOD,” bellows the entity that was once Excel Hardcrash.

“NO HACKER CAN DEFEAT ME,” screams the abomination. “MY SOURCE CODE IS BEYOND YOUR COMPREHENSION.”

“HA. HA. HA,” laughs the cyberdeity. “MY ONLY WEAKNESS IS MY MOTHER’S MAIDEN NAME, AND THAT IS HIDDEN DEEP WITHIN MY SOURCE CODE. YOU COULD NEVER FIND IT, EVEN IF YOU WERE ABLE TO VIEW SOURCE. YOU WOULD HAVE TO VIEW SOURCE AND THEN SEARCH FOR IT, AN IMPOSSIBLE TASK FOR A PUNY, INSIGNIFICANT WORLD’S GREATEST HACKER LIKE YOU.”

Seems like this is another test of your hacking skills. Are you up to the challenge?

“Pathetic. I knew you’d come crawling to me for help. So much for being the greatest hacker in the world. You aren’t fit to wipe off the food a Bulgarian waiter dropped on his own shoes.”

Toxzyk Playground views Computer God’s source code, and before long he locates the maiden name.

“NO! HOW DID YOU FIND THIS ACCESS PORT?” screams Computer God as he shatters into countless bytes. The wind picks up and carries the pieces away to wherever deleted programs go.

You’ve won, but the victory seems hollow without having hacked the code yourself.

“That code smash was hypergreat!” cheers Toxzyk Playground as he claps you on the back. “I was wrong about you; you are the greatest hacker in the world!”

“Before you jack into the Pseudometadataverse, please look at this gift I made for you in appreciation of your amazing code surfing.”

“I wrote you a racist poem about how much I hate Bulgarians,” he explains.

Bulgaria: Land Of Bad Waiters

The restaurant is full of delicious food;
My mouth waters with anticipation.
The only thing here to spoil my mood
Is the Bulgarian waiter from the worst nation.

Why do you have to make me be rude?
Bulgarian waiter, you garbage ape,
Bring me that incredible Bulgarian food;
I can’t wait to eat a Bulgarian crepe.

At long last you reach the Pseudometadataverse, where all of Tokyo Corporation’s most important files are kept. The Dataverse source code is there for the taking.

You reach out to grab the file and it appears in your hand. The Dataverse with all its infinite wonders and horrors. Now it belongs to everyone.

The Psuedometadataverse begins to flicker and fade around you. The Resistance must be pulling you back to reality.

“Thank you, master hacker; you have freed the Dataverse from the clutches of Tokyo Corporation!” says Lawrence Lessig. “How can we ever repay you?”

“That’s beautiful. Who did you fall in love with?”

“That’s very flattering, but I’m married. Would you like to choose someone else to have fallen in love with?”