The mental capacity on the older model cyber-enhanced cranium-unit stretched beyond capacity today, clearly unintentionally. The intel band popped a sub-routine before our test configurations could set in, breaking connection to the public network while two of our warm bods were still jacked in. They got thermo everywhere. It left a bit of a hole in the tech boys’ work schedule for the afternoon.
The old lady busted our balls about it, shouting her way to next Sunday. Can’t really blame her, though. Four long-range radial barriers were penetrated as the damn thing literally fritzed into the next millennium. The popped sub-routine activated a sleepr, a perpetrating virus carrying orders to go Y2K on central command’s after-forge – full biblical – which then unlinked six weapon classes from spine-7.
They say that if you can clearly assess the dynamic of a situation then that’s a martial art best employed in court. So, they may as well have called me big boss dragon because all I could do was analyse the dynamic of all the arseholes in the room. Seriously, how far one little old lady could scale the arseholes of those top brass members and guests while pinching our balls in a perfect display of theatrics is uncanny. Still, siding with the ministry is one thing, but doing it while some southerner diplomats watched, I mean c’mon. I’d rather be a typist for the pony room. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever puked in my mouth before, until then. Ressio had a nicer view of the show from his astral seat, the prick. Yeah, well, too bad for yours truly, I guess, she clamped my sec-link tight, fixating slide out, blocking dive in. I was itching to jump by meeting’s end.
Least next time I’ll get one up on the battleaxe if this amateur crisis ever rears its ugly circumstances again. After all, who else could prevent this type of clean up.