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Miguel slides the drink across bar top—bourbon tonight, Maker's Mark that catches basement light like amber fossils preserving extinct insects, liquid history poured into plastic cup. The scent hits first: caramel and charred oak, vanilla notes curling through smoke-thick air where AC/DC's Heatseeker battles against conversation volume steadily climbing toward shouting.
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Thanks, I say, settling onto stool that knows my ass better than most furniture I've owned. Long fucking weekend.
Conference? Miguel's voice carries that sultry-childlike blend, maternal instinct wrapped in bartender's professional curiosity. His wedding ring catches light as he wipes down bar with practiced efficiency.
Infosec convention, Keira says, appearing at my shoulder like she's fucking quantum entangled with my emotional state. She doesn't touch me—never does in public—but her voice carries satisfaction about weekend well-spent. Three days of watching grown men realize their network security is held together with duct tape and prayers.
Phoenix drops into beanbag throne across room with enthusiasm suggesting youth hasn't yet taught them energy conservation. Purple and gold streaks catch basement light like lightning frozen mid-strike. Mom! Did you learn any new hacking tricks?
We don't hack anymore, I say, taking bourbon sip that burns precisely right. We prevent. Different side of the fucking equation.
Mostly, Keira adds, deadpan delivery carrying years of knowing exactly which buttons to push. Wendy still gets that look when she sees vulnerable systems. Like a recovering alcoholic walking past open bar.
River settles nearby in forest green scrubs, twelve-hour shift exhaustion written across face in lines deeper than twenty-four years should carve. Wait, you used to actually hack things? Like, illegally?
AnonOps, Keira says, matter-of-fact tone treating decade-old cyber warfare like discussing grocery shopping. Back when it meant something beyond script kiddies wearing Guy Fawkes masks.
Sage looks up from napkin art—intricate mandala incorporating circuit board patterns and protest fist. Their colored pens pause mid-stroke, rare speaking moment arriving with weight suggesting careful consideration. The collective?
I guess, I confirm, bourbon warming through chest cavity where old scars live. I guess you don’t know the credo, kiddo.
We are Anonymous.
We are Legion.
We do not forgive.
We do not forget.
Expect us.
The words taste like nostalgia and regret, equal parts pride and shame about younger selves who thought bringing down websites constituted revolution.
Dani arranges crystals on table with precision suggesting mystical geometry, scarves flowing as she moves. I've seen it in documentaries.
Documentaries make it look organized, Keira says, settling into chair that Miguel materializes from somewhere. It wasn't. We weren’t some hierarchical organization with leadership structure. It was chaos. Beautiful, terrifying, occasionally effective chaos.
IRC channels, I add, memory pulling me back to basement different from this one—my childhood prison transformed into digital war room. Encrypted chat rooms full of handles you'd never know real names behind. Someone suggests target, someone else writes the exploit, third person coordinates the DDoS. No leaders. No structure. Just collective action arising from shared fury about whatever could get the lulz.
Lisa leans forward from corner where she's been nursing beer, farm girl pragmatism meeting late-life lesbian curiosity. So you could just... what? Shut down websites? That seems almost quaint now.
We could do more than that, Keira says, voice carrying edge suggesting memories she'd rather leave buried. Data exfiltration. Network penetration. SQL injection attacks. We went after corps, governments, anyone we thought was a worthy hacktivist cause. PayPal froze WikiLeaks' donations? PayPal goes offline. Scientology threatened free speech? Goodbye Scientology website.
Yeah, and protests. I mean I personally showed up at the local Scientology office in my Guy Fawkes Mask and black cloak to stand there with other Anons in protest. I reminisce.
Elaine perks up from booth where she's been holding court, sixty years of gray-sexual lesbian wisdom suddenly interested in ancient history. Jesus fuck, you two were digital terrorists?
Hacktivists, I correct, though distinction feels academic now. There's a fucking difference. Terrorism aims to create fear through violence. We aimed to expose corruption through embarrassment. Though I'll grant you the line gets blurry.
We met this kid at the conference, I thought-speak, steering conversation toward safer waters. Cam. Late high school age, already better at understanding the concepts than half the professionals there. Parents actually taught them up right. I wish all parents taught their kids that way.
Most people learn hacking first, ethics never, Kid could probably do right shit before lunch, but never do it without permission. Their parents raised them up with the understanding that just because you CAN access something doesn't mean you SHOULD.
Phoenix shifts in beanbag, piercings glinting with movement. But isn't that how you learn? By trying shit?
There's trying shit in your own lab environment, Keira says, voice sharpening with teacher mode activation, and there's trying shit on systems you don't own. First one's education. Second one's federal crime.
Which brings us to the Rules of the Internet, I say, grinning because I know exactly where this goes and watching younger faces prepare for education they didn't request. The Moody Blues' Nights in White Satin bleeds through speakers, mellotron notes providing unexpected soundtrack for explaining internet's most notorious guidelines.
There are rules? Sage asks, actual curiosity breaking through usual artistic focus.
Wait, you don’t know?, Keira queries.
Rule 34, I begin, watching comprehension dawn across younger faces like sunrise nobody asked for. If it exists, there is porn of it. No exceptions.
River's face transforms through emotional journey visible in real-time: confusion, realization, horror, then finally acceptance born from twelve-hour shifts witnessing humanity's full spectrum. You mean like... everything?
EVERYTHING, Keira confirms with emphasis suggesting personal verification through research she'd rather forget. Cartoon characters. Historical figures. Kitchen appliances. Abstract concepts. If human brain can perceive it, someone has made porn of it.
Rule 35, I continue because momentum demands completion, If there is no porn of it, porn will be made of it. It's like Rule 34's action clause. The internet abhors a pornographic vacuum.
Dani laughs—full-body sound suggesting spiritual awakening through absurdity. So the universe ensures pornographic coverage of all possible subjects? That's weirdly comprehensive.
The internet is nothing if not thorough in its depravity, Miguel says from behind bar, pouring something randomized into plastic cup with practiced efficiency. I learned that the hard way searching for innocent cartoon characters with my nephew present. Never again.
There's also Rule 63, Keira adds with grin suggesting mischief incoming. For every given male character, there is a female version of that character. For every female character, there is a male version.
Gender-swapped versions, I clarify. Fan artists create alternate universe versions where Batman's a woman, Wonder Woman's a man, every character exists in every possible gender configuration.
Female Mags
Phoenix practically launches from beanbag with excitement suggesting gender theory discussion hitting personal resonance. Wait, that's amazing! The internet accidentally created trans representation through shitposting?
The internet contains multitudes, Keira says. Most of them terrible. Some accidentally progressive. All extremely fucking weird.
Elaine cackles from booth, sound carrying sixty years of seeing humanity's absurdity from every angle. So you're telling me that somewhere out there, there's porn of gender-swapped versions of everything that exists, and if it doesn't exist yet, someone's making it right now?
Now you understand the internet, I confirm, bourbon warming through system like liquid understanding of humanity's beautiful terrible complexity.
But back to the Anon thing Lisa says, farm girl practicality refusing to let conversation spiral into pure absurdity. You said you were part of it. Past tense. What changed?
I take bourbon sip buying time while memories surface—younger self convinced digital warfare equated to revolution, certain that embarrassing corporations would somehow fix systemic problems requiring actual sustained organizing. We grew up, I finally say. Realized that taking down websites for a few hours accomplishes fuck-all in terms of actual change. That hacktivism without broader movement backing it is just vandalism with political justification.
Plus we got better at security than breaking it, Keira adds. Turns out companies pay extremely well for people who understand attacker methodology. We went from trying to break systems to being paid to break systems professionally, then paid even more to explain how to prevent that breaking.
Some AnonOps did matter, I say, because honesty requires acknowledging complexity. Project Chanology. When The Church of Scientology tried to stamp out Gawker for posting a leaked video, in 2008, and limiting “free speech”, That was a worthy cause. But for every legitimate operation, there were dozen stupid ones targeting individuals who'd merely pissed someone off.
The problem with Anon, Keira says, voice carrying weight of someone who's thought extensively about this, is that anyone can claim the name. No membership requirements. No vetting process. No accountability. Someone commits atrocity under an Anon banner, entire collective gets blamed. Someone does something brilliant, entire collective claims credit. It's simultaneously everyone and no one.
Sage finishes napkin mandala—circuit boards transforming into protest fists transforming into gender symbols transforming back into circuits, ouroboros of digital resistance and identity. So the credo means nothing now?
The credo means what it always meant, I say. That we're watching. That corruption and injustice will be exposed. That anonymity allows collective action impossible for individuals. But also that mobs are dangerous regardless of their stated intentions, that doxxing ruins lives, that vigilante justice frequently targets innocent people.
River's face shows nurse comprehension—understanding that trauma manifests in bodies regardless of whether violence arrived through screens or fists. That's when you stopped?
That's when we realized the collective we'd romanticized could destroy us as easily as it destroyed others, I say. That being anon meant never knowing if you were talking to ally or enemy. That we do not forgive, we do not forget cuts both directions—applied to corrupt institutions and applied to anyone deemed traitor by mob consensus.
Asia's Heat of the Moment starts playing— Downe’s voice asking what is happening at the pivotal moment, has excellent sense of irony. Phoenix drums fingers against beanbag in rhythm while processing information overload about internet history, hacking ethics, pornographic inevitability, and collective action's beautiful terrible nature.
So what did you tell Cam? Dani asks. The kid with good parents and better ethics?
I told them to keep doing what they are doing, I say with confidence. Don’t burn bridges, Keep every relationship you can, code everything yourself, and dont FUCK with AI. Test everything. But always with permission. Always with ethics guiding technical capability. That the real power isn't breaking systems—it's understanding them well enough to protect them.
Did you tell them about Rule 34? Elaine asks with grin suggesting she knows exactly how that conversation would derail.
Fuck no, Keira says firmly. Kid's parents are doing good work. We're not going to be the ones explaining internet pornography's comprehensive nature to high schooler.
Oh, they’ll discover it eventually, I say. Everyone does. Usually by searching something innocent and getting results that scar them permanently.
Miguel refills bourbon without being asked—Maker's Mark again because he understands that consistency matters some nights. So the conference was basically three days of telling corporations their security sucks while not explaining the pornographic rules of the internet to teenagers?
Pretty much, Keira confirms. Plus watching grown men realize that yes, someone could absolutely steal all their customer data, and no, adding exclamation point to password doesn't constitute security improvement.
The credo survives though, I say, because some truths transcend their origins. We are Anonymous. We are Legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us. It means something even if the collective that created it doesn't exist anymore. Means that watching matters. That remembering matters. That accountability matters even when institutions refuse to provide it.
Sage holds up finished napkin—their mandala complete, circuits and protests and gender symbols woven into pattern suggesting all resistance connects somehow, that digital warfare and queer liberation share DNA if you look close enough. Like here, they say quietly. We remember each other. We don't forgive the world that tried erasing us. We don't forget the violence. And anyone threatening this space should expect us.
Exactly like here, Keira says, satisfaction in voice suggesting Sage articulated something she'd been thinking but hadn't voiced.
Della emerges from kitchen carrying plates that smell like rebellion served hot—mac and cheese infused with fury and love, bacon adding umami depth to carbohydrate comfort. She distributes food with aggressive care particular to people who express affection through feeding. You two finished explaining how you used to be cyber-criminals?
Hacktivists, I correct again, though distinction still feels academic. And yes. Also explained Rule 34, Rule 35, and Rule 63 to traumatize the youth properly. Shit that I am NOT going to repeat again tonight.
I'm gonna regret asking, Della says, settling against bar with Miguel in synchronized movement suggesting fifteen years of marriage creates its own language, But do you still get the itch , Wendy?
Oh she does, Della. She just thinks I don’t see her sneak outta bed at 2 am in the morning to get in front of terminal and look at her “legacy” targets. Keira laughs.
Fuck you , Keira.
Wait, there are people you still track Mom?, Phoenix recites with enthusiasm suggesting successful indoctrination into internet lore. Like real stuff?
Yeah, of course. Things that are still worth my ire, I might be old, but I haven’t lost my “spark”. I recite like the priestess I am.
Jesus fucking Christ, Della says, shaking head with combination of horror and admiration for internet's thoroughness. I hate that I know that now. I hope I never draw your ire, Wendy.
How could you, Della. My ire isn’t worth family. Ever.
Bourbon's warm in my system—not fixing anything but making the weight easier to carry. Three days explaining to corporations how thoroughly their security sucks, one evening explaining to chosen family how internet codifies humanity's comprehensive weirdness, all of it connecting somehow to understanding that resistance takes many forms. Sometimes digital warfare. Sometimes basement sanctuary. Sometimes just remembering that we were here, that we mattered, that our existence counted even when world insisted otherwise.
Phoenix returns to beanbag throne, purple and gold lightning settling into comfortable position suggesting processing complete. Thanks for the education, Mom. Now I can never search for anything innocent without remembering Rule 34.
You're welcome, I say, because sometimes maternal responsibility includes traumatizing your chosen children with comprehensive knowledge of internet's magnificent terrible nature. Consider it preparation for life online. The internet contains multitudes. Most of them pornographic. All of them human.
Sage holds up napkin mandala one final time before tucking it carefully into bag—another piece of sanctuary history preserved through art. Circuits and protests and gender symbols woven together, visual reminder that all resistance connects, that digital and physical liberation share DNA, that we are anonymous and we are legion and we are here, remembering each other in basement sanctuary where bourbon flows and truth pours raw and stories get written down so someone remembers we existed.
"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." — George Santayana
We spent the evening teaching younger generations about Anonymous collective's complicated legacy—how digital resistance movements begin with ideals and end somewhere between dream and disaster, how the credo 'We are Legion' applies to hacktivist networks and queer chosen families equally, how remembering matters when institutions refuse accountability. The internet's rules codify humanity's comprehensive nature: Rule 34's pornographic inevitability, Rule 35's creative guarantee, Rule 63's accidental trans representation. All of it connects to understanding that those who don't remember history—whether of digital warfare or systemic oppression—are condemned to repeat the same mistakes. We remember. We witness. We document. Because someone needs to prove we were here, that we mattered, that our collective existence counted even when the world insisted otherwise. That's the real meaning of 'We are Anonymous, We are Legion, We do not forget.'