He basks in the soft green of the binary as his fingers
fly over the keyboard, automatic and unrelenting.
Every drizzly morning - and it's always drizzly, no matter
if he is in London, Berlin, Oslo,
the smothering of the clouds follows him and tries to drown him
out with their ceaseless, monotone raining.
Each morning, or whenever he happens to wake and not go
back to sleep, he will wake up, shower, and then
he begins to skulk through firewalls and dance with government
encryptions, a most dangerous tango.
The hackerman slouches in his chair for hours, eyes glazed and dull
oblivious to the clock on the wall.
His lips crack and his mouth tightens for want of water, a need
long forgotten in pursuit of victory.
Swathes of pretty blond hair curl wasted by his ears and his bloodshot
blue eyes, blurring more with every second
spend chasing. He's lost count of how long it's been now. How long,
but more importantly, how much longer?
Not even the pounding of midnight rain against the window
draws his eyes from the writhing on the screen.
Nor does the soft snoring of his lover, ever so patient
as his hacker works in an endless loop
for corporations threatening and faceless, cruel in their demands
of one vigilante son of binary.
He will frown as the tango starts to exhaust him; he doesn't
know how much longer he can tango for.
Suddenly the code will slide into place like dislocated
joints coming back together, awkward but
good enough, and he will become aware of what he is, again -
worn out and dusty grey, hungry for respite.
He is no Hercules, Samson, or Bellerophon, but he tries
and that's all he can do, he tells himself.
He goes to bed, thirsty and unbathed. He barely pauses to
undo the chain and cross around his neck
and to set them down on the spindly table beside their bed
in one of the hacker's many safe-flats.
His lover turns with a broken whisper sleep now, hacker dear.
Tomorrow he will do it all again.