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If Lisbeth Salander is to be honest, she would have put her odds in staying in her assigned apartments at something approaching zero. What kind of idiot does that, just stays where she's been put? Not her.
But here she is, tucked away and half-hidden from view of the front door and window in the little nest of pillows on the floor at one end of the couch, her laptop on a tray in front of her. She could make a half-dozen arguments about not immediately alerting whoever controls this place to her non-compliance, or about squatting somewhere during the winter, or monitoring the building, but they lack honesty.
The reasons she's here have everything to do with the effects of slow change, and are neatly wrapped up in one person many floors above.
She calls herself an idiot for the eighth time that day, and focuses on her screen, where her lazy tour of traffic cameras and anything else not properly secured, has caught something. The camera in question wouldn't be picked up typically, except that her own code, the numbers and letters and patterns she's using to trawl the city, have caught on it in some strange bit of overlap. Not impossible, but improbable. If she didn't know better, she'd think it must belong to Hacker Republic, at the least; it's something to check out tomorrow when there's light.
At the sound of someone outside her door, she leans around the couch, not entirely aware of the hopeful beginnings of a smile.
But here she is, tucked away and half-hidden from view of the front door and window in the little nest of pillows on the floor at one end of the couch, her laptop on a tray in front of her. She could make a half-dozen arguments about not immediately alerting whoever controls this place to her non-compliance, or about squatting somewhere during the winter, or monitoring the building, but they lack honesty.
The reasons she's here have everything to do with the effects of slow change, and are neatly wrapped up in one person many floors above.
She calls herself an idiot for the eighth time that day, and focuses on her screen, where her lazy tour of traffic cameras and anything else not properly secured, has caught something. The camera in question wouldn't be picked up typically, except that her own code, the numbers and letters and patterns she's using to trawl the city, have caught on it in some strange bit of overlap. Not impossible, but improbable. If she didn't know better, she'd think it must belong to Hacker Republic, at the least; it's something to check out tomorrow when there's light.
At the sound of someone outside her door, she leans around the couch, not entirely aware of the hopeful beginnings of a smile.
