The IP address that she couldn’t find the owner. The IP address that shouldn’t exist. The IP address ending in twelve dot one six eight.
She dialed up the report server and ran a report. The same report that was once her responsibility; the same report she ran on the day of the massacre, the same report that showed the IP address; she just couldn’t leave well enough alone. She ran her report for December 24th and it showed nothing. It didn’t show the IP address in any of the back logs since the massacre. No one seemed to have hit the IP address which was a good sign, a good sign until she ran the report for today, for her birthday. Again the report showed not one hit. “How is that possible?,” she questioned herself. She had just pinged the IP address and it returned an answer. Unsure of herself she double-checked and pinged again. Same reply, same exact three lines on the screen. She was able to communicate with this computer and the hit should have registered on the daily report. She ran the report again and again and still nothing. Then she ran it for the day of the massacre. “Strange,” the IP address didn’t show, it seemed to vanish into thin air but she saw it with her own two eyes just a few months before. She blocked it and wrote it down on a yellow sticky which she affixed to her flat screen monitor, yet that IP address didn’t exist on the report when she reran it for the day of the massacre, the 23rd. She quickly went back to her saved report from that day. Sure enough, the IP address was correct. The IP existed on this old, saved report yet somehow magically disappears when she reran the report for the 23 rd at this present time. She should get the same results. It is like it didn’t exist, yet she was able to ping this computer, she was able to see this computer, so it did exist. So instead of dealing with the report server she went directly to the router’s interface, the piece of hardware that helps communicate between computer and computer. She redid her steps to block the IP address again, basically denying access again to anyone who would want to communicate with this machine, just like she did on the day of the massacre at the mall. Again she couldn’t leave well enough alone. Again she pinged the machine and again it came back with a reply. “Impossible,” she thought. “Impossible,” she just blocked that IP address at the router level yet she was still able to communicate with the machine. No one should have access, not even herself. “Odd,” she thought, “Very odd indeed.” Perplexed she just turned around and stared at her orange and blue eye on her wall and was hypothesized for a brief moment. She went to refill her coffee cup and stared some more, thought some more. The coffee got the best of her and she made her way to the lavatory. While rinsing her hands she noticed the fine wood, then she noticed the nice marble floor with inlay, then she noticed the stalls, how each unit was closet like, more private, she noticed the lighting was a bit dimmer, the towels just a little thicker—it was almost as good as home. She felt strange in the sense she was here before yet never noticed, in and out so to speak. Then she realized, “the restrooms on other floors are not like this”. They were the usual metal stalls, tile flooring and walls, very bright, and cheap paper. “Ah, the perks of an executive, this is nice.” Then it hit her like a piano falling from a five story building. “Access level.”
She made her way back to the computer and brought up the security protocols. She brought up her security level and it read level two. She could not change her own even though she was the top guard dog of security. She was at level four before her promotion. This could explain a few things but not all of them. Again she went to the report server this time bringing up a report entitled “Security Clearance for Reports”. This one stated all the report names and the
She dialed up the report server and ran a report. The same report that was once her responsibility; the same report she ran on the day of the massacre, the same report that showed the IP address; she just couldn’t leave well enough alone. She ran her report for December 24th and it showed nothing. It didn’t show the IP address in any of the back logs since the massacre. No one seemed to have hit the IP address which was a good sign, a good sign until she ran the report for today, for her birthday. Again the report showed not one hit. “How is that possible?,” she questioned herself. She had just pinged the IP address and it returned an answer. Unsure of herself she double-checked and pinged again. Same reply, same exact three lines on the screen. She was able to communicate with this computer and the hit should have registered on the daily report. She ran the report again and again and still nothing. Then she ran it for the day of the massacre. “Strange,” the IP address didn’t show, it seemed to vanish into thin air but she saw it with her own two eyes just a few months before. She blocked it and wrote it down on a yellow sticky which she affixed to her flat screen monitor, yet that IP address didn’t exist on the report when she reran it for the day of the massacre, the 23rd. She quickly went back to her saved report from that day. Sure enough, the IP address was correct. The IP existed on this old, saved report yet somehow magically disappears when she reran the report for the 23 rd at this present time. She should get the same results. It is like it didn’t exist, yet she was able to ping this computer, she was able to see this computer, so it did exist. So instead of dealing with the report server she went directly to the router’s interface, the piece of hardware that helps communicate between computer and computer. She redid her steps to block the IP address again, basically denying access again to anyone who would want to communicate with this machine, just like she did on the day of the massacre at the mall. Again she couldn’t leave well enough alone. Again she pinged the machine and again it came back with a reply. “Impossible,” she thought. “Impossible,” she just blocked that IP address at the router level yet she was still able to communicate with the machine. No one should have access, not even herself. “Odd,” she thought, “Very odd indeed.” Perplexed she just turned around and stared at her orange and blue eye on her wall and was hypothesized for a brief moment. She went to refill her coffee cup and stared some more, thought some more. The coffee got the best of her and she made her way to the lavatory. While rinsing her hands she noticed the fine wood, then she noticed the nice marble floor with inlay, then she noticed the stalls, how each unit was closet like, more private, she noticed the lighting was a bit dimmer, the towels just a little thicker—it was almost as good as home. She felt strange in the sense she was here before yet never noticed, in and out so to speak. Then she realized, “the restrooms on other floors are not like this”. They were the usual metal stalls, tile flooring and walls, very bright, and cheap paper. “Ah, the perks of an executive, this is nice.” Then it hit her like a piano falling from a five story building. “Access level.”
She made her way back to the computer and brought up the security protocols. She brought up her security level and it read level two. She could not change her own even though she was the top guard dog of security. She was at level four before her promotion. This could explain a few things but not all of them. Again she went to the report server this time bringing up a report entitled “Security Clearance for Reports”. This one stated all the report names and the
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