Frances Lang


What I really do

A sullen black glass slice, stabbed with fluoro gleams and pulses.
Exploding fireworks of pixels keep it alert, ready to signal me when.
And I do. Watch, that is, and get tracked in return.
I smudge my footprints, tie leaves to my feet, drag a branch behind me
cross rivers and walk down them, sleep during the day and move at night,
don’t light fires
kill if I have to.
Evade, evade, evade.
I learn three new languages
train a wild dog to hunt food and an eagle to get the drones they send
I reconfigure the pieces and hack into government websites using fishing line repurposed as fibreoptic cable, some Game-of-Thrones ASMR magic, responsibly sourced microplastics and most of the possible piercings: daith, helix, tragus, snug, orbital, conch.
It works and I look amazing.
I build a small hardware backdoor, deploy the Wiegand protocol and exploit NTLM vulnerabilities, swiping right for a random server. I bounce in a Windows Forest, order drugs and the new peach palette, win at anorexia (now a computer game) and phish enough for a house on the beach at Byron Bay, setting a trail back to Ghislaine Maxwell’s extremely well-hidden VPN.
Ghislaine sings but also suicides in jail, and when I run out of evasion strategies and have to break cover, I find a TikTok job offer from Google.

Frances Lang is a writer and researcher with a background in the contemporary visual arts. She is currently undertaking her PhD.
 
 
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