Work Text:
She never did know what she did wrong.
Isis wasn't a malicious hacker. She didn't attack major corporations or anyone underground that might have unsavory practices or an army on standby. She skated under the radar, occasionally diverted funds into charitable organizations, more likely to do things like move sick people onto treatable lists or bump insurance around or fix the security herself on some applications that should be better protected. But she didn't file reports, she stayed away from the big boys, and she didn't get herself marked as a script kiddie.
She never did know what brought the men in tactical gear crashing through her family's front door in their tiny, grungy apartment or why they came in with guns high and aimed, why she screamed as she grabbed her father's arm, the red blooming already through his jacket clutched in her hand, why she didn't even hear her mother's scream as she fell.
They snatched up her personal computer, a kid thing; it looked like a toy and not a powerhouse machine, and she'd fixed up its interfaces long ago to look like nothing more powerful than a kiddie video game.
They snatched her up and she screamed, fists pounding on their backs, father's jacket clutched in her hand as she cried her for her parents, even knowing they would never answer her cries again.