There's David M., the self-taught front-end developer who's hoping to land at a FAANG-like company but doesn't have enough React experience (yet) to apply for "the big dogs." He finished top of his class at a coding bootcamp and plans to skip paying the school for his tuition because "I could've done all this online, for free." He uses Sublime Text 2.
Then there's David L., who is often mistaken for David M. because he works as a back-end engineer at the same company as David M. He wears nearly the same clothes as David M. and works out at the same Orange Theory Fitness as David M. He's used to correcting people who've mistaken him and understands that's how friendships are kept. He does take pride in his single distinguishing feature: He's figured out to use nano for everything, from email to streaming videos to maintaining 3,500 servers in six states, as well as watching all of Modern Love in one sitting without crying. That's something the "other" David can't take away from him. He uses Nano, if you didn't catch that earlier.
Then there's Louis, a hermit computer science student at a state school -- "going out of state somewhere like Stanford or MIT, which I definitely had the grades for and don't need to do that "Missing Semester of Computer Science" bullshit, isn't in the cards right now" -- who bounces between his online classes, Discord, /g/, and slashDot, often shit-posting on all of them and never remembering if he called NarutoPrimalFear434 a "mother fucking muff sniffer" on his "Algo" class' forum or Reddit. He doesn't play video games but likes the idea of someone building him one so he can make money off the microtransactions -- "It'd be like Fornite but without being a pussy about it" -- and voted for Donald Trump on a dare. He uses Emacs.
Then there's Stan, the oldest of the group. A skilled UNIX (and Plan 9 on the weekend) programmer, he's often referred to as a "gray beard" in his field. He doesn't like that very much, mostly to due to a lifelong feeling of self-consciousness about his hair, and keeps his beard jet black. He's seen the dot-com bubble burst more than once, prefers to write everything, including emails, in C89 -- "If Romero and Carmack can write DOOM in C89, then it's possible to do anything with it." -- and wears graphic joke T-shirts his loving wife, Marissa, picks up for him at Spencer's. He uses Vi because the "M in Vim is for morons, and I prefer the Ugandan kid use a fucking bulldozer than a dumbass drill."
Then there's David S., an _associate_ partner at a prestigious VC firm in Austin -- "It's not the Bay Area, but I'm working on it" -- where he's worked since dropping out of business school at University of Texas ("Such a class move," he once said with chuckle). He hopes to one day run his own firm -- or least make partner-- so he can have the satisfaction of saying, "You know what's cooler than a million dollars?" and someone _finally_ giving him the right answer: "Shove it up your ass." He enjoys a good argument and often cites his "college education" and "status" as a "partner" at a "pretty nice VC firm in the South." Though, most people laugh it off because they've seen Halt and Catch Fire and know David is no Joe McMillan or John Bosworth. He uses Notepad++.
Finally, there's Michael, a pro-Earth, non-GMO, Vegan-Lite(TM) cyberpunkish manager for a small startup working on becoming the next Lyft -- "Uber is too problematic at the moment" -- for making recyclable computer components for poor children in the South -- "shipping them to Africa would be too expensive!" Side note: David offered to be an angel investment, but Michael, an atheist, misinterpreted the offer and told David to "shove it up your ass." Michael has dreads, wears toe shoes -- "I have it on good authority that Thom Browne's new line will include suits, skirts and these toe shoes" -- and primarily writes in CoffeeScript because "it's more ergonomic for my wrists." There's rumor at Michael's office that he'd been fired for attempting to cancel himself "just to know how these other people feel" and is somehow on the still on the paywall. He uses Atom.
All of them are in the conference room, a dimly light room with glass windows for that "open office" feeling. A small window looks out onto a nondescript parking lot. The location is easy to find but the guys in the room insist it's their sanctuary. The men sit around the round wooden table, a circular masterpiece of fine mahogany that has with stands its share or split soda, alcohol and blood. The men all sit on Herman Miller Aeron chairs.
"Its my secret spot, David said, where I can really tell people what I'm thinking without fear of repercussion. You think I'm one of these idiots who comes in here using my full name? Yeah. Right."
A large TV screen sits at the front of the table. It's always on, powered by unknown power source hidden beneath the building. Every couple of minutes a headline for a story, a product announcement, a question, flashes on the screen -- black text on beige -- and the men discuss it, either for a few minutes or days at a time.
Some lead to universal agreement -- "Yes, putting your left leg into your pants first is the definitive way to understanding bicameralism," Michael opined once about an article in The Verge. This a rare occurrence.
However, most of the time, the men argue.
"Elon Musk would make the perfect wedding cake for my friend's Quinceañera," Stan once said, to the collective sigh in the room.
"Well, actually," Louis chimed in, "that might be a bit problematic because, and hear me out, Elon isn't a real person. He's the creation of a collective group of people in Silicon Valley with a lot -- and I'm talking _a lot_ -- of money in the Tesla company and need a public figure -- "Elon," in this case -- who can take the heat for anything controversial the company does and deflect most of the attention to his Twitter spats and his girlfriend, Shine."
"I think you meant Grimes, Stan said.
"How did a nitwit you like know that?" David said.
If a conversation is particularly heated, with the sound of yelling, fist flying and crying permeating through the building, the kerfuffle might attract the attention of Mr. Porter, a petite, bald man who maintains the building. He'd knock once, twice, three times before coming in and politely reminding everyone to stay cool and be respectful.
The warnings often goes ignored unless Ignacio, Mr. Poter's cousin, who co-runs building from Argentina, happens to be in town and tells the group to "shut the fuck up before I throw you out."
And so the arguments go. Day in and night out. Some characters have come and gone -- "Remember the guy who did the online quiz show? What a crock!" -- but the six remain.
Will the building ever shut down? Probably. Where will they go? Where can they debate their opinions on niche topics while the rest of the world burns?
Sure, there might be a replacement building, but it can't replace _this_ one.
Maybe the back alley. "Too much anime on the walls for my linking," David said.
Or maybe the plaza. It's public and plenty of people -- "or robots, though you can't be sure," Michael said -- conversing in public.
"Too many damn birds," Stan said. "We won't hear a damn thing, and there will be shit everywhere. Also, when did all the Russian and Chinese people suddenly show up, speaking, on purpose, with really, really bad English accents?"
Leaving hadn't crossed Louis' mind, but he jumps at an idea.
"Maybe we can take this online," he said. The other five eye him suspiciously. Then, they get excited. They look at each other like a pack of hungry mice, flashes of orange streaking across their face from a passing car outside.
"We can call it... Net News," Stan said. "We're always talking about the net...and the news."
"No, boomer," Michael said.
"You're the same fucking age as me," Stan retorts.
"What about... Hacker News?"
The room falls silent. The excitement builds. David can feel himself sweating, while David holds him close.
"I'm not a hacker," David said.
"Me neither," Michael said. "Though, I do consider myself quite the 'lifehacker' if you know what I mean."
"Let's do it," Louis said. "Now I never have to leave my apartment. I don't have to see you all anymore. This has been a waste of time.