We are anonymous inside the hacker world of lulzse

Wars, blasting a thick green laser beam toward a planet.
There were options to “Select a target,” by adding in a URL, and a button saying “Lock on.” Once you had a locked target, a large box in
the middle would show its server’s IP address as the program geared up for an attack. Next came another big button labeled “IMMA
CHARGIN MAH LAZER,” followed by options to configure the attack. During the first DDoS attacks on Scientology, the LOIC was
always in “manual mode,” which meant users would decide where and when to fire and what type of junk packets to send out.
Once an attack was under way, a status bar at the very bottom would show the program as being Idle, Connecting, Requesting,
Downloading, or Failed. If “Requesting,” a number would start rising rapidly. Once it froze, that meant the LOIC was stuck or the target was
down. You could check by visiting the target website—if you got a “Network Timeout” error message, it meant mission accomplished.
There was no buzz or rush of feeling when Mettenbrink first fired LOIC at Scientology.org, especially since the program froze as soon as
it started. He checked his configurations, and when the program got going again, he minimized the window and went back to wasting time
on 7chan. Unlike Gregg Housh, Mettenbrink was a casual participant in Chanology. He did not bother joining an IRC channel like #xenu or
finding out what Anonymous might do next. Instead, he kept LOIC running for several days and nights in the background of his computer,
eventually forgetting he was running it at all. Only when he noticed that the program was starting to slow down his Internet connection did he
switch it off—about three days after starting it.
“I am not responsible for how you use this tool,” LOIC programmer NewEraCracker had written as a disclaimer for the program when he
uploaded his tweaked version to the Web. “You cannot blame me if you get caught for attacking servers you don’t own.” It was crucial for
people who were using LOIC to run it through an anonymizing network like Tor to hide their IP addresses from the target or police. But
there were plenty of oblivious supporters, like Mettenbrink, who ran LOIC straight off their own computer with no special software. This
was often because they did not know how, or they didn’t realize that using LOIC was illegal.
On top of that, more Anons were communicating on IRC networks, which meant they had nicknames and reputations to uphold. Now
there wasn’t just the attraction of being part of a mob—there was a sense of obligation to return and join in with future attacks. Some
participants in a Chanology IRC channel knew, for instance, that returning to an IRC channel the following day also meant reacquainting
themselves with a new stable of online friends, who might think less of them if they didn’t turn up. This wasn’t like /b/, where you could
suddenly disappear and no one would notice.
Chanology was turning into a new community of hundreds of people, and it brought the collective to a point where communication was
gradually splitting between image boards and IRC networks. Image boards like 4chan had been using LOIC for a couple of years; the /b/tards
were forever declaring war on other sites that they claimed were stealing credit for their memes and content, such as eBaum’s World or the
blogging site Tumblr. But now more Anons were starting to use IRC networks to coordinate and follow instructions for DDoS attacks.
Beginning in January 2008, organizers had also started publishing announcements on Chanology and how-to guides on the Partyvan network
so that the sudden influx of thousands of “newfags” from all over the world to these new online protests could learn about LOIC and IRC
channels without having to ask.
The DDoS attacks on Scientology reached a pinnacle on January 19, when the church’s main website was hit by 488 attacks from
different computers. Several media outlets, among them Fox and Sky News, reported that the online disruptions were being caused by a
“small clique of super hackers.” This was a terrible misconception. Only a few Anonymous supporters were skilled hackers. Many more
were simply young Internet users who felt like doing something other than wasting time on 4chan or 7chan.
When someone posted an announcement on Partyvan that there would be a third, bigger DDoS attack on January 24, about five hundred
people are rumored to have taken part. But by then, Scientology had called in Prolexic Technologies, a specialist in DDoS protection based
in Hollywood, Florida, to help shield their servers. Soon the LOIC-based attacks stopped having an effect and the Scientology sites were up
and running as normal.
Scientology then hit back through the media, telling Newsweek in early February that Anonymous was “a group of cyber-terrorists…
perpetrating religious hate crimes against Churches of Scientology.” The strong wording didn’t help Scientology’s cause, bearing in mind a
famous phrase on the Internet: “Don’t feed the troll.” By appearing defensive, Scientology was inadvertently provoking more Anons to take
part in the attacks. And because joining Anonymous was so easy—at minimum you had to enter an IRC channel, or /b/, and join in the
conversation—hundreds of new people started looking in.
Then Anonymous found another way to cause a stir. Back in #marblecake, Housh had noticed one team member who had been quiet for
the past four days. He asked him to figure out how many cities and countries were being represented on the chat network. When the scout
came back, he reported that there were 140 to 145 different Chanology channels and participants in forty-two countries in total.
“What do we do with all these people?” one of the team asked. They started searching the Internet to see what opponents of Scientology
had done in the past and stumbled across a video of anti-Scientology campaigner Tory “Magoo” Christmam, who was dancing and shouting
in front of a Scientology center.
“This is hilarious,” a team member said. “We should totally make the Internet go outside.”
“We have to put them in the streets,” the French member who’d been studying for a PhD said. Housh didn’t agree, and he argued with the
Frenchman for the next three hours. Eventually, Housh relented, deciding that a real-world confrontation between Anons and the public
could be rather amusing.
“We honestly thought the funniest thing we could do to Scientology was get in front of their buildings,” Housh later said.
The group started working on their next video, their “call to arms,” and then a code of conduct after a Greenpeace activist came on IRC
and said they needed to make sure protesters didn’t throw things at buildings or punch cops. Housh started taking an increasingly
organizational role, dishing out responsibilities and bringing discussions back on topic when they veered off into jokes of firebombing or
Xbox games.
On January 26, someone calling himself “Anon Ymous” sent an e-mail to Gawker’s “tips” address, about a forthcoming protest outside the
Church of Scientology in Harlem. “Wear a mask of your choosing,” it said. “Bring a boombox. Rickroll them into submission. We will make
headlinez LOL.” There was also a tagline at the bottom, which was appearing on YouTube, blogs, and forum posts:
We are Anonymous
We are Legion