Isabella ‘Wildfire’ Friedmann, The Hacker

Discussion in 'Recurring Characters' started by Paladin_girl, Dec 10, 2012.

  1. Paladin_girl

    Paladin_girl Between the Chapters of a Dream Staff Member

    Dec 4, 2004

    ‘You gonna shoot us?’

    ‘If I have to. Do I have to?’

    Name: Isabella ‘Wildfire’ Friedmann

    Age: 26

    Gender: Female

    Race: Half-Alpha, Half-Beta. (German and Japanese)

    Personality: A robust intellect with a resound knack for engineering, she is usually stubborn, impulsive and reckless, but does so in order to maintain a state of power. She allows nobody to control her or step on her – and if they try, she is normally merciless. She’s a tired individual who usually has to resort to extremes in order to keep her fellow rebels from squabbling. She usually looks misleadingly relaxed or indifferent, but it is likely that she listens and understands more than what she lets on. While she is a decent markswoman, she tends to steal other people's weapons, rather than use her pistol.

    She has a strong dislike for liars, cheats and timewasters. She smirks easily.

    And has a fear of turtles.

    Appearance: Wildfire wears square goggles which are wired to a compartment around a belt. The goggles double as an anti-hacker guard and in-built computer. She was wears two black wristbands on either wrist, while on her tanned, right shoulder is a mark – strange in shape, looking like a distorted circle. It shows the world, but split in half – one side showing a somewhat fresh, daylight world of cities, while the other was night, jagged and thorny, but of nature. If she cared about her appearance and wiped away the engine oil on her face, it is likely that she would look rather pretty.

    She wears a simple black vest and brown trousers, but wears a large number of belts. Two around her waist and another around her left thigh – and holds compartments upon it – most notable of all is a double-barrel, flintlock pistol. Her hair is long, messily pulled into a high ponytail, apart from her fringe and strands of hair that frame her face.



    Any passer-by would first notice the steam that spat from the exhaust in various interesting hues, ranging from dusty-browns to fading blacks and greys. From that came the curved, rusty-brown curves and ruts around the contraption. Atop of it was a black seat, leading up to the black handles, both of which were leather – and ripped. On the side was the engraving: “Shakespearian”, while on the other side was the words: “Let no man be traitor to himself.” Underneath these words was a strapped, long object, covered by yet more leather – and another was beneath it, longer still, nearly covering the length of the bike.

    Bio: Though robust, the Shakespearian movement consists of fifty hackers, led by a man named Aziz. They are hackers, battling against a growing cyber-regime.

    The majority of members know not to mess with Wildfire, lest they annoy her, but many agree that it should be she running the show, rather than Aziz. Learning the methods of hacking at a young age, Isabella was approached by the Shakespearian leader and employed into their service. She is either liked or distrusted, since she follows her own whims, rather than follow orders.

    “So you want to stop the fascism by using it yourself? Why don’t you just use a sign which says ‘don’t’? You could hit people with it.”

    Isabella insists that her past is forsaken – that none of it matters, but more likely, she doesn’t trust anyone enough to talk about it.

    Or she’s having too much fun to look back.

    One time, she led the CIA on a chase, leaving behind a single, large light in each district that she visited - as it turns out, the entire chase was a ruse, since the lights all collaborated to make a smilie face in the middle of The Grid.

    After all... what could possibly go wrong?
  2. Paladin_girl

    Paladin_girl Between the Chapters of a Dream Staff Member

    Dec 4, 2004

    She had seen film footage of cell replication.
    Out of millions of little splitting eggs, a single being was pulled out to draw in air.
    There were tiny details that determined one being from another, from iris marks to fingerprints.
    She liked the fingers. They were more than just the symbols beyond her wrists.


    The outsider bravely strode into
    that tiny, crappy bar
    once again to...
    to hear that


    The Wasp's Nest whistled its digital tune as it buzzed softly in Isabella's ear, the sight of the bar's piano splayed out before her in a zigzag pattern of white and black. The cherry-wood was soft and smooth as sin, the bark's lines inviting her hands to follow them. The bar was small and cold, its walls and furniture multiple shades of sensual grey, dimly illuminated by broken lights, salvaged from above. The only thing that looked clean was the piano in front of her. There was love in that instrument.
    That was the way.
    It was like opening one's eyes to a blank slate and being asked to smash one's head against it. An impossible feat to do without flinching, but then cowardliness was a habit that one had to engage with in order to defeat it.
    That was the way.
    And instead of fear, she fell in love with curiosity.
    Yes, that was the way, too.
    Isabella flinched, wrenching her eyes upwards to face the barman. He beamed at her brightly, wringing his hands expectantly as his eyes dropped to warmly survey her digits against the marble-like lines of the piano.
    What kind of name was “Tania”, anyway? Who gave her that name?
    'Just give me a minute. It's been a long day.'
    The barman laughed. 'I'll say. Whatever you've done in the last hour must have been extreme.' He gave her a thumbs-up. 'Loving the get-up. You should wear it more often! It's lax. The usual?'
    Isabella sparkled a grin and nodded, the smile remaining until the barman's back turned. Her lips loosened back to their normal, impending amusement. She leaned forward, hesitating. She knew that the fingers that last pressed these keys had left their own prints.
    Prints that would belong to her, too.
    I'llneverdoanythingwithouthavingdirtunder. My nails.
    Her 'usual' was a strange concoction of vodka and orange juice. Isabella snorted, lighting a cigarette, much to the barman's surprise. When their eyes met, he nearly flinched, quickly settling the drink atop of the piano.
    Give me a break, Isabella thought, you're finding this entertaining.
    She took a deep breath...
    Andpressedthekeysdaintilybutthe. But the. Ohhh… But the sound...

    'How do chicks breathe?' Isabella leaned against the desk table, staring blankly at Dr. Bertram. They were in the education facility again, as they had been in the past month. He had been keen to place her through combat and arms training, but was reassured that the woman was ready, that testing would be frustrating, as well as obsolete. He frowned at her. This hadn't exactly been the first time that the woman had asked strange questions.
    'Chicks,' he said, 'have holes in their beaks, just like you do in your nose.'
    'I mean in their eggs,' Isabella insisted, glaring at him.
    Bertram raised an eyebrow. 'Why don't you consult the Bird's Nest?'
    'It's heavy.'
    'And you have a good head to place it on.'
    Isabella beamed at that, drawing it from her belt. The green lights flickered passively around the goggles, waiting to be used. She settled them awkwardly across her eyes, tapping away at the small buttons on the wires.
    Bertram watched, suddenly intrigued. She had never looked at her feet nor ever looked at the buttons around her waist for more than a few seconds before setting to work. The frequency was becoming less and less. He found himself believing that it would be barely a day before the relationship between Isabella and the Nest was nearly instinctual. Barely a few seconds passed before Isabella uttered her findings.
    'Wasp found it.' Isabella sounded almost proud.
    'What did you call it?'
    'Wasp. It's a Wasp's Nest.'
    Isabella pushed the goggles upward, her eyes shining with quiet brilliance. 'I changed the gamma-frequency so that the information wasn't limited to this facility. I wasn't aware that every piece of information ran through a filter.'
    Bertram shifted uncomfortably.
    'Does that mean that there is a restriction on what we know?'
    The doctor's mouth ran dry. He couldn't look at her. 'That didn't answer my question.'
    Isabella grinned. 'I know.'

    Isabella's pranks were getting worse. As the scientists attempted to cut away pieces of the zeta-network to bar information from the outside getting inside, the more Isabella attempted to find more.
    And there always was more.
    She was restricted to her cell, seeing very few scientists – Bertram was nowhere to be found, even when the Wasp's Nest danced across the security cameras.
    This time, Isabella was going to get a treat. She was going to learn about music. Specifically, the piano. Maybe, she thought, she would see Bertram.
    When she was led by the guide-pods into the chamber, it was not he that stood there. Rather, it was someone else entirely. She didn't acknowledge them immediately. Isabella looked at the pod questioningly.
    'Who is this?'
    'This is Client Jason Tender.'
    ‘What’s a “client”?’
    ‘I’ll answer that.’ Tender strode towards her, his eyes gazing everywhere apart from her face.
    Isabella didn’t like him. Bertram however, had reminded her to be polite. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Isabella Freidmann.’
    Oh you are, are you?’ he began to sneer, ‘I expected you to be younger. A lot younger. What’s Bertram playing at?’
    Isabella folded her arms across her chest, forcing the tedious little imp to meet her eyes. ‘I wasn’t aware that Doctor Bertram played games.’ She could hear the smugness in her voice, but she didn’t care. She was revelling in it.
    The look in Tender’s eyes was cold. There was even an odd shine to them. ‘I’m not paying for you to talk back at me.’
    ‘I’m want to play the piano.’ Isabella smartened herself up and began to stride past him, straightening her back. Her movements were stunted by a firm gasp at her elbow.