Louis Reinhardt was a hacker. At least, currently, under the guidance of the Franchise, someone who knew how to coordinate multiple Direct Denial of Service attacks and crack codes every now and then. Being the protege of a famous OKAY Network Administrator had its perks.
Those perks included control of an inconspicuous, low-rise building on the outskirts of the city. Red brick walls, incredibly vacant parking lots during the day. The four-story building held a legitimate graphic design business and fanzine print; it also held one half of Reinhardt's hacking operations on behalf of the Franchise.
Reinhardt was noble in his deeds. Illegal sites on the surface of the web and beneath it fell to his unruly gaze. Corrupt jerks went out of style with leaks from questionable sources. Thanks to his training with OKAY, he did more in his five years with them taking down cyberterrorism than any other lone script kiddy or net vigilante group could, despite his relative inexperience compared with the greatest hackers that OKAY had on speed dial.
He was also a Franchise recruiter, a secondary title. Weren't there supposed to be Franchise managers? Unless, of course, Core Administrators were the Franchise managers and the latter title was out of date. He wondered because he didn't really like recruiting people and interviewing them. High workloads, stuffy geekdom, dark rooms and glaring computer screens had shaped him into an introvert.
The administration respected his reluctance and funneled most interviews meant for him to other recruiters within a fifty mile radius. He preferred to recruit people who understood what he did, who sympathized with rose-tinted counterveillance and cyberwarfare, and for the most part, that's what he got.
Today was different. Reinhardt was assigned to interview a local journalist who successfully sent an application for the job. Arrangements were made to interview him on the fourth floor of the building, in Reinhardt's office.
This office was also Reinhardt's workstation. The small desk near the only window in the room held a powerful computer workstation with a sleek monitor and a massive virtual graphics tablet. Reinhard sat back in his swivel chair, facing the interviewee across the desk from him. To Reinhardt's right, and to the interviewee's left, was a tall bookcase with neatly sorted records and bookkeeping references.
"Thank you for coming here this afternoon, Mister Fontaine," Reinhardt began, moments after shaking the interviewee's hand. "I apologize for not dressing more suitably, but I was called here this morning to fix multiple paper jams and they took up most of the time before the time of our appointment." Indeed, Reinhardt was as casual as what he thought he could get away with: a faded blue V-shirt, short hiking pants and open-toe sandals. His curly black hair fell leftwards, and his thin beard was uneven on both sides.
Not worrying about appearances, Reinhardt quickly grabbed a pen from his desk, as well as a notepad. He didn't want to use the computer to take notes this time, as he needed the break in immersion. With a click of the pen, the interview was underway. "Alright, Mister Fontaine, let's get started then; tell me how you found out about the Franchise."
Those perks included control of an inconspicuous, low-rise building on the outskirts of the city. Red brick walls, incredibly vacant parking lots during the day. The four-story building held a legitimate graphic design business and fanzine print; it also held one half of Reinhardt's hacking operations on behalf of the Franchise.
Reinhardt was noble in his deeds. Illegal sites on the surface of the web and beneath it fell to his unruly gaze. Corrupt jerks went out of style with leaks from questionable sources. Thanks to his training with OKAY, he did more in his five years with them taking down cyberterrorism than any other lone script kiddy or net vigilante group could, despite his relative inexperience compared with the greatest hackers that OKAY had on speed dial.
He was also a Franchise recruiter, a secondary title. Weren't there supposed to be Franchise managers? Unless, of course, Core Administrators were the Franchise managers and the latter title was out of date. He wondered because he didn't really like recruiting people and interviewing them. High workloads, stuffy geekdom, dark rooms and glaring computer screens had shaped him into an introvert.
The administration respected his reluctance and funneled most interviews meant for him to other recruiters within a fifty mile radius. He preferred to recruit people who understood what he did, who sympathized with rose-tinted counterveillance and cyberwarfare, and for the most part, that's what he got.
Today was different. Reinhardt was assigned to interview a local journalist who successfully sent an application for the job. Arrangements were made to interview him on the fourth floor of the building, in Reinhardt's office.
This office was also Reinhardt's workstation. The small desk near the only window in the room held a powerful computer workstation with a sleek monitor and a massive virtual graphics tablet. Reinhard sat back in his swivel chair, facing the interviewee across the desk from him. To Reinhardt's right, and to the interviewee's left, was a tall bookcase with neatly sorted records and bookkeeping references.
"Thank you for coming here this afternoon, Mister Fontaine," Reinhardt began, moments after shaking the interviewee's hand. "I apologize for not dressing more suitably, but I was called here this morning to fix multiple paper jams and they took up most of the time before the time of our appointment." Indeed, Reinhardt was as casual as what he thought he could get away with: a faded blue V-shirt, short hiking pants and open-toe sandals. His curly black hair fell leftwards, and his thin beard was uneven on both sides.
Not worrying about appearances, Reinhardt quickly grabbed a pen from his desk, as well as a notepad. He didn't want to use the computer to take notes this time, as he needed the break in immersion. With a click of the pen, the interview was underway. "Alright, Mister Fontaine, let's get started then; tell me how you found out about the Franchise."
Clutched in fingerless gloved hands, the nipping breeze ripped through the thin cloth and bit at his knuckles uncomfortably - needless to say, the one thing he didn't like about fieldwork was the weather, so when he finally was able to locate the right building he was thanking any deity that could hear him for the privilege of indoor heating units.
Thanking his excellent time management skills for getting him here on time despite getting lost a few times along the way, he felt a sense of paltry accomplishment just for finding the place. In a relatively good mood despite the adventure, he shrugs his trench coat off and folds it carefully over his arm. Beneath was a well-tailored suit, the only one he owned, and perhaps one of his most useful possessions. First impressions were important, after all, and if you came in looking shabby it didn't matter how good your photo's were.
Red tie fastened neatly over a lightly pinstriped button-down and a blazer in dark chocolate; hair was combed into sleek, deceptive perfection; betraying it's usual ruffled, unkempt state. Around his neck, as always, was a digital SLR camera on a leather strap. It was never far from him, and he just never felt right leaving it at home - besides, who knew when a good story would break?
When he was finally approaching the door to the 4th floor office, he felt familiar self-doubt nagging at him. With a little inner-coaching, he inhales sharply through his nose and enters.
The man who greets him was not was he was expecting, to be quite frank. He was not, as assumptions served him, a tight-faced man bundled into an 3 piece suit. Instead, he was... normal. To say he was nothing special based on appearance seemed conceited, but in this case it was more of a relief than an insult. The weight on his shoulders seemed to ease, and he gratefully shakes his hand when offered to him, making sure to do so with a sturdy effort.
"No worries. Happens to all of us, now and then!"
A strained smile, a nervous cheerfulness. Each word was calculated and agonized over. Interviews were always such fresh hell.
When prompted he moves to the chair, his eyes barely leaving his interviewer except to dart towards the exit as if he is expecting the building to catch fire at any moment. Well, it certainly felt like it, he thought as he pulls at his buttoned collar that suddenly felt suffocating around his thin neck. His adam's apple bobbed with an inaudible gulp.
Then, words. Felix took a moment to ponder over the question like it was spoken to him in a different language. However, he likes to believe he hides his discomfort well enough and flashes a tense, all-to-wide grin.
"Well... there was an ad, in the city paper, that occasionally publishes my work. Actually, funny, it was right next to one of my photo's...!"
A tabloid, none the less. Not the best example of what good he could do for the world. Their ad itself had been cryptic in and of itself. Truth be told, if the promise of easy money wasn't enough to catch his attention, the idea of uncovering the truth behind the faceless 'Franchise' was.
"An ad, huh?" Reinhardt thought about it for a second. The local OKAY advertising campaign had been happening for a few weeks now and so far more than fifty inquiries had popped up, the most people recruited locally in a one-month timespan so far. "Yeah, we've been getting a lot of applicants through local papers," he responded. "I, uh, have been getting at least two interviewees a day from it. Not that I don't mind, or anything. Keeps me on my toes, I get to meet a lot of new people..." He gave a slight nod, forgetting what to say next to keep the energy going. "Yeah."
He had a hunch that the interviewee was tensing up, and so moved on: "Right, that's all I need to know about how you found out about OKAY." He scribbled the words "ADVERTISEMENT RECRUIT" down. "Now, about that tangent about the city paper. You don't mind if I ask you briefly about your journalist profession, do you? I know there's a bunch of things you want to keep confidential, and I fully respect that. In any case, go ahead."
He had a hunch that the interviewee was tensing up, and so moved on: "Right, that's all I need to know about how you found out about OKAY." He scribbled the words "ADVERTISEMENT RECRUIT" down. "Now, about that tangent about the city paper. You don't mind if I ask you briefly about your journalist profession, do you? I know there's a bunch of things you want to keep confidential, and I fully respect that. In any case, go ahead."
Oh. So that's how it was. Competition.
Brown eyes alight, he straightens his posture and feels new fire sear through the ice in his veins, a reckless pride he was neither proud of nor apologetic for. He had to step up his game. If there were hundreds of other applicants, there was only a slim chance he'd get the job. There was a lot riding on this, and losing this opportunity would kind of be like spilling water in the desert.
"Well, not a whole lot of people have seen my face, you know. This organization and I are cut from the same cloth. Anonymity is important to maintaining professionalism."
He nods his head towards Reinhardt, a somewhat smug expression settling in over his once wired visage. His posture noticeably relaxes as he falls into speaking about what he is most confident about in himself; if nothing he was a good photographer.
"If they can see your face, they make all sorts of judgments about your work. Race, gender, appearances... I want my work to speak for itself. Like ventriloquy, the puppeteer is only the proxy in which their spirit expresses themselves-erk... I uh, well that is to say I just think I'm not as important as the pictures are."
He itches somewhat self-consciously at the back of his neck, his eyes once glowing with passion dimming and averting themselves from what he assumes is a judgmental gaze.
Brown eyes alight, he straightens his posture and feels new fire sear through the ice in his veins, a reckless pride he was neither proud of nor apologetic for. He had to step up his game. If there were hundreds of other applicants, there was only a slim chance he'd get the job. There was a lot riding on this, and losing this opportunity would kind of be like spilling water in the desert.
"Well, not a whole lot of people have seen my face, you know. This organization and I are cut from the same cloth. Anonymity is important to maintaining professionalism."
He nods his head towards Reinhardt, a somewhat smug expression settling in over his once wired visage. His posture noticeably relaxes as he falls into speaking about what he is most confident about in himself; if nothing he was a good photographer.
"If they can see your face, they make all sorts of judgments about your work. Race, gender, appearances... I want my work to speak for itself. Like ventriloquy, the puppeteer is only the proxy in which their spirit expresses themselves-erk... I uh, well that is to say I just think I'm not as important as the pictures are."
He itches somewhat self-consciously at the back of his neck, his eyes once glowing with passion dimming and averting themselves from what he assumes is a judgmental gaze.
"You know, you may be onto something there." Reinhardt eyed the journalist with as much objectivity and little emotion as he could, but his enthusiasm was sparked. The way the journalist worded those last sentences reminded him of his mentor, "funnelcake".
Three seconds of thought brought back a whole slew of photos, all taken by "funnelcake", burned in his mind. Fluid leading lines all around, amazing diagonal abuse...maybe they weren't too professional, but the photographer-turned-hacker had a great track record.
"The Franchise values those who take a lot of pride in their work," Reinhardt, half deep-in-thought, continued, "so let me ask you this: What do you look for in the perfect photograph?"
Three seconds of thought brought back a whole slew of photos, all taken by "funnelcake", burned in his mind. Fluid leading lines all around, amazing diagonal abuse...maybe they weren't too professional, but the photographer-turned-hacker had a great track record.
"The Franchise values those who take a lot of pride in their work," Reinhardt, half deep-in-thought, continued, "so let me ask you this: What do you look for in the perfect photograph?"
"There's no such thing."
The words come out before he even has the chance to filter them. The result is a response that, while concise, seemed much too emotive and familiar for such a professional environment. Still, his brown eyes were wide with purpose. He made note of his lack of poise, and corrected it with a soft clearing of his throat as he leaned further back into his chair in a show of faux steadiness.
"I mean, if there was, then what's the point of it? A photo is meant to capture a moment in time, however imperfect, and that is where it's value lies. It's not so much a.. uh, a visual thing as it is... the emotion that it invokes. Feelings themselves are often... unrestrained, imperfect in and of themselves. That's how we can relate to them."
Hand gestures came rolling from his wrists as he attempted to staple together an explanation, but it came out as convoluted and difficult to understand. He was never good with words. Sort of why he was a photographer.
The words come out before he even has the chance to filter them. The result is a response that, while concise, seemed much too emotive and familiar for such a professional environment. Still, his brown eyes were wide with purpose. He made note of his lack of poise, and corrected it with a soft clearing of his throat as he leaned further back into his chair in a show of faux steadiness.
"I mean, if there was, then what's the point of it? A photo is meant to capture a moment in time, however imperfect, and that is where it's value lies. It's not so much a.. uh, a visual thing as it is... the emotion that it invokes. Feelings themselves are often... unrestrained, imperfect in and of themselves. That's how we can relate to them."
Hand gestures came rolling from his wrists as he attempted to staple together an explanation, but it came out as convoluted and difficult to understand. He was never good with words. Sort of why he was a photographer.
Reinhardt nodded. "You value utility over style." He hoped that was the right summation for the situation. The interviewee was trying to speak out of the heart, he could tell. That cynical part of him told him that Mister Fontaine was at worst garbling things, but, to his credit, the journalist had a way with words that probably fooled him that first time.
At the same time, Reinhardt was slightly disappointed that the cameraman held such a view. Still, he understood. Maybe he should have asked if photographs could be considered "art"? No, maybe later.
"That's fine," Reinhardt continued. "How you view your work says a lot about you as a person." He leaned back on his swivel chair, bringing his hands together on his lap. It was the perfect segue into the more meaningful questions, the deal-breakers.
"Next question, Mister Fontaine." Reinhardt's notepad and pen rested on his hands. Not picking them up, he inquired: "If you could go ahead and tell me...what motivated you to be a journalist in the first place?"
At the same time, Reinhardt was slightly disappointed that the cameraman held such a view. Still, he understood. Maybe he should have asked if photographs could be considered "art"? No, maybe later.
"That's fine," Reinhardt continued. "How you view your work says a lot about you as a person." He leaned back on his swivel chair, bringing his hands together on his lap. It was the perfect segue into the more meaningful questions, the deal-breakers.
"Next question, Mister Fontaine." Reinhardt's notepad and pen rested on his hands. Not picking them up, he inquired: "If you could go ahead and tell me...what motivated you to be a journalist in the first place?"
This guy was so difficult to read. Not that Felix himself was particularly gifted with understanding people, but his livelihood was often maneuvering through tense situations and finding an opening where he could weasel himself in; such as many press-related careers went.
Reinhardt seemed... impassive, at best - bored with him at the worst. It was true Felix was stiff, and jittery; but that just showed he really cared about the job, right? Or was he being judged for his inability to compose himself? In all fairness, Felix did not go to many interviews. Being anonymous spared him from the anxiety of perturbing and personal questions, stuffy suits and dismissive glances. This wasn't a photography job. It was a people job.
Even an idiot could see that, with so many applicants, it would be impossible to make the cut if he couldn't stand apart from the rest. Right.
"I want to see the world, inside out. I guess I've always been the type to be looking through holes in the wall, full of promise. Even if fairy tales aren't real, there is plenty of real wonders that are left to discover for myself. A photograph captures a moment, however short, and makes it immortal. I hope when people look at my photo's, they feel what I felt. I want to share myself. That's the dream, anyways."
The freckled man grins sheepishly, cheeks cherry with the heart-felt explanation of his life's passion. He wasn't used to be answering such questions, but it's not like he hadn't pondered it himself.
From the back of his neck, his hand slid into his lap and her cocks his head with raised brows.
"So how about you? You know, I never really got your name. You seem to know a lot about me, I'd like to even my odds."
He quirks a brow at his, his thin smile stretching into something wry and playful. The more time passed on, it seemed the more determination was overriding his panic.
Reinhardt seemed... impassive, at best - bored with him at the worst. It was true Felix was stiff, and jittery; but that just showed he really cared about the job, right? Or was he being judged for his inability to compose himself? In all fairness, Felix did not go to many interviews. Being anonymous spared him from the anxiety of perturbing and personal questions, stuffy suits and dismissive glances. This wasn't a photography job. It was a people job.
Even an idiot could see that, with so many applicants, it would be impossible to make the cut if he couldn't stand apart from the rest. Right.
"I want to see the world, inside out. I guess I've always been the type to be looking through holes in the wall, full of promise. Even if fairy tales aren't real, there is plenty of real wonders that are left to discover for myself. A photograph captures a moment, however short, and makes it immortal. I hope when people look at my photo's, they feel what I felt. I want to share myself. That's the dream, anyways."
The freckled man grins sheepishly, cheeks cherry with the heart-felt explanation of his life's passion. He wasn't used to be answering such questions, but it's not like he hadn't pondered it himself.
From the back of his neck, his hand slid into his lap and her cocks his head with raised brows.
"So how about you? You know, I never really got your name. You seem to know a lot about me, I'd like to even my odds."
He quirks a brow at his, his thin smile stretching into something wry and playful. The more time passed on, it seemed the more determination was overriding his panic.
And Reinhardt noticed the shift, sort of. He did not really want to disclose anything beyond his graphic design and fanzine production ventures past the interview unless he formally stated that the interview was a success. The whole hacktivism spiel would have to wait.
But he could tell him other web-related, hacktivist tangents, and, only bothering to half-smile, responded: "I am, as the sign on the door says, Louis Reinhardt of Good Grafx General, not to be confused with the painter of the same name. I make logos and design webpages, print ads, stuff like that. I draw for fun sometimes and I display my works all over a fanzine, Superzine Unlimited, which I help publish and distribute to comic shops nationwide."
Reinhardt wasn't lying; being passionate about sci-fi stuff paid off well. In a few seconds, though, it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, Felix wasn't going to be satisfied with that explanation.
"Okay, but seriously," Reinhardt began to clarify. "That's just..." Was it okay to tell him? Whoops, his tongue slipped, or did it? "I do more than that. But that involves me disclosing Franchise information, and I cannot do that. Not yet, anyways."
He picked up the pen and notepad again, his face as listless as before. "Alright, Mister Fontaine, if we could move on...you look like an awfully busy guy. Have you got time to settle down and, you know, read books?" Reinhardt expected no surprises.
But he could tell him other web-related, hacktivist tangents, and, only bothering to half-smile, responded: "I am, as the sign on the door says, Louis Reinhardt of Good Grafx General, not to be confused with the painter of the same name. I make logos and design webpages, print ads, stuff like that. I draw for fun sometimes and I display my works all over a fanzine, Superzine Unlimited, which I help publish and distribute to comic shops nationwide."
Reinhardt wasn't lying; being passionate about sci-fi stuff paid off well. In a few seconds, though, it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, Felix wasn't going to be satisfied with that explanation.
"Okay, but seriously," Reinhardt began to clarify. "That's just..." Was it okay to tell him? Whoops, his tongue slipped, or did it? "I do more than that. But that involves me disclosing Franchise information, and I cannot do that. Not yet, anyways."
He picked up the pen and notepad again, his face as listless as before. "Alright, Mister Fontaine, if we could move on...you look like an awfully busy guy. Have you got time to settle down and, you know, read books?" Reinhardt expected no surprises.
Moderators: OKAY Employees (played by mk_97) Richard Ruiz (played by mk_97)