Air of Air.
Head in the clouds, flying a stealth fighter. Looking for knowledge of where to strike. Or is that plane virtual, a metaphor spun around some cyberspace fantasy of probing “black ice”? Hacker, seeing the world as shimmering ideas to manipulate; even if his plane is real, he’s still more involved with the heads-up display than with the view out the window. At those speeds maybe he has to be.
He knows a lot more than he lets on. Maybe too much – are you really comfortable with him knowing what color your underwear is today? He can find out if he wants to. He can be as cold and emotionless as the rarefied air he operates in; this is good when he’s dispassionately putting two and two together to make four, bad when he’s plotting in a cold, clear fury. He flies above the hurricane, or so he thinks. When he’s sucked into one at hypersonic speeds there’s litle more than a smear of goo left.
He observes from afar and strikes with precision, when he absolutely must. He’s a razor, despite his undisciplined hair. (Who has *time* for haircuts?)