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A Fresh Start (Razgriz x Candira)

Razgriz

Shall we write beautiful stories together?
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Joined
Jan 27, 2011
A man walked along the city streets, his head hung in a slightly depressed manner. No one wanted to talk to him, not even when he would try to say a simple hello; almost everyone who laid eyes on him made a visibly conscious effort to get out of his way. He didn't even know why; he didn't hurt anyone, he was never mean to anyone. So why did they run? Why did they look at him as if he were some sort of hostile alien creature? What the poor guy failed to understand was that it wasn't his personality that intimidated people. It was his appearance, the way he looked, and if he understood that, then his theory about looking like an alien might not seem so out of left field to him.

The man stood at eight feet, six-and-five-eigths inches tall. To say he was broad-shouldered would be a slight understatement; not only did he have to crouch noticeably to get through most residential doorways, he had to turn his shoulders to the side as he went through. An inconvenience, but one he managed to work around and with. His body too was extremely well-developed; he had the musculature that most high-school jocks could only dream of. Saying he was ripped would be an insult; he looked like he had the power to not only grapple with a full grown grizzly, but take it by the jaws and tear it in half. He clocked in at about 385 lbs, or 175 kilograms, a rather heavy load to burden by almost any medical standard; however, he didn't notice it one bit. The coloration of his eyes was also very off-putting to most people: Predominantly bright, lustrous gold irises, but also having another very distinguishing characteristic. Three cobalt rings, centered around the pupil and expanding outward, each one spaced equally from another. His short-cropped, shaggy hair was blacker than pitch itself, making coal have the shine of a diamond in comparison. Ironically, the only somewhat-normal thing about him was the clothing he wore: Size 29 work boots made of carbon-reinforced leather, a custom-tailored black T-shirt, standard camouflage print and custom-sized military fatigues. All of these characteristics combined that gave him that other-worldly appearance, that outward shell of an off-world species that sought only to enslave and massacre those around him.

He soon made his way back to one of the few things more imposing than him: John Kniles Army Base, official designation Echo Base. Twenty-foot high walls of lackluster, three-meter-thick steel-titanium battleplate made the perimeter of the base practically impervious to anything short of a ship-launched missile barrage. Armored watchtowers held snipers wielding Zeta .65-caliber bolt-action anti-material rifles loaded with APFSDS (Armor-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding-Sabot) rounds and gunners standing behind the controls of 'Death Machines' - bolt-mounted six-barreled monsters that spat out 30mm SABRE ammunition at a staggering 10000 rounds-per-minute. All of this security was not without reason: The USA, most of the newly-formed European Union, and Russia had gone through one of the most brutal wars in recorded history against almost every other country on the planet, leaving the Aliied Nations horribly outnumbered and heavily outgunned. The war itself made WWI and WWII seem like minor scuffles in comparison. And so, the government had ordered a new project to aid in making sure they won the war: Project ATLAS-III. The man approaching the gate was one of the Project relatively few successes: Berserker-class Unit 732, but more familiarly known as 'Tank'. Being a Berserker-class - the other classes being Heavy Gunner and Charger - subjects like Tank possessed a far higher degree of physical strength and stamina than any of his brethern; at 85% strength, he could flip a fully-armed, fully-crewed T-90A MBT onto its back. At 100% percent strength, he could pick it up by the barrel and swing it like a baseball bat. Their bodies could soak up a seemingly infinite number of bullets like sponges in water. Their role as literal moving fortresses was instrumental in crushing the enemy, bringing the war to a surprisingly speedy end.

Of course, this war had happened over two years ago; however, many of the ATLAS-IIIs had perished in the Third World War, leaving the remainder to be holed up at various military installations due to the obvious danger they posed to society. Of course, there were still pockets of fighting that happened overseas, but overall, the ATLAS soldiers were no longer necessary. The overwhelming arsenal guarding the base was necessary in case Tank decided to go on a rampage; the only problem was, he wasn't exactly violent anymore. The medication the surviving Berserker-class ATLASs were forced to take placed biochemical limiters in their system, ones that took severe will to overcome. But someone like Tank at half or even quarter-strength was still extremely dangerous, so he was given extra-strength medication that reduced his strength to around fifteen to twenty percent of what it could be. Even with that, he was forced to live behind the bleak walls of this military prison; what was worse for him was that he was the only one of his kind here, leaving him with few comrades and fewer friends. Many of the normal human soldiers in that installation wanted nothing to do with Tank; those that saw past his intimidating exterior saw him as the nicest guy they'd ever met, but his status as an ATLAS specimen made him a target for near-instant ostracization. ATLASs were seen by many as 'freaks of nature' and 'abominations', rather harsh yet sadly fitting labels for the rigorous testing and augmentation trials they underwent.

As Tank approached the entrance to the base, one of the guardsmen got on the horn and sounded the base alarm. Almost instantly, what seemed like thousands of red beams were focused on Tank's massive body, each one belonging to a weapon that was authorized to bring him down if he got out of line. As was the protocol, Tank surrendered himself to be led inside the base under heavy guard; he was allowed outside of the base for a short time every day as was the arrangement to attempt to integrate ATLAS subjects into society. Even then, sniper teams armed with powerful rifles and cloaking devices tracked them, reporting their every move to the brass and possessing the authority to eliminate them if the situation called for it.

Tank breathed out a depressed sigh as he walked, his footfalls and depression drowning out the feeling of the stares and murmurs and whispers of the soldiers both following him and watching him. Time seemed to slow down around him, his blank gaze becoming a tunnel as his eyes peered ahead of him, turning the voices into little more than phantom whispers. Every day it was like this; he just wanted to be normal. He didn't ask for this; he often wondered why he was selected for this. Before, he was what one would call an average kid: he had friends, excelled in certain school subjects, and at times, could be quite the devious troublemaker. But all that was gone now; after the months of physiological recombination and enhancement, he was....this. A titanic superhuman of unmentionable destruction. This was his fate now; as much as he hated it, he knew there was nothing he could do to change it.

He was eventually led to a large room, where men and women in white coats would monitor him, checking his vitals and simply making sure that he was comfortable as could be. They were the few people in this base that seemed to actually want to help the guy; they knew what he'd experienced wasn't by any means a walk in the park. But despite the kind words and encouragement, Tank just felt like he didn't belong anywhere. However, today would hold a new surprise for him; as part of the reintegration program, Tank had a small team that willingly worked to find him a job, something that would not only help him interact with others, but help others interact with him. And it seemed that the effort paid off; there was an opening at the famous Blue Moon Brothel & Club, a very popular hotspot for soldiers and civilians alike. It seemed that there was a position available as a bouncer; one thing was certain, any place that had Tank working there would just about scare any potential troublemaker away from just laying eyes on him. Regardless, the onsite SPID (Subject-Populace Integration Department) was already working on securing an interview for Tank for the position.

The man in charge of this was none other than his legal guardian, Special Operations Commander James Smith. Standing at five feet, seven and five-sevenths inches tall, possessing dark brown eyes hidden behind Aviator sunglasses and slicked back, chocolate brown hair, he was the very definition of a stiff. He always dressed in a clean-pressed suit and tie, his black shoes polished to what many might consider an impossible sheen. At least he was always nicely-dressed; unfortunately, that was one of the few nice things about him. No sense of humor, no empathy, but a very strong sense of duty. And an equally strong - if not stronger - sense of hatred and revulsion towards the ATLASs. His demeanor, along with the last name Smith, earned him the nickname "Agent Smith" in reference to the main antagonist of The Matrix films. It was a nickname which didn't seem to noticeably bother him; to Smith, they were all ATLAS sympathizers, sheep who bought into the nonsense that the ATLAS soldiers were human. No, they were tools, means to an end. His train of thought was that the ATLAS Project served its purpose, now the damned things should be scrapped, just like every other piece of useless trash.

But, unfortunately, James got a very harsh lesson in reality: Things don't often work out the way one might want them to, no matter how clear it might seem in one's own mind. Still, to be called the legal guardian of that 'thing', that subhuman pile of genetically engineered and physiologically-altered garbage, was worse than insulting to him. No, he'd put in an official request to be referred to as Tank's 'handler'. He shuddered as he dialed the number of the Blue Moon, waiting with rhythmically tapping fingers for whoever might be available to answer the phone. There was a lot that needed to be done, and James was not exactly a model of patience.
 
Lori was making a pretty good living for herself here. Her friend Kelly, the owner of the Blue Moon had invited her to come on board as a club manager. She was drawing a legitimate paycheck now...along with her other, more questionable ways of making money. She was a licensed masseuse and she put those skills to use in the VIP lounge, but that was only one way she made extra money. She'd been in a few classes with Kelly when she'd been starting out as a dancer, and she was fairly good, but she was no Kelly, that's for sure. Though Lori had a body made for the stage--long graceful arms and legs, medium torso, full and firm breasts and what some called a beautiful face--she simply didn't have natural talent. She could certainly move, but she'd never look as good as some of her classmates.

So she'd focused on other pursuits, dancing only to have fun and keep in shape. Rather than push people away, Lori's appearance seemed to draw them in. Her blue eyes were friendly and warm, her features just sharp enough to be memorable, but soft enough to be beautiful and trustworthy. Her long dark hair looked almost blue in bright lights. She had her bangs cut in a trendy swoop and her hair was usually left loose, hanging invitingly to the tops of her breasts.

On the job as a club manager, Lori usually wore some variation of a business suit. Tonight, she was wearing a black bustier over a black and grey pinstriped skirt that came to the middle of her thigh, hugging her legs in the most...professional of ways. Over that, she wore a matching jacket that she left open. Even like that it was cut in away that made her body look spectacular. Tonight, she'd decided to add some fun to it with fishnets and a pair of spike high-heels, though she knew her feet would pay for it. She was a hot little number and she knew it, and she even counted on it sometimes. One thing she never did, however, was use it against others. Nor did she ever take on someone she didn't actually like. Even she had standards. Because of her appearance, people often got the wrong idea, and she had to set them straight a lot. Still, it was better than hiding who she was to please others. And that, she thought, was that. And those fools who needed to be reminded of her nature were exactly the reason she was having this meeting.

The raven-haired woman was currently sitting with her head of security, discussing their need for a bouncer and what they should be looking for. It was about then that they got a phone call from one, "James Smith," about a job for a soldier. After asking for a few specifications, her head of security agreed to an interview with the man. A few other applicants would be considered, but the man from the base had the first slot. "Looks like we'll be interviewing a man named Tank. I have to be somewhere at that time tomorrow to handle some issues, but now that we've agreed on what we need, I think you can handle a few interviews on your own. If you need me, let me know."

And just like that, their meeting was set up with Tank. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to sit through many interviews. She hated to get people's hopes up only to dash them.
 
Smith hung up the phone, feeling a bit peeved; of course the club manager wouldn't be there. She was the person he needed to talk to the most, and she wasn't there. Of course, there were only scant details that Smith could provide; one thing he could only mention in private was that Tank was part of Project ATLAS. Of course, the Project itself was common public knowledge at this point; the war had gotten off to a very rocky start, and a symbol of reassurance in victory was needed, so the military decided to reveal the existence of the ATLAS Project. However, they only disseminated the identity of the subjects themselves when it was appropriate to do so, for obvious reasons. Well, perhaps he could make Tank seem like a reasonable applicant......to give him competition; of course he knew Tank would be the perfect repellant for all manner of scum and bottom-feeders, making him almost unbeatable for the job. One look at the behemoth would tell anyone that pissing him off - if that was even possible, as Tank's tolerance for aggravating factors was unusually high - would be a very bad idea.

Still, there was much to be done to prepare for Tank's moveout to the prospective employment position; forms to fill out, troops to arm and make up the guard detail. Ironic that a guard detail was beign assembled, not to guard Tank, but to guard the public. "All this trouble for one of those damned freaks" he grumbled as he marched stiffly out of the office, his comments earning him both supportive nods and looks of utter contempt. Smith still didn't see the point of all this; a high-caliber bullet to the head would end all this 'touchy-feely' crap in a heartbeat. But he had his orders, and hell be damned if he got court-martialed for disobeying an Executive Order/Martial Law signed by the Commander-in-Chief and President of the United States of America. But that didn't mean he had to like it; he just had to do what he was told.

*The next day*

The base itself was a flurry of activity as they prepared to head him out to the Blue Moon Club and Brothel; Tank's medicine - normally a dose of six orally administered 750 milligram pills - was now given as an IV solution to help increase its effectiveness. Normally this wasn't necessary, but given that he was going to be in a relatively highly-populated area, they needed to take every precaution they could. "I don't like this medicine; it makes me feel weird" Tank said as they clamped his limbs down after injecting him with 2000cc of a Risperdal/Librium mixture to keep him sedated. The doctor, one Darren V. Williams, smiled reassuringly and replied as he patted the large man on his bicep, "I know, Tank, I know. But just like you, I have to follow orders. But hey, if all goes well, you'll be normal!" Well, that was stretching the truth a bit, but at least Tank would get some much-needed exposure to the public, help show that the ATLASs weren't just violent killing machines. Tank's expression seemed to brighten a bit, his body relaxing somewhat as he laid back and waited for the dosing to end.

Regardless, a high-gauge needle was soon inserted into the now-prominent vein in Tank's elbow, a slight pneumatic applicator hissing as it forced the thick cylinder into Tank's arm to get past his relatively thick hide. Clear fluid was soon pumped into Tank's bloodstream, the fact that it was in a liquid solution made it act that much more quickly. They then sat and waited for the medicine to kick in and the tranquilizers to wear off; when that was done, a small troop of no less than ten Special Operations Soldiers - the best that branch had to offer, handpicked by Commander Smith himself - armed with M416 assault rifles rechambered for the SOCOM .458 Match Round. Commander Smith himself was also present to take Tank to his meeting; he was his handler and would likely be the main voice speaking at the interview.

"Come on, you....We're running late. And straighten your uniform. You're a soldier, not some unwashed street rat." he said stiffly to the large soldier as Tank was set free from the doctor's chair; of course, he ran his day much like a German train schedule: Efficiently and unforgivingly precise. His remarks earned him pointed glares from the doctors in the room; the medics always viewed Smith as too harsh on Tank, but knew that arguing with him was a fruitless endeavor. Many medals and honors decorated his chest; hell, there were so many it seemed like he'd earned just about every single one the Armed Forces had to offer (bar the Air Force and Navy, as Tank was neither trained nor enlisted in either branch) , from the valorious Purple Heart to the much-recognized Medal of Honor. And even more strangely, his chest was wide enough to where he could wear them all. To say that Tank hadn't doen his duty as a soldier would be the very embodiment of blasphemy, After some encouraging words to the man and helping to straighten out the few small, barely noticeable kinks (except to Smith, apparently) in his uniform, Tank followed his handler out to a large, limo-like Hummer that would transport him. Two others, armed with 30mm Gatling guns, would be positioned in the front and back of Tank's car, respectively, as added security. The convoy would look like they were transporting someone important; though perhaps the implication of 'important' might get a bit skewed in this case.

Once they were all settled in, Smith had them ship out. The interior was big, almost like a limo. But a damn site more comfortable; Smith and Tank sat on opposite ends of the circular seat layout, his soldiers lining the sides. Smith just stared at Tank, his contempt-filled eyes hidden by the reflective sunglasses he wore; how he wished he could just end this damned abomination once and for all. Smith then spoke up, his voice clear and authorative, as one might expect from the Commander of the Special Operations Division, "Alright, listen up, all of you. We're entering a place that I'm sure many of you have frequented. It's going to be likely crowded, and yes, there are women who love men in uniform, but this is a purely business venture. I catch anyone acting unprofessionally, let it be on record that the harshest of punishments will befall that unfortunate, idiotic soul. Am I understood?" A unanimous "Sir, Yes Sir!" rang out as Smith finished, then turned his attention to Tank, "And as for you, Tank....Just sit down, be polite and leave the talking to me. Understand?" to which Tank replied, his soft yet oddly deep-natured voiced stating timidly, "Sir, Yes Sir!" Smith snorted derisively; this was going to be tricky.

After a somewhat extended trip, they eventually arrived at the presitigious established; Smith personally didn't see the point of a den of depravity such as this, but he figured most people were just too lazy to face their problems head on, so they went here and acted stupidly to let out tension. "What a waste of space" he commented under his breath as he turned and waited for Tank and his men to exit. Needless to say, a guarded transport convoy wasn't something that went unnoticed. Many passerby stopped on the sidewalk leading to the club itself; however, the big surprise came when ten well-armed soldiers filed out neatly into two rows, each one standing on either side of the door before being followed by what could be considered one of the largest men in history. Tank's massive form towered over everyone, some of the bystanders turning right around and leaving the scene as fast as they could. Smith then said, "Move out!" and turned to lead the way.

The doorman on duty - a well-built bald man of 5'9" dressed in a plain black shirt and jeans, his eyes hidden by dark shades - who was due to retire due to some slight back problems, had to crane his neck back to look up at Tank. "Jesus H. Christ, you're a big fucker" he said, prompting Smith to reply, "Yes, yes, now if you don't mind..." he then pulled out a document and said as he held it up to the man, "We have an interview appointment at 2:45pm with the head of security. Tell your Boss Commander James Smith is here to see him". The man took the document and looked it over before radioing to the security head via walkie-talkie, "Hey, Boss, we got a suit by the name of Commander James Smith and a bunch of armed goons here saying he has a 2:45 appointment with you. Is he tellin' the truth?". Of course, the security head probablywasn't expecting what he was about to see, though he was notified of the armed guard that would be accompanying him. James just crossed his arms and waited somewhat impatiently, his soldiers waiting for the order to follow Tank and their commander into the establishment.

(Sorry for the delay; trying to get caught up in the RPs. Been dealing with a lot of stuff as of late)
 
Lori was left to deal with the club today. Dell, their head of security had something of a family emergency, Kelly was busy with a client, and Eli had meetings with their fellow business associates today. So she was left all by herself to handle the interviews, the club, and any interested customers. Sighing, she wished that Kate would hurry and move in already--she was going to be a general manager, helping to keep both the club and the brothel in order. Kate was a jack of all trades, but she made bank by designing. In fact, she'd done most of the club and brothel, with notes from Eli and Kelly.

But even as she yearned for less responsibility, the earpiece she wore to keep her informed on the floor chirped and the bouncer's question was relayed to her. She sighed and pressed the button for the microphone to transmit her voice. "Well, they said he'd have an escort. We do have an appointment for 2:45 with an applicant going by the name, 'Tank.' If that's who it is, let him and his escort through. I'll great them in the foyer." With that, she took off for her destination.

Her heels clacked on the floor, and while she was very business like, her attire was pretty much the same as last night's. Her hair was loose, straight and shiny. She only hoped that this interview wouldn't be as needlessly complicated as arranging for Tank to arrive to work. So it was that the little lady was waiting for Agent Smith and Tank when the bouncer let them through. She smiled softly and waited for them to come closer before she introduced herself.

"Hello there, you must be here for the interview. I'm Lori, the assistant manager here at the club. I'll be interviewing you today. Our head of security has had a bit of a family emergency, so he had to take off for the day. Our owners are busy in meetings today, so it's just us." She smiled in a cool professional way at the agent and the escort of soldiers, putting a little more warmth into it for the big guy who looked a little nervous.
 
(So sorry about the delay. RL just came up to bite me in the ass)
The bouncer acknowledged Lori, nodding as he waved them through. Most of the activity in the main room came to a standstill as the impressive brigade trudged through; though most of the attention seemed to be focused on Tank. No surprise, considering he didn't exactly blend in with the workforce or the client-base. But still, it made the man noticeably uncomfortable; Smith's voice then snapped him out of his little daze, "Tank" "Yes, Mr. Smith?" was Tank's reply, to which Smith stated rather rudely, "Remember, keep your mouth shut, lest you do something that leaves without work". Tank just nodded solemnly; Smith knew best, after all.

Eventually, they arrived at the foyer to be greeted by an incredibly attractive woman. Some of Smith's soldiers whispered to each other, their expressions and gestures showing they were clearly impressed by how well this woman took care of herself. Smith, however, remained unwaveringly stoic, his shades-covered eyes peering right through this woman. "This hussy is the assistant manager?" he thought to himself; though he shouldn't be surprised. This hole, not worth the ground it was built on....This sewer of sin and lust should be burned to the ground, he thought.

Tank's thoughts, however, were more focused on turning his head away when she smiled up at him. His cheeks were noticeably red; very few women smiled at him likely, and it made him surprisingly bashful. But, he was here for an interview, so he took a deep breath and started to speak, raising a sizable hand as a greeting; however, Smith slapped his hand down abruptly and retorted, "What did I tell you?" Tank turned his head away, feelign a slight bit of shame; Smith told him to let him do the talking.

Smith stifled his unpleasant thoughts and said, "Hello, Lori. My name is James Smith. I spoke with the head of security at this.....establishment." There was a noticeable sprinkling of condescension on the word 'establishment', somewhat betraying what he really thought. "You'll have to forgive Tank" he then said, motioning to the titan by his side before continuing, "He has some 'difficulties' regarding social contact". Of course, Lori might be to see that Tank was no ordinary man; though whether she had any knowledge of the ATLAS Project remained to be seen.

Regardless, Smith continued, "I appreciate you being able to squeeze us in on such short notice. I apologize for any difficulties that arose due to scheduling this interview. The details weren't discussed over the phone, but we do need some place more.....private. If you have it available".
 
Lori was actually pretty shocked that the sour puss leading the charge had the sheer nerve to smack Tank's hand away from her like that. Still, she kept a pleasant face, as if to say there was no need to worry. It was for the sake of the giant who at least appeared to be gentle. "Actually, Mr. Smith was it? He was being polite and offering a handshake, something I would expect from any normal interviewer. He doesn't seem to be our of the loop at all. Perhaps you're all simply anxious. From what I gather, you don't do this very often, so let me take you to our office," she said with a polite smile. With that, she turned and led the way to a rather large room that Eli usually used. It was hers to use for this meeting.

"Now then, Mr. Smith, I should tell you that while I appreciate your input in this interview, the questions will be directed to Tank, and he will be expected to answer all of them. After all, I'm not hiring you, and you won't be with him all the time while he is working. Therefore, I would appreciate it if you let him handle himself for me to be able to get a clear judgement."

She really disliked the man who seemed to be pulling the strings. It could be a simple aversion to authority, but she liked to believe that she had more complex feelings than that regarding people in general. It was pretty easy to see that Smith hated his job, his charge, the Blue Moon, and she herself. Until he actually did something to fully prove his disdain, she would continue to be oh-so-polite and reasonable. She could just tell, however, that her newest demand would not please Smith. It was a nice little bonus to think that while she was making him fairly comfortable physically, he was increasingly uncomfortable mentally. She only hoped that he wouldn't take it out on the big guy.

Her attention once again shifted to Tank and she smiled again. "Would you like some water?" she asked, gesturing to a mini fridge.
 
Even though Lori couldn't see it because of the dark shades he wore, Smith's eyes flashed a little as she scolded him about slapping Tank's hand. Did she not realize the giant could easily crush her like an ant if she wasn't careful? So that put her knowledge of the ATLAS program - in his eyes, at least - on the ignorance end of things. Regardless, the ensemble of military might followed after her; Smith instructed his soldiers to wait outside and be ready at his command. After that was taken care of, they were seated in the office and ready to begin; Tank's own seat creaked quite loudly when he sat down.

Lori would be right on the money with her little 'request'; this woman was playing with forces she didn't fully understand, and frankly it annoyed him at her laxedasical attitude towards all this. Granted, this was a public establishment, so he couldn't legally do much of anything, and he wasn't about to jeopardize his career by letting his baser emotions get the better of him. It wasn't so much he disliked his job: He LOATHED the prospect of having to play caretaker to one of these freaks. The ATLAS soldiers, from his perspective, had served their purpose and deserved the fate all worthless tools were slated to undergo. Disposal, plain and simple.

But he knew he was in the minority with that respect, given that despite Tank's own experiences in the base, those of the general public and those serving in the Armed Forces cried out heavily for a more 'humane' approach to dealing with the remaining supersoldiers. The fact was, there was surprisingly larger demand for rehabilitation and reconditioning than the simpler approach of extermination.

Tank replied to Lori's question of refreshments, "No thank you, ma'am. I'm quite alright". He then turned to his handler and said, "Are you thirsty, Mr...." but was cut off curtly, but with an even tone by Smith, "If I needed a drink, I would ask for one, Tank". Tank just nodded and sat silently. Smith then spoke again, his tone conveying mild disdain for her stinging remarks, "Now....Lori, wasn't it?......I realize that you might think what I'm doing is hindering him, but there's more to this situation than you understand". He then continued after clearing his throat, "Tank is a....how do we say, 'unique', individual. He doesn't fully understand most normal social interaction, save for a few bits involving basic manners and etiquette. As such, he needs a firm hand to guide him. I am that hand, so I'm afraid for me to sit by idly is simply out of the question."
 
Lori could tell she'd hit something of a nerve and took out a water for herself, sitting across from the odd couple. She had to fight a smile as the theme song played in her head and she saw the two of them sitting there. Still, she managed to pull off a professional demeanor. "I understand your concern, Mr. Smith. Really, I'm sure that you have the best of intentions. But you see, you cannot be with him when he's doing his job, telling him how to do every little thing. You can't speak for him or make the decisions he needs to make. In order for this to be a fair assessment of his abilities, I will need him to answer. I'm afraid if you don't let him, I can't hire him because then I really wouldn't know how he would react to his work environment." It was pure logic. Smith had a point--she was sure there were things about Tank that she didn't know that could be dangerous, but having him play the front man wasn't going to cut it here.

Even if she bought into the fear aspect, she'd still be more on Tank's side anyway. He was belittling the man who was sitting right beside him, acting as though the calmest man in the room was the most dangerous. He looked down his nose at everyone, it seemed. And he was still wearing those damned sunglasses. Idiot.

"In any case, should the interview proceed and go well, Tank would be trained in by our head of security and management staff to handle any and all situations that would come up in our establishment. We like to be very thorough, and we're quite serious about taking care of our employees. Should he need anything at all while he is our employee, we will do our best to see to his needs. He is, after all, a special case." She smiled at Tank and then to Mr. Smith.

"Now, then, if there are no more objections, I would like to begin the interview."
 
Commander Smith was clearly not pleased upon hearing this woman's reply; clearly she was one of those wild types who 'rebelled against authority' or some other young-minded nonsense like that. Why did everyone try to fight him? He was doing his best to stop these 'things' from utterly leveling the cities that Uncle Sam let them live in, but it seemed like he was in the minority here. Even if she did have a point about him not being able to direct his every move - something he was MORE than fine with since it meant he didn't have be anywhere near this freakshow - she didn't understand the kinds of danger she was going to have to put up with.

Even so, Smith knew that arguing with someone like her on this matter was a pointless endeavor; letting out a small but obviously agitated sigh, the man then added, "Fine...". He then reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like some kind of pager, except it just had a large red button in the center of its frame, and placed it on her desk. "If anything happens...Just press that button" Smith stated rather coldly, adding as a mental afterthought, "And pray you know how to duck". He stood up from his chair and after straightening his coat added, "You and I will have a one-on-one talk after this is over, ma'am". Turning on his heel, he stopped next to Tank and said quite clearly, "Don't. Blow this. It was hard enough trying to get an interview for a job". And with that, Smith walked out and closed the door behind him to wait outside.

Tank, meanwhile, was looking ever more dejected; he hated making things difficult for people, even if it was obvious he wasn't at fault. He kept his hands clenched together, the tendons and muscles creaking noticeably from the force he was squeezing them with, and his head bowed. "Miss.....I'm sorry that everything's so difficult; I really appreciate you being able to see me today, though. I'll try my best not to make it harder on you" the giant then spoke solemnly, not once lifting his head to make eye contact with his potential new employer.
 
She raised an eyebrow at the rather unprofessional tone the man was taking with her. She merely watched him leave, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with his remarks. Though it was clear Smith was a competent man, he was not compassionate, nor was he fully committed to the true spirit of his job. Perhaps she should have a word with the commander's direct supervisor. She was quite certain that a man like Smith wasn't in charge of the entire operation--that would be folly on the part of the military. Besides, Smith seemed to have a superiority complex that denoted a feeling of powerlessness on his own part. It was more likely that the man was simply a cog within a greater machine.

When Tank spoke up for the first time, she was surprised to find that he was apologizing for making things difficult. She shook her head and watched him for a long moment. "I suppose it wouldn't do much to point out that you're not the one who is making this process difficult. You've done everything that was asked of you up until this point. Personally, I see no reason for you to apologize, but I suppose we could chalk that one up to a difference in perspective and experience."

Rather than ask him to look up, however, she moved next to him and put her hand on his. "I'm sorry that things are so difficult for you. And I'll do my best not to make them harder. Now, if we're done apologizing to each other, I'd like to ask you a few questions about yourself and ask you what you might do in some hypothetical situations. Think you're up for it?" She removed her hand and settled her clipboard into her lap a pen in one hand. She peered at him from her position, trying to look up at him from where she was sitting.
 
Tank tried not to be hard on himself; he knew it wasn't his fault he was like this, but he still couldn't get over how much people had to tiptoe around him and go so out of their way to accommodate him. He'd even asked the medical team on the base if there was a way to take away his superhuman attributes; the only response they could give was that they were working on it, but as of yet there was nothing. But that alone gave him hope that he could one day be normal, so he wouldn't have to worry about accidentally hurting someone or causing any more fuss.

Even as Lori put her hand on his, Tank did not look up at her; while he was ever so grateful that she would take the time to interview him for a civilian position, he still felt bad that she would have to deal with all the strings that came with having to employ him should he be accepted. All that aside, the human contact felt oddly...nice. It was an unfamiliar sensation, to have a normal person's hand touch his skin outside of a laboratory, medical office or a battlefield.

When she asked if they could begin, Tank finally did sit up straight and after taking a deep breath, let her see the odd nature of his eyes. There was a rather large smile on his face, the prospect of actually being able to interact with normal people being a source of great joy for him. "Yes, Miss Lori....I would very much like that" was his reply as he awaited her to see what kind of questions he would be asked.
 
Lori grinned at him when he finally looked at her. She felt better seeing him smile. The kind expression suited him much better. She took a small moment to look into those strange eyes. Oddly, they didn't unsettle her in the slightest. The club manager found the golden orbs to be appealing--the cobalt rings adding a bit of interest. "Well, fantastic. Let's get started then." Glancing down at her clipboard, she decided to start off with the simpler questions about himself and work back to the situational issues later.

"Well, first, why don't you tell me about yourself. Let's start off with your likes. Favorite hobbies, foods, anything you like you can tell me about." It was a good way to break the ice and get to know about her potential employee. Hopefully, she could put him at ease this way. It wasn't probably the best way to ask a question, but she much preferred being natural and at ease. The whole time, her hand hadn't moved.
 
When Tank heard Lori's first query, a noticeable frown came upon his lips and his eyes conveyed a fair degree of concern; how was he supposed to answer that? Smith had told him that he couldn't reveal any details regarding the ATLAS Project; only Commander Smith himself or his superiors were authorized to do that. He couldn't really do much outside of the base; he did play basketball once and that was pretty fun. Except when he nearly crushed that one private by mistake, then it wasn't. It also didn't help that almost every time he tried to...oh, what did they call it...'dribble' the ball, he would pop it unless they used a really heavy-duty rubber one.

He did enjoy exercise, though, especially strength training; with the machines the base had, they could put on quite the load. Tank could say that he easily held the weight-lifting record, but the fact that he was designed to possess a hypertrophied muscular structure meant that none of it would count. Even still, he didn't lift for a record; part of him still wanted to see what his body could do. His time overseas was fractured and incoherent, and he couldn't remember much of anything outside of being in the military camps.

There was also the fact that he liked Lori; she was being so kind to him despite him being an obvious freak. If he got accepted into this job, he would make sure to do everything she told him. So, he gathered up everything he wanted to say and began, "I don't know if I can say a whole lot, but I do like basketball...what little of it I was able to play. I like weight-lifting and strength training in general...." he then paused for a moment before stating quite clearly and outright, "I also like you".
 
Lori smiled as Tank answered her, smiling as she wrote down his replies. She looked up as he told her he liked her and put her hand on his shoulder. "Thank you. I like you too, Tank. I think we'll get along well." She smiled at him and then looked back down at her questions, wondering what she should ask next. "Well, tell me something. Can you recognize when someone is drugged? When someone is being violent or spoiling for trouble?"

The brunette looked up at the big man, figuring that his years in combat and just plain living would inform him. She wondered how he would answer her. Surely, he could tell her that. He seemed like a nice person--genuinely kind. Lori hoped that he would be qualified for the job--she really wanted to hire him. If for no other reason than to get him out from under his supervisor's thumb.
 
To see Lori smile, it was one of the most....Well, he didn't know the exact word for it, but it was one of the nicest things he'd seen in a while. She seemed so...charming somehow, like her smile could melt even the most frozen heart. However, her question was somewhat tricky; the whole drugged bit he might need to work on, but someone turning violent he could spot in a heartbeat. Drugs were strictly forbidden in the base and he'd not run into a lot of them while deployed - at least not from what he remembered - so he wouldn't know EXACTLY how to recognize them.

Still, he imagined that he would have to watch for anything out of the ordinary, but even that implied an understanding of what 'normal' was. He'd broken up plenty of scuffles in the base itself, though; no one in their right mind would want to tangle with an ATLAS, even when the limiting drugs were in the bioengineered soldier's system.

Still, he would answer honestly, "Miss Lori...I'll say that I haven't had much exposure to society, so I don't know how these 'drugs' really affect people, only based on what I know from the base. But I can spot someone being violent really easy". He hoped that was an adequate response; he really wanted this job, and Lori would be able to see that in his strange eyes as he gazed in wonder, thinking how she might respond to his answer.
 
"Alright. Well, we can always train you to recognize when someone is under the influence of drugs. It's not usually difficult to tell--staggering, slurred speech, agitated motions or expressions, bad breath--things of that nature. But that's definitely something we can work on. You just need to watch those kind of people and make sure they don't get out of hand. You always want to try and prevent bad situations." She nodded and took down some notes about his training.

"You can just call me Lori, by the way. So, tell me..." And she proceeded to ask him about what he would do in various scenarios where action would be required, being sure to take it slow and answer any of his questions, giving him feedback. By the end of the interview she was very impressed.

"If you were to work here would you like to live here as well. We do have living quarters here as well."
 
Tank was pleased that he would learn more about his job; he couldn't help but wonder if Lori herself would train him or if someone else would do it. Not that it really mattered to him, as he would be happy just getting the experience. "Alright....Lori" he then replied, the hesitation in his voice very prevalent as he left out the prefix he was so accustomed to using. As she then asked him more questions relating to his experiences in the military and his background - the latter of which was fairly sparse given that much of his time was spent isolated in the base - he tried his best to answer them honestly, even saying when he didn't know something.

However, by the time everything was said and done, she certainly seemed rather pleased with him....At least, from his point of view she did. Though perhaps his desire to work like other normal people was clouding his perception a little, but even still...He would take the smallest hint of being wanted as a compliment. But when she offered to let him live there, he was very taken aback; he hadn't lived outside the base before. And he didn't know how Mister Smith would take to it; the man was his handler after all.

"Mi...Lori, I appreciate the offer, but..." he began hesitantly, rubbing the back of his head in slight nervousness before adding, "I....I would like to try living off base, but I think that's something you and Mister Smith would have to talk about". His next statement was his attempt at avoiding offense, "I...it's not like I don't like this place! I think it's one of the most impressive things I've seen! It's just....Well, taking me in like that might be...complicated".
 
His reluctance to answer made her feel a little bad for him. The poor guy was just trying to live his life and the way they were inhibiting him was just wrong. "It's alright to say what you want, you know. Even if it's difficult." She smiled up at him and took stock of the person she saw. A gentle giant, Tank was obviously considerate and honest. She liked those qualities in people in general--to have them in an employee was fantastic. "Mmm, well, you leave Mr. Smith to me. I'll get everything worked out." She smiled and squeezed his arm before standing. "I think I've got enough notes here to help me make a decision. But I want to ask you one more thing before I let you go," she said, turning to face him, a bit more on his level now.

"Why would you like to work here?"
 
Even as Lori informed him of what everyone knew to be the truth, the big guy didn't seem to get it through his head that he was given a chance to start over. A fresh start, as some might call it; though some of the mental conditioning that the ATLAS subjects underwent tended to make them a bit hard to convince. Tank was one of many of those cases, and he knew there were certain things that he could not bring himself to say or even make himself want to say. Though he certainly did smile a little as she informed him she would handle Mr. Smith; from Tank's point of view, she certainly seemed capable.

Though her next question kind of caught him off-guard; he knew why he wanted to work here, but he didn't expect to asked about it. Regardless, he cleared his throat a bit and replied nervously as he stared down at the ground, "Well, someone like me...It's really hard to convince people you're not bad. One thing I've learned after being decommissioned....Most are really judgmental and it hurts". He then lifted his head to look Lori right in the eye and add, "And it might sound strange coming from me, but all I really want...Is to just be accepted. To show people that I'm not a freak, that what I am doesn't define who I am. I figure if I can get a job and meet and interact with people, they can see that very". Of course, Tank didn't really tell his potential new boss what it was that would make him classify himself as a 'freak', as the information regarding the ATLAS Project itself was heavily classified, but his hard-wired sense of honesty let him find a way to express his sentiments regarding that issue.

Outside the door, Commander Smith was listening in; that device he put on her desk served as more than a simple alarm. It also possessed a one-way transceiver that let him hear everything that was being said between the two. His left index finger was pressed over one ear, pushing the small bud that conveyed the contents of Tank's interview and made sure the moron didn't reveal anything he wasn't supposed to. "God, is she really going to fall for that sob story? If she does, she's a bigger moron than that abomination. And there's no way in hell he's living off base, even he should know that" Smith snarled mentally. Of course, he still very much planned to talk to this 'Lori' about what potentially hiring Tank would entail; as much as he wanted to just shoot the freak in the head and incinerate the corpse, he knew that he was dutifully bound to help him get hired. And while he realized that some of the details would definitely turn employers away from hiring someone like Tank, he had to convince them that they were in control of everything.
 
Lori took a long moment to consider everything she'd heard from Tank. He was certainly the not the most conventional of employees, but he seemed like the most earnest. And based on his track record, he was certainly capable of doing his job. What bothered her most, however, was the way he was treated, and she was well aware of what happened to people like him after the war. The job was that of a bouncer and it entailed breaking up fights, tuning drunks and rowdy fellows away at the door, and making sure that the staff members were the safest they could be. Tank seemed perfectly capable of handling all of those tasks with minimal training.

And as she looked into his strange eyes, she was certain that he was telling her the truth. "I see. Well, it's a simple job, but you would definitely interact with people. Of course, before we would let you start working real shifts here, you'll need to undergo additional training from our head of security. He should be back next week. I've taken the liberty of keeping thorough notes for the interviews, so we should have a decision for you at the latest by then. Dell is quite selective of the people he hires, but as the assistant manager here, I have my own say in the matter as well." She smiled and gave him a little wink. "I see great potential, Tank. I'd be lying to you if I told you that you weren't a serious candidate. Final approval will come from the manager and co-owner of the club, and that should be shortly after Dell picks the people he wants, and I weed out anyone who's too easily distracted."

She smiled and offered her hand to him before she turned toward her desk and said, "Mr. Smith? You can come in now. I'll expect that listening device to disappear before you leave."
 
Tank seemed almost giddy upon hearing Lori's reply; he didn't so much mind having to break up fights or stop people from getting hurt. Hell, it was what he was designed to do...What did the doctors call, oh right, it was his destiny. He was destined to protect people that were deemed allies and close friends, and if he got picked to become the newest addition to the security force here at the Blue Moon Club and Brothel he would do just that. Especially if it meant protecting Lori. Even if he didn't get the job just yet, he felt so excited he could just pull her into a bear hug, however unprofessional that might be. He wouldn't kill her or do any lasting harm if he did, but boy would she fell her back crack a little.

However, before anything of the sort could be done, Tank grew very confused by her comment; why was she talking to her desk? And why did she call it Mr. Smith? He was waiting outside, wasn't he? Tank then turned as he heard the door open to see his handler and some of the soldiers walk in, that ever stoic expression still present on his face. "Mr. Smith, I....." the giant started to say, but was interrupted "Yes, Tank, I know". Mr. Smith then turned his head to the door and commanded, "Boys, escort the...VIP...to the transport outside. I'll call when I need a pickup; me and our new ladyfriend need to have a small chat regarding some important issues". "Sir!" replied one of the heavily armed and armored soldiers; another gently grabbed Tank's arm and added in a rather pleasant tone, "Come on, big guy. Let's get you home". Tank then turned to his handler and asked, "Sir, is everything...?" "Tank, RTB until further orders are given. We'll discuss once Lori and I finish talking" he then interjected in usual pleasant voice; the big man only said "Yes, Sir" as a good soldier would and followed the troupe out to the convoy.

Smith then turned and closed the door behind him, walking up to her desk only to grab the alarm/listening device from her desk as if nothing was out of the ordinary before storing it in the inside pocket of his coat. He wasn't quite sure how she managed to figure out what the device's secondary purpose was, but it didn't matter; all dialogue regarding ATLAS personnel needed to be recorded and that sometimes meant unorthodox and downright dirty ways of doing it. "May I?" he then asked as he motioned to one of the vacant chairs; he had a feeling that this woman was going to not agree with what he was going to ask her and might even get a little heated about his 'treatment' of ATLAS Unit 732.
 
The man looked ready to burst with happiness. It warmed her heart to know that she was giving him hope. And if anyone tried to take that hope away, they would find themselves in a rather grisly fight with Lori. She liked playing nice as much of the next girl, but she'd be damned if she let Agent Smith walk all over her and do as he pleased when he simply could have asked for her cooperation. Such arrogance really did not sit well with her. But for the sake of doing business, she had an obligation to behave in a polite and accommodating way. Of course, no one said she had to give the man what he wanted.

"Certainly. Make yourself comfortable." She leaned against her desk, sending the clear message that she was a busy woman and didn't have time to deal with pettiness. Of course, she didn't actually expect him to respect her time. He was definitely the sort that only saw what he wanted to see. She held her tongue so that she wouldn't correct his grammar or accidentally manage to take a swipe at him for listening in and then forgetting her name. What a rude individual he was. At this point, her opinion of the man was about as low as it had ever been.
 
Smith could see that she clearly did not like him; not that it mattered to him in the slightest of course. His job was to make sure that his charge didn't go on a rampage and bring down half the city, and he'd certainly made far worse enemies than some brothel manager. "Thank you" was his stern reply as he took a seat and finally did Lori the courtesy of removing his sunglasses and stowing them in his jacket pocket. She would find beneath them twin dark brown hues, with a crushing coldness that would make Hell itself freeze over and assured that Lori's previous assumption of the man was right on the money.

"Since I imagine you're very busy here, I'll try to be as brief as I can" Smith then added, glaring at the assistant manager. "As you likely guessed, Lori, the one that everyone calls 'Tank' is not an ordinary person. He is an as-of-recently decommissioned ATLAS-III supersoldier". Pausing for a moment to let it sink in, he then continued with, "If you've been following the news at all, you can probably surmise just how dangerous he can be. It is my job to inform you of these risks for your protection should you decide to hire him".

Sitting back in his chair, he then said to the manager rather pointedly, "Anything in particular you would like to know, please feel free to ask me. Keep in mind that what I am allowed to divulge will be limited in scope and must not leave this room. Understand?" Much of the classified material could not be released to the public as of yet, as there was always the risk that some wackjob might try to recreate the experiments for their own purposes.
 
Well it was good to know that her instinctual dislike for him was not unfounded. It was painfully obvious that Smith didn't care about anything or anyone but himself and his job. She sighed and shook her head. "Mr. Smith, I was made aware of the fact that Tank was, in fact, a super soldier when the application was sent in. I'm aware of the special circumstances that allowed him to be here today as well. If I recall, you made me aware of them yourself. Or at least, your office did. Should I choose to employ him, which is becoming more likely, I will do so because he is a qualified candidate."

She stayed still and set her clipboard down, returning her attention to her guest only after she had a few things straightened there. "I want to know why you think he can't go through a simple interview without you answering the questions for him. Do you think he's got some sort of brain damage from the process he went through?" It wasn't impossible. And it was a real question, unlike the slew of rhetorical ones that flew to the back of her mind.

"If there are any troubles with PTSD and known triggers, please inform me of those. Any medical needs, of course, should also be submitted if they affect his ability to work. Also, we do offer all of our employees a place to stay here in the upper levels of the building since we have the space and the proper permits. Tank is welcome to live here should he make the decision to. We will see to it that he is accommodated properly. And I can already tell that you have a problem with that, so let's get that on the table, too."
 
There she went again, with his attempt to actually do his job; while it was true that she had been informed beforehand that the applicant was a product of intense biological and biochemical enhancement, she didn't seem to grasp the fact that if she weren't careful Tank could easily kill her with a flick of his finger. "Ignorance is bliss...Apparently" Smith thought to himself, displeased that this woman was giving him a hard time for trying to protect. Difference of perspective, he supposed...Still didn't make it any less annoying.

"I do what I do because the ATLAS soldiers are damaged, Miss; they were created to help beat a very powerful enemy. Designed to be the ultimate soldier and they fulfilled that duty. And while I cannot fully go into specifics of what made them that way, the process did involve some...'Dehumanization'. Modification of the body and mind to bypass the development of certain pathways. Much effort has gone into trying to rebuild them, to help them learn what it means to be human again". He then paused for a moment and really looked hard at her before adding, "But it's a dangerous endeavor; many ATLAS specimens appear to be fine after basic rehabilitation, but have either knowingly or unknowingly learned to mask deeper portions of their conflict".

"As for PTSD, there are no issues with that, rest assured. Should you decide to hire him, we will work with the Blue Moon Club and Brothel to give you as much information as we can". Though his eyebrow noticeably ticked when she tried to lay the blame for Tank's living situation on him; this woman had some nerve. Even if he didn't want Tank living here, existing regulations prohibited ATLAS subjects from living off-base without approval from not only the General of the Army, but also the Commander-in-Chief and the Federal Council. Though he managed to avoid lashing out and instead simply stated, "And you're quite right in your implied meaning about his staying here; though I suggest you mind your tongue when you say 'I have a problem with it'. I don't presume to know how someone of your position does the job, so do me the same courtesy, would you?"

He then added coolly, but with a hint of irritation at Lori's audacity, "As for Tank living here, you'll need to talk to our Base Commander and go through several channels of communication to get the approval necessary to let him stay. ATLAS soldiers, as I've said before, are incredibly dangerous and require monitoring to assure that their mental and physical states will not be severely compromised nor that they will compromise the safety of anyone else. So, rest assured, it's not just me that has a problem with it. Are we clear...Lori?"
 
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