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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.
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.
