Description

Personality

Atlas is a rather gruff ghoul, preferring the company of a bottle of whisky opposed to that of a person, due both to his status as a ghoul and critical attitude. He is very distrustful and hateful person to be around, especially toward humans, or as he calls them "smooth skin bigot weaklings". He is very easily offended by any comments toward his ailment and and is very quick to pick a fight with anyone that dares insult him.

Atlas also has a severe drinking problem, being offensive and obnoxious when ever he's drunk and extremely hostile when he's sober and hung over. He drinks to forget the past at a unnamed settlement years earlier. He has also dabbled in drugs like jet, buffout and psycho.

Atlas is greedy, taking more risky and dangerous chances just to make a couple extra caps in hopes of one day leading a extravagant and luxurious life.He is selfish and will put himself before everyone else.He also has a bad habit of picking up useless things like broken guns and ruined books, saying "These may come in use one day".

He hates all feral ghouls as he thinks they give him a bad name, but also fears that he will go feral himself and be forgotten in vain just like his nameless friend.

Equipment

Unless prepared for heavy combat, Atlas can usually be seen wearing a red racer jumpsuit and a red bandanna. For heavy fire fights, he will dawn reinforced
metal armor that he tinkers with from time to time.

For weapons, he packs a scoped 44. magnum revolver that he keeps in shape himself with 24 spare standard rounds and 12 hollow points.He also has a hatchet if ammo runs dry.

He carries around a small stock of medical supplies including 6 stimpaks and some jet and psycho (some of which he uses for recreational purposes) and several days rations of pork n' beans and dirty water along with some whisky to numb the pain.

As he is very skilled in repairing, building, or even improving weapons and armor, Atlas carries around any scrap items he thinks he can put to use at a future date.

History

his earliest memory goes back about 100 years, with him waking up in a ditch, beaten and broken. He was rescued by a nearby settlements sheriff. grateful for the mans help, and with nothing better to do, he became the town deputy. He guarded the town for years, before it was attacked by the enclave and everyone except himself was massacred, which gave birth to his hatred for humans and his disrespect for authority.

After the raid, he wandered the ruins of North America blindly for years, gaining skills like repairing weapons and armor, using both conventional weapons and explosives, and playing the guitar. He also gained a severe drinking and drug problem. He ran with some rough crowds, like raiders, slavers, and even van graffs. After a while, he met a miserly old man who offered him the job opportunity of a lifetime: 100,000 caps if he protected the man wile he attempted find a legendary hidden oasis full of actual trees and plants some where in the wasteland, paid in full upon completion, with advancements of 1000 caps each month. He knew with that money he could retire and live a life of luxury, so he blindly agreed.

For months, he traveled with the old man and a large company of mercs, scientists and Cartographers searching for the fabled oasis. Through time, he formed a friendship with the old man and became a great companion in their long treks. But one night the miserly old guy passed away while sleeping, leaving the goal of finding the oasis incomplete and the large group of people with nothing to do but wander away. atlas was without his 100,000 caps and not a friend in the world.

Soon, he heard tales of a massive city ruin distraught with strife but ripe for the pickings. Figuring that he will run out of caps soon anyway, he decided to head out with gringo to this so called "Neo York".

PASSWORD: pipboy 3000

So begins...

Atlas's Story

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Setting

The Fallout setting, a famous game series.

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#2012-06-07 08:32:58, as written by crazygumbomb

"HHHUUHHHCOFFCOFFCOFFHACKHACKCLINK". Atlas doubled over on the sidewalk in a violent coughing fit followed by a bout of dizzyness. As he hurtled toward the ground his revolver fell from his holster to the ground beside him. Scanning the environment, he was glad no one noticed him huddled on the pavement.

This was becoming more and more common - the coughing fits that was. His health was deteriorated from the booze, or cigarettes, or drugs, or a combination of all three. He couldn't run as fast, or lift as much, or remember that well as he used to. At this point, he couldn't even recall his age. He wasn't sure the average death age of ghouls, but he met some wrinkle skins that were alive since the great war.

As he reached down for his pistol, something caught his eye. A rather stocky build of a man stood right across the street watching him like a hawk and leaning against a light post. He wasn't there when he checked a minute ago? Could he really move that fast? Atlas took a double take and noticed two more men on each side inching their way toward him.

Somewhat knowing his surrounding, he realized they were forcing him toward and into the Lucky Forty-Eight. That wasn't good. It was easy to sneak a knife into the casino, stick someone like like a pig, and lurk out before anyone even got your name. He knew security would do nothing about it unless they made their move.

What really shocked him was how they dressed. More specificity the insignia that was branded all over them. He knew that sign anywhere. He always hoped he would never see it again.

He knew the only chance he had was to reenter the casino and get out of there with his so called "team". As he slipped through the door, he prayed to what ever god their was that this wasn't his last day on earth.

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