Project Atlas [Inactive]

As the two locked gazes, Dolos never quit smirking. His eyes however, gave away a slight look of respect to the man who not only held his gaze, but held his calm when most people would be visibly agitated at his casual, almost disrespectful demeanor. To anyone trained or with an extensive history of dealing with people, this look may be obvious but to others, it would seem like Dolos was doing little more than, well, being himself.


He pounded his hand on the back of the chair, but his facial expression and the tone in his voice gave clue to the fact that he'd known the answer before even asking the question. "Bah. The fates have cursed my yet again. And please, Sergeant, feel free to call me Dolos. Mr Thomnas sounds so...formal."


He then looked over at Cedric, whom to which he'd not yet been introduced and casually said in a mockingly loud whisper. "You know they really enjoy you on a personal level when they don't let you leave" which was followed by a wink.
 
Sargent Carter was not what Mark had expected at all. For one, when Drexler originally said it was going to be a "meta-dominant team" he didn't realize that Drexler meant an entire team of metahumans. They might as well be the Guardians now, just with a larger team. Carter was also shorter than Mark expected, significantly shorter. He was planning on the Commanding Officer to be a disciplinarian and authoritarian sent by the military to keep the team in line. That did not seem to be who the military thought was the best of the job. Furthermore, he had transferred from the Luxembourg facility to New York just to lead this team. He made a mental note to speak to his uncle this afternoon after Carter.


Coming out of his thoughts, he noticed that Carter had stepped into the door, while no one else had followed. It seemed it was going to take a hard ass attitude to get these people to move and obey. Standing by the door, Mark stood up, walked into the middle area of the room and barked out "You heard the CO, get up and fall in! You can ask questions in-route to our destination. There's a lot of training to put you all through, and I'll be damned if I am going out into the field with someone who can't disarm, disassemble and fire a gun." With that, he looked around the room to make sure everyone was moving.
 
Cedric chuckled a bit at Dolos' comment, he had a feeling that they might get along, at least on a level where they could joke with each other. He spoke up to Mark, who had just taken a tone that rubbed him the wrong way. He stood up straight and locked his eyes on Mark's his golden gaze no longer relaxing but surprisingly menacing. "I would prefer you not taking that tone with me, I'm not someone you can push around. Remember that and we'll be fine." Cedric walked past Mark and out into the hall leaning against the wall. He grabbed his gloves and shoved then into his right pocket, guessing that he'll need them during the little training session. he put his hands in his pockets and stopped leaning against the wall, raising back up to his full height. He looked down the hall to where he assumed they would be headed muttering to himself, "this is going to be interesting."
 
Danny rolled her eyes at the others and began walking towards the door. She didn't want to cause any unnecessary problems if she didn't have to. "Come on guys. You all are acting like it's going to be the end of the world. It's just training." She rolled her eyes and began to walk towards the doors that the CO was standing by.


She didn't understand why everyone in here had such an attitude. Danny respected the fact that Mark was listening to their authorities. If the whole team kept up with a rebellious attitude, it would feel like the beginning of the Avengers. It already had that feeling in a way. Then again, they had just met each other. Dolos seemed to be the worst out of them, and she had hoped that that attitude would change. But then again, all of them had some issues. A drunk, a couple of others with no respect for others, and some of them with anger issues. Then there was herself who could occasionally be outspoken in times, which others mistook for a rude behavior. At that moment though, she decided it wouldn't be wise to provoke anyone in that room. She may be blunt at times, but she wasn't stupid.
 
Xavier struggled with a decision. Dolos had lied about Tyler. It was blatant. He was just trying to rile him. Well, that never worked on Xavier. He had no worries about his maturity. Truth to tell he was probably older than Dolos, than anyone in the room. But that wasn’t really important. Xavier brought his hands to his chin and made a triangular perch for it - a memorized position for later.


Time had stopped again. “Just breathe," he told himself. He concentrated on his breathing exercises not moving a muscle. He could remain like this for hours if he wanted. Though all that did was make him hours older. But it did give him time to think. He needed to read those files. It wasn’t that he wanted to. But for the security of the team he needed to. He simply didn’t trust Project Atlas to be thorough, not if they had brought some convict in on a service for amnesty deal.


First, to confirmed his suspicions about Tyler. Xavier was sure he knew the Corporal well enough to know it wasn’t in character for her to do the handcuff thing. But he COULD be wrong. Xavier grinned weakly at that thought. But Dolos also deserved the benefit of the doubt.


Time began to move backwards. As Xavier watched Dolos got up and walked backwards, turned and opened the door - the sequence of events as they had happened - in reverse. Xavier moved swiftly now allowing time to move backwards faster. Remembering the micro DVR in his pocket he started shooting snapshots of the scene. He could read Dolos’ smug expression. Dolos had done to Tyler what he had tried on him.


Xavier didn’t watch for more - not for now anyways. He moved back to his seat and caught his breath. For about a second he dropped back out of Null Time and looked across the table at Mark and smiled. To the outside world he had barely moved at all. (But to Mark’s senses ….)


He glanced over at Sergeant Carter. He tried not to smile at the name. Every time he heard it he wanted to give a long drawled “Gooollleee, Sgt Carter!” He wondered if Carter would even recognize the quote from Gomer Pyle. Xavier had another mission to deal with. On the plus side, it would only take a second - less actually.


+++++++


The last Xavier had seen of Mark had been at the mess hall before the meeting. He had been in too much of a hurry to eat and get to the meeting to talk at the time. But that was where he had first seen Mark with the files. It was time to do a little backtracking. “I’ll meet everyone there. Sergeant, I did a hard 3 hour session this morning. I need to watch the others to see how I can interact with my abilities, I’ll grant you that. But for the most part I am just a grunt soldier. I’ll be there before you are.”


He made his way normally until out of sight, then began short sprints using the same times he had used to walk to the meeting that morning to get back to the mess hall. Then he moved over to the table where Mark had sat and moved behind where the man had been. Then he stepped back with the DVR ready…


+++++++


Xavier was “relaxing” when the rest of the group arrived in the area. For him relaxing at the moment meant he was exhausted to the point his hands were shaky. He had picked the gun range to wait at as Mark had specifically mentioned weapon training. Repetitive or not one could never get enough training. Of course, his body felt as though he had just run a 5k triathlon.


 
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Diana's smile had obviously widened as Janice attempted a greeting in Russian tongue, having picked up on her last name. Not only did Janice already show promise of remarkable talent, she seemed to be quite bright beneath the woozy results of the alcohol. Diana gave an approving nod and responded, first in Russian and then repeating the phrase in English. "Приятно познакомиться, а также. Nice to meet you, as well." Her native accent, still intact from her childhood in Moscow, lightly dusted over her English. "Please, call me Diana."


-----


As Carter stepped in and took charge of the group, only shortly after the unexpected outburst from Xavier, Diana sat up a little straighter in her seat. This was it. She had already accepted and willingly shown up to the meeting. No turning back now.


She listened attentively, keeping her gaze locked onto the speaker. It was a look she had often donned while on the air, one of complete focus and interest but in reality her mind was busy meticulously picking apart each word spoken and its underlying meaning. One of the first lessons of being a member of any media outlet is to learn to pick up on word choice. How a person chooses to convey their message, whether planned and practiced or off the top of their head, can tell you a lot about them and their intentions.


When Carter had finished, Diana waited until Mark, Cedric, and Danny had each inserted their outbursts and attitude ridden side comments before grabbing her coat in her left hand and standing. Already everyone was ruffling each others' feathers. It looked like soon would be a good time to establish at least somewhat of a bond. She'd want to choose carefully. Already outspoken herself, Diana didn't need one of these fellow hot heads to pick a fight with her. Following behind Danny, she made her way to the hall.
 
"You heard the CO, get up and fall in! You can ask …”


Janice fell over. “If you insist.” Did they really want her to shoot a gun in her current state? She was exhausted from jet lag and drunk. “Falling I can do….”


++++++++++++


While Janice could have walked to the training grounds, she chose to use the wheelchair. Upon arrival her nose wrinkled. “You guys don’t get outdoors? So what do we have available to do here? She looked lazily over at the jungle gym. Nice, though she would have preferred real trees. But at least a jungle gym didn’t usually have branches that broke under her weight. She headed toward the indoor gunnery range and found herself promptly shooed away.


Then she spotted the punching bags. The large ones always reminded her of a tire swing, which brought back old memories of the “playground” Farther matthew had designed for her - which had been made from whatever was on hand given the funds available. She jumped clear up to the top of the bag and swung around a few time. Not the most exciting thing to do. So she jump off and ran across the room chimpanzee style to the batons. She grabbed one, then another 3 or 4.


Nothing was really catching her eye. This gym had next to nothing useful. It wasn’t as though she needed a jungle gym. That was about like handing the rest a sidewalk and telling them to practice walking. Oh wait, they called that track. And a pool? Screw that. She gave that a wide berth.


Then she found the balls. Basketballs and racquetballs mostly. No cricket balls. Then she found the small bag of brand new baseballs. A little confused she looked around. There was no field, no gloves, no batting cage that she could see. There was, however, a simple baseball cap. A broad drunken smile crossed her face. Now THIS she could have a little fun with. She grabbed the whole bag and made her way to what looked like a knife throwing range.


Now one thing about having longer arms than a typical human was that it gave her a distinct advantage of leverage. It also meant longer muscle fibers, which meant an augmented strength. She had played baseball more than a few times at the Church. But she always had to pull her throws for fear of breaking the hand of the catcher. When she was 12 she had very nearly put father Matthew in the hospital when he missed the ball and it struck him in the chest. He had been telling her to put on the heat. Just a game.


She pulled out a ball and smelled it. It has that crisp new smell, still slick as though it had just been made. Janice had never actually see a new baseball before. She looked down range and frowned. Which target to hit? The one on the middle, left or right. Of course there was really only one - and she knew that. She wound up and let fly.


She did NOT throw like a girl.


There was a large gaping hole through the center of the target the size of the baseball. She rocked side to side and raised her hands over her head chimp style and grinned. She reached into the bag for another ball….
 
Mark wasn't surprised to already see that Xavier was at the firing range of the training area waiting for him. "Wait a long time?" he asked sarcastically. Coming close to Xavier, he leaned in towards his ear and whispered, "I know what you did. 2000 hours, tonight, my place." As he pulled his head away, he pat Xavier on the back.


Walking past Xavier up to the counter, he pulled a pair of ear plugs out his trench coat pocket. Placing them in his ears, he turned around and stated bluntly, "You're going to want some ear plugs." Swiveling on his right foot, he turned back towards the counter, pressing a red button to call forth targets. Three paper human targets appeared, each with a red marker indicating that the heart was the target. He then turned back around, facing away from the targets. "Watch this," he said with a smile.


He began by instantly turning his body back around so his body was facing the target. At the same time, his right hand reached down into his trench coat, pulling forth a 1911, currently not suppressed. Taking both the gun into both hands, with his right hand grabbing the grip of the gun with the right on the trigger while the left hand cupping the right hand over the middle, ring and pinkie fingers, he let forth at quick barrage of 9 rounds, firing three at the first target, three at the second, and three at the third in rapid section. It took him three seconds from firing the first round to the last round. Stopping, Mark returned his sidearm to his holster and pressed the blue button to call the targets forward. As the targets came forward, it looked like one large bullet had gone through each one of the targets' hearts. The spread of the three shots on each target was that tight.


He turned around and said, "Think you can top that?"
 
“Well, the old saying is, ‘Time waits for no man,’” Xavier said as Mark revealed that he was aware of what he had done. Mark might have been baiting him. But Xavier gave his best innocent confused look. For all Mark knew, he hadn’t done anything …. yet.


Xavier grabbed a pair of earplugs. He wasn’t the dishonest sort so he added, “Wait! DO I need these now … or later?” quickly fitting the plugs into his ears before he was deafened. There was no surprise when the man made three tight groupings right on target. The man was competitive.


Truth to tell Xavier had the raw talent to become every bit the shootist Mark was, but lacked the passion to do so. But he wasn’t half bad either. So when Mark challenged him, Xavier smiled slightly and nodded. “Easily old man. Move aside and watch a real pro at work. I guess I can’t really use the ‘girly guns' for this." Xavier was often teased for using snub nosed holdouts, suggesting he ought to get them with pearl grips or some other dainty modification. But the kid always took the joshing in stride.





“M1911 5 inch barrel. Muzzle velocity 825 feet per second. Time to expel one round just a hair over half a millisecond, but I can do it a little slower than that - for the sake of poor Ms Rand’s oncoming hangover.”


“You know, I am starting to think you keep these around to compensate for something … sir.” Not giving Mark a chance to respond, Xavier suddenly glowed brightly to Mark’s perception. He squeezed 9 shots off in rapid succession, in about two thirds the time Mark had used. The shots came out subsonic.


Xavier’s eyes unfocused a little. He’d been practicing that particular pattern for some time - starting with Mark’s favorite pistol. It was a pattern of stretching and contracting time to fire rapidly while bleeding off some momentum by slowing the bullets down for a brief moment as he fired.


Each of Mark’s groupings now had a small umbrella shaped grouping over them. Of course they weren’t perfect, but it was decent work. The kid had clearly practiced.
 
Where should I begin? Danny thought to herself as she looked around the training room. She really didn't want to be around the others and preferred to train by herself. Xavier and Mark were by the shooting area, so she decided to not go over there. Plus, her father had taken her hunting a few times throughout her lifetime and she had gotten good. Janice was throwing baseballs in the knife throwing range, and decided it would be best to stay away. The fact that she made a hole in the target with just her drunken self sort of scared her a little bit.


She looked down at her official looking outfit; there was no way she was going to be able to do anything in these clothes. The good thing about being excited for this whole thing was that she thought of practically everything, even training clothes. After looking around for a bit, she found a restroom in the corner of the gym and quickly changed into her clothes.


When she exited the restroom, there were punching bags by her, and she decided to go at it. Carefully, she wrapped her hands and began to take swings at the bag. Left hook, jab, jab, uppercut, right hook... Beads of sweat began to drip down her face as her punching intensified. After a final uppercut to the bag, she unwrapped her hands and went off looking for something else to do.


She found a few dummies standing near a few of the targets. Danny thought that it would be a nice time to relinquish her powers. She stood about ten feet from the dummy and began to shoot vines at it. As the vine went whirling towards the figure, she flicked her wrist so that the vine would curl around it. In another quick motion, she pulled her arms back so that the vines would squeeze the dummy. Danny could feel her vines beginning to thicken and strengthen under her pull. When her energy was beginning to wane, she allowed the vines to shrivel back up into her hands. Even from her ten foot distance, she could tell that she had critically damaged the dummy. As she walked closer, she could visually see the indents. The fabric on the dummy was ripped and some of the beads inside of it had spilled out onto the floor from the thorns on the vines. Smiling with pride, she walked away and looked for something else to do.
 
As the group entered the training area Cedric looked around, it seems he noticed the punching bag just as Janice did because she practically flew to it. He was surprised at how agile she was, but soon realised he shouldn't be. After seeing her swing around the top he knew why she was here, and what her ability seemed to be. He chuckled seeing her lose intrest in the bag and run off to something he assumed was more interesting.


Cedric simply looked around, watching what the others were doing. He saw a girl shoot vines from her hands destroying a dummy. "Wow that is some serious strength." He looked at his hands concentrating on the feeling he got when he used his powers. He soon felt the heartbeat in his hand that always came before he used his pulses. He decided to practice with his powers and walked up to the closest punching bag. He gave it a quick nudge to gauge the weight. He then slipped on his right glove, and punched the bag releasing the shockwave he had been gathering in his hands. The combined force of his punch and the shockwave, ripped the chain the bag in half making the stuffing fly out and spreading the contents all over the floor.
 
The training areas, although designed specifically for Project Atlas, unfortunately suffered from a major flaw: the designers had only been theoretically familiar with metahuman capabilities. Couple this with the original intent for a small number of metas to be part of the program plus a limited number of companies producing specialized equipment, and the result was obviously lacking. Mikael walked with the others the short distance to the training rooms. He kept relatively close to Dolos without making any move to remove the man’s handcuffs yet. Instead, he settled in to quietly observe the team.


Not that you could call it a team; not yet.


Vanburen focused on a skill he didn’t need to master, effectively shutting himself and the young Thomas off from the others through the soundproof door. The man seemed to think this was a military exercise. He was partially right, but handling a metahuman team - especially with fresh civilian recruits - required something other than a drill sergeant’s approach. That’s why Carter was here, God help him.


Rand showed promise: even drunk, she had remarkable strength and aim. (Granted, the destructive power of her throw made it difficult to discern exactly how precise her aim had been.) The way Fidela worked the heavy bag was surprising. That hadn’t been in her file. But she soon verified why the codename “Dryad” had been suggested in her file. Meanwhile, Kane revealed his strength - literally - by decimating one of the heavy bags. As the contents spilled onto the floor, Mikael noted that they had taken him at his word: demonstrating their strengths.


Chmerkovski and Thomnas - or Dolos, as he’d asked to be called - possessed more subtle talents. Frankly, they weren’t as useful to him as soldiers on paper, but he’d learned over the years to expect the unexpected. The nature of missions varied greatly. Which was probably the point of such a diverse team, although that didn’t stop him for wishing for some experienced people. The one New York operative he’d requested had turned the job down. This many new recruits was a recipe for a shit storm of trouble if things went sideways on an op. Especially if they didn’t start talking to one another. He would push them if he had to, but he knew from experience giving the team time to work it out for themselves often yielded better results. The question was whether a few days would be enough time.


He glanced at Dolos, reaching in his suit jacket pocket to withdraw a handcuff key. He held it by the stem as he looked at the man who had been added to the team after his initial debriefing. Dolos’ file was thick, filled with far too many suppositions and educated guesses. But the psychological analysis showed promise. If you believed the shrinks. Still, Mikael wouldn’t take any immediate chances. He made certain there wouldn’t be a full print on the tiny surface of the key.


His head moved in a minute nod, as if he had come to a conclusion. Then he tossed the key toward Dolos and resumed watching the others. “Are we going to have a problem?” The question was casual, devoid of bravado or gruff authority. If they needed to follow up with an elementary explanation of consequences, that could be managed. But it shouldn’t be necessary. A strong-arm approach would only backfire with this guy, and Carter’s job was to form a team. He had a plan B for dealing with Dolos if it came to that, but the Project thought the man might be useful or he wouldn’t be here. And if anyone understood the value of second chances, Carter did.
 
Janice had turned the baseball cap backwards and gotten ‘down to work’ to throw a few more strikes by the time the others started getting into the action. Baseball had been one of the few games the padres at the mission had played. Father Matthew had apparently once coached a team. Their first attempt to get her to join in had been a miserable failure when she just took the ball and ran off with it. Eventually after watching the rest play she started to recognize there were rules to follow. She had already been a natural at throwing. More than once she had saved her chimpanzee tribe from predators by throwing rocks with lethal force.


Now she noticed the girl named Danny creating ropes or wires and sending them out with lethal consequences at some other targets. And the other guy … whose name she was having trouble with (Cedric) remembering hauled off and obliterated the heavy punching bag she had used for a swing before heading over to watch Danny. Also a little curious about what Danny was doing Janice ambled over to get a closer look. As she did she began to realize the ropes were actually vines. Interesting.


Then it dawned on her that it might not be a good idea to mention how much she liked eating fruit. The last thing Janice wanted was to have a fruit tree attack her back. Then she noticed the types of target - dummies.





‘Oh my, I think I may have been throwing strikes at the wrong targets. Although I am not sure if it is technically a strike if I actually hit the batters. That’s pretty neat what you two do. I think we may need some tougher training gear.” She gestured over at the vanquished punching bag. “I don’t really have any powers per se. I was simply born different. But I guess different is enough. Sorry if I am so out of it today. I don’t usually drink. I hope this won’t be as bad as the time I snuck into the wines stores for sacrament.”
 
Mark laughed at Xavier's joke. Granted, if it had been any other person telling him the joke, he probably would have handled the situation in a much different manner. He was, he confessed, impressed with Xavier's improvement. “You've certainly been practicing your aim. Get a little better and I will try to get you some training on an M4A1 and a Barret 50. cal. I have a feeling we're going to need to use those sooner or later.” Looking over his shoulder, he noticed a frown on Carter's face when glanced over at Mark and Xavier.


“Xavier, I think the Sargent would like us out in the gymnasium intermingling with the rookies. Either that or his face just happens to be stuck in a permanent frown. Come on, let's get out there. We can talk later.” With that, Mark turned back and walked back into the gymnasium. Seeing that Carter standing by Dolos, relatively removed from those training, he approached him.


Speaking a softer voice as to not draw much attention, he stated, “Sir, I didn't want to mention this front of everyone, but you can't be serious about getting this group into team-fighting material within 72 hours. It's either a cruel joke or someone in brass has a real desire to see some metahumans die soon. The last time I was in a team that was newly formed and went out into the field quickly, it was the raid on the Crimson League. It was a simple job. We get in, I extract the leader, and we get out. In our squad of ten, we lost five in the assault and never made it within a football field of the compound before we had to turn back. We were untrained as a team, had no coordination, and communication quickly broke down. And that was for a relatively low-level meta group against trained spec ops. I can only imagine what they're planning on sending a full meta team up against.”


Stopping for a moment, he took a moment to take a breath and observe the gymnasium. He looked through the carnage that been unleashed already, shattered targets, dummies and walls. It was clear that the files had been right, these were some of the stronger metahumans out there. Cedric seemed to possess a great level of strength and his chest blasts were just as strong as his file had indicated. Mark shook his head. That still didn't change the fact that they were untrained as a team. There was no yet chemistry. No one seemed to want to work with others so far. It reeked of a suicide squad, and he certainly hadn't signed up for a suicide squad.


Turning towards Carter, he looked him in the eyes and said "Ease my fears, sir. Tell me we're not deploying so soon.”
 
Danny laughed casually and replied to Janice, "No I completely understand. Jet lag really sucks. I've only been on a plane a few times in my life, and I would prefer to skip the whole fatigue thing." She paused a moment before continuing. "I was watching you pitch over there. That's really cool that you were born with that." Danny thought some more then started talking again. "I mean, of course we were all born like this." She sort of laughed as she motioned to her hands and the rest of herself.


She began to twirl the flowers in between her fingers again as she thought about what to do. "Say, you want to go talk to the others?" Danny asked Janice. Without another word, she began to walk over to the shooting range where Xavier was standing. The target across from him looked like an umbrella shape over other bullet marks. "Nice shot," She noted and nodded at the target.
 
More by habit Xavier followed Mark out of the gun range. It was the sort of thing rookies often did. They were told to shut up, listen and do as they were told. Xavier was still having trouble breaking the habit. But when he saw Dolos standing by Carter his blood ran cold. Bad combination. And given the way Dolos had scanned the room when they met - even worse. Xavier hoped he was wrong.





“I’m going to check in with the others,” he told Mark. The senior agent was right. Carter had mentioned a mission in a few days - which was insane. Even normal basic training lasted about a month. This group was so far from ready. He could see that much at a glance. And that was half his fault.


They had been wreaking havoc on the gym. Did these guys not understand the concept of pulling a punch. Most people - metahumans included - wouldn’t survive catastrophic damage like this. Then again, odds were their targets would be terrorists and the orders would be to terminate. He wondered how Ms Rand would handle that piece of news. Had any of these people really thought about what they were getting into? Probably not. More than likely they were just struggling to fit into a world that had no place for them.


He met the others halfway. “Ladies,” he glanced at Cedric and didn’t change his wording, but explained instead, “military term. I am codenamed Snapshot. I have been here a little over a year and was in training a few years before that with another organization. Now Sgt Carter - “ he paused and grinned. “Is it just me or does that name make you guys want to do a Gomer Pyle imitation?” He paused to see if anyone would even recognize the reference. “Anyways the sergeant mentioned that we have a mission coming up in a few days.” He made a sour face.





“Can any of you guys imagine sending a military unit out on a job - any job - even digging ditches - with only 3 days of working together? If they had a drill instructor monitoring them constantly they might get work done. Without him, my guess the is that the work would suffer. But take it to a slightly more hostile situation. Take out the leader and then what? I think I probably have the most experience and training of any of us - and I would hardly be up to the task. We would be easy pickings.”


“If you think I’m exaggerating, consider a terrorist cell that has one or two metahumans in it. One metahuman can do something like fly. The other generates bioelectricity like an eel. But … they are trained as a unit. Their plan is to break into a military base to steal some weapons grade … oh … chemical weapons intended for destruction from the materials being taken out of Somalia. Nasty stuff. One stray bullet and well, … You guys all trained in CBR? Indoor tactics? Counter terrorism?”


“Pretty dismal prospects. We have three days to try to minimize those risks. That means we need to learn a little about each other’s strengths. Today is pretty much shot with Janice being dead on her feet. We are going to need to get some real agents in here to train with us to act as bad guys - not dummies. I am thinking paint guns or tasers. Painful training. Better to make mistakes here, than out there. Trust me, I still make a LOT of mistakes.


“My role is recon. Hence my codename. I lack any offensive powers. I can get in, do a recon and get out about as fast as the Flash. Offensively I can take down a few normal humans in about a second. But that is pretty much my limit.”
 
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Dolos followed the trail end of the group but stopped suddenly at the door. In his mind flashed an image of when the younger now-partner (Xavier) and something was nagging at him. He flashed back and forth between two images and something wasn't right. The man moved, but he didn't move. Interesting. He'd watch that one a bit closer.


He moved through the hall and into the gym and stayed near Sgt Carter, if nothing more than the position that they stood gave them the best view of the going ons in the room. He scanned, slowly and methodically, and drank it all in. The area, the individuals, their moves and facial expressions. And also, how they regarded one another.


When the key was tossed his way, Dolos had his gaze focused in another direct, but he snatched the key up none the less. He couldn't help but smirk as there was a lack of THAT feeling from picking up a print, so the Sergeant must know about that. Well, DNA would do.


His thoughts were interupted when the man asked, "Are we going to have a problem?" He continued to look around, his gaze more serious, stern, and focused than it had been since getting here.


"With me. No. I'm here. I could have fled, or attempted to, snuck out, took a hostage or" he casually flipped the cuffs onto the floor in front of him, key in hand, never having used them, "or slipped the cuffs a long time ago. I am here. Despite my... My file, and my demeanor, I am not what one would think. I don't do the things I did out of malice. Now, with this group, we may have a problem. I'm not a trained, seasoned soldier by any means but--."


He stopped as two of the other member (Xavier and Vanburen) approached. He didn't dislike them exactly, he just thought that their views of things were sometimes extremely narrow. That, and they definitely seemed to judge a book by its cover...or a man by his file.


Dolos smirked at the one who walked away to talk to the other members, opting to remain with Sgt Carter and Vanburen. He heard the man voice his concern and kept his ear perked in the direction and found that the other man (Xavier) was voicing similar concerns, albeit in a more tactful manner.


Once Vanburen was finished, Dolos cleared his throat and spoke up. "Maybe the wrong team was picked for the mission. I've found it a common misconception, especially in matters involving the military, that most situations are best handled by bullets. Shooting your way into a compound and shooting your way out, with some sneaking mingled in, is not always the best way to get a job done. Someone once said, 'The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. All war is deception.'"


He rolled his neck slightly and rubbed his hands alternately, trying to relieve the pain of having slipped the cuffs, actually doing so twice in a few hours. "I robbed banks and pulled con jobs that normally would have taken week and months to pull with teams of reconnaissance groups, proper planning and resources. I snuck into federal bank safe boxes and vaults, on camera, with guards. I didn't kill, fire a shot or even once get fired at."


"Wars are fought with bullets. Wars are won by intelligence. Maybe it's not the team's lack of experience that you should worry about, it should be your own misconceptions, uh. What was your name again?" He reached out his hand to shake.
 
Dolos’ response told him everything and nothing. He seemed at peace with his situation, which was cause enough for suspicion. Then there was the ego again. No man was immune, especially one who survived by his wits, and everything about Dolos' file implied that he was a tactician and quick study; he'd have to be to survive without being caught for so long. Which begged the question of why he had eventually gotten caught. The story implied a simple miscalculation. The man before him wasn't the sort to make that kind of error. Before Dolos could finish his response, however, Vanburen made a beeline for them. Carter’s back stiffened imperceptibly. The timing was horrid, and Vanburen seemed oblivious to it.


But he held his tongue as Vanburen pointed out the obvious, as if Carter wasn’t aware of the situation or the inherent risks. The man’s arrogance really knew no bounds, and he clearly had no respect for his superior’s experience. Perhaps it was because he had everyone’s file but his sergeant’s. Vanburen felt confident that he knew the field, but apparently assumed that his new C.O. was brought in like some bumbling sheriff. Perhaps he expected his sergeant to list of his credentials and experience. Mikael’s lips twitched briefly into a smirk before regaining their stone-faced stillness. Vanburen’s concerns were rooted in a bad experience, and they weren’t the sort of thing he wanted the team to keep suppressed. However, he did note of how Vanburen had taken every step to put himself above and distance himself from his new teammates, but no action so far to rectify the situation himself.


Then Dolos added fuel to the fire by implying that the deaths on Vanburen’s previous mission were at least partly their own fault. He followed this up with another on-target point about tactics, delivered wrapped up in ego.


Team cohesion was definitely the largest challenge before them.


As Vanburen either offered Dolos his hand or not, the sergeant spoke up. “I’d like to ease your fears, Special Agent. But you’ve been here long enough to know that the timing of missions is dependent on forces outside our control. We don’t pick when a metahuman decides to go off the rails, and whining about it won’t change that fact.


“Our current assignment is to prepare, so that’s what we’ll do. If you’d rather decline the assignment than work with us to get there, I can arrange for you to be reassigned. I don’t want anyone on my team who isn’t fully committed. As you’ve pointed out so eloquently, that can get people killed.”
 
Shortly after Diana had entered the training facility, she'd noticed Danny exiting a restroom/locker room combination of space and with one glance around at those already set to work demolishing the training dummies, knew that was where she should head as well. Though professional, her attire wasn't exactly suited for the current occasion.


A few weeks prior, Project Atlas had requested to take a look at, and hold on to for the time being, Diana's specially altered bodysuit. Of course she had agreed. It wasn't as if she had frequent use for it. If her assumptions were correct, they'd have left it accessible to her if they wanted her to train and 'show off her powers' with the others. To Diana's relief, the familiar black material was indeed neatly folded and waiting.


It only took a few minutes for her to shed her blue dress and nude heels and slip into the molded fabric. It had been precisely tailored to her body at the age of sixteen, and had been continually resized to fit her shape as she aged. The suit was fairly thick, its outer layer appearing more rubbery than it truly was to the touch. The lighting of the restroom clearly displayed the slight appearance of thousands of tiny reptilian scales, a personal touch. From her toes to her fingertips to the base of her neck was covered in the slim suit, and Diana could already feel her body temperature effectively heating the cloth.


Tugging her dark hair into a high ponytail, she slipped back into the training rooms. Already, a few more punching bags had been dismembered. For a moment, Diana's usual confident composure dropped. Had whoever recruited her really known what they were doing? These metas each seemed to have more destructive abilities, talents that could actually be used in combat. Unless an enemy challenged the U.N. to a life-or-death match of hide and go seek, Diana was beginning to doubt she'd be of much assistance.


Her train of thought was broken as an involuntary shiver passed through her spine. Just as designed, the suit and her body had reached equal temperatures in a little under three minutes. Diana smiled slightly to herself and glanced to the wall behind her, only using a split second to recognize its basic hues. In the blink of an eye her entire body, from head to toe, faded and brightened to match the colors of the wall and floor exactly. She was simply a shimmer; a movement hardly noticeable from the corner of your eye. Diana's smile widened as she jogged the entire length of the wall, easily changing colors to continue to blend with varying shadows and tones.
 
Turning towards Dolos as he spoke, Mark tried to sum up Dolos. Dolos, as he had thought earlier, was the loose cannon of the group. However, now that Mark looked him over closer, it was far more subtle than that. Dolos was a calculated and tactical individual. Every word he spoke, every movement of his body, every breath he took was carefully and meticulously calculated. He was a clever man, certainly not the kind of person you would want to try to pull the wool over their eyes. There was the also the fact that he was glowing brighter than Carter, whom he was next to.


“We are in agreement there, Dolos. There's certainly a time for stealth and subterfuge, but there's also a time to make an entrance. Ulysses S. Grant once said, 'The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving on.” I think you will find that more often than not that orders, not ideals or opinions, dictate your actions in the battlefield. If you haven't learned that yet, Dolos, you're in for a rude awakening. I can't speak for Luxemburg,” he said looking at Carer, “but here in New York, the former American brass is very particular about their orders.”


Listening to the sergeant, it was clear that Mark had sent the wrong message. Carter was taking his tone as one of disrespect and insubordination. It was broadcast clear as a day, a tone he had heard many times during his service. “Sir, don't take my tone as one of whining, pity, or disrespect. You're the new sergeant in New York. I have no idea who you are, what your level of experience, or even if you have seen your share of combat before. Although, the latter I can guess,” he said indicating Carter's scar. “I don't know if this is your first time in charge or if you're an experienced director. Until we get more comfortable with each other, I am going to voice my concerns, sir. I'm sorry if I come across as arrogant or disrespectful, sir. I speak my mind.”


Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he let out a small sigh before speaking again, this time in a much calmer, peaceful tone. “To be truthful, sir, I would have much rather preferred my CO to be someone who has been here for a while, like Kepler, instead you. I know Kepler. I know how he thinks, what he misses when looking at the picture, and how to make sure I assist him in the best way possible. I don't know how to back you up, sir. Tell me what you need, and I will carry it out to the fullest.”


Giving Carter time to process what he had said, he turned to Dolos. “You can call me Agent Vanburen,” he said as he shook Dolos hand, holding onto to for a moment longer than normal before breaking contact. As he turned away from Dolos and towards the gym, he let loose a smile, pleased with how odd Dolos must be feeling and how reinvigorated he felt.
 
Janice actually listened to Xavier - though it made her head hurt. And she tried to listen in on the Sergeant, Marksman and Dolos, though Xavier’s monologue made that hard. She hated to say it, but Xavier and Marksman were right. And Dolos was sabotaging any chances they had with his attitude.


Truth to tell, if one read her file without explanations she didn’t look much better than Dolos. She had been arrested as a terrorist in London just 3 months ago. There had been weapons and explosives everywhere when the authorities grabbed her and beat her - a little more. This is, a little more meant that she had already been beaten pretty badly by a hate group. She was still recovering from injuries. If it hadn’t been for her foster mother’s legal aid bringing metahuman affairs into the matter she would probably be incarcerated or dead now. Even that almost wasn’t enough as her last known address had been a visit to Lesotho, a militant country that recognized Palestine. Only the records of her cell phone saved her.


She was beginning now to realize that her invitation to join the Project might not be so voluntary. All they had to do was remove a few records and she looked pretty bad - like the sort of person this team was supposed to hunt. A moment of clarity hit her. Bait? She wanted to scream what sort of a difference THAT would make. But it was a simple fact that she would make an ideal undercover agent to infiltrate a metahuman hate group. She certainly had every reason to hate humans.





“Three days - two and a half now? Screw them. I don’t think this group is even legal. This is a black ops program - isn’t it? The Sergeant may say we are the good guys, but how does he define good? Just by being a group we may be doing more harm than good. I realize that won’t stop radical metahuman groups from forming. Trust me. I understand that better than anyone here. They don’t play by rules.


“But thus far every metahuman has been vulnerable to normal military and law enforcement weaponry. Well, maybe vulnerable isn’t a good word.” Janice’s struggled through her alcohol induced fog. “Would a bullet stop any of us? I am guessing yes. So take a team of commandos and sic them on us and we’d all fall. They don’t need US in three days. They need a trained team. Someone is clearly on an agenda.


“I say we get a full disclosure - now. We will decide if this team is right for the job. Snapshot, I get the impression you trust Marksman. That’s all well and good. But I have no reason to trust any of you. I definitely don’t trust Dolos. I won’t be on the same team.


“Oh and speaking of all these code names and stuff, I won’t answer to Monkey Girl or any other bigoted name like that. I’ve been toying with two names. I like Sithandra - but I doubt most people would get the reference - and it is actually a little bigoted. Plus most people would shorten it to Sith. The other one I liked was Lady Jane. It’s a little bigoted, but the name was used in some superhero movie. My name Janice cane from the name Jane - as in Jane Doe. Father Matthew wasn’t very imaginative when he helped me personalize my name.”
 
Xavier frowned and grinned weakly. He’d only had a chance to read over Mark’s shoulders. His main interests had been in Dolos. For the rest he had skimmed more than read and taken pics, but he had caught the handwritten note for Janice’s code name. ‘Missing Link.’ Xavier shook his head imperceptibly. Mark really had a few things to learn about tact.





“Yeah, Janice? About that code name… Marksman has a bad habit of trying to come up with descriptive ones. If I hadn’t already had one I am sure he would have come up with something suggestive of my powers. I think he had one in mind for you that you probably won’t like. Try not to get too mad. Just put your foot down.”


Xavier turned back to the rest, glanced back at where the senior members were confronting one another, grimacing as Dolos and Marksman shook hands. “Guys, I really need to have a pow wow with Marksman. If any of the rest of you feel like we are being rushed into operational status, maybe you should take it up with the Sergeant. Fact is, without us they don’t have a team - period, end of story. So their approach to this tells me they made a lot of assumptions. And you know what they say about assumption.”


With that Xavier, vanished to reappear near Carter and Van Buren. He focused his attention on Dolos, never letting the man out of his sight. “Marksman, could we speak in private please?”
 
Tuesday, New York. Snowing.


“The Vanderhoff Mansion”. That was what Ivan Nathaniel Vanderhoff called his living quarters - an area barely twenty-eight meters square on the fourth floor of an old apartment building on the edge of the city of New York. Or, at least, it was what he called his part of the twenty-eight metres square.


“Can you at least appear to make an effort in keeping your desk, perhaps, relatively organized?”


The source of the remark on the unfastidious workspace was Daniel Ramsdale. Dan Ramsdale was considered a pleasant flatmate. The notion of the person you share your living quarters with being a “pleasant flatmate”, under most circumstances, however, is not mutual. Especially so when you complain about the place - the place you paid the rent for - being too messy, about food vanishing from the fridge, or about parts missing from your personal computer; the person you happen to share the room with would blink a few times, smile, take a sip from his icy beverage - he just took from your fridge, by the way - and reply nonchalantly:


“Thanks. I get that a lot.”


The office chair that sat in front of the unorganized table squeaked in protest with every shift of the unbalanced weight on its axis as it rotated slowly. Atop of that office chair, legs crossed, was Ivan Vanderhoff.


“Whatcha looking for again?” the young man buried himself back into the seat, which - again - emitted a series of sharp squeals in response.


“Vector Dynamics for Engineers. Fifth Edition. You know, that little hardback-”


Dan was interrupted by the sound of piles of metal collapsing onto each other. Ivan had already reeled his chair around the overflowing desk, and had his hands halfway buried through the boxes and wires that piled the back of his workspace. Dan stood there and watched. A while later, Ivan emerged from his search, holding up a six hundred page, hardback book.


“And how did that get there?” Dan said as he took the book.


“You’re welcome.” Ivan struggled to pile the computers back into their original configuration, one little box refused to be aligned properly without proper support that was once provided. He stubbornly refused to leave his chair, even if it meant assuming an extremely uncomfortable pose. After moments, he decided that it was in vain and left the disk reader dangling on its wires on the side of a cardboard box which served as an impromptu case.


“You should consider using some of those next time.” Dan remarked, pointing at the folded, wrinkled pages on Ivan’s desk, soaked and dried repeatedly they were better described as solid blocks of fibre.


“Good idea.”


“Oh, yeah, how’s groceries going?”


“Huh? Uuuum….oh, I’m probably on my way back.” Ivan replied as he rolled his chair back to its original position, facing the vast array of screens - large and small, vertical and horizontal, wires tangling behind them into knots and braids impossible to untie - at the back his desk. He was referring to the other him as he spoke.


There were protests and debates and petitions. “The Metahuman Question” still popped up routinely on late night talk shows. Yet, while any metahuman involvement in military actions would probably prove largely controversial, it seems that - at least in the foreseeable future - there won’t be regulations that restrict the use of metahuman powers - the ability to maintain two copies of oneself at once and have them carry out different tasks, for instance - in collecting edible resources to sustain life in a rented apartment for another upcoming week.


“Great.” Dan said, “Didn’t forget the milk, did you? I need my coffee.”


“Nope.” Ivan replied, confident, but only for moments. “Wait, what milk?”


Dan sighed and walked over to Ivan’s desk. He seemed to consider himself obligated to clean up Ivan’s mess once in a while. Or was it because he genuinely feared the existence of ants and cockroaches? Dan collected the plates and cups that piled on Ivan’s desk.


“Hey hey wait.” Ivan rushed to retrieve the remaining piece of pizza before, satisfied, he allowed Dan to take the plate away.


There was a moment eerie silence. He expected a remark of some sort from his roommate, perhaps, but that didn’t come. Dan, instead, was staring through the open window, down onto the snow-covered streets below.


“What’s going on out there?” Ivan asked as he stuffed the pizza into his mouth.


Down there, just at the doorstep of the apartment, was a black vehicle. Besides it stood a man in government uniform, and a confused Ivan with groceries in hand.


“Wait. What?” Ivan said, taking moments to concentrate on the sights and sounds the other copy of him was experiencing. And just when he managed to gain a clear enough view, there were footsteps up the stairs. And then, knocks on the door.


“I’m looking for mister Ivan Vanderhoff.”


“What did you do?” Dan asked, looking at the door, his tone part surprised, part worried.


“Um,” Ivan uttered a placeholder response. The unlocked door opened to reveal another man in a uniform identical to that of the one downstairs. He was holding up a document- a warrant of sorts, or identification, it was hard to tell.


“I’m looking for mister Ivan Vanderhoff.” the man repeated.


“Ivan?”


“I’m afraid,” Ivan said, “you will need to go buy the milk yourself.”


* * * *


Ivan always imagined riding on one of those black sedans to be interesting. Instead it proved to be almost unbearably boring. Attempting to interact with either the driver or the other men on the vehicle was much like attempting to initiate conversation with one of those guards in front of Buckingham Palace. The only difference was that the men on the car both moved and talked. Not much, anyway, and returning the same answer with almost the exact same wording towards every inquiry was very much as good as not speaking at all.


“Well.” Ivan sunk himself into the back seat of the sedan.


He didn’t have much to think about on the trip, either. The U.N doesn’t just randomly pull up at your house without reason and take you away. Several weeks of correspondence and information was given in advance. Or, at least, the information that they considered appropriate for him to know. Or at least what he assumed to be information. Most of it actually ended up , perhaps, somewhere deep in the soaked solid pieces of fibre on his desk. We shall put it this way: He did recall it being about a ‘team’ of sorts. And to be honest, Ivan was less impressed than he thought he would be when the greeting line was “I’m looking for mister Vanderhoff”.


He was expecting something along the lines of “Son, I’m here to talk to you about the Avengers Initiative”.


Project Atlas was a cool name, he’d admit. That was really the only thing he knew for sure about the Project thus far anyway. “Project Atlas”.


Space-men say Apollo and Gemini. Metahuman heroes go by Hercules and Prometheus. And now the UN was naming this thing “Project Atlas”.


Oh did he wonder what they were going to do when they ran out of Greek gods.


The back of the seat deformed significantly less than his old office chair would have, and Ivan was slightly surprised.


The men besides him turned to looked at him in disapproval.


* * * *
Moments earlier, elsewhere.


“Fashionably late”, apparently, wasn’t a thing in the military.


A guide, or escort, perhaps? The woman introduced herself as Chelsea Tyler. Corporal Chelsea Tyler. She was already there when the black sedan came to a stop in the basement.


“You are to be sent directly to training,” she said, her words curt,without unnecessary remarks,“The rest of the team is already there.”


Ivan followed Corporal Tyler to the elevator. He was already getting used to this.


* * * *


Ivan Vanderhoff stepped into the training room just in time to catch a rant about bigoted code names from someone who he assumed to be one of the ‘rest of the team’.


As the other people spoke he stood unnoticed at the side, looking around in the training room. A punching bag lay dissected upon the floor. The dummy from the projectile weapons range was missing, soon to be realized to have been blasted into shards on the nearby floor. Vines were all over the place in another area, making it look like a gardener’s home abandoned for five years. Targets from the shooting range - he could only see barely, but it was easily recognizable that they were some pretty impressive results.


Ivan was that bit relieved he didn’t arrive earlier.
 
Carter assumed Vanburen's reaction would likely fall in one of three categories. He might fall instantly into line, but based on the Agent's behavior so far, that wasn't likely. He might also react poorly and storm out, but that, too, seemed unlikely. From what he'd heard of the man, Vanburen was a true believer in the cause. Only the reports of how he tended to think himself outside of the category of metahumans brought concern: that might have flown on teams hunting down metas, but it wouldn't fly here. The third option was where he landed: a frank statement of why he spoke out, given respectfully.


They would get along fine, eventually.


This was Carter's specialty and why he had been brought to New York. Carter had formed a few focused teams of three or four metahumans, including himself, for specific missions. They had been specialized and temporary, but they had worked. Marshall Turchi had used them as reference when researching the viability of increasing metahuman use throughout Atlas. Now other metahuman dominant teams were being formed throughout the Project, but New York's team would be the largest. Since Carter had the most experience establishing and leading these teams, he had been transferred. Despite his protest that a new leader would add another layer of difficulty to an already challenging task. But he could do it, given the time and the right team. His past teams had a common background in the military; add another layer of complexity to his goal here. He looked over the others briefly as Vanburen and Dolos sized each other up. Would it be enough?


He'd given them something to rail against: his expectation that they be instantly ready. The truth was he didn't know when they would be deployed for their first op, or whether that op would be a fact-finding, rescue, or assassination mission. All he knew was that the clock was ticking. They would form a team eventually (although Janice might need an education on what "full disclosure" looks like in a clandestine agency); the only question was how well they'd perform when the word came down. He hadn't lied about one thing: they didn't have control over when they would be needed. And unfortunately Vanburen was right: there were some in leadership - although thankfully in the minority - that would love to see this new approach fail.


He could have told Vanburen his background, shared his war stories and the credentials that had gotten him transferred here for this purpose. But words held little value, especially from a relative stranger. So he just nodded. "What I need right now, Agent Vanburen, is for you to be thinking of what it will take to get the team ready. Our challenges are crystal clear." He turned his head to look at the other man with a minute quirk of his lips that might be a smile. "We need to trust each other, and that won't come from anything but experience." He nodded toward Xavier. "Thomas there already voiced a good proposal. Have anything to add?"


As if summoned by the mention of his name, Snapshot started in their direction. His question for Vanburen triggered a curious look from the sergeant. Before he could comment, however, Corporal Tyler escorted their last team member into the room.


He stepped away from the others to greet the boy: and he did look like a boy to Carter's eyes. "Mr. Vanderhoff. I'm Sergeant Carter. Your team is getting to know each other. We'll cover the rest later. For now, introduce yourself. We'll arrange quarters for you so you can be on time tomorrow."
 
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“Oh look, three new guys - triplets,” she giggled a little painfully. “Of course, you realize you all have identical triplets too. So do all the targets. I just aim for the one in the middle. I think I feel a headache coming on. Still kinda hard to tell.”


Janice decided to at least try to make the new guy feel welcome. These people had a lot to learn about team building. She ignored the pain as she stood erect and waved her arms wildly at Ivan. “WOO HOO! OVER HERE! WE DON’T BITE...!” her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper as she squinted through her goggles. “ … Much. Is he cute too? Hard to tell at this distance. He has that rebel without a clue look though.”


It had looked like Carter was trying to make himself scarce. “OH SARGE! GAME TOMORROW OH-FIVE-THIRTY. I’D PREFER BASEBALL, BUT NO DIAMOND, GEAR OR GLOVES, SO BASKETBALL IT IS! DOLOS REFS, YOU PLAY. NO EXCEPTIONS! THAT’S AN ORDER … OR I’LL SUGGEST IT TO THE COLONEL.” She grinned as she decided she had the man pegged. 0530 mean at least a little time to get over this hangover she felt coming on. And everyone hated the ref, so Dolos would be perfect in the role.


Janice glanced at Cedric and Danny, then over to the punching bags and target dummies. “AND BRING EXTRA BASKETBALLS!”
 
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