S
Six Million Dollar Man
Guest
Original poster
To put it simply, our tale begins as one in which everything screws over. It is the end of those everyday occurrences of receiving the latest news from a rolled up series of articles shielded in a bag of plastic on your suburban driveway, or perhaps by depositing some pocket change into a machine as you continue down the sidewalk of your urban jungle. Or none of these things and you potentially just go onto your personal computer, laptop, or even your smartphone to pull up that app you downloaded five minutes ago.
This among other things, such as going to work. Going to school. Simply picking up your groceries at the local supermarket is now to become a life-or-death battle for survival. These days you will struggle to walk your dog along the sidewalks with the fear of being bludgeoned by a neighbor down the street wielding a golf club takes up the better half of your thoughts, allowing the annoying child from down the lane to down you with a frisbee knocking you out cold, and stealing your money in order to buy candy.
But just what exactly was it that CAUSED the insanity. Just what is making you have second thoughts about building that bomb shelter and stocking up on too much purell? Could it be some kind of nuclear war was nearly ignited, but only a few were launched on direct targets, the fallout simply extending to the surrounding areas? Perhaps natural disasters are battering the Earth, all over the continents. Maybe disease has overtaken the world populations, or everyone's simply gone raving bonkers?
The answer is simple. All of the above. Nuclear warheads are occasionally fired once in a blue moon on some lesser known part of the world, natural disasters occur on a bi-weekly basis, diseases run rampant, and people have resorted to maiming each other simply because some idiot in Washington D.C. ran around in a van equipped with about a dozen or so melee weapons and a single musket, picking fights with store clerks, policemen, and the elderly (now among some the most violent gangs around) amongst others.
Our story begins within Manhattan, New York. And of course, the rest of the city. Most street signs have been demolished by wild bands of high school underachievers for some unknown reason, coupled with the random daily sprayings of the YOLO acronym on the roads, one of many occurrences in the chaos of what we know know as the 'half-eaten apple.'
However, local rumors persist that North of the U.S.A. over in Canada, places such as Montreal, and especially Toronto hasn't changed a blink since the semi-apocalypse occurred, leading many to put their resources towards escaping from New York in order to reach the canadian border in an effort to return to a somewhat normal way of life, while adjusting to the differences inherent in the lifestyle of a canadian citizen. That is, if they can survive until the annual 'Ragnarok' International holiday. A supposed 'epic battle' meant to occur at the exact same time as what is supposedly meant to be the final destruction of the world as we know it, paving the way for the rebirth of Earth.
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What was once 11th and Bleecker street was somewhat less filthy than you'd expect. The borough had experienced a flood recently, the latest disaster to actually hit the east coast concrete jungle in some time. Prior to this, the street had been the grounds for several shipping units loaded with tons of explosives some local criminal outfit had intended to use on the citizens in some attempt to keep people from going against their control. But alas, such a grip was halted by an imaginary vaseline being spread onto the cliff they had believed they stood on, but rather, struggled to stay on top of.
Of these homes was once an apartment for rent. Now it was merely an empty building which once held all kinds of folks, and a store at the ground floor. Of course this store has not been raided, namely because it mostly consisted of purses, makeup, and the sort of thing that supposedly enhances one's looks. Despite that, the current owner of the building still kept the store items in order to make trades, realizing that the quest for beautifying supplies was still serious business in a world where you could get professionally made goods for cheaper than they were now manufactured by the world's remaining factories, and sold at shopping malls that withstood the elements up to this point in time.
This fellow, who had rid himself of several exquisitely crafted handbags in exchange for food and cooking equipment was known as a Mr. Bartholomew Strode. His physical appearance seemed to indicate he was of 21 years of age, boasting a rather average, caucasian skinned build of about 5,11. He had dark brown hair between short and medium length, no fancy styles about it whatsoever to go with his sea green eyes.
He was clothed in a pair of khaki colored pants, which were held up by a simple belt of black leather and a rectangular steel buckle. On his feet were a pair of high top dark blue and white sneakers, with a black t-shirt that had a red stripe on the sleeves and chest, connected altogether, and forming a V on the chest and back.
At the moment, he appeared to be lacking the enthusiasm to be standing at all. His eyes would travel between the couch and the window he stood in front of as he surveyed the pavement for any dangers. He'd stopped by a store weeks earlier and found himself taking a grey sling backpack into his possession, likely for any excursions where he found useful items. This, plus a pair of half finger gloves, and a small box of several colors of terry cloth wristbands, which he enjoyed wearing from time to time for reasons he couldn't exactly determine.
After much indecision, he threw on the gloves. The palms and knuckles were given an extra degree of protection, one which would help him in both self defense and incase he ever improved his low level parkour skills….