So... This is not in any way a duplication of what Thumperman is doing, what with creating new bios for a fictional sequel to the game, but it will appear so. It does imply the same ideas and methods, but that's only because it was the only way I could really demonstrate what I want the readers to get out of this story without writing a television drama-length script out of it.
I still have yet to actually draw the character, but I have his character bio and his car created for your viewing pleasure.
His name his Hank Tavis. He's a middle-aged man that's seemingly normal save the majority of the left side of his body being fully and indiscreetly constructed of iron and steel prosthetics.
http://i17.photobucket.com/albums/b71/fireball_frenzy/Banktruck.jpgCAR NAME:
OVERKILL
DRIVER HANDLE:
HYBRID
DRIVER NAME:
HANK TAVIS
CAR DESCRIPTION:
ARMORED BANK TRUCK, FITTED WITH SEVERAL GATLING GUNS - FOUR TOTAL - IN COMBINATION WITH MISSILE PACKS AND TWO MINI GUNS. FRONT BUMPER ARMORED WITH SPIKED PLOW.
CAR STATISTICS:
SPECIAL: ▀▀▀▀
SPEED: ▀▀
HANDLING: ▀▀
ARMOR: ▀▀▀▀▀
MELEE: ▀▀▀
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Those punks had it in for me. Organized sons of bitches, too. Planned and executed a sabotage mission, just for the paper in the back of my truck.
Their plan wasn’t completely full-proof, though. From time to time, sitting in the darkness, I wish it had been. You get to thinking about these kinds of things a lot when you’re locked away, the world passing by, letting you rot…
… Letting you rust.
Visitors were a rare thing. Especially for the solitary block. Even more so for me.
This guy called himself Calypso. Said his name was his reputation. I’d never heard of him.
Didn’t matter to me. An offer was an offer. He said he had a project he was working on, and that he needed me to finish it.
It was a tough call, though. Risk my life out there, or finish out my days here, guaranteed three hots and a cot.
That’s when he sweetened the deal.
He said he could answer me some questions. Like who my assailants were and who’s wise ass idea it was to stick me with these god awful appendages. But most importantly, he told me to remember two simple words:
“Complete again”.
He said all of the above was waiting for me at the finish line. And wouldn’t you know it, there was my old truck, fixed up looking better than ever waiting at the start.
Who was I to refuse?
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Just starting out was the hard part. Getting to know the job, the dangers involved. Once you get into a comfortable and secure state of mind - and that was made easy with the firepower you kept under your seat - you can really get down to business.
What the gents upstairs never tell you about are the thugs that think outside the box.
They had gone so far as to record my weekly route. They knew what time I would be where. Impressive. They even pinpointed where I parked.
Guess that’s what I get for being damn good at my job.
The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital. All the docs and frantic little nurses had enough time to tell me that my rig was blown to bits, and I was blown halfway across the parking lot.
They didn’t get much further before I had noticed these… these can openers attached to where my arm and leg should be. And my face, hacked all to shit! Half of it swapped out for little gadgets and gizmos. I was a walking goddamned calculator.
I ripped out of my hospital bed. I had lost count along the way, but the papers say I tore up somewhere between 11 to 13 people on my way out. That’s a working number, mind you. Cops are still finding pieces.
The problem with being half machine is that you wear out faster. A battery is a battery. Once that side dies, to hell with the old fashioned manpower trying to drag it along. Didn’t take much to lock me away after that.
That’s where I lost any appreciation for the wacko that fixed me up like this. Calypso promised to show me who it was. And with built-in battle gear like this, I was looking forward to a sloppy reunion.
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And that was that. I had won. Piece of cake when you know your rig as well as I knew mine.
I approached Calypso. He stood with iron confidence. A man like me could respect that.
I could respect the loop I’d been thrown for too. I may have a pair of brass balls, but nothing prepared me for a kick to the goods like this.
Calypso had told me he was working on a project, and that he’d have answers for me. He had answers, alright. And that project began about the same time I took that flight across the parking lot.
The wacko behind the nuts and screws in my head? Calypso. He had me hammered back together just like he had my old rig ready for me.
I had been his project. For me to become complete again was ultimately his endgame.
I still had my humanity. There was still some shred of a man under all this steel.
But the problem with being a machine is that you wear out faster. A battery is a battery. Once that side dies, to hell with the old fashioned manpower trying to drag it along.