It was a fortress to say the very least. OC:3 was a house that could not topple, at least not in any way that Atlas saw possible. Above ground it appeared to be little more than a refinery, granted those had been largely outlawed. For the most part, the OC:3 Armory was nothing more than a place to house weapons, armor, and vehicles. Nevertheless, it was also able to hold at least two hundred soldiers at once.
There were theories abound that Black Sun used the armories as a place to study the habits of their soldiers. Whether this was true or not was unknown, but it didn’t matter much. Once you joined Black Sun, you were unable to leave.
On the very bottom level of the armory sat the gym and corresponding showers, all lined up and readily available for use. Not far away was the locker room, which sat split into two sections: the clothing area and the armor area. It was there that the 10o5 gathered, suiting up and getting ready to leave for a mission they were relatively blind about.
The captain of the 10o5 cleared his throat and read aloud from a flyer, “Soldiers of Christ, we fight our last battles now amongst the North American land. Stolen of its sovereignty, this dictatorial regime has razed our great country. It sits now in shambles, it cries to be freed. Gather, children of Christ, sing your hymns and pray your prayers, for we shall send our enemy into the ocean, one push at a time.”
A chorus of laughter rang out, echoing in the room and down the hall. As Atlas made his way towards them he could hear the song they sang. For a moment he pictured John Haley as an intelligent fellow whose goal was worthwhile, but his means to reaching it flawed. Yet, as the sound of the captain reading from the propaganda continued, he began to realize it was little more than zealotry. It was no different than the European anti-Semitism.
The captain cleared his throat once more and began again, saying, “Our enemy breeds like swine, they release their garbage onto society and now we are to deal with them.” For a moment he paused as he silently read the new few sentences. With a heavy heart he continued, saying, “No matter their age, whether fifty or newborn, they are to be ruined. They poisoned our waters, they forced sterility onto us, so in turn we shall show them the wrath of our Lord.”
John Haley was considered by most of society, the section of which who had no ties to the military, as a peaceful individual. Many thought of him as innocent, persecuted by Black Sun simply for his religious beliefs, and yet as the captain tossed the propaganda onto the floor, the entire room grew silent.
The men, trying their best to ignore what was read to them, began to put on the very last pieces of their armor. Mechanical and entirely run by a generator on their back, the plated armor was mostly bulletproof and yet gave them an amazingly agile fit. Unfortunately, it was suffocating to wear. The blackened leather sat tight on the body, only to be covered by metal plates. To top it all, they wore helmets whose faceplate was blank, giving them a strangely robotic look.
It was known colloquially as the Black Face of the Sun, but its proper code was R5290 combat armor. Truly it was the greatest form of protection that a soldier could have. Granted, it was unavailable to most everyone with few exception. It seemed that only the soldiers of Black Sun were allotted use of the R5290 series, giving them the upper hand in all situations. But then, many thought little of the suits, considering them cowardly. Without the chance of death, Helios once stated, there is no understanding of life. As for Atlas, he had little good to speak of them.
“I’d rather die in a collared shirt,” he had told Helios before entering the OC:3 Armory. When he was given the news that he was to help with a mission dealing with Adventists and insurgents, he nearly laughed in disbelief. Nonetheless, within a day he stood before the immaculate looking OC:3.
No matter his opinion, however, Atlas knew he was doomed to wear the tight fitting armor. By the time that he had come into the hallway just before the locker room, the men inside began to zip up the thick cloth guard which was used much like a tabard, covering the chest plate of the armor. On it, in white lettering, it read: State Guard Special Operations Unit 795. In truth, none of the soldiers who stood before Atlas were members of the State Guard. Instead, they were once the proud soldiers of the United Army, only to be recruited into the Assault and Recon Unit of Black Sun, known colloquially as AnR.
Helios passed Atlas in the hall and walked into the locker room. The sound of boots automatically hitting the floor were soon followed by the sight of the soldiers saluting. Of all the rumors spread of and about the Black Sun, it was always Helios who was mentioned. He was the great commander whose tactical precision allotted him control over the entire military force behind Black Sun. The only people whose power was greater was Apollo and Haden, both of whom had little to do with the dirty work.
“Good morning, sir,” said captain of the newly formed Black Sun unit 10o5.
Helios acknowledged the men and immediately they relaxed their stature, going back to putting the overbearing R5290 armor on.
“Good Morning, Captain,” he replied. “The briefing will be in Operation Room San in forty minutes. I’d advise everyone to be on time. During this mission you will be given an escort in the form of Atlas, one of our veteran recruits. He lead the 5o5, so I’d advise you to respect his orders.”
With that, he saluted the soldiers once more and walked out and back into the hall, only to find Atlas standing there with a smile running across his face. It was true, mind you, that he was a veteran recruit, but that only meant he had lived through the Southern Front incursion. In all fairness, he was barely even recognizable in terms of rank. Yet, most of the Black Sun soldiers knew him from his days as a captain.
He brushed off his smile and continued past Helios. As he drew closer he could hear the sound of men marching toward him. The sudden appearance of twenty-four well armed and geared men took him back a little. Truly they were frightening in the broadest of senses, though he couldn’t figure out why he loathed their presence so much. However, instead of taunting him or poking fun at the suit he wore, the soldiers all stopped and saluted, only to continue marching as he did the same. Behind the soldiers who now hurriedly continued on was the captain, a particularly forgettable man.
Unlike the other soldiers, whose faceplates were solid and clean, having nothing but a small text on the side of it, the captain had outfitted his with specialized mods. Even his normal armor was different in a few ways, though none as up front as his faceplate.
“Officer Atlas,” he said as he passed. Unlike the others he did not salute and he did not continue on down the hall. Instead, he stood there and waited for a response, only to receive a blank stare. “I’m Captain Aaron Sorenson of Black Sun AnR Unit 10o5.”
