[b]Name:[/b] Atlas Forn

[b]Appearance:[/b] Atlas has almost shoulder length white hair, and pale almost white, silver grey eyes. He stands at around 5’11, preferring a black outfit matched with a black hoodie. He has his lip, tongue, septum and ears peirced. He has a ring of hoops both ears and likes wearing golden or silver wristbands and rings. His bottom canine teeth both are made of platinum, and his high cheekbones and strong chin would make for a handsome face if not for the scarring along the left side of his face running from the corner of his mouth to his ear, giving him a permanent grimace. His body is also lined in scars from the incident.

[b]Age:[/b] 19

[b]Power(s):[/b] Vector Manipulation: Atlas can change the magnitude and direction of an object to move it in a desired way. He is limited to within 35 feet of himself, and it required calculation or else he ends up on his ass. (I think most of us get this power if not I will go into more detail but i feel that's enough.

Enhanced Intelligence: Atlas is able to do complicated math almost instantly in his head. He is also very perceptive to people and their subtle cues as well as his surroundings. While in prison he did as much studying as he could, he actually figured the humans would ask for help a week prior. This ability leaves Atlas to seem either rude or standoffish at times.

[b]Personality:[/b] Atlas is calm as they come, he has a rough past but he quickly learned in prison, everyone has a rough past. He never gets into many fights but when he does he gets a thrill out of watching others suffer. His intelligence often makes him appear as though he is not present, or unaware of his surroundings, though he is likely doing complicated calculations or running a thought experiment.

 Atlas really isn’t a mean guy if you got to know him, he seems a bit maniacal and can be a bit intimidating but you’ll find if you don’t let that scare you, you’ll have a loyal friend. He’s been known to crack a joke at inappropriate times and often seems as though he has no idea what is going on at all. He isn’t conscious at all about his appearance. 

[b]Bio:[/b] Atlas grew up in a slums, where he survived with a gang of orphans. As he grew older, people around the slums began to ridicule him because of his status and looks. They would walk the street sneering comments like it was bile as they passed him. Things like ‘With a face like that he must have a rock for a brain to be out on these streets.” along with much worse. Words never hurt Atlas, he never let them see him shed a tear. Until one night the older orphans ganged up on him, with an intent to kill. 

In a busy marketplace, Atlas had strummed a small guitar he'd found in a dumpster behind a music shop. It was old and not in the best of shape, but he quickly had it patched up and was making a good amount of cash off the people walking through the marketplace. Word had got around to some of the kids he had grown up with, and now they had cornered him in a dark, dank alley. They began beating the boy until he fell and couldn’t move a muscle. His whole life, no matter the fight, these boys had always beaten him, had always crushed him in the dirt like the ant he felt like. His whole life he had let them walk on him. But has one of the bigger boys put his boot to Atlas's bleeding head and dug in, something broke. Something precious.

The boy ground down hard, and Atlas felt dirt get in the gash along his cheek from where they had held him down and carved into him. He cried that night. Cried for a mother he never knew, to comfort him. Cried for a father to come and find him. And none would come. The boy who had been crushing Atlas’s head was laughing telling a joke to the others, as they had a laugh as well, he dug his heel in and Atlas could hear his cheek bones crack. He felt his childhood fade into memory. Felt the chilling whisper of death as he was dragged from the hole he had been hiding in his whole life.

The boy who played the guitar for change, in that busy market place with a genuine smile. He had died that day. In his place was a monster only told about in storybooks. He felt through the boys boot, felt the blood just under the skin there. Felt the wind as it howled to cover the echos of kicking. The kicking didn’t stop. That's all he wanted as he felt the breath, even come out of their mouths. Hot and slow.

Then Suddenly it all stopped.

Screaming replaced the cover of the howling wind. In a motion the boys who had been kicking him suddenly were hit in the chest with their own kicking power, doubled. Atlas knew any harder than that and he was likely to blow a hole through them. He didn’t dare want to do that. He laughed as the breath they breathed smacked them in the back of the throat, blocking each one's airways. As they rolled on the ground he giggled, blood covering his body, kicking them and tearing limbs off. He was practically giddy when he sunk a finger into one boy's heart silencing his screams.

As he walked away from that alley painted in blood, he couldn’t tell weather it was his or his own. He didn’t care. He walked through those slums one last time, and then left forever. Some people tried to stop him as he walked, asked whose blood he was covered in, he would simply turn to them and smile, the gash in his cheek pouring blood. He stopped at a canal and washed away all the filth. That day on his 18th birthday the real Atlas died. Atlas laughed, when they finally caught up to him, he had left a trail of politicians and other scum in his wake before they finally cracked down on the Gifted.